Our first two nights in Washington were fairly uneventful — unless you count the relentless rain that soaked our muddy KOA campground. We were parked on the border of Idaho and Washington, and aside from trying to dodge puddles, the most memorable moment was doing laundry. Twenty-five dollars in quarters later, I was reminded that even life on the road still requires tackling the mundane.
From there, we headed deeper into Washington to a much more memorable campground near Mount Rainier — a place we’ll never forget, though maybe not for all the right reasons. The first clue that this wouldn’t be a typical stay was the Confederate flag flying beside the American one at the entrance. It seemed our assumptions about Washington being completely PC were, well, a bit off.
Our site itself seemed fine — quiet, shaded, and convenient. But just a few feet from our picnic table was a hand-carved wooden plaque nailed to a towering fir tree that read: “Roger Martin, Watermelon Man, Died August 23, 2016.” We later learned that Roger was a longtime camper who used to bring free watermelons to everyone each summer — until he died of a heart attack right at that very spot. A little unsettling, to say the least.
The owner of the campground, a congenial but clearly unfiltered old-timer, told us that Roger wasn’t the only one — apparently, five people have died at the campground over the years, most in their trailers. He didn’t seem the least bit fazed by this. We started to wonder what we had gotten ourselves into.
Each evening during our stay, a group of mostly Asian men and women would quietly arrive to use the showers. We found out they were migrant workers, spending their days foraging huckleberries and mushrooms in the surrounding mountains and living in the woods during the harvest season. They came down every few days to clean up before returning to their temporary camps. It was fascinating, unexpected, and oddly routine for the place.
Despite the strange vibe, our site worked well. It was large, level, shady, and close to everything we wanted to do in the area. And just to clarify — we always use our own shower.
We also found a breakfast café nearby that was so good we went twice, even though the conversations overheard there made for an odd kind of entertainment. The old men who held court at the counter had no filters and very particular opinions. On our second visit, a Budweiser truck passed the window, and one of the men waved. I smiled and asked, “You know him, huh?” Without missing a beat, the man replied, “Yup. That’s Toby. I call him Kunta Kintea.” I was too dumbfounded to say anything. I just went back to eating my French toast in silence.
It’s funny, the things you put up with on the road — and even stranger, the things you end up remembering most. Not every stop is postcard perfect, but every one of them leaves a mark.