BAITED BY A BUZZARD

 Sorry, No Photo of the Incident…

 

A good day’s ride on a motorcycle should include at least one breath-taking moment or heart stopping view.  (Note to reader: According to my doctor, I’m ‘spozed to be consistently wearing a heart monitor for thirty days, but I knew I’d be off the grid for a spell.)

 

 

The road from State Route 20 to Leesville and Lodoga is rarely taken by civilized man.  Civilized ranchers, yes, but few others.  The route traces the eastern edge of the Coast Range in Colusa County, winding through expansive pastures and past elegant aging barns from a century or so back. (Jerry Brown, I’m told, now lives out this way.)  I’d last taken this route in a nearly new 1991 Jeep Wrangler so how many years ago might that have been?

       

Straddling the Moto Guzzi, I motored and bounced up a steep section of roadway – more pothole than pavement – twisting up the north end of a lovely rangeland valley.  Around each turn the view became more magnificent in either direction.  To the south, that springtime green valley on the cusp of turning golden.  To the north and west, the still white-encrusted peaks of the Snow Mountain wilderness area. Narrow, with blind turn after blind turn, there was no place to stop for a “Shot of the Day.” 

         

I reached the summit where the road turned from what they called pavement to a graded dirt and gravel affair that was much easier to negotiate on the motorcycle.  I relaxed my grip on the grips just a bit.  Just as the prior miles were upward twisting, these corkscrewed downward.  To my right, the hillside was steep, covered with tight thickets of chamise and scrub oak.  To the left, the hill was equally precipitous.  I’m sure there was a seasonal creek at the bottom, but it was too far down to see, if I’d hazarded to take a glace off the road.

         

Rounding a bend, something stirred to my right.  Something big.  I gently touched the brakes when that something burst out of the underbrush.  A buzzard.  A turkey vulture.  Perhaps the mother of all turkey vultures, undoubtedly annoyed about my interruption of his lunch.  Liftoff for this winged behemoth would prove to be a struggle. The massive scavenger slipped below the level of my windshield.  Wings pumping, it couldn’t seem to rise above the brush on either side.  His route was the same as mine.  Dirt road conditions as they were, my speed was cautious. The buzzard’s?  Slower.  

I was gaining on him.  From about three feet behind I could see the gray undersides of his wings, count the feathers that looked like disjointed fingers at the end of those wings and I could even make out the needle-like talons on his red-stockinged feet.  I may have followed him fifty yards – maybe less – on that pebbly route at one point thinking, if I just goose the throttle a bit, I bet I can probably grab that fella and… But ‘goosing the throttle’ would likely send me off the edge, plummeting into the abyss to come a cropper where my cell phone wouldn’t connect. And there I would lie, squashed beneath the Guzzi, waiting to become the big guy’s next meal.  

Of this, I think the vulture was aware.

 

In perhaps fifteen seconds, the big bird rose out of reach, tipped his wings slightly to catch the updraft out over the canyon and drifted away.  

 

 

I’m not sure what that heart monitor might have recorded, but it woulda been something interesting to explain to the doc.

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press

"Are You Okay?"

a Saturday morning chat

 

“Are you okay?”  Those were the first words I uttered as I approached the ragtag tent erected next to the creek in our old folks’ community green space.

         “Yes.”  The voice was that of a woman.

         All I could see of the person was the Vibram sole of a boot and a portion of her pantleg.  There were some dishes or something clustered next to where she sat.  “Do you need anything?”

         “No.”

         “You sure?”

         “I’m sure."

         I had been alerted to the presence of this camper while engaged in my daily forty-minute exercise route on my bicycle.  Seems I need to strengthen a game knee and riding the stationary bike in the community gym lacks both fresh air and scenery.  Pedaling, a woman I know had just been walking her pup on the paved trail that traces the creek.  “You know the little park down the way?”

         I nodded.

         “Well, just across the path, next to the creek,” she began whispering, “there’s a homeless person in a tent.  What should we do?”

