For me, my goal is to see America with all of the essential modern comforts of home. That means I spend a lot of money on campgrounds and gasoline. For others, limited travel may cut fuel costs. Solar panels, large fresh water tanks, and unlimited patience may lower campground fees. A large number of variables affect the monthly/yearly costs of living in an RV. And many of those variables are entirely up to you. Seriously, it’s possible to live on public land in a beat-up camper that barely moves for almost nothing per month. It’s also possible to travel to every state in a multimillion-dollar diesel-guzzling coach. Trust me, I’ve seen both ends of the spectrum; I’m somewhere in the middle.

Enough of the explanations. Let’s start seeing some real numbers! I bought a brand new 2008 23′ Airstream International CCD and a brand new 2009 Volkswagen Touareg V6. Each of them have an MSRP of just under $50,000. So I have a monthly loan payment for each. Other RV and tow vehicle combinations are available for a mere fraction of this cost, but I wanted a ready-to-move-into modern home with a reliable tow vehicle. And each are worth every penny! If I paid only the minimum payment each month, my Airstream payment would be under $500/month. I don’t really count my car payment as an extra cost because I would have one even if I lived in a traditional house. But my gasoline costs are much higher because I am pulling my house behind it.

Yearly Gasoline Costs

I spend about $6,500/year (or $540/month) on gas. I average 13 mpg when pulling the 5,200-pound Airstream with extra-expensive premium grade unleaded gasoline in my tanks. Fun, fun!

Monthly Gasoline Costs

This graph shows just how my gas costs vary from month to month. There is a general increase each summer simply because I drive more miles in those months. It spiked twice because of the higher than average fuel costs in Canada (around September 2010) and in Alaska (around July 2012). My fuel costs drop drastically in the winter when I tend to stay put for longer periods of time because of a thing called snow. With 110,000 miles traveled in four years, this works out to about 24 cents in gasoline costs for every mile driven.

Campground fees are another major part of living on the road. And, just like gas, they can vary from month to month. In the summer, I spend more time parked in the rent-free yards of friends and family. In the winter, I splurge a bit more on campgrounds with full hookups. On average, I spend about $7,500/year on campground fees. Over the course of a year, this averages out to about $20/day.

Yearly Campground Costs

But, I seem to be spending a bit more on campgrounds each year. This is probably because campground fees are rising just like other costs. And it’s also because I find I am staying at slightly nicer places as my campground palette gets more refined. Calculating only paid nights, it jumps to about $30/night for an average campground stay.

Monthly Campground Costs

The other big cost is the oh-so-nice regular maintenance with occasional upgrades. I have a tow vehicle with four tires, and an RV with four tires. Each one is on its third set of tires.  At least once a year, the Airstream wheel bearings need to be repacked. It also has brake assemblies that were just replaced. You get the idea. And there are unexpected repairs when you back your home into a brick wall, or a tree, or a cement sidewall. There are also upgrades like solar panels, Wi-Fi/cellular antennas, inverters, generators, converters, and a desk. The Touareg has scheduled maintenance for oil changes, fluids, hoses, etc. And the brakes have been replaced a few times. This all adds up to just over $4,000/year in additional costs. With a combined 200,000 miles (110,000 miles on the Touareg with about 90,000 of those miles towing the Airstream) traveled in four years, this works out to about 8 cents in maintenance and upgrade costs for every mile driven. I realize some of the items listed aren’t directly related to the number of miles driven, but indirectly, they are a result of more time spent on the road in a confined space.

Yearly Maintenance and Upgrade Costs

RV insurance is one more thing to remember. I have the Full Timers Package from Progressive Insurance. Much like home owners insurance, it covers items inside, offers full replacement of the Airstream in case of theft/accident, and even provides liability if someone trips and falls on my front step. At $100/month ($1,200/year), it is slightly higher than normal RV insurance.

As a web developer who works on the road, I absolutely need a solid mobile internet connection. Even though I can hop on Wi-Fi at campgrounds or at the local coffee shop, most of the time my own Verizon 3G/4G mobile broadband device is faster and more reliable. As a backup, I can tether my AT&T-based iPhone. Even though mobile broadband speeds have increased significantly in the last couple of years, the costs are still incredibly expensive when compared to typical broadband connections in a home. As such, my average $200/month ($2,400/year) for internet access is probably more than the average fulltimer who only occasionally gets online. I am thankful my current employer reimburses me for internet access!

