UP TO BANDON AND BACK AGAIN

First ride on the Yamaha Super Tenere

It is a gift to live in an area where within a half-day’s ride, one can view among the world’s most scenic of wonders.  Like some grand candy store for motorcyclists, the west coast offers mountains, deserts, croplands and the coast itself. 

The initial adventure on the new Yamaha Super Tenere was slated to be a run up to Grants Pass, Oregon followed by a circum-navigation of Crater Lake, but smoke from the late summer’s horrendous fires prompted a change in plans.

No problem.  There are so many options.  My riding buddy from Seattle would travel south; I would travel north and we’d meet in Bandon, a delightful coastal village about a hundred miles up the Oregon coast.

Sans panniers, which are ordered from my local Yamaha dealer, I strapped a duffel on the back of my new mount and headed into the fog.

A few years back, I’d trekked to California’s northeast corner in search of the Von Schmidt marker posted where the California-Nevada border Ts into Oregon.  Details are recounted here: http://thechurchoftheopenroad.blogspot.com/2014/11/finding-von-schmidt-marker.html  and it was a good little adventure.

Finding the western end of California’s northern border, something on my bucket list, proved to be less of a trek…

…one made easier with the use of the mapping program on my iPhone.

There is no Von Schmidt marker – there’s no marker at all, but this post at 42.00013 degrees north is about sixteen feet into Oregon.

The folks in Oregon have done a fine job preserving access to their dramatic coastline, thanks in no small measure to the efforts of Samuel Boardman who’s life and work is outlined on this wayside plaque.

A thirteen-mile (dog-friendly) trail parallels US 101…

… affording breath-taking views of the Pacific and her work against the timeless shore.

Lunch would be in Gold Beach where the bridge crossing the Rogue proves to be art you can use…

… and a half-sunk vessel reminds us that the Pacific isn’t always passive.

The Inn at Face Rock http://www.innatfacerock.com/ is a Best Western affiliate located near the bluffs a couple of miles southwest of Bandon – I suspect on the old highway.  Though not on the water, within earshot of the surf, the oceanic lullaby it provides is perfect after a long day of riding and sight-seeing.

The Yamaha Tenere and the Triumph Trophy pose in the parking lot.

Walking distance is Lord Bennett's Restaurant and Lounge where the seafood combination, when paired with a nice Sauv Blanc is something to text home about.

Face Rock is named after a rock that… well… looks like a face.  At dusk, this particular evening, perhaps 140 folks were in position with cameras on tripods eagerly seeking a shot at sunset. 

“What is this,” I asked one young woman, “another eclipse?” prompting a courtesy giggle.

Bandon, itself, is a sweet little town located at the mouth of the Coquille River.  Its rustic business district and picturesque wharf invite strolls and stops for suds, but I left my camera back at the room.

The misty morning prompts this view of the cliffs.

Heading south, stops along the way made the two hundred mile route to Eureka a full day’s ride. 

The bluffs demand to be photographed…

… particularly the arched ones …

… and the beaches on the California side offer a nice place to stretch one’s legs and catch a gentle slap of salt air to the face.

Eureka is a favorite for over-nighting.  The harbor supports a fascinating collection of working sea vessels…

… the Old Town area transports one back in time …

… and the historic Eureka Inn https://www.eurekainn.com/ offers accommodations once enjoyed by presidents and Hollywood personalities. 

We celebrate the day’s travel out in the courtyard.

Breakfast is a couple of blocks away at the Black Lightning Motorcycle Café https://www.blacklightningmotorcyclecafe.co where one can dine …

… elbow to muffler with their favorite classic two-wheeler.

The final leg of the journey involves the Avenue of the Giants, a road that gloriously celebrates the ancient and mystical redwoods that once dominated California’s north coast.

The Yamaha seems ready for this relaxed 30 mile stretch, softly offering a tenor exhaust note that does not drown out the spirits that whisper in the woods.