         “I’ll check it out.”

         It was a lovely spring Saturday morning.  First time in weeks warm enough to wear shorts while riding the bicycle.  I pushed it down the path ~ No Bicycles on the Walking Path! ~ and, sure enough, came across the tent, draped with a brown plastic tarp, tucked behind some bushes next to the whispering waterway.  A perfect place to camp, I thought, except it was on privately held property, and some in the ‘hood can be pretty grumpy about homeless people setting up camp in our greenspace.  This, I felt, I needed to share.

         “I’m not a grumpy person, but you may find there are some pretty grumpy old folks living in the neighborhood here and I really don’t want you to get busted.”

         “I’m getting ready to leave.”

         “Okay.  You sure you don’t need anything?”

         Muted: “I’m sure.”

         I finished my exercise ride and upon returning home, emailed the neighbor who’d expressed the concern, relating my interaction.  Adding, “…there but for the grace of God…” perhaps unnecessarily.  But it was my thought.

 

 

About three years ago, I volunteered to help with my little town’s homeless census. That’s an annual event where someone like me is teamed up with an unhoused individual – an individual who knows where the best camping places are.  We volunteers were given explicit instructions about how to do the count and asked not to interact with those living in tents, cars or busted down motorhomes.  

         My guide had been homeless for quite a period of time.  As we visited, he explained: “I had a pickup truck and two lawn mowers and an edger.  I did yard work, trimming and mowing and stuff for about 20 clients a week.  I even paid a guy to help me out in the summer.”  We drove up a winding road toward the lake past a large house on acreage.  “That was one of my places,” he said, his voice emoting a degree of pride.  “When the drought hit, I lost some customers and I had to let my helper go.  Then, my landlord raised the rent.  I don’t blame him though.  It’s his place and I could make ends meet pretty good.”  There was a pause.  Then, as if it were a lyric from a country-western song, he continued: “Then my truck broke down and I couldn’t pay to get it fixed and cover the rent.  The wife figured she could take my boy and move down to Monterey and crash with her folks for a while, save me some money on groceries.  But with my truck broke, I couldn’t get out to my clients, and well…”

         I recalled that a long-time city council person said in the midst of a heated debate about the unhoused: “You know, we’re all just four flat tires from bein’ homeless ourselves.”

 

 

I let an hour-and-a-half elapse and then drove over to the trail to check on the campers.  The tent was down, folded and tied onto a bicycle trailer hooked to a decrepit mountain bike.  The woman was seated, backed into the bushes.  A man was standing next to the bike.

         “Hi ho,” I said.  “I came by earlier and I thought I’d check back to see if you needed anything.”

         She looked at me and kind of tipped her head. “No,” she said.  “Thank you.”  Then she commented on the t-shirt I was wearing.  Printed on it were Adam Schiff’s final words during the House of Representatives first impeachment hearings of a former President:  Right Matters.  Truth Matters.  Decency Matters.  “I like your shirt.”

         “Yeah, well,” I said, “Some days it seems like we don’t have enough of that, doesn’t it?”

         This spawned a conversation about kindness, values, fairness, economics ~ economics! ~ and what a lovely place this was to camp.

         The man chimed in: “Sonoma County is just absolutely beautiful.  I don’t think there are any bad places in Sonoma County.”

         “ ‘The chosen place on all the earth’,” she said.  “Wasn’t that Luther Burbank?”

         “Yep,” I said, “but I think folks’ll get pretty grumpy about you all camping here.”  I pointed to a neat pile of wrappers and cans in the footprint of where the tent had been.  “You need help with that?” 

         “I don’t have a paper bag…”

         The man pulled a dirty t-shirt from his pack and fixed to wrapping the detritus in it.

         The lady and I continued to visit, agreeing that the world was a wonderful place but that it was full of problems and issues.  “Growing up in Berkeley, my Dad often griped about how the world was going to pieces, and it wasn’t like it is now.”