Yearly Internet Costs

_________________

I use a web-based service called Mint to track all of my finances. I meticulously track every single purchase, and feel pretty confident about the accuracy of my estimates. But remember that these numbers are very specific to how I choose to live full time in my Airstream. I could stay in much nicer campgrounds and easily double my average nightly rate. I could travel less and easily cut my gasoline costs in half. Remember what I said earlier? Many costs are entirely up to you. For me, it takes at least $25,000/year set aside for home and transportation costs to do what I do.

Some may think that is quite a bit of money to live in a 160-square-foot home without permanent electricity or plumbing. But some may totally understand how it is a great way to snorkel in the Florida Keys, land a floatplane on Lake Champlain, sail a boat on the Atlantic, get charged by a grizzly in Alaska, get stuck in snowstorms in the Rockies or on the beaches of the Outer Banks, view Niagara Falls or Mount Rushmore or the Golden Gate Bridge, go off-roading in the Sonoran desert, fly a glider in upstate New York, view the fall colors of New England, take a ferry to Newfoundland or Vancouver or Catalina, experience French Québec or Charleston etiquette, kayak in Lake Tahoe, hike in Yosemite or Acadia or Arches, golf in every state (but Hawaii), eat BBQ in Texas, drink wine in Napa Valley, go to a céilidh in Nova Scotia, watch a space shuttle lift off in Florida, descend through the Carlsbad Caverns, fly high above Denali, drive every mile of the Pacific Coast Highway or the Blue Ridge Parkway or the Overseas Highway; the list goes on and on and on.

Best. Decision. Ever.

But the story really begins a few days earlier.

Midway between Anchorage and Denali National Park, off the main highway and on its own spur, sits the historical village of Talkeetna. It is full of log buildings, a railroad depot, a general store, various food trucks, cafes, and restaurants. It looks like a mining and gold prospector town right out of the 1800s, with a modern artsy twist. And the best part–the best part of all–is the buzz of all the flightseeing airplanes and helicopters overhead.

Unfortunately the popular (and what I thought was the only) campground was full by the time I rolled through town, so I turned back towards the main highway in search of a place to sleep–at 11 o’clock at night. Knowing I really should snap some photos of what little I had seen of Talkeetna and thinking I may never get back, something made me turn around in the middle of the road after I had completely left town. On my way back to town, I saw people parked–cameras and binoculars in hand–next to a “Scenic View” sign. With nothing but a big sun beginning to set behind the clouds, some gentle rain falling, and trees for miles and miles, I didn’t see anything that remotely resembled a scenic view, but I parked anyway. An older couple pointed out at the horizon, and asked me, “Do you see it?”. They sensed my confusion and said, “Denali. It’s right in front of us, 60 miles away, once the clouds disappear.” Excited to see the famed mountain in person for the first time, I asked the old man how long he had waited here to see it. He responded, “40 years, son, 40 years.”

It’s true. Denali is so big that it creates its own weather. Even if the surrounding area has clear skies, there is generally a cloud layer obscuring the actual mountain. In fact, the guide books say that only 25-30% of visitors actually get to see Denali appear. So, yes, I was pretty excited when–about 30 minutes later–the sun went behind the Alaska Range, the clouds parted, and there stood the 20,320-foot Denali flanked by the 17,400-foot Mt. Foraker and the 14,573-foot Mt. Hunter. The other peaks–many over 10,000 feet–look like tiny hills compared to Denali and the other two “big” peaks.

After talking with some of the others who had stopped to get a glimpse of Denali, I still had to find a place to sleep. At this point, it was well past midnight, so I took a chance and drove into town one more time, hoping to find a spot on the street to park and sleep. By chance, I found a not-so-published campground back in the woods, put my money in the honor box, and stumbled into bed. Little did I know I would spend the next two days in Talkeetna.

