Last weekend was extended to four days and the legs of Rosciante needed stretching. First task at hand was registration, plates and a second attempt to pass the knowledge test for an Oregon drivers license. This time around we were successful on all accounts. We headed East on Highway 22 towards the Cascade mountain range. Shortly we came upon the small mountain town of Mill City.
We needed the propane tank filled for the van's cooker, and spotting a filling station we pulled over for a quick propane stop. A young attendant quickly began the filling while Alex checked fluids and such. Within moments there seemed to be a problem, the young mans face became one of concern and fear. "Is there a problem?"-asks Alex, "let's just say if I start running, try your best to keep up"- responds the the frightened attendant. Due to either an aging frail gasket, over filling, or perhaps a combination of both, a hissing spew of gas now escapes from around the gage of the van's tank. This is not good. A slight spark could erupt the place. The attendant tries to use the filling tool to back out the gas inside the tank, no go. A frost begins to collect around the gage, knob and tank. The waft of propane abounds. Later it takes on a smell of over cooked sour kraut. There is nothing that can be done except to slowly let out the gas through a very small valve. The tank holds five gallons of explosive gas. The plume of exited gasses is forceful, we stand at a safe distance to await the emptying process of the tank. Our best guess is that we would be waiting a short while, a half an hour perhaps. After an hour of watching concerned customers come and go, the frost is scraped from the gage to revel only a slight dip in the measurement. Another hour of waiting outside sees the sky begin to darken. We retreat to the indoors of the gas station. Filling two twelve once cups of sugar infused coffees we return back outside and sip forlornly in a cloud of poisonous gas. At nine O'clock the store closes and the propane gage reads twenty percent full. The lights of the station goes out and we wave goodbye to the filling attendant. We sit inside Rosciante and Susan strums on the guitar and we sing songs regarding the nature of propane and sip whiskey to keep warm. As midnight approaches we slumber into our sleeping bags to the faint sounds of escaping gases from outside.
The next three days are spent without propane and surrounded by the utter beauty of Oregon. We pass through the mountain towns Sisters and Bend. We hunker in for a cold nights stay under the snagggle-toothed shadow of Mt. Thielsen, an area of pristine nature deep within the Cascade Mt. range. Having no stove to cook upon, the eagle scout prepared a small fire with scavenged kindling.After a fine meal the young newlyweds retied to cards, brew, and chocolates.
CRATER LAKE NATIONAL PARK
If one is careful you are able to spot lake fairies fluttering around at Crater lake!
We needed the propane tank filled for the van's cooker, and spotting a filling station we pulled over for a quick propane stop. A young attendant quickly began the filling while Alex checked fluids and such. Within moments there seemed to be a problem, the young mans face became one of concern and fear. "Is there a problem?"-asks Alex, "let's just say if I start running, try your best to keep up"- responds the the frightened attendant. Due to either an aging frail gasket, over filling, or perhaps a combination of both, a hissing spew of gas now escapes from around the gage of the van's tank. This is not good. A slight spark could erupt the place. The attendant tries to use the filling tool to back out the gas inside the tank, no go. A frost begins to collect around the gage, knob and tank. The waft of propane abounds. Later it takes on a smell of over cooked sour kraut. There is nothing that can be done except to slowly let out the gas through a very small valve. The tank holds five gallons of explosive gas. The plume of exited gasses is forceful, we stand at a safe distance to await the emptying process of the tank. Our best guess is that we would be waiting a short while, a half an hour perhaps. After an hour of watching concerned customers come and go, the frost is scraped from the gage to revel only a slight dip in the measurement. Another hour of waiting outside sees the sky begin to darken. We retreat to the indoors of the gas station. Filling two twelve once cups of sugar infused coffees we return back outside and sip forlornly in a cloud of poisonous gas. At nine O'clock the store closes and the propane gage reads twenty percent full. The lights of the station goes out and we wave goodbye to the filling attendant. We sit inside Rosciante and Susan strums on the guitar and we sing songs regarding the nature of propane and sip whiskey to keep warm. As midnight approaches we slumber into our sleeping bags to the faint sounds of escaping gases from outside.
The next three days are spent without propane and surrounded by the utter beauty of Oregon. We pass through the mountain towns Sisters and Bend. We hunker in for a cold nights stay under the snagggle-toothed shadow of Mt. Thielsen, an area of pristine nature deep within the Cascade Mt. range. Having no stove to cook upon, the eagle scout prepared a small fire with scavenged kindling.After a fine meal the young newlyweds retied to cards, brew, and chocolates.
CRATER LAKE NATIONAL PARK 
If one is careful you are able to spot lake fairies fluttering around at Crater lake!
1 comment:
Another high adventure...you both seemed to neglect to tell me the propane story..scary stuff..so glad it all worked out. It was great to see the Crater Lake pictures, since when we were there the snow and fog made it impossible to view the lake or much of anything else. Glad Rosciante made the trip and all was safe and sound. Keep up the adventuring as I know you will. Great pictures and thrilling reading..expecially the parts of waiting for the explosion and all. Love Always, MOM CAT
Post a Comment