         I nodded. “You know, my Dad said the same thing.  I’ll bet my kids will tell their kids about me having the same thoughts as my old man.”

         We laughed together, ultimately wishing each a fine spring day.

         Heading back to the car, I realized that I’d seen this woman before, at the town plaza, hanging out with a few others.  I vowed that the next time I saw her, I’d sit down for a bit and extend our visit ~ our understanding of one another.

 

 

A dusk approached that evening, I packed some gloves and a paper bag and traipsed back over to the campsite.  The tiny pile of litter was gone.

 

Related Resource:  Poverty, By America, Matthew Desmond, Crown Publishing 2023. $20. [Wow!  The problem's us!]

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press

DAD’S THING

 Another air-cooled remembrance

 

What prompted Dad to trade off his brutishly beautiful ’69 Toyota FJ40 Land Cruiser for a new-to-the-US VW Type 181, I’ll never understand.  But, then again, skydivers jump out of perfectly good airplanes and I’ll never understand that either. Still, forty-plus years later,  I carry this lament: How I wish Dad had offered that go anywhere Land Cruiser to me!

 

Dad’s VW was a throwback to World War II when German Command (purportedly) traveled behind the battle lines in drab, flat sided vehicles – driver in front, officers in the back.  Rugged appearing and versatile looking, Dad – an Army Air Corps vet himself – may have forgotten that the Germans lost that conflict.

 

Still, there must have been alure in the angled flat hood, the four doors and the fabric top that could be folded back like the phaetons of old.  His bright yellow VW Type 181, promoted stateside as “The Thing,” returned better gas mileage than the FJ and would take on any road Dad had previously traversed in the Toyota.  He knew this because his long time backpacking buddy, Zibe, owned a ‘64 Bug with a fabric sunroof and when they planned to meet up at some remote trailhead, Zibe would always get there first, leaning on a fender and puffing on a Dutch Masters President.

 

If the Thing could get him there, that was good enough for Dad.  

 

Dad’s Volkswagen was unique in the neighborhood and more than capable in the woods.  Once, a pal and I decided to hike into Green Island Lake with my friend’s dog, Sheba. We’d stay for a couple of nights, catch some trout, grill ‘em over the fire and live off the land.  Dad was going to meet us for the second evening.  The first night, we didn’t catch any fish and it rained like hell about midnight.  So, at daybreak, soaked, we headed up the trail thinking we’d intercept Dad on our crestfallen hike back to where we’d parked, hoping we’d be able to negotiate the storm deluged dirt roads without getting mired.  With Sheba in the lead, we trudged back.  But Sheba, apparently misunderstood our plan.  At a trail fork, she zigged and we followed her, when she should have zagged.  About a half mile on, we realized our mistake, backtracked and assumed the correct path to the trailhead.  Upon arrival, parked next to my orange Beetle was Dad’s mud crusted yellow Thing. We’d missed him.  He returned home a day or two later bragging about how good the fishing was at Green Island Lake. 

 

Time after time, Dad would disappear into the Ishi Wildness or the Coast Range Yola Bollys or the foothills of the Cascades for days at a time, always to be welcomed when his yellow mud-caked VW puttered down Stewart Avenue toward home, always grinningly regaling us with tales of his latest adventure in the VW.

 

Only a few years elapsed before Dad sold his VeeDub and bought a new Toyota Hilux pickup.  Again, I don’t know why.  The Thing was perfectly good.  And real cute!  Once again, I lament: How I wish Dad had offered that go anywhere VW Thing to me.

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press

 

VW LUST

 One of many air-cooled remembrances

 

My first real car was a ’71 VW Super Beetle.  Clementine orange.  I purchased it new after an ill-fated six week ownership of a Triumph Spitfire into which I could barely fit.  My new Volksie was the perfect car for the college-aged me: economical and dependable. But what I really lusted after was a Karmann Ghia: the poor man’s Porsche.  Smooth European lines.  Coachwork by Karmann ~ whoever the hell that was ~ and as reliable as my Beetle.  But like that Spitfire, with my six-foot-four-inch frame I knew I could only lust after one.

