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

MAKE WAY FOR THE DUCKLING

 First impressions of my ’22 V85tt Travel

 

A couple of years ago, I rashly decided I was through with long-distance multi-night touring.  Better to hop in the Subaru with my wife and the dog (now deceased) and do life’s highway that way.  Shortly thereafter, I received bad news as the result of a PSA test.  Prostate Cancer.  I knew I was gonna die.  (But, obviously, I didn’t.) Still, in that moment, I decided to take a bath on my Yamaha Super Tenere and trade it for what still strikes me as the most beautiful retro-roadster then or now on the market: a 2021 Moto Guzzi V7 Special in blue.

 

Then I found out I wasn’t gonna die of Prostate Cancer.  And I found I still yearned for a day or three of long rides punctuated by a couple of nights on the road.  So, I took another bath and purchased the V85.  Great ride.  Nice looking enough, but no V7 Special in blue.  Students of Hans Christian Andersen will ‘get’ why I’ve named the Travel model the “Duckling.”

With only fifty miles on the clock, I set off for one of those protracted who-knows-where rides.  A layer of overcast was sure to melt away, but if it didn’t, I packed layers.  Northern Sonoma County (California) is a treasure trove of great roads that wind through redwoods and vineyards, over mountain ridges and into fertile farmlands, into the state’s interior or out to the Pacific.  There are no wrong choices on a spring morning.

 

 

Heading north, I parallel US 101 on a country road through Mendocino’s Sanal Valley. Six weeks into bud break, the leaves on row upon row of vines look like a carpet of green backed by hillsides just beginning to turn golden.  River Road is a pleasant blend of curves and straights that allow me to honor the break-in rules on the new 850cc engine: avoid singular RPMs.  A bright amber banner flared atop the TFT if I over revved things, which, on this road, why would I?

 

North of Ukiah came a first choice: Head east into Lake County with its roads twisting around volcanic residue and along the shore of California’s largest natural lake, or head north and see what other choices availed themselves.  The latter choice finds me in Willits, taking a westward bent on CA 20 crossing the tracks of the California Western and heading toward Fort Bragg.

 

CA 20 is a thirty-three miles ride from hell in the back of a ’63 Ford Fairlane Ranchwagon, especially when the way-back seat faces the rear.  But on any bike I’ve ever owned, it is a pure joy. Nice pavement courses through pasturelands and into redwood forests with the occasional shaft of sunlight splitting the canopy.  Tight curves and sometimes too much traffic, but not this day.

 

 

Perhaps the best fish n chips I’ve found in my travels, I’ve found at Silver’s by the Wharf at Noyo Harbor on the south edge of Fort Bragg.  The lunch I enjoyed, I’m sure was swimming in the waters below the restaurant at about 6 AM this morning. It was that fresh.  And it always is.  The view of the water is superb and a glass of Sauv Blanc would have been nice, but I was riding and the wine would have to wait.

 

 

Now: north or south on the vaunted Pacific Coast Highway.  Again, there are no bad choices, but the little berg of Mendocino, and the headlands there by are always a treat.  Town this day was unusually packed for a Thursday before Memorial Day, so I opted to simply drive through keeping a wary eye out for tourists focusing more on the surging Pacific than some random guy on a V85tt. The pickup that backed out in front of me bore a bumper sticker that read “Look twice for Motorcycles.”  I figure he must have only looked once.

 

CA 1 is a delight that cannot be over-enjoyed.  Each time I ride it is like the first time.  The weather is always changing.  The light.  The time of day.  The smell of someone’s woodburning fireplace or the beached kelp fermenting in the ocean air.  Again, great pavement makes the process a joy and the ins and outs and ups and downs make each view of the surf or the prairie or the introductory hills of the Coast Range a marvel.  Light traffic.  Light fog.  Put on that layer.