So a successful initial trip on the new machine mated the Tenere’s honey-smooth riding characteristics with a wonderful couple of days exploring both the natural and human history of our Pacific shore, leaving me with the desire to do it all over again ...

... tomorrow.

© 2017

Church of the Open Road Press.

ALL SMOKE, NO MIRRORS

The Aborted Nor-Cal – Oregon Tour

The idea was simple.  Coordinate with a colleague on his ride north from the Bay Area to his home near Seattle.  Spend a night in Redding, and then head to Bend, Oregon, with a detour around Crater Lake.  Part there and return south, exploring some of the few Southern Oregon and Northern California roads I’d ridden only once, or better yet, only heard about:  OR 62 from Crater Lake along the Rogue River to I-5; CA 3 from Yreka down past Trinity Lake with, perhaps, a side trip out to Ramshorn Summit; Alder Point Road from Bridgeville through Blocksburg and down to Garberville. 

I looked forward to taking pictures of old barns and old bridges and old trucks, pausing at bergs and farmsteads one may fly over yet never see; places where people make a living but it’s not clear how they do (dismissing, perhaps, medicinal herbiculture.)

Fire season in the west, much like the presidential campaign season in the US, never really ends.  Two years ago, a wild fire coughed choking smoke over our home in Sonoma’s Alexander Valley at Thanksgiving.  This year, in mid-July, a wild fire across the ridge in Lake County would grow to over 70,000 acres – 20,000 of them in a three-hour run one Saturday afternoon.  And it wasn’t the first one in the area this go-round.

Meeting up with my riding partner in Winters (after lunch at the incomparable Putah Creek Café) we bolted up Interstate 505 to Dunnigan and I-5 toward the Shasta-Cascade Wonderland hubbed in Redding.  The further north we traveled, the more the blue sky deteriorated into a yellow-gray haze.  He on his Stelvio and I on the GSA, we reveled in being able to legally bat along at 75 mph through the smoky, 100-degree Sacramento Valley. 

At a stop in Orland, we were informed that a bunch of lightning caused blazes were torching the far northern part of the state.  Cal Fire’s central command post was set up at the Shasta County Fairgrounds in Anderson.  Perhaps we could worm our way in and take a look at the current incident map.

“How can I help you fellas?” The Public Information Officer (out of Riverside County) wore a snappy blue uniform – one that looked as if someone engaged in cutting much line hadn’t been wearing it.  The PIO extended a hand and welcomed us with a smile.  Pointing to the incident map, there were, indeed, over seventy active fires within this camp’s sphere, stretching from Del Norte County in the north into Napa and Solano Counties in the south.  It didn’t look good.

The Coast Range had been seared by a wave of dry lightning a few days prior and another wave was forecast to swing north this very evening.

After a gracious forty minute tour of the camp, covering personnel, sleeping arrangements, shifts, the difference between state and federal fire fighting protocols and technical improvements to assist the guys on the line, the PIO concluded:  “You’ll want to get out of Redding early tomorrow in case more of these things blow up.”  He swept his hand over that incident map.

We would hightail it in the morning.

Or would we?

I own a Moto Guzzi: a hoot to ride and, in my 11,000 miles of ownership, bulletproof.  But for longer trips, I take the BMW.  My riding partner’s ride of choice is his ’09 Guzzi Stelvio.  Quirky looking, tank a bit too small for long distance runs, but infused with Italian passione.  He loves the thing.

Unfortunately, some of that passione decided to burst through a blown gasket just beneath the left side cylinder head about fifteen minutes north of Redding that next morning.  The fix may have been simple and the tow to the nearest dealer would be covered by insurance, but the nearest dealer was 194 miles to the south.

The rest of my trip would be solo.

There was no reason for me to continue to Bend so I retraced steps to Redding.  The fire incident map had indicated that CA 3 from Yreka was closed south of Hayfork due to wildfire.  Alder Point road was closed at CA 36 at Bridgeville due to wildfire, which proved a moot point since I wasn’t going to be able to get to 36 via 3.

