WINTER’S RIDE TO DAVENPORT

…Make that “Winter’s Drive…”

Slicing along the Pacific Coast Highway in fifty-one degree rainy weather on a motorcycle is the stuff of pleasant yesterdays.  That being the forecast, I load up the Subaru.  Enrico, the Yamaha, will have to mark time in the garage.  Helmet blast will not be today’s symphony, but there’s a nice classical station out of the Bay Area (KDFC-FM) I pay twenty bucks a month for.  It’ll provide appropriate soundtrack for the luscious curves on this gray, winter drive.  And I won’t have to peel off heavy waterproof gloves in order to snap a photo or two along the way. 

           

Still, something inside me says, “You’re not the man you used to be.” 

While another voice says, “Discretion is the better part of valor.” 

I turn up the Subie’s sound system to drown out the argument that ensues.

The rocky Pacific shore in Sonoma County is cloistered in a chilling fog, one that reinforces the wisdom of my decision not to take the motorcycle this day.

But just as I’m entering the Tomales Bay region, the fog lifts and the clouds part making me second-guess that decision.

Expect a one-hour delay on CA 1 south of Stinson Beach, so sayeth the orange caution sign, so I divert eastward taking the Panoramic Highway where this over-the-shoulder shot of the Stinson and the Bolinas Lagoon promotes wonderful curves.

Crossing the Golden Gate on a bike is far cooler – in both senses of the word – than doing it in a small SUV.  No stops on the leg through the City, onto I-280 and then rejoining CA 1 to follow it south through Pacifica and Half Moon Bay.

Somewhere near the San Mateo / Santa Cruz County Line, the highway traces the coast.  A twinge makes me wish it’d go on this way forever and that I was straddling the Yamaha for that forever…

A side road, the old highway, I suspect, offers a slower pace for a mile or two and a spot to wade – or should I say stumble – through some ice plant in search of a photo.

The frontage road regains the highway at the Pigeon Point Lighthouse. 

Pigeon Point’s tower is identical to the one at Point Arena, up in our neck of the woods, but while the Point Arena tower collapsed as a result of the 1906 earthquake (later to be rebuilt) the Pigeon Point tower withstood the shaker, only to suffer damage in December 2001 when a section of the iron belt course on the exterior of the lighthouse fell off.  Currently under repairs – funded by voluntary contributions, if I understand it – you can’t climb to the top.

Still, just as a Sierran fire lookout always affords a great view of the mountains, our collection of lighthouses always offers something special along the coast.  I often wonder, when stopping by one of these sentinels, if I’d have possessed the mettle to man one of ‘em in the face of an icy Pacific storm a hundred years back.  Probably not.  After all, I took the car instead of the bike this day.

Davenport, where I’ll roost for the next couple of evenings, is not far down the road, but before I make bedfall – you know, like landfall?  A sea-faring term? – I am captivated by a trio of surfers harnessing a stiff on-shore breeze to propel themselves out to catch some of the magnificent breakers this weekend was slated to offer.  These guys get physics.  Otherwise, how could they use the power of an on-shore wind to rocket them offshore?  Beats me.

I arrive in the tiny coastal berg early enough to trace a bit of bluff on foot. 

The sun is well on its descent into evening and a chill wind quickly prompts me to check into my room and shelter in place – so to speak – for a nap; thus confirming:  I wouldn’t have lasted long as a lighthouse keeper.

Reviewing the cache on my little pocket camera, I realize that even though stopping for photos is less complicated in the Subie than on the Yamaha, I didn’t do it enough.

o0o

Next up?  An Evening at the Davenport Roadhouse and Inn.

© 2018

Church of the Open Road Press

RETURN TO SIMPSON CAMP

…the Subaru’s third big adventure…

Long-time readers will know that a place called Simpson Camp holds a special place in my childhood heart.  On my to-do list has been to share this distant locale with my wife of nearly thirty years.  Recently, taking the long way home, I did just that.

State Route 162 heads west out of Willows to the defunct lumber berg of Elk Creek.  The store there burned a year ago, but the gent who owns the place has been visiting daily cleaning up with the dream of reopening the place, or so reports the matron running the town’s café/gas station/inn.  The old guy was a much younger guy 40 years ago when he frequented the wholesale house of my employ to pick up salables for his remote grocery.  I was disappointed that I couldn’t drop in for a Coke and some Corn Nuts.

Grindstone Canyon is a long and deep valley carved by its namesake creek.  Fires regularly race through this barren, rocky and dry landscape, usually with little impact other than to refresh the scant soils.

Back in ’53, however, efforts to quell one had devastating results for one nearly forgotten crew.

Up the road we pause to let Edward out of his Subaru to stretch his legs…

…little knowing that coiled and lurking in the grass would be…

It’s a long forty miles from Willows up a windy CA162.  The pavement ends at Alder Springs where the route enters the Mendocino National Forest and is known as Forest Road 7.  Much more nicely graded than I recall, the Subaru Forester seems to relish the gravel and the curves.

Most folks who fly through Glenn County on I-5 must think the parish is little more than a string of impoverished towns in the bottomlands along the west side Sacramento River.  But on its path to Mendocino Pass, SR162/FR7 climbs to over 6500 feet passing through forests and meadows rivaling those in the Sierra. 