The next day, I ended up finding a spot at the main campground that was full the night before. And my campsite happened to back up directly against the Alaska Railroad Depot for the Hurricane Turn train. It is one of the last true flag stop trains in America. Instead of scheduled station stops, passengers between Talkeetna and Hurricane Gulch simply flag down the train as it approaches. And passengers already on the train let the conductor know they want to detrain because their cabin, or lean-to, or fishing hole, or campsite is near. There are no other ways to reach these incredibly remote places. There are no roads, and the Alaskan Bush is too thick for airplanes in this part.

Since I was literally staying only a few yards from the depot, I bought a ticket impromptu, and stepped back in time for a six-hour roundtrip journey by rail. It was an experience! Honestly, the scenery itself started to look the same after a while, but the people I saw and stories I heard were priceless. Of course the train was full of tourists just like me, but it was also full of locals on their way to their property. In some cases, they were heading back to their childhood home. Some brought supplies: like two-by-fours and tools, beer and water, rifles and fishing rods. Some got off right away, did some fishing, and then got back on when we returned a few hours later on the inbound leg. There were two passenger cars with comfy seats and big windows, but there was a third car–a cargo car with doors wide open and a safety net strung across the bottom. In Alaska fashion, we would stick our heads out the open door as the train raced along the tracks–at speeds up to 60 mph! We even passed Alaska’s smallest town, population two. And at one point, the train stopped at a rail crossing so we could all get out to see a grizzly bear that had just been shot a few hours earlier. It was a crazy, crazy ride!

The conductor kept track of everything and everyone, yet still found time to share stories and answer questions:

“So why have I been saying Denali and what happened to Mt. McKinley?”, he asked. “Well, they are the same thing. Denali, an Athabaskan word meaning ‘The High One,’ is the official Alaskan name for the mountain. But nationally, Mt. McKinley is named in honor of President McKinley, a man who never even visited Alaska.” As he politely explained, “If you call it Mt. McKinley, we know you’re a tourist. If you call it Denali, we know you are a true Alaskan.”

So, from now on, I’m calling it Denali. Oh, and by the way, most of the locals pronounce it with a hard “a” sound: as in, rhymes with “alley”, and not “Molly.”

And that brings be back to ”Talkeetna radio, Navajo 27633, Denali direct, one hour 30 minutes, nine souls on board, with information Hotel.” As everyone was packing up to depart by the ubiquitous 11AM campground checkout time, my next door neighbors mentioned they were on their way to take a flightseeing trip to see Denali from above. One thing led to another, and I found myself in the co-pilot seat of a Piper Navajo, about to depart on a 90-minute adventure of a lifetime.

Since Denali is just over 20,000 feet in elevation, we would have to climb to just under 21,000 feet to see it from above. And since oxygen starts disappearing at around 12,500 feet, we would need supplemental oxygen and masks. I am pretty certain that it was my first flight in a twin-engine general aviation airplane, and it was certainly my first flight in a non-pressurized cabin in Class A airspace. The other passengers just heard white noise, but I could hear all communication with air traffic control in my headset. It was reassuring to hear “visibility greater than 10 miles, ceiling greater than 10,000 feet” when the pilot got the weather report from ATIS and verified with the Flight Service Station he had listened to the most recent report tagged “H”–as in “Hotel.”

Within 15 minutes after takeoff, the Alaska Range appeared below the horizon. And because it was such a great weather day, other airplanes and helicopters started to appear, too. There were close to a dozen aircraft in our airspace, and I got to help the pilot spot them as their positions squawked over the radio. We flew over some glaciers that had carved a river of snow, dirt, and ice out of the landscape. We flew over what looked like little tiny peaks of a massive meringue pie. And in just a few more minutes, with a cotton candy-like covering of clouds, we were staring at the South Summit of Denali, almost four miles above the surface of the Earth. We were five miles out, but it looked like we were just a few feet away. After circling the summits a few times, we started our descent to get a better look at some of the other buttresses and glaciers, like the Ruth and the Kahiltna. We flew through jagged black and white canyons, over bright blue water surrounded by white ice, over brown sandy glacial deposits, and along lush green vegetation. I took some 200 photos of that flight; it was like something out of a children’s storybook.

Almost 90 minutes later, we landed, the pilot closed his flight plan, and I shook my head at what I had just seen. And then I waited for my ears to pop.

