SMELLIN’ THE BARN

Day Four and Five of the Bend, Oregon

 October Fogged-Out Ride

(Next time we’ll do this in September!)

Rider magazine contributor Donya Carlson once offered: “The only thing better than a 500-mile day is two 250-mile days.”  To the extent that I’ve matured as a rider, I’ve grown to agree with her.  Except when after a week or so on the road, you start to smell the barn.  Smelling the barn is what the plough horse or the draft team does at the end of a day’s labor.  Release the harness and the animal makes for the stall and the straw and rest waiting therein.

Day four of our visit to Bend and its volcanic environs found us planning an up-n-back route on the vaunted Cascades Lake Highway. If the weather were to be anything like yesterday’s, the ride would be enchanting and the photography – what with razor-sharp peaks reflected in high country lakes – amazing.

But the day dawned with a thick drizzly overcast.  Our Internet friends in charge of predicting all things climatic suggested that by 11:00 AM, the low overcast should burn off.  We marked time and checked maps and salivated.  By the appointed hour, things had not improved, but the angels of our optimism suggested that conditions down the road might be better.  So we suited up, saddled up and proved those angels wrong. 

Years ago, bad timing found us riding the incomparable Selkirk Loop well after dark.  Tough to enjoy those world-class views with only a headlight.  Similarly, traveling the Cascade Lakes Highway in the fog is not only futile, but damned cold.  We were back home in and hour and ten minutes.  Perhaps tomorrow.

“Tomorrow” dawned much like what was now yesterday.  And a Pacific storm – a big one – was predicted for the next day.  So, at about 10:00 AM, I decided it was time to head for the barn.

With two layers under my new Fox Creek leather jacket and my rain suit easily accessible, I left Bend, heading south on US 97.  Perhaps I’ll make it as far south as Klamath Falls, maybe Weed, before my hands cripple up from the chilling windblast. 

Interesting note, here: although the fog was drippy enough that I considered stopping and pulling on the rain slicker, at speed, the windshield on the big Triumph T-bird directs the wind past the ends of the handlebars.  Nice surprise.  Hands functional.

Near Chemult, I stopped for fuel, spending the usual twenty minutes at the pump explaining to a local that, “Yes, Triumph has been reborn and they’ve been making motorcycles now for about twenty years.” 

“My daddy used to race a Triumph.  I think it was called a Bonneville,” replied the nearly my aged woman.

Continuing south on 97, with K Falls getting closer, I thought about how the lack of sunshine and the thick blanket of gray removed a dimension of pleasure from the ride.  Tomorrow was forecast to be worse, I knew.  Perhaps I’ll power through to Weed, or maybe Redding.

Six-point-three miles south of Chemult – I checked – the sun began to glare on the pavement and a mile further, the fog was gone.  Swatches of pine forest reached across the rich volcanic plain to the east and a rugged rim of peaks edged the western view. Soon, it felt like I’d put on too many layers.  A few miles south of Klamath Falls, I stopped for rest and to shed a sweatshirt.  And to have another conversation about the T-Bird: “Hey!  That’s not a Harley!” 

“No it’s not.” 

“Shore looks like a Harley.” 

“No, it doesn’t.”

Butte Valley, between Dorris and Weed is a lovely landscape of ranches and hay fields.  The mountains ringing the area make me wish I liked to backpack as I once did.  The rail line, which I’d traveled once at night, harkens back to the days when that was the most efficient and engaging mode of transport. Remove the pavement and the semis and the huge, red Massey-Fergusons working the fields and it could be a hundred years ago in this fertile high country of yesterdays.

Driving south, Mount Shasta comes into view welcoming me back to my home state.  

Just past the scenic pullout for the Queen of the Cascades, the Siskiyou County veterans have constructed a sculpture garden dedicated to those county residents who served.  Masterfully placed metalworks pay homage to the many roles of our military personnel – each of those roles calling upon the heroism many among us would not know we possessed until thrust into a particular – arguably untenable – circumstance.  Allow an hour.  Bring tissue.

But I didn’t stop.  I’d visited once before and the barn was smelling closer.  Maybe I’ll get to Redding and find a room.  Maybe some place a bit further south.

