ANOTHER SLEEPY DELTA DAY

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I GUESS I MUST BE OVER-EAGER to see some fall colors. My last two trips to the Sierra have been busts. Too early. Today, I ventured down to the Sacramento River Delta, along state route 160 and several secondary roads.

THE SACRAMENTO DELTA holds arguably the most fertile soil in all of creation. Prior to the completion of the trans-continental railroad, Colusa, a bit up north, was one of the nation’s biggest wheat shipping ports. Agriculture has always been huge in this land of alternating flood and drought. Acreage currently in wines grapes, used to bear sugar beets, I think…

Why else would they call it the "Old Sugar Mill?" In the past decade, local wineries have pooled their wares and turned the old mill into a destination. Closed this day, the interior is vast, dark and cool. Perfect for barrel aging the good stuff.

But with the correct amount of squinting and a few color filters, one can imagine the great brick building falling into decay from years of disrepair. It's gratifying to see the ol' gal brought back to life.


AS A KID IN CHICO, Diamond Match had a lumberyard next to the railroad tracks until it burned to the ground one night.

Years later, when I lived in Gridley, an old guy named Bud Spurgeon bought a similar Diamond Match lumber yard there and revived it stocking lumber, building materials, plumbing, home wares and sage advice until he couldn't work any more.

I expect that these wood-framed lumber yards were darned near everywhere in the 40s and 50s, back when “do-it-yourself” was the only way it was going to get done, and if you needed a single specific washer or nut or a few finishing nails, the proprietor simply said, "Over there.  Go ahead and take 'em."

Here’s what remains in Clarksburg, a few blocks south of the Sugar Mill.

BELOW CLARKSBURG, just past the turn off to Bogle Winery (take a picnic lunch; try their Old Vine Zin or their renowned Petite Sirah) is a Yolo County operated boat ramp. This group of folks has found a past time the equal of what I was doing for this Monday morning.

Quick, place the following activities in the correct order: Working. Motorcyling. Fishing.

THE DELTA IS CRIS-CROSSED with bridges, all of which must be lifted when ship (or recreational sailboat) traffic ventures up the channel. Can't recall the last time I'd seen one elevated, so I stopped for this shot. Huge concrete blocks (look closely over the operators shed) serve as counter-balance for gently raising and lowering the multi-ton structure.


Where State Route 160 crosses a slough, an old gas station site remains. The pumps, clearly, are gone. I think I recall this was a Shell station in its last incarnation – and they had a pump down at river level for maritime traffic.

The bridge across the slough was closed. A contractor is painting it. I am forced onto an alternate route. The day just gets better and better.

Sutter Island Road traces the slough's levee, winding beneath a pleasant canopy of valley oak.

Here, the little Moto Guzzi is parked at an angle because she's resting on her sidestand. Not sure why the pump house is resting at a similar angle.

There's been talk of removing the trees from the levees because their roots can rot and provide tunnels for water (left, above) to seep into the farmland (right.) The Corps of Engineers has not completed a definitive study, but my hope is that they discover the roots actually knit and hold the levees together - which, I believe, has been the thought for some time.

GREAT OLD FARMHOUSES harken back to the times when people worked the soil and agriculture was king. Every few miles along the levees, one comes across an example of architectural elegance that complements the bucolic nature of the land.

Near Walnut Grove, a different kind of residence possesses a similar attraction. Simple and elegant in it own right, this houseboat is moored, rising and falling with the flow of the river.

Looks pleasant enough to me.

WINE GRAPES are not the only crop raised in these fertile soils. Here, a few acres of three or four year old pear trees indicate the farmer is slowly rejuvenating his orchard. Peaches, plums and apricots are also grown. Come February, these orchards will again provide a rainbow of pastel blossoms.

Back up north, rice replaced the wheat. Here, where the bottoms are soggy, these corn stalks are about to be chopped, mulched (not burned, thank you very much) and plowed under.

No traffic on this road enabled me to park on the wrong side for this picture. No traffic on this road enabled me to hear the soft delta breeze caress the dried corn leaves and whisper to me as I knelt for a shot.