Recalling that incident map, I knew CA 299 was one of the few roads traversing the Coast Range that would not be closed by fire activity.  I opted to take it from Redding through Weaverville to Arcata on the Humboldt County coast. 

A 30-minute roadwork delay afforded the opportunity to visit with a distance running coach from Utah State U. and a young couple from Iowa – both parties concerned about the area’s thin pall of smoke.  “Unseasonable smoke is pretty common this time of year,” I said.

Beyond Weaverville, CA 299 crests at Oregon Mountain Summit and descends into the Trinity River drainage.  On a normal day, the view from that high point prompts the rider’s pulse to quicken in anticipation of a nicely paved highway twisting in and out of forests, through rustic, tiny villages and along a delightfully tumbling wild river.

Today?  Only smoke.

In cool mornings through early afternoons, airborne particulates settle into lowlands, valleys and canyons.  As the day warms, the smoke rises and dissipates.  The day hadn’t warmed yet.

The further west I drove, the thicker the smoke became to the point that, if there were city blocks in the area, you couldn’t see further than two of ‘em.  I stopped for a picture near Burnt Ranch wondering if they might rename the place “Reburnt” or “Twice Burnt” Ranch by the time these conflagrations played out.

Near Blue Lake, now following the Mad River, the valley opens to the sea.  On-shore breezes mercifully pushed against the burgeoning blanket of smoke.  Thus, the air was a clear and lovely azure.  Deep breaths yielded only freshness, no cinders.   

The ride south on US 101 into Eureka emphasized just how strongly that cross wind, on-shore breeze can blow.

A quick shower to rid myself of soot.  Dinner near the historic wharf, followed by an evening walk along the waterfront, then a night’s rest at the Eureka Inn.

Morning of the final day dawned gray and drizzly, a pleasant, fresh change from the hot, murky interior. 

South on US 101 and west on CA 1 led me to a crystal view of the Pacific over the rugged Mendocino coast. 

Dubbed the Shoreline Highway, California’s State Route 1 is one motorcyclists, worldwide, come to experience this most entertaining road. 

Along the way, riders enjoy quaint fishing villages, stately redwood stands, inviting strolls to the bluffs and views that reach beyond forever.   

I dawdled in the clean maritime air, and stopped for a plate of clams at Noyo.

Ninety minutes inland and I would be home.

Whether this loop at this time could be categorized as a great trip, I’d have to offer doubts, given the conditions.  But all in all, it was an excellent experience; just one I’d rather not repeat any time soon.

© 2015

Church of the Open Road Press

A PLEASANT OVERNIGHT IN EUREKA, CA

Old habits die hard while new ones are worth an embrace.  Relocated to new digs, I’m now within an easy day’s ride of Eureka, an historic and scenic city on California’s north coast.  Over the years, several trips up US 101 find me landing in this lumber/fishing town for the evening.  Three businesses up that way always successfully wrest some dough from my wallet.

The Historic Eureka Inn: I walked into the Eureka Inn years ago and was immediately overwhelmed by the aroma of history clinging to the darkened redwood beams crossing the massive great-room lobby.   

A fixture on the US registry of historic places, paintings of those who’ve overnighted here hang from the walls.  After shedding gear, I make my way down to the lobby to sit on a leather couch in front of a substantial fireplace.  At any moment, I expect to hear Teddy Roosevelt ask if the other end of the seat is taken.

“No,” I’d reply and we'd spend an hour or two with a whiskey or two discussing the difficulty of preserving the area’s ancient redwoods while the lumber barons seek to mow them down in an effort to rebuild San Francisco.

Café Waterfront:  Five blocks north and down the hill from the Inn is Eureka’s historic waterfront.  Moored here is a north coast fishing fleet and ghosts of the lumber scows TR warned me about earlier in the afternoon.

Several plain and fancy eateries live in Eureka’s historic district.  On a Monday evening, a while back, I’d wandered in to the Café Waterfront around 7:00 to find the only seat one at the bar next to an older gent who was nursing a glass of red wine.   

