MY CULT MEMBERSHIP

…Hooked by my Himalayan…

 

From the outside looking in, a cult seems to embody some sort of collective allegiance to a concept, product or a leader that is patently false. History is full of cults. Contemporary societies, too. Examples?

 

1.    False Products: Fizzies (remember those?), Beanie Babies, Coors Light. 

2.    False Leadership: [fill in the blank]

3.    False Prophets: Jim Jones, David Koresh and others.

 

     Typically, I’m thinking, cult membership is a response to a need for comfort, answers to tough questions or maybe simply a desire to belong. Sadly, the result of cult membership can often to lead to lost dreams, lost potential, lost savings and sometimes, loss of life itself. (See item 3, above)

     But not always.

 

Membership in the cult to which I belong began innocuously enough. The plan was to accompany a buddy on his first motorcycle trip over the vaunted Beartooth Pass between Montana and Wyoming.

 

However, the one-week timeframe I’d set aside for the round trip wouldn’t allow for the 2400 mile round trip on my Yamaha Super Tenere. Perhaps I could find an alternative. A little internet search and I found a gentleman outside of Red Lodge who owned a small fleet of Royal Enfield Himalayan dual sport single cylinder machines. He rented them out to folks who,  like me, wanted to explore the impressive Absarokas, but lacked the time to ride to and from. Rugged looking thumpers, stats showed they pumped – well, squeezed – out 22 horsepower, about a fifth of my big Yamaha’s grunt. I wondered if the little machine could haul my ample rear end up and around the winding Beartooth Highway to 11,000+ feet in elevation. 

 

My first motorcycle was actually referred to as a “motor-driven cycle.” Purchased new from the Honda shop a half mile from my home in Chico, the Trail 90 banged out seven horses, requiring me to ride on the shoulder of any state highway that might lead me to a Lassen or Plumas National Forest road. 

But the thing got 100 miles to the gallon and with that 1.1 gallon tank, I could go… well… about a hundred miles on 26 cents worth of gas. I bought the little Honda after obtaining a loan from Laurentide Finance and, for a while it being my only vehicle, put ten thousand miles on it in less than three years. The adventures on that yellow step-through remain a half-century later. Cheap transportation, Cheap explorations. Cheap adventures. Cheap fun. (And no, Mom, I wasn’t likely to kill myself on the damned thing; or even get too banged up.)

         My view of the Himalayan was that it was a throwback to my Trail 90. 

Cheap, rugged, light and it would take great effort for me to kill myself on one. The only question was, as stated above, would it haul my 220+ pound carcass up the Beartooth Highway from Red Lodge to Cooke City without holding up my buddy on his big Triumph? The posted speed limit of 35 for the bulk of the 68-mile trek would help and, the day before the big adventure, I test-ran the bike and found it could cart me around at 60-plus miles per hour so long as those miles weren’t particularly uphill.

         

After orienting myself to the quirks of the little 411cc powerplant, I was ready to join my pal and head up and over Beartooth. 

He, on his Triumph Triple, soon left me with nothing but his fading exhaust note. 

         Everybody else in the world who enjoyed two wheels must have been on the Beartooth Highway that day. Nobody was traveling too fast. The scenery was simply too spectacular to race through. Wide spots and scenic viewpoints dotted the route and I found myself stopping at damned-near every one, along with hordes of others that day, including the boys on the big bad American Iron. Pulling into one, I parked next to a beautiful blue bagger just as the rider and his mate were about to saddle up. 

        “What the hell is that thing?” he asked stepping forward for a look.

         “Royal Enfield,” I said. “Comes from India, of all places.”

         “Sounds British.”

         “It once was,” I said and I related a little bit of history I’d learned while researching the brand and model.

         A couple of other riders joined in. “How long you had it?”

         “Three days.”

         “New?”

         “Nope. A rental. I’m on a bit of a short timeframe. I live in California and left my FLNCH (I guessed at the Harley designation) home,” I lied. (Forgive me, Lord.) “A guy rents ‘em out of Red Lodge.” 

         We chatted a bit and soon the big boys were off. But it wouldn’t be our last conversation of the day. With almost every viewpoint would come the question, “What do you think of it now?”

         What I thought about it was this: The Himi could accomplish highway-esque speeds, but I didn’t think that was the point. Roomy for my 34-inch inseam, upright seating that meant taking the wind head on, light and flickable even with the semi-knobby tires, it hadn’t taken me long to begin to enjoy the alpine environs and not think about the little burro that was hauling me along. Primarily, it reminded me of the simple pleasures I’d enjoyed on that Honda 90 so many years before. 