After some connoitering and reconnoitering, we found the spur road that leads to Simpson Camp.  Fifty years ago, Dad’s hiking buddy, Zibe Simpson, marked the turn-off with a red bandana tied to a roadside shrub.

The last time I’d visited the area in 2010, the road into the site was eroded and impassable.  Knowing this, we parked the Sube at the top of the ridge and walked down the glade. 

Down the hill quite a distance, a copse of firs juts into the meadow.  The sight of this stand brought a familiar stir to my innards.  

 We hiked through knee-high mule’s ear... 

...successors of the very one’s Zibe’s boxer, Jovanna lazed in back in the 60s…

…until we came upon a handcrafted sign nailed high in a fir.  (I know the story behind that sign.)

This was where we’d camped some 50 years earlier, although the official Forest Service sign had been removed, according to the ranger in Covelo, “to not attract folks who might damage the archaeological remnants.”   

I remember that Zibe showed us where to find arrowheads.  I remember that there used to be an old Wedgewood stove standing beneath these trees.

Looking from under the shade of the firs, I found where our old Coleman canvas tent had been erected…

…and the ring of stone that once confined a campfire that held off the gathering dusk… 

…a fire around which Zibe Simpson told stories of running sheep up this way in the summer months, herding them with Model A Fords and picking off coyotes intent on thinning the flock.

I remember falling asleep, fifty years ago, with a cool evening breeze washing over my face, dreaming of tending sheep on this pleasant hillside thinking no place on earth could be better.

Not much is left of Simpson Camp: just the fire ring, Zibe’s hand-made replacement sign and the memories. 

After an hour or so of exploration, my wife and I (with Edward the lab-mix), hiked back up the hill.  I’m not sure she came away knowing what all of my excitement was about, but a part of me was reminded that few places on earth could be better.

© 2015

Church of the Open Road Press

THE SUBARU FORESTER “TOURING” (VINTAGE 2015)

A product review

As my spouse-and-life-partner joined me in retirement, our financial advisor counseled us: “Now is the time for you two to really enjoy the life you’ve earned.  If you want to travel, travel.  If you need to upgrade a vehicle to maximize those travels, do it.”

We began thinking about the functions required of a retirement vehicle and whether our current fleet would meet those needs.  The Nissan pickup is a powerful workhorse that will go anywhere if you don’t mind hauling your gear in the open bed.  The Honda Civic is a great commute car but nobody’s commuting any more.  Historically, the best memories had been made in a primitive Isuzu Trooper II (lotsa room, lousy power) and a Jeep Wrangler (lotsa power, lousy room.) 

Mentally, we drew up a list of important factors for whatever might ferry us into and through the next step.  Among them:

·      Reliability,

·      Fuel economy,

·      Versatility,

·      Comfort,

·      Bells and whistles, and

·      If we decided to get down to just one car, what car might meet our future needs?

At the nexus of these six considerations, we found the 2015 Subaru Forester.

Six weeks and about 3,000 miles into ownership, and with its first adventure under its belt, here are some pictures and impressions.

The Sube is quieter on the highway than the Honda (not a fair comparison because the vehicles are designed for different purposes) and it returns 28.9 miles per gallon which is on a par with the Honda.

We never feel the Continuously Variable Transmission (CVT) shift.

The “tall wagon” architecture of the vehicle where occupants sit up higher provides a welcome commanding view of the road.

The ride is taut and the leather seats are firm.  The seating position accommodates my 34-inch inseam and cranky knees, so a four-hour stretch is not at all taxing.

The six year old Honda has a more user-friendly "infotainment" system but the Forester came equipped with “Eye-Sight” technology.  It lets us know when we’ve drifted out of a lane – or if we change lanes without using the signals.  When cruise control is activated, eye sight adjusts the car’s speed to maintain a safe distance behind the vehicle in front.  (Other brands probably have this, but this feature is a first for us and it seems very cool.)

We packed a week’s worth of stuff into the Sube and headed for Pinecrest Lake and Sonora Pass.  Heading across a 102-degree Sacramento Valley, the interior remained cool although the black dashboard seemed to absorb and reflect some heat.

Freeway joints were slightly noticeable.

Once in the foothills, the car eagerly handled curves and competently tackled rises and falls although the 2.5 liter boxer engine does make it known that it is pulling a hill.

On a side trip, a steep, deeply rutted road led us to a promontory.  The X-mode feature (a button you push to lock the CVT transmission in a low band) allowed the car to creep into and over and out of dips, roots and rocks – reminiscent of Dad’s ’69 Toyota FJ 40.   

With an 8.7-inch ground clearance, we never scraped bottom.

Subaru at this point in time, doesn’t make a slew of different cars.  They essentially have one basic engine design with three variations, a couple of transmissions across all model lines and offer nice option packages within each of the models they sell.  Like Moto Guzzi on the motorcycle side of my life (one basic engine design, three models with variants) Subaru appears to have found a niche, striving to refine and perfect their offerings within that smaller realm. 

So far?  Great car.  Most important: my spouse-and-life-partner loves it.  While I enjoy and will continue my adventures on the motorcycle(s), I’m looking forward to adventuring in the ’15 Forester with her.  My fervent wish is that she’ll let me drive it - at least occasionally.

© 2015

Church of the Open Road Press