In a land where crops grow so well, so grow the weeds and brush. An eager and willing group of goats have been hired in for control of unwanted vegetation.

ALL-IN-ALL, A GOOD WAY to spend a couple of hours is touring the Delta. Easily, one is transported back to times when working the land was considered noble, and when an evening's entertainment might involve watching the sun descend over the Coast Range – experiencing azure skies turn to shades of orange and purple until slipping into midnight blue.

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

SHAKEDOWN CRUISE – NO PARTICULAR PLACE TO GO

I COULD TELL it was finally spring. The temperature had ratcheted itself you by six-degree increments over the previous three days. Buckets of rain had stopped falling. Looking the month of April squarely in the face, it had been at least four weeks since the GS saw the outside of the garage. The storm had collapsed the back fence, but the back fence could wait.

I packed the camera and a bottle of Fiji water. The line no particular place to go ran through my head. Here, then is a summary:


THE CALIFORNIA DELTA has a maze of levee roads that twist and curl between Sacramento, Stockton, Rio Vista and beyond. Getting lost in the Delta is no tragedy. It is a gift. Having briefly stopped at Elk Grove Powersports (http://www.egpowersports.com/) to check out their new inventory of Triumphs (the old dealer went under in November) and drool at a sexy Moto Guzzi Breva Sport, I found myself on a couple of secondary roads splitting the Cosumnes River Preserve. Snowy egrets stood watch in the flooded flats and flotillas of Canadian honkers rose and fell on slightest waves. In three places, water topped the pavement and I found myself tip-toeing the GS through. I didn’t stop for pictures.

I motored on to Walnut Grove to glimpse a Sacramento River well within its levee constraints, but higher than I recall ever seeing it. Catching SR 160 I traced the embankments down to Isleton. In a normal year, the pear, peach and plum blossoms would appear as a carpet over the fertile bottomlands, but this year, the heavy rains washed many of the pink and while petals away. Isleton, Sacramento County’s smallest “city” provides a sturdy and clean public restroom just a few steps from the river. Its streets are Mayberry quiet – nice for strolling – and the Levee Café provides a fair hamburger.


I HADN’T CHECKED OUT the Western (formerly California Electric) Railway Museum in a dozen years, so that would become my next non-particular destination. Trough Rio Vista and west on SR 12 about sixteen miles, one comes to Vista Junction. A hundred years ago, the Sacramento Northern (nee Northern Electric) ran through these parts as electric inter-urban trains ran from Oakland to Sacramento and up to Chico. Before the automobile became ubiquitous, folks could catch an electric train and easily travel from point to point throughout the Sacramento Valley and down to the bay. At Vista Junction, some of this history is preserved and in May, most of the rolling stock is powered up for public rides. This day the museum was closed, but through the gate, I could see they’d constructed a nice new building. Didn’t stop for a picture. Must go back on the weekend when it is open.


I DID CHECK my DeLorme’s California Atlas and Gazetteer and realized that Suisun City was a brief jaunt up the highway and that there a tiny road I’d not taken before begging my attention. Rolling past legions of three-propped aliens, it appeared that the Solano wind farm would go on forever. I thought about Battlestar Gallactica and wondered if these creatures were actually Cylons in their native form. I didn’t stop for a picture.

Continuing west-northwest, a huge, gray L-1011 (perhaps) converted for military use practiced touch and go at Travis Air Force Base. Riding the BMW feels like flying, we’re told, and it felt as if my flight was far faster than the lumbering activity of the jet. I paused in line with the end of the runway, several miles off, and watched the beast touch the tarmac and ascend for another go.


WEST OF FAIRFIELD – turn of I-80 at the weigh station – Suisun Valley Road courses north into the Coast Range. This road was new to me. It begins as a four lane but quickly downsizes to a pair just past Solano Community College. A few miles up the road a four-corners named Rockville invites pause. There’s a nice nursery, a coffee place and, I think, a little mom and pop. From freeway to farm life in about six minutes, this community would support the bucolic vineyards further up the road.