Floatplanes outside of Talkeetna

Alaska Railroad in the rain

Waiting for Denali to appear

Mt. Hunter and Denali begin to appear

Mt. Hunter and Denali

Denali appears

Watching Alaska Range appear

Mt. Foraker, Mt. Hunter, Denali

Cargo car on Hurricane Turn train

Scenery from Hurricane Turn

Hurricane Turn

Hurricane Turn

Grizzly bear that was just shot

Hurricane Turn

Scenery from Hurricane Turn

Scenery from Hurricane Turn

Grocery store in Talkeetna

Airstream food cart in Talkeetna

Downtown Talkeetna

Piper Navajo N27633

Alaska Range

Above Denali National Park

Steep turn above Denali National Park

18,940 feet on the altimeter

Oxygen mask time

Denali Summit

Denali Summit

Denali Summit

Denali Summit

Above Denali National Park

We flew through that hole in the clouds

Alaska Range

Alaska Range

Glacier in Denali National Park

Pure water in Denali National Park

Alaska Range

Alaska Range

Can you see the four planes that landed on the glacier?

Alaska Range

Glacier in Denali National Park

Glacier in Denali National Park

Glacier in Denali National Park

Alaska Range

Landing on Runway 18 in Talkeetna

Denali from 60 miles

The next morning I waved goodbye to the Palins as I drove by again, starting my trek down to the Kenai Peninsula. The Seward Highway, rated one of the best drives in all of America, follows the ocean inlet and turns inland over a series of gentle mountain passes. Well, at least I think it does, because all I saw were clouds, fog, and sideways rain. For the next three days, I had some of the worst Alaskan summer weather yet.

I eventually rolled into Homer with plans to stay on the Homer Spit. Sticking out into the ocean on a skinny piece of land only a few hundred yards wide and a few miles in length, I finally reached the famed spit–only to find Alaska’s dirtiest tourist trap. Needless to say, after a long drive in horrible weather, I wasn’t too happy when I saw the overcrowded, overpriced, and entirely overrated campgrounds on the spit. I took a deep breath, did some quick internet research, and found a decent campground with a great view back on the mainland part of Homer. And when the weather did turn better for a few hours, I did have some incredible views of the surrounding seaside mountains. The town of Homer definitely grew on me as I stayed longer, but I still think the actual Homer Spit isn’t worth the high prices–at all.

With continued bad weather in all the forecasts, I made a quick decision to retreat and head back up north to a town I had read about in my travel research. This town would end up as one of my absolute favorite towns in all of Alaska.

Just another glacier!

Glenn Highway

Matanuska Glacier

Glenn Highway

Dinner break along the Matanuska River

Sarah Palin's driveway

Dall sheep along Seward Highway

Along Seward Highway

Along Seward Highway

Along Seward Highway

Kenai Peninsula

Homer Spit

View at Bayside RV

Beach at Bayside RV

Salty Dawg Saloon

Touristy shops in Homer

While spending the night in Glennallen, I happened to notice the sign to Valdez. There is only one road into Valdez and it stops just on the other side of town; it would be a quick round trip. For the first hour or so–with nothing too interesting–I wondered if I had made a mistake. And then I turned the corner to head up Thompson Pass. With a bright blue sky and puffy white clouds, mountain peaks in every direction, waterfalls, glaciers, melting snow and ice, it was an arctic heaven reachable by automobile. Even other travelers I met (who had also driven several thousand miles to reach this place) were in awe of the scenery that day.

Just on the other side of Thompson Pass, and right on the Prince William Sound, Valdez is sometimes called the Switzerland of Alaska. I now know why. The mountains surrounding town rise from sea level to 7,000 feet, making them some of the tallest coastal mountains in the world. They offer a backdrop for the downtown harbor, full of fishing boats heading back and forth from the sea. I found a campsite with views of the mountains out every window and within walking distance of the busy harbor. It was a pretty good day!

