Rimrock Lake is a spectacular shade of greenish blue. Hubs brings me up a forest service road he visited earlier while scouting for camp sites and shows me a stunning view over a portion of the lake.
We have been at our riverside site for a few days now and spend most of our time on the rocky shore reading and letting the pugs wet their feet in the current.
Dirty laundry is nearing critical mass and we need to find a laundromat soon, but the nearest town with facilities is 75 miles away in Yakima. But we don't know that yet and drive toward White Pass, a town consisting of a gas station that only sells regular, and a tiny market where backpackers can buy a tub of frosting for $4.95. There is one lopsided domestic washer and an equally doubtful looking dryer that, for three fifty each, you can dirty your clothing in. We decide to pass on the laundry services here and just leave the area in the next day or two.
This being a Saturday, every single campground and day-use area is jammed to the limit with people desperate to recreate. The lake is teeming with all manner of boats, large and small.
Back at our campsite, we are glad to find peace and quiet and solitude.
Sometime in the peaceful evening, we hear the crash of a large tree hitting the ground close by. We both think it strange, since there is no wind, and within a few seconds I leap out of the Airstream, camera in hand. Hubs detains me just long enough to cram bear spray into my jacket pocket. Walking down to the river, I don't see signs of recently fallen trees, but keep my eyes peeled for any large ape-like shadows in the woods. There is only the sound of water rushing over rocks to greet my hopeful ears.
Maybe next time.