 

The day’s journey was more than fine; and I had something to compare it to. Years before, returning from South Dakota on a BMW GSA, I took a wrong turn while searching for the road to Cody and found myself on the Beartooth Highway. That day, too, was spectacular, but this day was its equal. And I think this was when I got sucked into the cult.

         Over the years since that second ride on the Beartooth Highway, I’ve traded one bike for another, finding myself more than enamored with Italy’s Moto Guzzi marque. Established a year before BMW and still manufactured in the same factory on Lake Como, Guzzi may be another two-wheeled cult to which I belong. I’m on my third sample.

         As fate would have it, my current Guzzi, under warranty, somehow developed a crack in the fuel bladder and the part had to be shipped from Europe. There was a new model just like mine on the showroom floor, and had the shop been an enthusiast’s shop they’da pulled the bladder out of the floor model and sent me on my way. But unlike A&S in Roseville or Dave Richardson’s shop in the Seattle area or AF-1 in Austin, this was not an enthusiast’s shop. It was simply a dealership. One that carries, Guzzi, Aprilia, BMW, Zero (electric), Vespa and… wait for it… Royal Enfields. An unsold, year old Himi with a striking red and black tank was drawing me near. 

         I was eyeballing it and about to swing a leg over to try out the seat when: “Do you want to kill some time and take it for a spin?” the sales guy asked.

         A wiser me would have said, “No thanks.”

 

The Guzzi and the Himi live side-by-side in my garage. The former great for 150-mile packed-side-case runs to Chico to see family or multi-day tours into Oregon or across the Sierra or down the coast. Powerful. Comfortable. Head turning Italian flair. Sweet!

         The Himalayan is utilitarian, suited for simpler tasks. Basically I use for those thirty-minute errands to the neighboring town to buy a book, or hit the hardware store, or pick up a cigar or a reputable bottle of scotch. Curiously, those little jaunts never only last a half hour. With redwoods and riverbanks and vineyards and cresting hills, it’s easy to lull myself into a mini-tour – the Mendocino National Forest with its miles of unpaved roads isn’t all that far away – and find, again, the simple pleasures of the basic bike. The Honda 90 stuff I grew up with, upgraded with just enough juice to cart me around and not hold up other traffic.

         

But age 73 is rearing up to slap me in the face. A-fib, or something like it, is reminding me of how few chapters – or miles – might remain. Mom’s voice echoes, do you want to kill yourself on that damned thing? and I find myself admitting that longer-distance touring may be safer in the Subaru than on the Guzzi. With that in mind, I’ve been giving serious consideration to admitting my place in life and selling both bikes.

         But my heart of hearts – occasionally aching though this one might be – tells me I probably won’t. I’ll keep the little red Royal Enfield.

         Why? 

         Because I’m a member of the cult.

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

SOMETHING TO ADDRESS

Outside of whining about my bad knees from time to time, 

I steer clear of discussing personal health here. 

This’ll be an exception:

 

 

 

So I took the little red rooster (my Royal Enfield) on a delightful ride Tuesday – 60 miles through foothills, redwoods and vineyards. Green hillsides dotted with poppies; deep forests smelling of moist, rich duff; dry roads perfect for a little sightseeing; fresh air.

 

     Then about 2:00 AM on Wednesday, then again at 4:00, then again, in the awake-hours-morning a couple of times, I had another spate of those – for lack of a better term – arrythmias. Felt like a constricted something-er-other (or, at least there was some real pushing going on) and a little light-headedness or dizziness and, after three to five minutes of reclined rest, back to normal – until some next one comes along. 

     I’ll experience these being distributed through a few hours once every 10 to 12 weeks, then nothing. After each little event there are only shadows of the incident but, it’s always in the back of my thinking. 

 

Speaking of that thinking, I got to thinking how unfortunate it would be should one of these occur while riding at sixty-five-plus miles per hour on US 101 or out on some back road with no cell service. So, today, I began thinking about marketing the bikes: Both that sweet little 411cc Enfield which I absolutely adore, and the more substantial and visceral 850cc Moto Guzzi traveling companion. 

     Before I got too deep into that hole, I decided to do a bit more research. Hell! The Church of the Open Road was built upon sharing motorcycle adventures, wasn’t it? 