Alaska/Yukon border

International border

Alaska Highway

Alaska Highway

Moose near the Alaska Highway

Midnight in Alaska

Road to Valdez

Road to Valdez

Road to Valdez

Road to Valdez

Road to Valdez

Road to Valdez

Road to Valdez

Road to Valdez

Road to Valdez

Road to Valdez

Road to Valdez

Road to Valdez

View at Bayside RV

Downtown Valdez

Downtown Valdez

Downtown Valdez

Sea kayaks

Fishing nets

Fishing boats

Downtown Valdez

View at Bayside RV

View at Bayside RV

Valdez oil terminal

To give you an idea of what it’s like to drive in the Yukon Territory, I took some photos as I was driving about 100 kilometers per hour up the Haines Highway. The scenery is incredible, but it is as desolate as the photos depict. Yes, I made sure to stop for gas in both “towns” I drove through. I had a little fog, a little rain, and a little sunshine. There were two 15-kilometer sections that were gravel. It is part of regular road maintenance to repair damage caused by the frost heaves. There were actually sections of the paved road that were in far worse shape than the gravel. You may have heard me yell a few times when the Touareg and Airstream caught some unintentional air.

Overall, it was a great travel day. I even saw some grizzlies on the side of the road. Busy eating grass, the bears were not at all bothered by me–this time.

Haines Highway

Haines Highway

Haines Highway

Haines Highway

Haines Highway

Haines Highway

Haines Highway

Haines Highway

Haines Highway

Grizzlies along Haines Highway

Grizzly bear along Haines Highway

Haines Highway

Haines Highway

I know I’ve said it before, but it is worth repeating; go see the Inside Passage! It seemed to get better and better as the passage narrowed, the mountains grew, the animals appeared, and the skies cleared. With decent food and alcohol options, observation decks, bathrooms, showers, cabins, and recliners, it was an extremely comfortable ride. I wasn’t on a luxurious cruise ship, but for the price, the ferries were a great alternative. The price is even better if you don’t drive your home on board.

Now that I’m back on the Alaska mainland, my journey to Southcentral Alaska continues by highway. But before I can get there, I have to get through Canadian Customs to drive through B.C. and the Yukon Territory. And then it’s a drive on the Top of the World Highway to get back into the United States.

Boarding M/V Malaspina

View of M/V Fairweather

M/V Fairweather fast ferry

Inside Passage

Inside Passage

Inside Passage

Inside Passage

Inside Passage

Inside Passage

Inside Passage

Inside Passage

Sea lions on Inside Passage

Waiting to disembark

Back on Alaska mainland

As is the case with almost every single town in Southeast Alaska, Juneau has no roads leading into it. And it’s the state capital. It took almost eight hours to sail on the M/V Matanuska from Petersburg to Juneau. Finally, finally, finally the seas were calm and the skies were clear. In fact, it was so calm, we had glassy waters for several hours. With snow-capped mountains, glaciers, and icebergs all around, it almost felt as if we were gliding over ice.

The occasional humpback whale, orca, or porpoise would briefly break the surface and cause all kinds of commotion on the ship. I found the best way to get one to come up for air was to turn my back and head inside. I couldn’t believe the several times I missed seeing one. Eventually I saw a couple of whale tails in the air, even if none of them completely breached their entire body.  We passed Admiralty Island, home to some 1,600 brown bears, but I didn’t see a single one. I am slowly learning it takes special (i.e. pricey) tours to get some of those “NatGeo-worthy” photos. Nevertheless, it was an incredible sailing through an amazing part of the U.S., and to a pretty scenic capital city.

Juneau sits right on the Gastineau Channel, surrounded by massive mountains and glaciers. I stayed at a campground just a few minutes from the famous Mendenhall Glacier, about 15 minutes from downtown. Downtown can be a little touristy, especially when the cruise ships are in town, but it has a charm about it. I did some whale watching at the Shrine of St. Therese (actually I should say “I watched for whales, but didn’t see any”), rode the Mount Roberts Tramway, did some hiking overlooking the city, ate at the Red Dog Saloon, and saw the Alaska Governor’s Mansion. If you ever find yourself in Southeast Alaska, be sure to make it to Juneau. But–and this is a big one–there isn’t a single 18-hole regulation golf course around! So, golfing in Alaska waits for yet another day.

