Wednesday, September 12
It’s time to get Bridget to a vet. Several days have passed since she spun out and hurt her back leg. I’m seeing very little progress. The pain medicine keeps her happy, but she’s only using the back leg for balance, not bearing any weight.
We leave Panther Flat and continue northeasterly toward Grants Pass.
It’s the closest town of any size on our route toward Crater Lake. I choose a vet at random. Grants Pass turns out to be bigger than I anticipated and finding the clinic is difficult, to say the least. Heavy traffic, five-point intersections, one-way streets, errgh! I pull over and set up my Garmin GPS with the clinic’s address.
I apologize to Miss Garmin.
A while back a reader asked me if I had any regrets or things I would do differently. I replied that I really didn’t need the GPS. I’ve done quite well without it. Such arrogance! Well, I eat those words today, Miss Garmin . . . . Your voice is music to my ears! She maneuvers the PTV/BLT through the hectic maze to the vet clinic. I’m thankful to see there’s parking in the back, big enough to accomodate both the PTV and the BTV with room to turn around.
The names of six doctors are on the door.
After a reasonable wait, Bridget’s name is called. She’s a good girl throughout the exam, even though a painful spot is manipulated by the vet. The diagnosis is a “partial tear of the cranial cruciate ligament.” (See previous post for details.)
All the time I’ve got a worry in the back of my head about Spike outside in the PTV.
After the bill is paid, I hurry out to the PTV with Bridget in my arms. Spike is fine, happy to see us, and also happy to relieve himself on a bush before we once again place ourselves under the control of Miss Garmin.
Now we’re in the throes of lunch hour traffic.
At a busy intersection we stop at a red light. A guy in front of us in the lane to the left jumps out of his SUV cursing mightily. Oh no, road rage. Please don’t have a gun.
He slams his door and charges back toward us and… whew! . . . past us, shouting “YOU GOTTA PROBLEM WITH ME? HUH? YOU . . .(curse word involving a mother)! NOT SO SMART NOW, ARE YOU, YOU LOUSY . . . (curse word involving a son)!
The light turns green.
The calm tones of Miss Garmin instruct me to drive straight for sixteen miles before turning onto Highway 62. Ain’t that good news! I’m outta here!
A scenic drive leads us to Natural Bridge Campground, a national forest campground north of the tiny village of Prospect. The fee is $10 a night or $5 with the Senior Pass. I discover our site has some sun, and some shade under very tall, old growth fir trees.
Later the crew and I explore the natural bridge of the Rogue.
The clear water of the river disappears underground and appears again further downstream in pure, frothing, white energy, tumbling and crashing over the rocks and anything else in its path.
The Rogue. How I dreamt about camping alongside you someday!