Café Music

Shaking off a dripping, deep autumn fog,

     I enter.

 

The dining room is nearly silent:

     No talk-television

     No talk-jocks

     No Muzak.

Just soft, sweet percolation

     And, perhaps, the whisking of huevos.

The waitress calls me ‘sweetie.’

     I call for ‘the usual.’

Giggles

     – this being my first visit – 

     and banter.

 

The kitchen:

     Clean, orderly.

Giant man with a subtle smile:

     "¿Qué está tomando?"

     head tilting forward. 

“Esto es habitual.”     

     Lilting, hints of an aria. 

“  —¡Pero si nunca lo habíamos visto! ¡Es nuevo!”    

     Basso profundo.  

 

Melodious, harmonious, enchanting laughter 

– a Julio Iglesias-Maria Callas duet sans Julio and Maria – 

begetting thoughts of daisy fields in spring, 

     and fair weather clouds,

     and meadowlark lyric.

     And warmth.

Dispatch from a world 

     – or at least a season – 

     dreams away.

(My copy of The Times has slipped to the floor.)

 

Breakfast arrives: 

     “Here ya go, sweetie.”

     Latina eyes glow.

‘The usual:’

     Omelet, hashbrowns, rye toast.

     Perfect this bone-chilled Saturday.

Command of two languages?

     More perfect, any day.

 

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

ANOTHER SUNDAY RIDE

…two hours

and a half gallon of gas…

 

 

I decide it’s finally time to give up on riding motorcycles – safety wise, aging, etc. – and then a Sunday afternoon like yesterday happens. 

     Lazing around after coffee and a three mile walk, the current novel I’m reading lacked pull, the New York Times crossword proved too difficult – as it always does – and a nap seemed a waste of an 80-degree November afternoon. Do I really want to go through the hassle of pulling on riding gear and heading out. Actually, no, I didn’t. But I do so, anyway.

     The Royal Enfield at 411ccs is my other bike. It’s the one that requires little thought or maintenance. Lube the chain. Check the oil. Ride. The scant engine produces barely enough power for the thing to get out of its own way, but on hilly wine country by-ways, you don’t need power. Just wind on the helmet and associated fresh air.

     

Sunday’s ride would be both wind and fresh air and more. Eight miles from home I venture west on Dry Creek Road toward Lake Sonoma, thence to Stewarts Point Skaggs Springs Road. This mythical route is sought out by fellas on big displacement rice-rockets and euro-sports. The 35 mile-per-hour speed limit signs don’t even rate as a suggestion. A pair of road racers scream eastbound around a sweeping curve – rider’s knees inches above the pavement – as I tootle west. They drop their left hands for the perfunctory wave, as do I, when we pass. I’m enjoying the autumn hills dotted with golden oaks, digger pines and early vestiges of winter grass. I wonder about the tradeoff between the thrill of awesome speed and precise handling versus the sublime beauty of the rolling coast range in mid-fall. See ‘aging,’ above. Another pair race by, low-hand wave. 

     I’ve driven this route from the Russian River drainage all the way out to the Pacific Ocean several times on several different machines. BMW(s), a Triumph, a Yamaha, Guzzi(s) and I find myself calling myself fickle. Oh! The money I’ve wasted on motorcycle turnover. Yet, each one was unique. Each with its own character. Each filling a particular ‘need’ at a particular time. Today’s need would be to get out and enjoy some fresh air but not be gone so long that the left knee gets too stove up. 

     There’d be no particular destination, though I knew it wouldn’t be all the way out to the coast.

 

Stewart’s Point Skaggs Springs is a relatively new iteration. Forty-plus years ago, as Sonoma County burgeoned, the long-planned Warm Springs Dam was completed, impounding Dry Creek and its tributaries for much-needed water. Prior to that development, Skaggs Springs Road followed Dry Creek into the hills to a 1900s-era resort and continued west from there to the Pacific. That road was lost as Lake Sonoma filled and the new route was created: Twelve miles of lovely, wide pavement over gentle crests and sweeping curves through eastern-most redwood stands and oaks. Why wouldn’t I ride this every day of the year?

     A big BMW GS approaches – I used to have one of those – and a Harley and another Beemer. The riders are in no kind of hurry. They wave, as do I. Up ahead, I spot a silver trailer moving west along what will be my route. Within minutes, I catch up. It seems a Dodge Ram 3500 pulling a trailer full of about 15 head of cattle must be even more judicious on this road than I. So do his two associates. The bovine aroma isn’t at all offensive, rather, it is simply rural. I damper down to about fifteen miles per hour awaiting a section not curvy or hilly enough that I can safely pass the first cowboy. Don’t want to tangle with the next Ducati or Hayabusa, if any, screaming from the other direction. I’m noticing the fenceline, rotted posts suspended by barbwire strands; and skeletal evidence of a five-years-back wildfire – so many little details. Then I pass the second truck. 