Inside Passage

Inside Passage

Inside Passage

Inside Passage

Inside Passage

Inside Passage

Inside Passage

Inside Passage

Inside Passage

Whale's tail

Inside Passage

Arriving in Juneau

Arriving in Juneau

Inside Passage

Mendenhall Glacier

Mendenhall Glacier

Mendenhall Glacier

Mendenhall Glacier

Red Dog Saloon

Red Dog Saloon

Mount Roberts Tramway

Downtown Juneau

Downtown Juneau

"Beach" weather

Shrine of St Therese

Inside Passage

Alaska Governor's Mansion

View from Mount Roberts Tramway

View from Mount Roberts Tramway

Injured bald eagle

Hiking through snow above Juneau

With a stopover in Wrangell, it’s an all-day ferry ride from Ketchikan to Petersburg. I was able to book another daytime sailing (because who wants to look out at total darkness) on the larger M/V Columbia. The crew clearly had different loading methods, because this time they made me back in to my parking stall. With a line of cars waiting to board, I managed to squeeze in between a wall, some motorcycles, and a cargo container. I didn’t realize it before, but the ferry terminal in Ketchikan is right near the famed “Bridge to Nowhere,” Alaska’s failed attempt to build a bridge from downtown to the airport/seaplane base. So, as we were waiting in port, dozens of seaplanes were taking off, landing, and circling overhead.

For everyone on board, it’s all about the view. And with a couple hundred eyeballs, it’s pretty easy to know when someone finds something worth looking at. It’s just hard to capture that quick moment on camera. I saw lots of mountains, some rain, several humpback whales, some porpoises, but no bears. The ferries are in much of the same waters that the cruise lines take, and get to see the same sights. In fact, because the ferries are much smaller, they get to take a special shortcut through the Wrangell Narrows. Without question, that was the highlight of the day. The locals call this narrow passage of shallow waters ”Christmas Tree Lane.” Why? For a little more than an hour, we “slalomed” through the 70 red and green navigational markers. For this part of the sailing, I hung out in the heated solarium outside, running like a dog back and forth, checking out the sights on both port and starboard sides. Dotted along the shore were makeshift shacks, cabins, homes, and hunting lodges–some with the orange-colored glow of light and smoky chimneys as we passed by in the foggy dusk. It was something I will always remember.

Just before the end of Wrangell Narrows we passed by my eventual campground and successfully docked in Petersburg. I backtracked a couple of miles on the highway, found a campsite right on the water, and quickly went to bed after a pretty long travel day.

Alaska Marine Highway System

M/V Columbia

Backed in to spot on M/V Columbia

Solarium on M/V Columbia

Snack Bar on M/V Columbia

Dining Room on M/V Columbia

Tenting on M/V Columbia

Waiting in Wrangell

Bar lights on M/V Columbia

Inside Passage sunset

Wrangell Narrows

Wrangell Narrows

Foggy ferry terminal in Petersburg

Campsite at Frog's RV

View from my campsite at Frog's RV

South Harbor

South Harbor

South Harbor

Petersbug, "Little Norway"

Boat yard

M/V Matanuska

Petersburg Harbor

Petersburg Harbor

Coast Guard

Petersbug Harbor

And I’m not even to the main part of Alaska yet. I’m in southeast Alaska, a part only accessible by sea or air. In fact, to get to the rest of Alaska, I will have to hop on another series of ferries, and then drive through another part of British Columbia and the Yukon Territory before reaching the main Alaskan border. From Ketchikan to Anchorage: 1,120 miles.

Originally wanting to take the Airstream on a ferry (or even a barge) through the entire Inside Passage starting in Washington state, I reluctantly decided to drive the entire way because of insane ticket prices. I got delayed in some pretty wet weather in the middle of B.C., and to find some sunshine, headed completely out of my way to the coastal city of Prince Rupert. Bt the way, if you’re ever in Prince Rupert, be sure to head down to Cow Bay, a few square blocks of shops and restaurants right on the water. After seeing all the ships in Prince Rupert heading to Alaska, I decided to research the Alaska Marine Highway System and the Inside Passage again. I was happy to find the prices much more reasonable for just the Alaskan part of the Inside Passage, so I booked a spot on the next ferry heading north. With something called the See Alaska Pass, I can stop off at a few cities along the route, stay for a few days, and board the ferry again without having to endure the almost 30-hour journey from Prince Rupert to Haines in one sitting.