     As it turns out, when it comes to things cardio, of the seven or eight do-s and don’t-s listed with a number of reputable sites like the Mayo Clinic and the Cleveland Clinic, and as elucidated by my Kaiser doc, I seem to be doing okay with all but two: eating enough fresh fruit and vegetables and keeping it to only one or two drinks. As much as I have declared I’m going to cut way down on the wine, whiskey and song – okay, maybe not the song –  lately, I’ve been plowing through the better part of a whole bottle of cabernet or zin or some nice red blend every evening. EEE-Yikes! 

     Enough already!

Either that stops, I’ve decided, or I sell the bikes. 

     Big test on the horizon: Shortly, Candi will be out of the house playing bunco. (I wonder if Joe Friday or Bill Gannon will show up.) I have a small beef filet and baked potato – and some veges, dang it! – on tap for myself. A nice Cab is being eyeballed. Can I hold myself to one or two glasses?

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

DERELICT FRUIT

 …an hour’s ride into the past…

 

Almost a full lifetime ago, I’d be called upon to help ‘Gramma’ Carah rake leaves from beneath the trees in her small orchard. It was generally in mid-to-late October or early-November when I’d march up her long gravel driveway with bamboo rake in hand and pull dried leaves into small piles that she would set ablaze.  As a seven- or eight-year-old, I couldn’t tell how much time this chore would take out of a perfectly fine autumn Saturday, but I do remember that old Mrs. Carah offered me a dime for my effort. Mom instructed me not to accept. “It isn’t proper for a little boy to take money from an old woman.”

         The other thing I remember is the smell of the fruit that didn’t make it into her picking basket. Peaches, apricots, maybe plums too high for Gramma to reach –  she’d long ago given up climbing a ladder – hung on twigs until the first good wind or rain broke them free. Then they’d lay on the soil, among the weeds, soon covered by leaves and rot. 

         Fermentation, that action of heat and moisture and mold and stuff a little boy could never understand, results in a lingering sweet and pungent aroma.  A signature post-harvest sensation, an olfactory song of autumn, it is savory and good in manner I still can’t fully describe. All I know is that, while raking leaves, I wanted to inhale all of it. So much so that if a flattened, rotted peach or ‘cot ever stuck to the tines of my rake, I’d pull free and put its carcass under my nose and just suck air over it. The robust scent burned ever so slightly as it went straight to my lungs. And then to my heart.

         Raking Gramma Carah’s leaves was always a treat. I knew she loved me because she always tried to give me a dime, but mainly because of the sweet, floral aroma of derelict fruit that decades later has never quite left my system.

 

Last week, my Washington-state based riding pal put his Moto Guzzi to bed for the winter. He tells me he drained and replaced the oil, unhooked the battery and lifted it so its tires weren’t on the garage floor. I suspect many riders in the northern half of our nation engage in the same practice about this time of year, what with the shorter days and more inclement weather.

         But today, a Sonoma County-based me straddled my lightweight Royal Enfield Himalayan for a sunny, 70-degree ride along the base of the Mayacama Mountains, across the Russian River and Dry Creek and over miles and miles of narrow roadway; winding through harvested vineyards of orange and gold and brown foliage. 

Picking ended a month or so back and some of the fruit didn’t make it to area wineries for processing.  Some of the fruit fell from the vine to rest on the vineyard floor, derelict. There to rot – or better yet – ferment naturally, what with the action of a recent spit of rain followed a little sunshine and warmth. 

 

The perfume of this day’s mid-day air gave rise to a sweet, pungent memory from the better part of a lifetime ago. I find I’m no longer motoring along roughly paved secondary roads. No. I am again raking leaves into piles, peeling the occasional flattened peach from bamboo rake tines, accepting a loving caress from the little old lady who lived down the street, and slipping into my pocket the dime about which I would never tell Mom.

 

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press

FIELD NOTES FROM FIVE DAYS ON THE MOTO GUZZI

 …back in the saddle again… 

It was the multi-day motorcycle tour I absolutely needed to have.  A trip to my favored old stompin’ grounds up north would rekindle my distance riding spirit but highballing on the I-5 freeway is not the best use of an Italian masterpiece such as the Guzzi.  Still, when one crests that hill on the four-lane some thirty-plus miles north of Redding and sees the welcoming arms of Mount Shasta – the Queen of the Southern Cascades – the breakneck pace of the interstate seems worth it.  A few moments off the bike to take in the view is in order.  