“Charles” was happy to have my company.  As I enjoyed some tender scampi swimming in a garlic sauce and a glass of Honig Sauv Blanc, my bar-mate shared about this being “date night” for him and his wife, who couldn’t make it this evening.  “It’s happening more and more frequently,” he said, admitting that is was difficult to get the folks at the memory care facility to let him take her for the evening.

On a recent visit to this elegant, yet rustic piece of waterfront history, I was informed that Charlie’s wife had finally passed, but that Charlie is still a regular on Monday.  It was a Thursday.  Unspoken was the word family.  I was sorry I’d missed him.

After scampi and that Honig white, I stroll the wooden wharf watching a purple dusk settle over a gently rolling fishing fleet, all the while accompanied by a soundtrack of the clanging of distant buoys and the doleful cries of circling gulls.

"Hey, kid..."

Back at the Eureka Inn:  Hiking back up the hill, I discover Bogey stayed here.  An oil of his image hangs next to an antique lift. 

Across the lobby, the Inn’s “gin-joint” is a buzz of activity.  I wander in for a splash of Bourbon, served by a crazy Russian named Sasha ready to enjoy some tinny piano music from a player named Sam.  If I play my cards right, perhaps Ilsa Lund will appear from the shadows to steal Bogey’s (and my) heart this evening.

Alas, it was “Open Mic Comedy Nite,” which more accurately might have simply been called “Open Mic Nite.”  But, the Knob Creek was good and the barmaid kind enough to ensure I received a full eight bucks worth.

Rooms at the Inn have recently been refreshed.  Beds are comfortable, carpet plush and periodesque, plumbing works and sleep advances easily.

The Black Lightning Motorcycle Café is a new attraction to the area.  Located on the northbound one-way that US 101 becomes, the view through the window is of a line of vintage two-wheelers back-dropped by racks of clothing, helmets and gear. 

Once inside, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee competes with the storied collection of bikes and gear for your reason to hang out – perhaps until the fog clears.  Owner Jeff offers a nice breakfast and lunch menu – plus beer and/or wine, if you’re ending up your day. 

He is interested in what you’re riding and where you’ve been.  He has thoughts about area don’t-miss roads and believes that word of mouth is probably his best form of advertisement.  Consider this, that, Jeff.

A short, pleasant walk from the Inn, the Black Lightning is the new habit I’ve formed when staying in Eureka.

There are plenty of wonderful roads spoking from Eureka’s hub:  The Avenue of the Giants to the south; Mattole Road along the Pacific shore to the west and south...

world class CA 36 east to Red Bluff (out of Fortuna); sweeping CA 299 to Redding and beyond; and US 101 along a craggy route north to Crescent City and the Oregon Coast.

One could spend weeks home-basing here.  Or a lifetime.

o0o

Notes and Links:

The Eureka Inn: http://www.eurekainn.com/Pages/default.aspx

The Café Waterfront: http://www.cafewaterfronteureka.com/about.html

The Black Lightning Motorcycle Café: http://www.blacklightningmotorcyclecafe.com/ Check this site regularly for special events Jeff plans for the greater two-wheeled community.

© 2015

Church of the Open Road Press

BAR MATE -- EUREKA, CALIFORNIA

“IF YOU’VE MET ONE PERSON with Alzheimer’s disease, you’ve met one person with Alzheimer’s disease.” The old man had moved from just around the curve of the full service bar at an oyster house near the wharfs in Eureka California.

I’d completed a grueling 200-mile day – short but made treacherous by winding dirt roads and fifty-mile-an-hour head winds. Eschewing my usual lodging, the Best Western chain, I opted for the classic Eureka Inn. Built in the 1910s, the old hotel sports a huge redwood paneled lobby with an inviting rock fireplace – always with a robust log burning – and both a classy restaurant and a café. I lacked reservations, but this Monday night only four of the 126 rooms appeared occupied, if my count of automobiles in the lot proved anywhere near true.