The ferry itself was pretty comfortable; I had a really good meal in the cafeteria, walked around outside taking photos, and spent most of my sitting time in the forward observation lounge. I had intermittent cellular internet service, but unfortunately no Wi-Fi on the ferry itself. Because it was only a 5-6 hour crossing, I chose not to get a private cabin, but that could be an option for the next trip–at least 18 hours if I choose to go straight to Juneau. Unfortunately, passengers are not allowed to go down to the auto deck (and sleep in comfortable beds) while the ferry is moving.

The first leg from Prince Rupert to Ketchikan was in somewhat open waters. The scenery was good, but honestly, I’m expecting it to get better as the passage narrows. That is, if the weather cooperates. Unfortunately, the forecast calls for more rain in this part of the state. For now, I’m happy in Ketchikan, where there just might be a floatplane for every person on the island, and where bald eagles are as plentiful as pigeons in Chicago. I’ll hang out in Ketchikan, try to find some good weather in the forecast, and then I’m off…exact port unknown.

Waiting for ferry at Kinnikinnick Campground

Port Edward, B.C.

Waiting to board M/V Matanuska

Waiting to board M/V Matanuska

Snug fit on the Matanuska auto deck

Massive lifeboats on Matanuska

Matanuska solarium

BC Ferries heading other direction

Matanuska

Matanuska forward observation lounge

Matanuska

Typical view of open sea

Overnight camping on the Matanuska helipad

Matanuska

Matanuska

Green Island Lightstation

Typical view of open sea

Evening lights of Ketchikan

View at Clover Pass Resort

Totem Bight State Park

Creek Street in Ketchikan

Ketchikan

View from Safeway parking lot in Ketchikan

Snow above Ketchikan

View from Safeway parking lot in Ketchikan

View at Clover Pass Resort

One of many seaplane bases in Ketchikan

Inside Passage near Ketchikan

Enormous cruise ships in Ketchikan

Bald eagle

Sushi for dinner

Sunset at Clover Pass

Prince Rupert Seabase

I saw plenty of fog and clouds in Eugene, drove in a snowstorm over Santiam Pass, gazed at stars in the clear, cool nights of Bend, walked through snow on Mt. Hood, felt the wind and sideways rain along the Pacific coast, and even turned on the air conditioner in the surrounding countryside of Portland.

Oregon has some diverse climates because it is such a geographically diverse state. It has the rocky coastline, it has the more temperate rolling hills with vineyards, it has the snow-capped volcanic peaks, it has the high desert, it has the vast forests. Think of it as a smaller version of California, but without the smog, congestion, and high prices. And the people of Oregon love their beverages. I have never seen so many craft breweries, wineries, distilleries, coffee shops, and roadside espresso stands. It’s pretty much heaven.

But what’s the best part of Oregon? It’s the people. I met so many great people who instantly took me in as their adopted vagabond. Thank you, Rhonda; Scott and Kathy; Eric, Heidi, and the girls; Jill, Danny, and the boys; Ed and Meredith. And a special thank you to Laura and Kevin. They made me a birthday dinner, took me wine tasting, made me countless meals (and libations), took me on a mini-tour of Portland, and took me flying in their very own Cirrus! To all of you, thank you for making Oregon such a memorable place on my journey.

Sheep grazing outside my window

Snow on Santiam Pass

Typical day at the Oregon office

High desert scenery

High desert scenery

Parking at Timberline Lodge

Mt. Hood

Willamette Valley

Champoeg State Park

Champoeg State Park

Birthday dinner

Willamette Valley

Carte Blanche Airstream food cart

Cirrus SR22-G3 Turbo GTS

Cirrus SR22-G3 Turbo GTS

Champoeg State Park from above

Columbia River from above

Columbia River from above

Cirrus SR22-G3 Turbo GTS

Portland from above

Turning final for Runway 35

Mossy forests of Oregon

Rainy day on Oregon coast

The sea was angry that day

Spring blossoms

Oregon coast

Beach at Sea and Sand RV Park

Sea and Sand RV Park

Sea and Sand RV Park

Beach at Sea and Sand RV Park

Yaquina Bay

Yaquina Bay

Sea and Sand RV Park

Yaquina Lighthouse

Devil's Punch Bowl

Otter Crest

Sea and Sand RV Park

Sunset at Sea and Sand RV Park

Oregon coast

Haystack Rock