Shasta would be riding on my shoulder for much of the week’s adventure.  (Four days later, I would be gazing at her when my cell phone pinged to alert me about a highly anticipated jury verdict.  I’ll always know the answer to the question “Where were you when you heard about…” It’ll be Mount Shasta.)

 

 

Whenever possible, I overnight in McCloud at the historic McCloud Hotel.  Brother Randy from the Pacific Northwest and I meet up there for a stroll around the business district and the company town housing. 

Always a delight to see what some folks have done to dress up some of the vintage company town homes of eighty to hundred years back.  Dinner is usually at the Sage Restaurant at the hotel and sleep is comfortable, relaxing as the old place fills dreams with the sounds of the creaking floor joists and the musty aroma of history.

 Sadly, the Sage Restaurant was unable to open for dinner dining this year for lack of staffing.  We were looking forward to a nice bottle of wine and a perfectly cooked filet.  Breakfast, however, was nicely turned out, setting up a pleasant second day on the road.

 

The Volcanic Legacy highway crosses Lake Britton near the train trestle from that frightening scene in the movie “Stand by Me” and leads us to Burney Falls State Park. 

The entrance station ranger offered to let me in for free if I’d allow him to take a spin on the Guzzi. He’d recently given up riding his Gold Wing.  I handed him my key but, ultimately, he shrugged and soon I was out nine bucks.  I couldn’t help but admire his giddy appreciation for the Guzzi.

 

 There’s a glorious rest stop / scenic overlook just off State Route 44 east of Old Station.  Situated halfway between Shasta and Lassen, it is always a go to.  Both summits seem close almost enough to touch.

This day, two sojourners from Austria were making their way from Mexico to Canada on the Pacific Crest Trail. Brother Randy engaged with them as they shared details of their thus-far adventure.  

My pal talked about his daughter’s semester in Austria and asked the kids to please feel free to call when they made Snoqualmie or Stevens Pass in Washington – still months away for them – tempting the hikers with hot showers, comfortable accommodations, and good food and wine.  I’ve bedded down many a night at Randy’s hostelry when riding up that way and can attest to the quality of the goods and services there offered.  Ahhh… The people you meet on the road.  Hopefully the couple will take advantage.

 

 Our route to Quincy took us along the east shore of Lake Almanor, where I lived for a couple of years when serving at the principal of the local elementary school.  Here, a favorite turnout with a view of Lassen in the distance…

An hour further south we took a side trip to visit the old Paxton Hotel.  That waystop is recounted in a previous post.  https://thechurchoftheopenroad.blogspot.com/2024/06/old-haunt.html

 

 The cozy and rustic VRBO cabin selected outside of Quincy would serve as a good layover spot.  A robust creek serenaded all day and all night.

 

The layover day allowed a trip to Bucks Lake passing the cabin (well, grand chalet) of a childhood chum.  The place looks just as I remember from back in the early 60s.  Well preserved.  Nice work!  Down the road a piece is the dam ~ a spot worthy of a portrait of the bike ~ but what caught my eye was the proliferation of Dogwood blossoms.   

Harbingers of lovely mountain summers and always among my favorites!

 

Afternoon would find me riding solo up the Quincy/LaPorte Highway into snow country with the road only plowed the day before.

Geographers tell us that there is a distinct difference in the geomorphology of Sierra Nevada and the Cascades. That granitic uplift to basaltic outflow shift is somewhere in the Feather River watershed.   

Sucker for a picture of an old steel bridge that I am, this one span crosses the Middle Fork of the Feather.  This might be that place.  If not, there's a nice swimming hole below.

 

Heading north the following day, we pass through the historic northern mine town of Greenville, devastated by the horrendous Dixie Fire of 2021.   

That visit is also shared in a previous post. 

  https://thechurchoftheopenroad.blogspot.com/2024/06/lessons-from-fire-footprint.html

 

 Retracing our steps back to McCloud and beyond, we are reminded that any road taken in the other direction is, essentially, a different ride.  The mountains, the meadows, the forests – all stunning and fresh, leading us to our final night in Dunsmuir.  The little berg nestled along the upper reaches of the Sacramento River is an historic whistle stop on the old California Northern (later Southern Pacific; currently Union Pacific) route. 

Café Maddalena is a favored restaurant there.  I stumbled in several years back to sit at the only seat available and enjoy perhaps the best meal on the road I’d ever had.  The café has become a must-stop treat anytime I’m in that neck of the woods.  