     Perhaps two minutes after eclipsing number three, I come to a junction. Ahead, I know the lovely engineering will end, as the route returns to the original with broken, hummocky pavement, dips and cracks and conditions that will slow down those hotshots coming from the coast. The right turn, which I take, finds me on the western portion of the Old Skaggs Springs Road – a decrepit four-mile piece that didn’t get covered by the lake. Venturing along it’s clear that this section hasn’t seen repair other than the occasional sack of cold-patch asphalt in the forty-plus years since the dam was completed. 

     Folks live down this way. There are a couple of rustic residences and, somehow, a banjo starts to twang in my head. I’m following a creek’s mini canyon. Trees bending low. Occasional glimpses of sunlight reflecting off a tiny pool. Dodging some rockfall and attempting to avoid potholes that pock the surface, one’s that still await cold patch, likely in vain.

     An industrial strength gate closes the road before I can get to the water. Dismounting, although less than twenty-five miles from home, I feel like I’m in a different state; a different world: quiet save for the murmur of the leaves as the down canyon breeze tries to lose them from the sycamores and black oaks; tiny, upper-range piano-like music emanates from the little brook. 

     Getting off the saddle is good for that game left knee. I ambled a few yards down the rest of the road to the water's edge; there thinking about those rich folk who frequented that resort a few miles east and now about fifty feet deep. Good life, 1900s version.

 

The return would be just as delightful. Sun, curves, scenery and no cows. At one point I approach four bikes on side stands at the side of the road with their riders milling about. Good member of the motorcycle community that I am, I stop.

     “Everybody okay?” I ask.

     The rider of a BMW has a grin that would light up midnight. “Yeah, you?”

     His partner has a lovely Triumph Bonneville-based café style bike. Stunning red. He eyeballs my Himalayan. “What is that?”

     “It’s my other bike.”

     “Other bike? What else you got?” asks Beemer man.

     “Guzzi. V-85.”

     “Really? I have a couple of Guzzis. An original V-7 from the 90s.”

     Seems as if everybody has owned a Moto Guzzi at one time or another – or wanted to. "I’m on my third Goose including a V-7 from the 2020s I had for a short time."

    The Triumph rider repeats: “What is that?”

     I explain that my Royal Enfield, though designed in England is built in India, “but every part that falls off represents the pinnacle of British engineering,” for which I receive a knowing nod.

     I point at the engine. “Twenty-two horses.”

     Triumph guy cautions: “Don’t wanna use ‘em all at once.”

     Chuckles abound.

     Before pulling away, someone says, “Well, have a pleasant day.”

     Wind on the helmet, autumn sun and colors and knowing pavement that awaits, I respond, “How could you not?”

 

I’m thinking I’ll put off giving up motorcycles for a bit longer.

 

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

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

JOURNEY ON AN ATMOSPHERIC RIVER

 Atmospheric riverboat come carry me away,

In a cozy little cabin where I’ll feel your drift and sway.

I’ll snuggle in and ride along for day after long day,

If only, atmospheric riverboat, you’ll carry me away.

 

I’ll peer out of the porthole as we wind down toward the sea

And watch the deer and dove and fox find shelter in the lee.

I’ll snack on kippers, chips and cheese and sip hot cups of tea

And only rise and leave my room to go outside and piddle.

 

Sheltered in your tiny walls, safe from wind and rain,

Forgetting with that cold front comes a damned arthritic pain,

‘Cause thoughts of springtime blooms and sun will occupy my brain,

Serenaded by the chorus of the steady, falling rain.

 

Oh! I’m sure that sometime soon I’ll feel like Noah on the ark,

‘Neath the daytime cloudscape or during nighttime’s dark.

Trusting you will find a mountain peak on which to park.

But then, you are a riverboat, and not so much an ark.

 

So atmospheric riverboat, I must ride you to the end:

Alone inside my quarters with no one to call my friend.

I’ll sail through all the ups and downs and ‘round each hidden bend,

Holding hope beyond all hope the storm will somehow end.

 

Dear atmospheric riverboat, of thee I once did sing,

Until I thought more fully ‘bout your damp and raucous sling

And the lasting loneliness that your company will bring.

So, atmospheric riverboat, let’s forget the whole damned thing.

 

Now you go on your wintery way of bluster and debris.

Cross the Mayacamas but do kindly leave me be.

Blow and pour and blow some more until you are but wee.

And know, you cold old bastard, I doth thumb my nose at thee.

 

On further thought, I’ve made the choice to not climb on this year.

I’ll snuggle in at home and stroke my puppy’s snout and ear;

And read a book, caress my love and taste a cup of cheer; 

Comfortably beside a fire, just sitting on my butt.

 

© 2024

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

REPEAT PERFORMANCE

 Riding the Mendocino/Sonoma County Coast 

for the Umpteenth Time

 

I am writing this piece for myself so I can remember.  Remember what it’s like to have a day – an unplanned day – to do whatever the hell I want to do.  And a recent Saturday it involved ratty little roads to and from the coast split by a glorious run from Mendocino to Fort Ross on State Route 1. I’d jettisoned the voluntary time commitment associated with a vital community group – it was someone else’s turn – and rewarded myself with this.

 

Orr Springs Road connects Ukiah with Comptche and the coast at Mendocino.  In October the narrow route crosses ridges of grasses dry since April…

…and descends into seasonal creeks surprisingly not dry.