 

The V85 shifts effortlessly, never missing a cog.  Whatever tires they put on this sample like the pavement, grip the curves, and stop with aplomb.  I’m noting that the cockpit space better fits my 33-34” inseam better than that lovely Special did.  The windscreen keeps the blast off my chest but not my Shoei.  Not sure if a modification will be in the offing.  Let’s get a few thousand on the thing before we do anything rash.

 

 

The rugged coast is a delight.  One can easily imagine the issues surround the transport of harvested redwood to markets in San Francisco Bay prior to the advent of the diesel truck.  Fishing boats bob out there just this side of the curtain of marine layer.  A great bridge crosses at Albion.  A wonderful little market rests in Elk.  There’s an ATM with my credit union’s name on it in Point Arena and I need some cash.

 

Skipping the lighthouse this time, I head south through the Sea Ranch development.  This massive subdivision, though nicely laid out, prompted enough concern that California formed a Coastal Commission to ensure fewer miles of our shoreline would be subjected to development.  About halfway through, I take the turnoff east toward Annapolis, a lovely winegrowing, formerly lumber producing hamlet tucked into the hills about seven miles from the coast. I pass through ‘town’ about the time school is getting out.

 

Venturing on, just past a circa 1922 steel bridge, Annapolis Road tees into the Stewart’s Point-Skaggs Springs route.  This road has a thousand curves and the westernmost portion can be single lane at washed out places.  Toward Healdsburg, though the road is a mecca for sports bikers with sweeping curves and some of those magical views where you see a portion of the road you’re going to be riding on the opposite ridge.  What a delight.

 

Passing the Warm Springs Dam that embargos Lake Sonoma, I am only fifteen miles from home through the scenic Dry Creek viticulture region.  

 

 

210 miles on, I’m convinced there will be more long rides and some over-nights in my future astride the Duckling.

 

© 2023

Church of the Open Road Press

RETURN TO MENDOCINO AND A VISIT TO FERN CANYON

 ...seeking respite from, well, everything...

 

In an effort to escape the end-of-the-world smoke of our inland valley berg, we loaded up the all-electric Chevy Bolt with two night’s worth of duds and headed over to Mendocino.

The quaint New England-esque village is day-trip-able, but by staying a couple of nights, more could be explored and more in depth.

Speaking of depths, long on the bucket list was a hike into the depths of Van Damme State Park’s Fern Canyon.

A lovely trail traces the Little River (we never ran across the Little River Band, however) through a verdant, lush understory of ferns and fall color...

...ducking under fallen redwoods and firs, cleared in some places to maintain the trail, but left to decay and return nature to nature.

Oddities appear throughout these sheltered environs.  Here, an alien spaceship appears to have collided with a Douglas fir.

 Two-and-a-half miles in, the trail forks...

...offering a loop (with quite an elevation gain) into the Pygmy Forest...

 

...a region where a fifty-year-old tree might rise to five or six feet on a three-quarter inch trunk.  Something about the particulars of this biome.  The air up here is much warmer (and much smokier) than down in Fern Canyon.

 

Completing the loop, our trail passes through a century-old burn zone that displays the resiliency of the area sequoia.

 

Along the way, it looks as if we may have discovered the source of a particularly nasty signature circumstance of the year 2020.  Who knew it might be plant based?

 

Details delight as we complete the 8 ½ mile sojourn along the Little River through this lush and often over-looked Eden.

 

 

Upon the recommendation of friends, we holed-up at the lovely Headlands Inn... 

 

...walking distance from Mendocino’s Main Street and the glorious bluffs beyond.

 

A sea stack offers refuge for pelicans, cormorants and gulls.

 

Evening finds us enjoying fine northern Italian fare in the garden at Luna Trattoria – great wine list, thoughtful, efficient service, and a delightful Italian owner with a deep baritone voice – where I snap a picture of their rustic shed (because I like rustic sheds).

 

We followed that with a late stroll down Mendocino’s deserted Main Street.

 

COVID-19 has taken a toll on the tourist industry and, this early October evening, I’m afraid it shows even here.