Unfortunately, the economics in this itty-bitty mountain town could not support the business.  Apparently, we were only a week or so late as its doors had closed permanently though the website was still up.  Such a disappointment.  Hopefully Café Maddalena will rise again.  We’ll keep checking back.

 

 Three or four years ago, I thought I’d tired of multi-day tours on the motorcycle.  I gave up a substantial model to downsize, but the urge never fully went away.  Does it ever?  A year ago, I upgraded to this 850cc Moto Guzzi V85tt touring model.  Distinctive and good looking.  Powerful enough.  Light.  And it eats both sweeping curves and twisting ones.  This past week’s ride makes me happy I’ve gotten back in the saddle.

See you on the road. 

 

Footnote

 

Around lunch time on the first day, I rolled into Willows.  In a bit of a rush, I fell back on a habit I’d developed long ago when my between-teaching summers were spent delivering local freight. In fact, that first summer, I earned nearly as much driving truck as I did as a teacher for the year.  Almost made me turn my back on a career in education.  Then one of the old-timers (52 years old) didn’t make it to the dock on Monday.  Died the Saturday before on the sixth green.  Heart failure.

     I was reminded of this as I parked the Moto Guzzi next to a bobtail like the one I’d driven.  Upon receiving my order (two Burrito Supremes and a small soft drink, speaking of asking for heart failure), I spied the driver: a lanky young red headed man with a full beard.  Probably weighed in at about 135 pounds.  As he stuffed his face, I thought, My God!  That was me fifty years ago!

     I ate my lunch and didn’t talk to the kid but about five miles up the freeway it occurred to me that I might have suggested: “The money is good right now, but the lifespan is short. Go for big dreams.”  But I didn’t.  

     The least I could have done was offer to pay for his taco.

 

 

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press

LESSONS FROM A FIRE FOOTPRINT

 …second in a series from a long-put-off road trip

 

Northern California has always been my home.  For seventy-plus years my favorite places on earth always seem to be here.  The Covered Bridge on Butte Creek near Chico [page 81*], an out of town spot I’d pedaled to as a kid; Simpson Camp [page 186], a sheep herder’s outpost up toward Mendocino Pass; Mount Harkness [page 101], the Lassen Park promontory once staffed by Ed Abby: all hold memories of cool temperatures, fresh air, terrific views and get-away-from-it-all peacefulness.  And all places now visited by fire.  

 

I know this because I often hop on my motorcycle to visit some favored place and rekindle some memories.  Now, each time I straddle the thing, I find myself motoring into mile after mile of burn scar.  There’s no escaping it.

 

 

My riding buddy from Seattle and I met up in McCloud (Siskiyou County) to tour places of remembrance – expecting and enjoying views of Mounts Shasta and Lassen, Lakes Britton and Almanor and bergs Chester, Greenville and Quincy (Plumas County).  Except, Greenville ~ the Greenville I once knew ~ wasn’t there any longer.  The mostly wooden structures of its historic downtown must have gone up like a dried tinder match during 2021’s monstrous Dixie Fire.  I stood inside the foundation of  my once favorite café to snap a picture of the burned out hulk of the old Indian Valley Bank.

 

The Dixie Fire originated more than forty miles away in the depths of the Feather River Canyon. Pushed by gale-force winds, it spread east and north through forest and meadow and summer home tract and town consuming everything but memories. Up the road from Greenville, we stopped to stroll though some Plumas Forest acreage two-plus years removed from the inferno.  Blackened ponderosa pine trees spired toward an azure sky, likely awaiting salvage harvest.  But beneath the skeletons grew grasses, lupine, mule’s ears, even ferns. Life was returning.

 

 

This was reassuring because one can’t drive too far from wherever they live in almost any direction and not drive through burn scar.  Evidence is plentiful and bigger than ever.

 

Climate is naturally dynamic and ever-changing, but the boost mankind has provided over the last century-and-a-half is not a positive thing.  This I give passing thought to as I motor around Northern California on my fossil fuel powered, internal combustion motivated Moto Guzzi motorbike – and having a fine time – putting off until another day the uncomfortable conversation we all must eventually have with ourselves.

--- 

* Not to oversell the yet-to-be New York Times best seller Eden, Indeed: Tales, Truths and Fabrications of a Small Town Boy, but the page numbers noted above refer to specific tales from the collection.