Remnants of the region’s past are evidenced by this little jack-stabbed teepee burner long ago used to incinerate slash from a small logging operation.  Constructed of corrugated metal, it is a rusty one-of-a-kind structure.

I wonder where the associated mill might have stood.

 

Also out Orr Springs is a clothing optional camp and/or resort indicated by a substantial and effective privacy fence built along the edge of the pavement. This is a good thing, I’m thinking, as I certainly wouldn’t want anyone hidden in the woods or down by the creek ogling or leering at my curvaceous and sweet sounding Italian motorcycle as we motor by.

 

Next, I roll past a lovely Montgomery Woods State Preserve – simply a grove of redwoods – with picnic tables, easy hiking along the creek and whispers of angels above when the breeze is just so.https://www.parks.ca.gov/?page_id=434 If you packed a sandwich, this is the place to pause.

 

A short distance beyond I come to a dilapidated homestead or a ranch of some sort with a roughly spray painted plywood sign stating, “You loot.  We shoot!” underneath this not-so-cryptic addendum: “Let’s Go Brandon.”  Desiring not to get shot, I didn’t stop for a photo, but looking at the state of things there, it appeared the place had already been pretty well looted.

 

The mid-morning air is cool and pleasant and the fall colors are beginning to turn. The road is both narrow and twisty enough that one can’t rush past this early-autumn display.

Comptche is out this way.  A small berg clustered with, perhaps, fewer residents than the number of consonants in the village name. (That’s not at all true, but it is a cute line I thought of from the saddle.)

 

 

Highway 1 is fifteen miles further. The two-lane I’m enjoying tees into it.  A quick jog north brings me to Mendocino, the picturesque coastal community of both legend and postcard.

The loop over to the headlands never disappoints and I found myself following a gent on a big BMW GS who was enjoying the same experience. 

Home-based near San Jose, this fella was completing a loop that had taken him to Alturas, then out CA 299 to near Eureka, then down the Coast.  “No hurry to get home,” I recall him saying.

 

Having taken this route or an iteration of it several times, I found myself not stopping for pictures I already knew I had.  But this one begs the caption, “The coast is clear.”

 

There’s a little devil in me that always suggests it’d be cool, less pressurized, to live in a small middle-of-nowhere hamlet or village.  No stoplights.  No superstores.  Fresh air.  Starry skies at night. All that stuff.  But, I argue, I’d at least like a bank where I could access my meager savings (Point Arena has a branch of my Credit Union) and a reliable place to keep my motorcycles tuned and running (I’ve engaged the independent whose shop is here to refurbish brother Beebo’s old BMW) and…

…the restaurant out at the pier has been closed the last several times I’ve gone out seeking chowder.  (Not anymore.)  Worry not, Church of the Open Road followers, I’m not feeding that little devil by entertaining relocation to Point Arena, (or Cedarville, CA or Tonopah, NV or Joseph, OR) but I will feed myself at Pier Place https://www.pierplacepointarena.com anytime I’m out that way.  The food was hearty and substantial, the list of on-tap micro brews copious and tempting.  But being on the bike, I opted for bubble water.  A cold bottle of Fort Bragg’s Scrimshaw pilsner is waiting in the fridge at home.

 

 

Lollygagging south through Sea Ranch, discouraged to take favored Stewarts Point/Skaggs Springs Road due to construction, I’m facing a longer day than I had (un)planned.  A left hand turn up Fort Ross Road found me leaving the temperate 72 degree coast and climbing into 90 plus degree territory on a road more pothole than pavement. 

The Guzzi’s “adventure” suspension absorbed the punishment as I crested the ridge and corkscrewed through redwoods and chamise into a half-century’s ago Cazadero.  This community has the requisite school, church and country store – but it also has an attraction unique and enticing.  A businessperson there has taken to restoring, trading, perhaps collecting pre-mid-60s Willys-era vehicles ranging from military flat fenders* to wagons and pickups. (* Quick! Name the two other manufacturers of WWII era jeeps.)

I suspect he may even have (or has had) those wonderful two-wheel-drive phaetons known as the Jeepster.  Dad had a ’50.  Brother Beebo later had a ’49.

Someday I’m going to muster up the courage to wander in there and ask if I can nose around a bit.

 

 

Eight hours and nearly 250 miles proved a bit too long for an old cuss like myself.  The hundred degree ending temp didn’t help.  But I gotta admit, a day on the bike traveling through remote sections of the Coast Range with a nice lunch thrown in for good measure, did wonders for my mental health.

Edging toward my mid-70s, I’m not sure how many more days like this I’ll confidently enjoy on two wheels.  Better grab ‘em while I can.

 

o0o

 

Today’s Route: North on US 101 to Ukiah, take last exit; north on State St (under the freeway); left (west) on Orr Springs Road to Comptche and CA 1.  South on CA 1 through Little River, Albion, Elk, Manchester, Pt Arena (lunch!); left (east) on Ft Ross Road; right on Seaview; left (almost immediately) on Ft Ross Road to Cazadero.  Continue to CA 116; head east (redwoods, Russian River, vineyards) to US 101.

 

© 2024

Church of the Open Road Press