Travelling I-5 at eighty miles an hour is something built into the DNA of the big Triumph cruiser, I’m discovering.  Not severely impacted by crosswinds or passing big rigs, the Thunderbird is stable and true.  The seat is supremely comfortable.  It’s been five-and-a-half hours and I can’t remember fidgeting until just now.

South of Anderson, I fuel up, choosing a pump furthest from passers-by.  I want to see if I can make it to Williams.

It was five-forty when I made it to that little Colusa County berg and interchange.  Maybe two hours and change on CA 20 and I’m back at the barn… err… home.

Highway 20 is one I am beginning to know too well what with frequent trips through those mountains to visit an aging parent in Chico.  In the past couple of years, I’ve learned of her ins, her outs and her alternatives.

The Hopland Grade between Clear Lake and the Russian River is a bit of a shortcut, mileage wise.  CA route 175 twists and corkscrews. There are few wide spots, no designated turnouts and zero passing lanes.  It is steep and treacherous under the best of circumstances which would include daylight and dry pavement.

Smelling the barn causes compromise in reasonable thought.  An example would be traversing the Hopland Grade on a behemoth of a motorcycle in the dark – think Selkirk Loop – after eight hours in the saddle. Crossing gingerly was my plan, but that plan didn’t fit well with the driver in the aging Civic who, because I was lumbering along, thought flashing his brights in my rear view mirrors might hustle me to wick things up a bit.  It didn’t.  And it didn’t make the bad ride any more enjoyable.  Or safe.  I guessed right about a wide shoulder I thought existed just this side of the summit.   The decrepit Honda rocketed past as I promised to myself that I was never doing this again. 

Rider’s Ms. Carlson is most certainly correct about 250-mile days, but home felt particularly good after having done twice that.  A glass of wine and a hunk of cheese were all that I needed before retiring to the stall.  I was asleep long before I could reflect too much on the day’s adventure.

© 2016

Church of the Open Road Press

THREE CONVERSATIONS ON A LAY OVER NIGHT IN DUNSMUIR

Day One of the Bend, Oregon October Fogged-Out Ride

(Next time we’ll do this in September!)

Dunsmuir, California is a speck on the I-5 corridor about half way between Redding and the Oregon border.  It is grounded in northern mines, logging and railroad history.  Now, however, few people – other than folks looking for some world-class fly-fishing on the Upper Sacramento – may venture off the freeway at one of the three exits.  But I did.

The big Triumph is not a sport tourer by any means.  But it certainly proved able, stable and supremely enjoyable crossing the Coast Range and then ranging north of I-5 with a nice little detour to visit Shasta Dam through what used to be known as Project City.  Three hundred miles of service was good for one day.  I was ready to be out of the saddle.  The room I’d reserved in Dunsmuir was quiet, comfortable and nicely priced.

Once I’m off the bike for the day, I make it a habit of not getting back on to run an errand or find a bite to eat.  I like to walk around town and enjoy a few “what might it be like to live here?” thoughts.

From the little forties-era motel, town was at least around the next bend, because I couldn’t see it, so I asked the proprietor: “How far do I go ‘til I can find a place to get dinner?”

“Town’s three-quarters of a mile,” he said cocking his thumb over his shoulder.

“Ah,” I said.  “Walkin’ distance.”

“Yes,” he replied, “but ya better be careful comin’ back this way after dark.  You see, the old highway’s real dark and there are no sidewalks this side of the cemetery.”

“Well,” I nodded, “I guess it’s a good thing the cemetery’s there.”

“Yeah, except it’s full,” he said.  “We’ve taken to just leavin’ folks by the side of the road.”

I walked into town cautiously though warmed by his delightful chuckle.

The Southern (now Union) Pacific runs freight and allows passenger service up the Sacramento River corridor.  Dunsmuir, established as the rail line crept north, became a water station in the days of steam.  I recall a stop there one morning just past midnight while riding Amtrak from Seattle to Sacramento. 

Now, following the sidewalk on the town side of the cemetery, a baleful whistle echoed up the canyon.  The low rumble of a half dozen GE Electromotive Diesels passed within a stone’s throw of my path – although hidden from view by railroad-town type company housing set amongst tall pines and black oaks – followed by the syncopated reports of a mile or so of freight cars being tugged toward K. Falls, Oregon.

