Tuesday, October 25, 2016
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.
Church of the Open Road Press
Thursday, October 20, 2016
Day Two and Three of the Bend, Oregon
October Fogged-Out Ride
(Next time we’ll do this in September!)
I live on the eastern edge of the Pacific Ring of Fire, that great and ever-changing zone typified by volcanoes and earthquakes brokered by pressure from the mid-Atlantic Ridge a half a world away. It pushes the North American continent over the Pacific plate creating everything from the ice-capped Sierra Nevada to the deep and frequently devastating San Andreas Fault. And it’s wonderful.
Ranging from far northern California to Alaska, the Cascades have risen through cracks and fissures caused by this slow motion collision. Central Oregon offers some of the best examples of volcanism’s many signatures. And Bend, Oregon was to be home base for several explorations of this fire formed region.
I arrived at Bend by traveling the new-to-me Oregon Route 62 out of Medford. This lovely highway ascends to the crest of the Cascades following the course of the Upper Rogue River. The Rogue has carved a narrow canyon through seemingly impenetrable rock.
Just west of Union Creek, a short interpretive trail walks one through the eons-old processes that resulted in the dramatic gorge. “You should see this after a big rain or the spring thaw. The canyon can’t contain it. You could stand right here ‘cept you’d be swept away,” reported a fellow hiker, showing out-of-town guests his treasure. “Once a guy tried to go down in a kayak when the flow was up outta the banks. Poor fool.”
Further up the road – now OR 230 – dramatic Mount Thielsen, an ice-carved arête reaches skyward. A roadside scenic turnout offers insight into the mountain’s origins and how it continues to be an active member of the Cascades.
Oregon’s state highways are delightful. Well manicured, in combination routes 234, 62, 230 and 138 stair step from valley pastures through stands of pines and fir to high country meadows with sweeping curves toward ever greater vistas, skirting around the western and northern flanks of Crater Lake. Out east, we experience the rain shadow that portends the high desert. Sage offers the west’s iconic fragrance.
Long on my list has been a visit to the caldera at the Newberry National Volcanic Monument.
Beneath the pristine pine and sage surface of the far western US, molten rock boils. In places it leaks (or blasts) forth producing fields of basalt or pumice or obsidian.
In other places, huge plugs of viscous lava have been extruded left to cool and then weather through millennia of wind, snow and ice.
In still other places cinder cones, huge red or gray piles of tiny rock and dust, look as if they’ve just been sent through some gigantic flour sifter.
The Newberry formation appears to have been a subsurface caldron of molten rock and gas that expanded and then collapsed. What remains are two glorious high country lakes separated by a growing dome and flanked by one of the largest obsidian floes anywhere.
Nearby – but easy to pass by – is the “Big Obsidian Flow.” Shouldn’t it be spelled “floe?” A trail leads us from the parking area through vast acreage so depleted in nutrients plant life has failed to yet take hold.
Where silica flows, it seems nothing grows. Signage tells us that the chemical basis for obsidian and pumice is silica. Wildlife is sparse in the floe, but occasionally, you may see something unusual, something Big-Foot like.
A wonderful stretch of pavement unlocks this area. About twenty-three miles south of Bend on US 97, turn eastward onto County Road 21 and enjoy eighteen miles of sweeping turns and expanding horizons.
The lucky among us may scale the route on a comfortable touring bike like my Thunderbird, and descend on a corner eating three-cylinder screamer like my riding buddy’s Triumph Trophy. His black beauty begs to have the edges of its tires challenged. Crack the throttle and the engine sings soprano. Nicely.
Returning north on US 97, we pause for a little education at the Newberry National Monument Interpretive center. It offers great graphic displays and trails into a rugged and foreboding lava floe.
Icing on this ancient, tumultuous cake would be the corkscrew drive to the summit of Lava Butte, a red cider cone upon which an active fire lookout is perched.
(Curiously, visit a fire lookout and you’ll always enjoy an amazing view. Go figure.) The cone has a crater at its summit and a ten-minute walk around its rim affords great views of the lava fields stretching in all directions and, to the west the Three Sisters.
There’s simply so much to see!
© 2016Church of the Open Road Press
Sunday, October 16, 2016
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?”
“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, 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.
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
Saturday, October 1, 2016
Off the sale table, I picked up a copy of President Carter’s latest memoir. Unlike many of his previous works, reading through “A Full Life” is much like sitting down with my wife’s late father – one who is willing to tell all the little stories that come to mind, stories that might or might not have been told before. So many of the tales are engaging and you can’t get enough.
Chapters are arranged chronologically but within each are paragraph-to-page long reflections and reminiscences ranging from growing up poor in rural Georgia to Carter’s ever-unfolding, ever-widening view of the world. He speaks of the successes and disappointments of his presidency and shares his post-presidential interests both across the world and at home. I found that as Mr. Carter laid out his accounts, rancor was absent and judgment about those with whom he interacted was left up to me. Which is not to say he doesn’t hold strong opinions about folks who have succeeded him in the Oval Office and the world’s corridors of power. But, we find, one can disagree with the actions and views of an opponent and still treat that rival with dignity and respect.
I closed the book reminded of how this humble man brought his Christian beliefs with him and used those tenets as guideposts not only for much of what he did as president, but more importantly, what he has done as a human being.
Note: Several years ago while living in the Sacramento area, the publisher of the Sacramento Bee asked a rhetorical question: “When did we as a society become so self-centered?” My reply was this: “I don’t know when we became so self-centered, but I believe it occurred sometime in the twenty years between when a president suggested, “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country,’ and another presidential candidate asked: ‘Are you better off now than you were four years ago?’”
Much occurred in those twenty years as those of us who lived through them will attest: three assassinations, a questionable war, a summer of love, a presidential resignation; and the result was a nation unsure of itself populated by a growing number of individuals for whom the term “greater good” equated with “self.”
Jimmy Carter was arguably the last president who lead us during times less polarized politically, times more aligned with the ideals of outlined in the Preamble and upon which our nation was founded. He worked with Congress and seemed more interested in service than prestige. I recall that economic cycles and the downfall of an American-propped middle-eastern strong man conspired to end Carter’s presidency after one term.
It could be argued that the result of the wave that swept Carter out of office has led us to become a nation of disenfranchised have-nots, angry about a what-might-have-been that was never realistically attainable (big house, second home, fancy car, speed boat, no debt) and concerned more about our personal dominions than the future of a once viable “shining light on the hill” that a successor seemed to talk so much about.
The Church of the Open Road recommends this book to those of us who recall Mr. Carter’s administration and for the generation(s) following. It is a primer on values, justice, compromise, and, an elusive greater good.
“A Full Life – Reflections at Ninety.” Jimmy Carter. Simon and Schuster. 2015. $28.