 

 

Like old sheds and old trucks, we can’t pass up an old lighthouse.  Point Cabrillo’s is only three miles up Highway 1.

 

It’s a half-mile walk from the parking area to the former lightkeeper’s residence.  Derelict roses edge the way...

 

...and a decrepit fence separates this space from that space – I suppose.

 

The Pacific is particularly active this morning, engaged in its eons-old quest to erode North America into the sea...

 

...and the Point Cabrillo Light Station has witnessed over a century of it.  (I’m reminded that I need to check my history book(s) and determine if Juan made it this far north as he explored California for Spain back in the day.)

 

 

Some hikes are a bust.  In our efforts to stave off re-entry into unhealthy air, we used a published guide to direct us to a little-used trail head just south of the Navarro River.  Once the route of the old state highway, the guide read: “Overgrown in spots...”

 

No kidding.  After plunging through about two hundred yards of nettles, tangled vinca, ivy, poison oak and downed power lines, we determined that discretion was the better part of valor and headed home.

 

o0o

 

Notes:

 

Was it mentioned earlier that I dig old trucks?  Here’s one that could stand to be dug out...

 

The Headlands Inn offers great views, warm ambiance and breakfasts that simply can’t be matched. We will return.  Check ‘em out:  https://www.headlandsinn.com

 

And check out Luna Trattoria while you’re at it:  https://www.lunatrattoria.com

 

(c) 2020

Church of the Open Road Press

 

COAST SIDE WEST SIDE STORY

...when national circumstance imitates art...

To escape the drumbeat of the both the news media and social media, I hopped on Enrico, the Yamaha and headed out to cruise the Pacific Coast Highway.  The rhythm of the road and the waves, I was sure, would carry me to a happy place.

Often, when I ride, a soundtrack will filter into my mind and accompany me on my journey.  Usually – whether it’s Sinatra or the Boss, Mozart or the Beatles – I don’t know why the playlist is what the playlist is.  I just enjoy the melding of melody and that road rhythm.

Today was different.  Today, the tunes came from “West Side Story.”  (Music by Leonard Bernstein.  Lyrics: Stephen Sondheim.  Ghostwritten by William Shakespeare.) We’d viewed the dazzling 1961 film the night before.  Lyrics were echoing as I descended Sonoma County’s Colman Valley Road from Occidental into the marine-layer refrigerator that always is California’s Highway 1 in July.

The story lingered.

I do a lot of thinking on the motorcycle.  Especially when fog or overcast mutes the scenery.  Sometimes I come up with a new idea like how 2 plus 2 can equal 7; sometimes, I simply try to figure out the hand that the world has been dealt.  

This day would be the latter.

Arthur Laurents’ “Westside Story,” like William Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet,” is a tearful tale about forbidden love and ultimate loss.  (If you haven’t seen the film lately, take time to view it so I don’t have to provide an inadequate synopsis here.)

Ultimately, whether it is the Montagues and the Capulets or the Jets and the Sharks that allow their blindness and hatred to prevent them from sitting across the table and simply discussing, the result is the same.  An irreversible tragedy takes place, and only then do the opposing parties decide to seek some sort of common ground.

Somewhere between Point Arena and the eastward turn-off to CA 128 along the Navarro River – and while voicing Sondheim’s lyrics to “Somewhere” in my helmet – it dawned on me. (Granted, maybe this was simply another example of 2 and 2 equaling 7.)  But here goes: 

The differences and perceptions separating the families in Romeo and Juliet (1594-95) or gangs in Westside (1961) are not all that different from those dividing our nation’s left and our nation’s right (2020).  Sadly, the irreversible tragedy that is about to befall us is far more crucial – far more devastating – than the mere loss of a handsome, ill-fated lover.

No.  The loss will be that of what once was our grand Republic.

I believe that we can each play a hand in diverting the tragedy.

(c) 2020

Church of the Open Road Press