Marvelous – maybe even a bit romantic – how the symphonic railroad seems such a part of town.

There’s a nice burger place on the main drag.  Closer into the historic “city center,” the usual stores exist – or existed: tire shop still functioning; Diamond Match lumberyard, not; pizza joint not to busy for a Friday night; antique (junque) store where the hardware used to be; Mexican place was open and while usually, my go-to cuisine, I thought I’d explore further.

Five or six blocks into town from the south, a sign alerting me to ‘more shops’ pointed down a steep, paved street.  I ventured down.  Perhaps there’s a place to eat.  If not, maybe a train will rumble through.

Café Maddalena, according to Lonely Planet, “put Dunsmuir on the foodie map.”  I had no idea.  I was just wandering around looking for a bite to eat when a fellow, who I later came to find out was named Ken – a regular – says to me, “You’ve gotta try this place out.  You’ll love it!”

Okay, I thought, glancing at the posted menu, I’m not interested in my usual.  This might be unusual.  I entered, saying to the hostess, “Just one of us.”

“Have you a reservation?”

“No.”

“We’re sorta booked tonight.  I hope you won’t mind sitting at the counter.”

I settled in next to Ken.  “The menu changes about every six weeks.  I live in Redding and have worked my schedule down to about half time.  So I come up here on Thursdays and leave Monday morning for work.  We’ve got a little place in town.”  He paused a moment to offer something familiar to the waitress, then patting my shoulder said to her, “This is….”

“Dave.”

“…Dave.  Dave, nothing they offer you will be a disappointment.”

And it wasn’t…

The man I saw was as big as Sasquatch.  Maybe he was Sasquatch.  After all, Sasquatch is a denizen of these parts.  I’d finished my meal at Café Maddalena and decided to walk the lower street, parallel to the UP tracks, for a few blocks, perhaps hoping to enjoy a passing freight.  At one juncture, the darkness looked inky, public lighting dim, prompting me to climb the cross street that would lead me to the main drag and home.

The civic center in Dunsmuir is comprised mainly of the fire company and the Siskiyou County sheriff’s substation sharing a large brick building.  It is set at the corner of two streets about which I was set to round. 

Sasquatch-man had closed the substation door and was descending a short stoop of stairs. 

“How’s it goin’?” I asked apparently stepping into the corner’s light.

“You lookin’ for me?” he grumped.

“Nope,” I said.  “Just staggerin’ home.” Then I said, “Not a bad beat you’ve got here.”

“Yeah, well, some days are better ‘n’ others.”

I held out my hand.

His grip was massive.  We chatted about his profession and what mine had been.  Finally he sighed, “I have this recurring fantasy that I’m out looking for work because there’s nothing left for me to do here.”

I laughed.  “Think it’ll happen?”

“Naw,” he said. “You be careful walkin’ beyond that cemetery.”

“Thanks for your work, man,” I said.  Slipping into the darkness I wondered if the deputy read any of Craig Johnson’s Longmire series.  This guy was the spittin’ image.

o0o

Notes:  Café Maddalena is a great and unexpected find.  Open only Thursday through Sunday, I was lucky to stumble in on a Friday.  Cozy and with great service, I enjoyed their loin of cod on a bed of sautéed fennel, onion and potato steeped fish stock and white wine.  Man-oh-man!  Owners Mr. and Mrs. LaMott – Brett is the chef – chatted with Ken and me at the counter: Brett sharing about locally sourcing his ingredients, his wife (regrets, I didn’t get her name) talked about a soggy fly-fishing trip with a cousin from Chicago.  “Only day in about a month that it rained.”

After savoring (and I mean really savoring) my delicate entrée paired with a gently floral Lake County Sauv Blanc, the waitress asked if I’d like anything more.  “Sitting on a motorcycle for three hundred miles doesn’t burn a heck of a lot of calories, I’m afraid,” I said.  “The ginger cake looks awfully good, but I’d better not, so just a check, please.”

A few minutes later the paperwork arrived along with a nudge and a little carry out box.  “Take this home with you,” she said.

Check out Café Maddalena at http://www.cafemaddalena.com/index.html#hometop

The menu here changes every six weeks or so.  You might want to check back often and make plans not to miss this little gem when traveling the Shasta corridor.

Church of the Open Road Press