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press

OLD HAUNT

 …first in a series of stories from a recent road trip

My pal and I powered up the roughly paved road to the Paxton Hotel about mid-afternoon.  It would be my first real visit in about 65 years.  Or would it be a visit at all?

         As we set our Moto Guzzis on their side stands, a furious looking someone steamed in our direction from a nearby cabin.  

         “Just the man I was lookin’ for,” I said before he could utter a word.

         “Huh?”

         “Yeah.  You run this place?” I asked.

         “Security and stuff,” he said.  “Who wants to know?”

         I’d unzipped my bike’s tail pack and slipped out a copy Eden, Indeed: Tales, Truths and Fabrications of a Small Town Boy.  [Available by special order through your neighborhood independent bookseller – or through that online company that starts with an A.]  “Here,” I said.

         Whatever steam he had boiled up began to dissipate.  “What’s this?

         “A book I wrote about growing up in Chico. There’s a story in there [starting on page 48] about the time Dad stopped in here for a beer ‘cause he was tired of hearin’ me and my brother squabble in the back seat of the car.”  

         Security and Stuff crimped an eye and began thumbing through pages.

         “The barkeep served up Dad’s beer and then scared the crap out of me with a story about a ghost woman who sat in a rocking chair all night.”

         The man grinned.  “That rocker’s right there on the porch.” He pointed.  “Go take a look.”  

         I climbed up the stairs and snapped a picture or two.  Frankly, the chair didn’t look exactly like or old enough to be the one in question, but I’d been seven at the time of my other visit and memories can be fuzzy.  

         “Would you like to see what they’ve done to the place?”  I wondered who ‘they’ was and how many ‘theys’ there’d been in the past six decades.

         The entrance was not as I remembered.  No shaft of light illuminated a tired wooden floor or tattered rug when he opened the door.  I didn’t see the upright piano or the moth-eaten American flag.  The filmy curtains were gone and the windows seemed to close, which they didn’t do before.  It seems a lot of work had been done and redone to freshen things up.  The bar was polished and clean – no cigarette butts filled ashtrays – and the kitchen looked commercial and modern.  

         “If you’ve got a minute, I’ll show you the widow’s watch.  You wanna see it?”

         “Sure!”  

         I was expecting to head upstairs, but instead squeezed through a narrow portal and clumped down a darkened set of stairs.  The walls had no interior plaster or sheathing, just rough two-by-fours with light slipping through cracks in the exterior planking.  The air smelled of dust and mildew aged a century or more.  

         As we clambered down, he explained: “Sorry to be so gruff up there.  This is private property and I just ran off five guys and a gal who seemed pretty high on something.  Didn’t understand the term private.  Got into quite an argument.  Made me kinda edgy.  Sheriff can’t respond too quickly in this neck of the canyon.  Distance and all.”

         We pushed through a narrow passage with a grubby, littered floor with poor footing.  Opening a door that he must have located by feel alone he said, “Here’s where they found that rocking chair.”  Then he pointed at a pair of windows that didn’t quite close.  “That’s where she was lookin’ out.”

         I stepped around a weary settee that might have survived a trip around the horn and peered through the dusty, wrinkled glass.  “You can’t see the tracks from here.  Aren’t they up the hill?”

         “Yeah. It doesn’t make sense, does it?  But this is where they say they found what they think was the old gal’s chair.”  I again wondered about ‘they.’  

         He opened a door and now sunlight flooded in.  We stepped outside finding ourselves at the basement of the grand old building.  The Feather River rushed by in the ravine a hundred or so feet below us, its current offering an age-old whisper.  Although we could see Highway 70, the old Western Pacific Line was nowhere in sight.

         He thumbed through the book.  “So you grew up in Chico?”

         “Yep.”

         “So did I.  Chico High.  Class of ’79.”  He offered a bit more bio.  Father was a lawyer.  He, himself, flew fixed wing transport until he retired a few years back and moved home.  Came to do this for lack of anything better.  Enjoyed the place and the job; not so much having to run folks off.

 

The Paxton Hotel is now used for special occasions like weddings and such.  Rooms aren’t available to passers-through, but we were told we could stop by any time.

         As my pal and I puttered down the road back to the highway, I wasn’t sure I’d seen the actual chair – at least it wasn’t the one I remembered – or visited the actual window where the ghost lady would rock at midnight “Waitin’, just waitin’ for her true love to return.”  

         But I was sure I’d visited an old haunt.

 

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press