The Suisun Valley Road is a delight. In the lower reaches, it traces the angular boundaries of property. Further on it changes its name to Woodinville Road conforms to route of a stream course. The road rises and falls away and twists through stands of oak. Every flat half-acre is planted in vineyard. Years ago, there was but one winery in these parts, the Wooden Valley Winery, but over the course of three-plus decades, more have sprouted up with new tasting rooms constructed to look old and quaint. I wish I’d stopped for a photo.

Woodinville Road dead-ends into SR 121 five miles east of Napa. This route I know well having taken it so many times when Auntie DeVonne was hospitalized last fall. The SR 121-128 combination carries much more traffic and many bikers. Coming my direction were two fights of about 20 motor patrol officers each, I’m assuming in training. As their Harleys roared by, I shared a salute with many of them.


THE LAST STOP THIS DAY would be the Monticello Dam confining Lake Berryessa. In deep need of a stretch I paced the viewing area and discovered, much to my horror, that Berryessa has a “Glory Hole” instead of a spillway. A spillway allows excess water to slip into an engineered channel rather than over top the dam. A Glory Hole is like a huge concrete tube, perhaps thirty feet across, that sticks up in the middle of the pool a hundred yards or so back of the dam. Water eclipsing the rim of the glory hole rushes down into this darkness and shoots out into the creek. I picture myself in a rowboat, feverishly paddling against a lake top current, only to be sucked into the glory hole and spit out at the bottom. Engineering feats to be sure, these things scare the hell out of me.

Google Images

The remainder of the shakedown cruise was on roads I too-commonly know. 128 through Winters; 113 to Davis; I-80 home. The eighty-degree day, clear sky, dry pavement, camaraderie with others and the burger in Isleton, made the first two-hundred miler of the year a nice day and another chapter for the Church of the Open Road.

Tomorrow I would fix the fence.


RESOURCES:

Since I left my camera firmly strapped to my belt for this entire excursion, you might be interested in further photos and facts found by clicking:

California Delta Visitor’s Bureau: http://www.californiadelta.org/

Western Railway Museum: http://www.wrm.org/

Wind Farm of Solano: http://www.thewindpower.net/wind-farm-2787.php

Jimmy Doolittle Air and Space Museum: http://www.jimmydoolittlemuseum.org/

Suisun Valley Wineries:  http://www.suisunvalley.com/

Lake Berryessa and really scary pictures of that “Glory Hole:” http://www.google.com/search?q=Lake+Berryessa&hl=en&client=firefox-a&hs=9H5&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&prmd=ivns&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=0FmXTaCQL4mosQPukbG7BQ&ved=0CC0QsAQ&biw=1218&bih=755

© 2011

Church of the Open Road Press

IN ATTENDANCE AT THE CHURCH OF THE OPEN ROAD: A WORK DAY WASTED

I WAS SUPPOSED TO WORK today. Punch the clock. Of course, now, it’s my own clock. But still, I'm supposed to work. Especially if I want to get that novel done. The one that’s been sitting in my head and on my desk since back in the Clinton administration.

But the sun was out – hadn’t been in some time – and an idle BMW conspired with it to prompt my sin. So, to the lord of the independent contractor, freelancer and writers everywhere – anyone whose income is derived from their personal, intrinsic motivation – I ask forgiveness.


IT REALLY DOESN’T MATTER where I go – I’d decided on the delta – because I’ve ridden almost everywhere around here many, many time since I initially sold my soul and the seat of my pants to the demon of roadway and wind roar. Today I just got on the bike and went slicing through that day-after-a-good-spring-storm air – air so sweet that if I could package it, they could tax it.

I stopped for an omelet at a greasy spoon I’d passed by numerous times before. Local chain. Lousy gravelly parking lot – easy place to tip over. I could build a better omelet at home, but here, there’s no clean up. I’m not annoyed that the young waitress fails to keep my coffee hot and fresh. I’m on a ride.

Back in the saddle, the road unwinds and so do I. The self-imposed deadline for finishing my manuscript dissolves and my only real interest is the discovery around the next bend or over the next rise.