One evening around dusk, heading home from the wholesale house where I worked late and approaching the Southern Pacific tracks on First Street in Chico, I saw a cluster of college students milling about excitedly.  In those days, Chico State was thought to offer class credit for beer consumption, and it might have been that these kids had been studying, because about 100 feet north of the crossing, a beautiful forest green Karmann Ghia was high centered across the tracks. Several young men were trying to lift the rear end and boost the thing over the rails ~ Hey! Fellas! The front end is lighter!  

 

Several hundred yards north, the bobbing headlight of a southbound EsPee diesel foretold of impending disaster.  Brakes screaming, it became clear the train wasn’t going to be able to stop in time and, at the last second, the crowd split like the Red Sea parting.  

 

The impact was brutal.  The beautiful little Ghia was bent and crushed and emitting sparks as the locomotive skidded the little coupe’s carcass across First Street right in front of me, coming to a halt about a block away.

 

I was sure no one was hurt and I was sure I had nothing to offer Chico’s finest when they arrived, so wide-eyed and sullen, I hung a U-ee and drove to the rented mobile home I shared with a roommate.

 

As a connoisseur of hopped up Chevelles, 442s and GTOs, my roomie often made fun of my spanking new VW.  I opened the door and moped in.  Shortly, he asked why I appeared so down.  Had I lost my wallet?  Did I get fired?  Was I still pining over the lack of a girlfriend?   

 

I didn’t tell him.  I knew he wouldn’t understand.

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press

A DIFFERENT KIND OF BIKE

 …or is it the same?

 

So I went in for my annual physical  and my doctor said, “You should look at losing ten pounds.”   Immediately, the choice was clear: Either exercise more (in my case, exercise at all) or get a new doctor.

 

 

Back in the 70s, I bought myself the ultimate ten speed bicycle: a lovely black Peugeot with a lightweight frame, gum wall tires and drop handlebars.  A real looker!  The envy of the velo crowd before there was a velo crowd.  Except for a short period when it lived in my brother’s barn, I’ve had the beauty the whole time.  

         A couple of years ago, I decided to use the old Peugeot as a means of developing some stamina and toning some muscles, but the drop handle bars and the out-of-sync derailleur made riding the classic a pain in my butt, as did the narrow seat.  So into the garage it went.  Its new mission was to simply gather dust.

         Fast forward to the other day after that consult with the doc. I resolved to get back on the French masterpiece and crank through the neighborhood until my thighs burned.  Problem number one was that the front tire no longer held air.  Problem two was that damned seat and the race-mentality geometry.  

         A viable alternative would be the gym.

         Working on the stationary bike there, ten minutes was about all I could take.  Not of the exercise.  Of Fox and Friends. (Actually, any news/talk yammering, for that matter.)  I quit attending the gym knowing definitively that the only available option left for my particular circumstance was: Get a new doctor.

 

 

About 100 years ago, I pedaled from home to Rosedale School along a winding road that traced a creek.  My mode of transportation was a Schwinn “Racer” with a three-speed Sturmey-Archer shift mechanism buried in the rear hub.  

Dad had one of these bikes, also, and so did brother Beebo.  Not cool or sexy, the seating was upright and I never got a crick in my neck trying to look forward while bending over swooped-down handlebars.  The bike was perfect for that commute to school or a casual ride through Bidwell Park or out to the Sacramento River.  But I had to improve on perfection and after a succession of two wheelers, I ended up with the Peugeot.

         The old ten speed served me well.  Fast.  Elegant. Relatively light.  For some reason, however, I gave up using it regularly.  Perhaps this had something to do with a yellow Honda Trail 90 motorbike.

 

 

The bicycle vs new doctor set of options was not the full set of options.  A bike better suited to my aging, 70-plus-year-old frame might be a good choice.  Better scenery than Fox and Friends.  Fresher air than the gym.  And, frankly, I like my doctor.