A shower at 6 PM perked me up and by 6:30 I’d hoofed it north eight blocks to the waterfront. The walk proved good after hours being beaten nearly to death in the saddle. I sought linguine and clams but found the oyster bar. Unlike the Eureka Inn, this establishment teemed with patrons. Each two- and four-place table was occupied and with the exception of two or three odd stools at the bar, there was no place to light.

“Bar’s fine,” I said to the hostess.

“To drink?”

“Sauv Blanc. What’da you have?”

“Handley and Firestone. The Handley’s better.”

I knew this and apologizing for ordering white wine, explained that sautéed scampi would probably be a nice accompaniment, given that there are no clams on the menu.

“You don’t need to hear about the specials.” It was a statement not a question. I liked this barkeep.


THE HANDLEY ARRIVED but not before a couple came in looking for a seat. The old gentleman round the corner, stood, hailed them over and said, “This’ll give you two together. I’ll just move over here.” He boosted himself on to the stool to my left setting a glass of red on the counter.

“How’s your day goin’, sir?” I asked, expecting the light talk that soothes the end of a long day.

He lifted the glass to his lips and then moved it away. “Not so good. So so, I’d say.”

I studied him for a moment. “We’ve got a warm place. You’ve got a nice glass of… what is that? Merlot?”

“Cab Franc.”

“Cab Franc. You going to eat?”

He took a sip and smiled. “Well, tonight was supposed to be date night, but…”

I didn’t want to know but what.

“…but my wife, she couldn’t make it through this time.”

My bar mate had been an aerospace engineer living down in Mountainview (California) for a career. He’d worked on Saturn rockets and Polaris submarines. “Did anything they wanted me to do. Used to be I could design 'n' build an F-18 out of a shoe box.” He laughed and slapped my knee. Then he pulled back, perhaps thinking he’d been too familiar.

“They have a great residential facility up this way for folks like…”

I didn’t get his wife’s name.

“I started noticing long ago, but three years back, I knew I couldn’t take care of her any longer, so we sold the place and come up here.”

He took another dainty sip. Then he asked: “What brings you up here?”

“What makes you think I’m not a regular?” I asked. “I mean I’m sittin’ here at the bar like a regular.”

He laughed and slapped my knee again. “Because, son, I’m a regular. Come here every Monday night with the wife.” He paused. “Sometimes she can make it though and sometimes, she can’t. Tonight, not so good. Now, you?”

I told him about my day, an aborted motorcycle trip up the rugged Lost Coast over something only approximating a road; followed by a battle with the north wind’s teeth that I nearly lost on the oceanfront out past Petrolia.

“Wisht I could do that,” he said.

My dinner arrived. “Go ahead,” he said.

“So,” I ventured, “I know you’re caring for your wife, but how’re you caring for yourself?”

He paused. I could feel the Rolodex of things done being flipped in his head. “Used to go Elk huntin’ up on the Snake in Idaho. Ever been there?”

I shared with him about my earlier-in-the-summer ride to those very parts.

“There’s a place up there where the bank’s about this high.” He held his hand about three feet off the floor. “And the river just slips by and across the river there’s a huge meadow that sweeps up hill into the forest. Always see elk. Always see elk.”

He nursed his drink.

“For myself, now-a-days – at eighty-one – I just think of myself sittin’ on the bank of the Snake. You know the place. With a fly rod and watchin’ them elk. And listenin’ to the wind and the water kinda whisper.”

I’d finished my dinner and was sopping up the buttery sauce with a piece of sourdough.

Then he added: “Makes me wish I’da learned to smoke a pipe when I was younger.”


WE CHATTED a bit further. My glass was empty, my plate removed; his glass still two-thirds full. I rose to pay my bill, but turned to him and patted his tired shoulder. He grasped my hand there and held for only a moment.

“Your wife’s got a good man lookin’ after her,” I said.

He nodded, but I felt him shrug. “I hope so.”

© 2010
Church of the Open Road Press