Day Fourteen -- to the Columbia River Gorge, OR

Day 14 – Winchester, ID, to Memaloose State Park, OR
Yep. The kids were up early, bouncing off the walls, excited to be in a yurt, I guess.
After breakfast, we packed up the car again and headed out. After only about 15 miles, though, we pulled into the visitor center at Nez Perce National Historical Park, outside of Lewiston. Kaya, Natalie’s American Girl Doll, is from the Nez Perce tribe, and Natalie has been eager to learn more about them. Once again, Natalie and Charlie completed Junior Ranger activity books and received badges to add to their collection, and we enjoyed a couple of hours exploring the exhibits and trying out some hands-on activities. It’s really a nice museum.
From there, we got back on U.S. 12 headed west into Washington. After yesterday’s spectacular drive, today’s route was pretty dull. But I think it would be dull by anyone’s standards. The lush forest has given way to a drier and markedly browner landscape. There are no trees, just dusty drab hills going on and on and on.
We crossed into Oregon and got on I-84 headed west, which eventually meets up with and follows the Columbia River. I had envisioned a greener landscape here, but it’s rather arid, with huge, rounded, rolling hills rising up like giant brown, fluted Jell-O molds on either side of the river. As we got father west, the landscape softened a little – more green vegetation – and Mt. Hood came into view in the distance.
At several spots on the river, we noticed dozens of windsurfers darting back and forth across the waves. And we pointed out to the kids the huge space-age-looking windmills set along the tops of the hills. Of course, it did not occur to us until we tried to set up camp right next to the river that the same wind that pushes the surfers and turns the windmills will make it extremely difficult to set up a tent. Fun times.
Here we are at Memaloose State Park, which, strangely, is really not more than a rest area with a campground, wedged right between the river and the interstate. I can hear the traffic as I type. And, every half-hour or so, I nearly jump out of my skin as a train on the other side of the river chugs by and sounds its horn. It might as well be running through the next campsite.