         I settled upon a bike that seems a throwback to that Schwinn Racer of yore.  An Electra ‘Loft’ built by Trek. Upright, comfortable seating.  Chain guard for the trouser legs.  And fenders!  I actually rode home from the shop in the rain!  And, although color doesn’t much matter to me, a gorgeous hue that is quite reminiscent of Moto Guzzi’s signature Tenni Green found on their mythical motorcycles of decades past.  

         Two minutes of test riding and the thing was mine.  I’ve been out on it all four days since I purchased it (except one.) First ride was about ten minutes.  Second one, too.  Today?  20.  Around the ‘hood and down the block to another ‘hood.  Tomorrow?  Who knows?  The sky’s the limit!  (No, it’s not. Get real!)

 

 

I have only two resolutions for 2024.  Ride that bicycle for thirty minutes four to five times a week and read one book per week to work on one of my other weaknesses: literateness.  It is now the second week of 2024 and I’m halfway through my first book.

         Wish me luck.

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press

2023: THE CHURCH OF THE OPEN ROAD’S YEAR IN REVIEW

 Return to the Open Road

Let’s start with the Runner-Up Shot of the Year: Mt. Shasta ~ the Queen with an exquisite collar…

 

 

In January, was the drought over?

 

 

In February, it sure seemed so…

 

 

Can Spring be far off?

 

 

Ummm… Yes, it can be far off: Unheard of snowfall in the ‘hood.

 

 

Marching on:  Havana 1 ~ Typical street scene

 

 

Havana 2 ~ Father – Son?

 

 

Havana 3 ~ Wanna see my Mitsubishi motor?

 

 

Havana 4 ~ Dance like they’re all watching!

 

 

Carrizo Plain ~ Our visit was mudded out!

 

 

Carrizo Plain ~ A fraction of what we might have seen.

 

 

April: Spring arrives back home!

 

 

… and Edward departs telling us he’ll wait for us on the other side…

 

 

May be fickle about my motor-sicle: Here’s the new V-85.

 

 

June: Sea Ranch buck asks, “What ‘chu lookin’ at?”

 

 

Tidepool

 

Snoozin’ by the sea… Shouldn't you guys be out frolicking in the surf? (Nope!)

 

 

Rockin’ on…

 

 

Stable mates at a favored haunt ~ the Eureka Inn

 

 

This is among the reasons they call it “Adventure touring…”

 

 

July: A visit to my commute route of 40 years ago…

 

 

August: Evening in Astoria

 

 

Revisiting Hurricane Ridge ~ 35 years hence...

 

 

The Oregon Outback

 

 

Perfunctory old truck ~ Diamond, OR

 

 

In September we welcome Jethro, not sure if he’ll fill the holes in our hearts.

 

 

Local slough

 

 

October: Two roads in Oregon diverged…

 

 

One goes to Crater Lake (seen here through the bug screen)

 

 

Meanwhile, back at Sea Ranch…

 

 

Future California State Senate President Pro Tempore (and all around good guy) Mike McGuire visits the Cloverdale Democratic Club (of which I am the Vice Chair.)

 

 

In November this shot of Porterfield Creek made it into the Santa Rosa paper.  (Woo!  Hoo!)

 

 

December’s Perfunctory old truck

 

 

Alien Craft in our front yard ~ YIKES!

 

 

Jethro sez: “I’m working on filling your hearts with puppy love and you do this to me???”

 

 

Favored Art of the Year – Portrait of my late mother by my kid Merritt!

 

 

Favorite Book of the Year – Not much for best sellers because so frequently they are formulaic and disappoint.  This one surely doesn’t!  If you haven’t already read “All the Light…” move it to the top of your list.

 

 

3^rd Runner Up: Footsteps in the Snow

 

 

2^nd Runner Up: Under the Boardwalk

 

 

Shot of the Year: Evening in Astoria

 

 

What might unfold in 2024?  Can’t wait to find out!

 

© 2023

Church of the Open Road Press