Viewing the Coast Range invites another visit along its twisting roads through rolling horizons of tall grass and Spanish moss clinging to ancient blue oaks. The delta is forgotten. Cattle dot the grasslands and that familiar derelict barn is a bit further toward oblivion.

People make a living out here, off this land. They wake up in this bucolic scene each and every day. I coin a phrase: “good bucolity of life.” Wonder if they can play hooky – let the chickens go unfed or the cows unmilked? Perhaps the pastoral is more romantic to those of us who are just passing by. To those enraptured by a combination of the physics and the spiritual nature of riding, maybe every day seems better than it actually is.

Never really had a bad day on a motorcycle – outside of the day I hit some sand, high sided and busted my shoulder. And that wasn’t really a bad day, just a bad moment fostered by my own bad judgment. My buddy once hit a deer on his bike. Even that wasn’t a bad day either. Just a bad moment with a bit of an aftermath. Really bad day for the deer, however.

Somewhere, I missed an intersection. Must have been daydreaming. I made no attempt to correct this. I found myself on one of those rare area roads I’ve not travelled before. The road is as straight as a rifle shot for countless miles, ranging across the pan of the Sacramento Valley. In a Frostian moment, I wonder if this road not [previously] taken will make all the difference. A rusted tractor sits choked in waist-high grass. A barn pancaked, its siding splintered beneath a still-intact corrugated metal roof – rusted in some areas, glinting mid-day sun in others. A field of thigh-high mustard is in full bloom. Thankfully, my Claritin knock-off tablet works. A snowy egret stands in a ditch like a lawn statue. A bit further on, another. Hawks stand sentinel on old wooden power poles. One dives into the grass to prey upon a hapless rodent. He rises with lunch wriggling in his talons.

After a time, I end up someplace I’ve been before. No, not the town. I’ve been there. But the feeling. The spirit. The new road is now an old friend.

I pause for a stretch along the waterfront in Rio Vista. I wish I’d stopped to photograph the egrets or that old barn. But some days, when attending the Church of the Open Road, parishioners simply ride.


AFTER COMMUNION, vespers, the sermon and a hymn or two inside my helmet, I am home. I ask for forgiveness for having played hooky. Tomorrow, I promise, I will write.

Depending on the weather of course.

© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press
www.churchoftheopenroad.com

The Real McCoy

WHEN THE ROAD APPEARED TOO RUGGED and, from behind my desk, I simply needed escape, I gazed longingly at the picture of the delta ferry called “the Real McCoy” taped to the side of a cold, steel file cabinet. Highway 220, outside of Ryde. Some guy got paid to pilot this thing back and forth across a placid Sacramento River. Back and forth. Back and forth. Day after blissful, carefree day.

Every patron who boarded needed to cross – every patron who disembarked did so satisfied.

Not so with public school district administration. After a GOOD day, I could count on one hand the number of patrons who didn’t leave dissatisfied; or the number of kids who actually benefited from my employ.


SO WHILE CROSSING on the McCoy one time last spring, I asked the pilot: “What about this job could possibly bug you?”

“Bikers,” he responded, then clarified after eying my BMW: “Bikers who get drunked up over ta Al the Wops (in nearby Locke) and then wanna ride across. Oncet, this guy drove his Harley right off the end, then dove in after it.” He paused, scratched his chin and spat over the side. “Bikers.”

I returned to my federally sanctioned categorical ‘No Child Left Behind’ funding application thinking about green grass and where it might truly be found. My vote still rides with to the pilot of the Real McCoy.

Delta Artist

WORKING IN OIL

“THE PLACE IS INSPIRATIONAL.” I said. “The old buildings. The orchards. The river…”

“It’s the pace,” the painter said. Something in his voice matching the soft collage of oily hues rainbowing each of his thick hands. “Everything just slows down here.” He chuckled, “About thirty years ago, I got drunk down the street and I woke up and never left.” Sheepish grin. “Or maybe I just didn’t wake up.”

I judged several pieces hung up in the old studio’s wall or leaning against it from the floor.

“We… my partner and me… we use real paint, you know.”

“I know.”

© 2009
Church of the Open Road Press