Episode 10: New friends and old friends

      Motorcyclists are friends. We wave to each other, we hang out in the same places, we can have whole conversations and never get a name. Simply parking next to another motorcycle can be a conversation starter. It doesn't work like that driving a Prius. "So, uh how many MPG do you get?" isn't a conversation I'd prefer. Even the non-riding public sees motorcyclists as one group. So it's important to know that we are all "Ambassadors". Whether we like it or not. Taking a minute to hear a gas station story from a 'the wife made me sell mine when I had kids' guy, and hopefully he goes home and looks up Craigslist to re-ignite the passion he once had. I love waving to a small child who's enraptured by the rumble of a passing motorcycle. I like to think I am planting the seed for a life long addiction to a dangerous and expensive sport. You're welcome, kid;)

    Now that navigation is a non-issue with our straight southerly PCH route, we are keenly aware of our surroundings. It's surprising just how much more you 'see' when you have to actually process it, instead of numbly waiting for Siri to tell you where to go. I'll leave it to much smarter people than I, to know what part of the brain shuts off when the nav unit turns on, but I do know I've recently been lost, just 25 miles from my own home, because of a dead cell phone. That's pathetic. 

  Rocks shaped like familiar faces, winding tree branches overhanging the road, little blind off-shoot roads to the coast, it all sets in the memory part of the brain now as we rocket down the highway, adding "anal" to the name of every RV we see. The "Anal Tornado" is todays big winner, while the Tillicum Campgrounds in Oregon gets an asterisk for not being an RV but having us laughing for miles. Damn, Oregon has a such a beautiful coastline. 

Our destination is Coos Bay tonight and another bunk-a-biker host so we're keeping the speed up, but first a short stop in Yachats. It's a happy little artist town that is thankfully stopped in time, and I'm hoping to re-connect with a couple I met there a few years back. At that time it was bad timing for me, late, wet, dark, cold, and a holiday weekend with no vacancies anywhere. After overhearing my unsuccessful conversation with the restaurant/hotel host, Kevin and McKenna approached me. They were having an anniversary dinner that night and went out of their way to offer a room in their house to me, a total stranger! He was there working for the Forestry Service and she was doing psychiatric care for children. Such a wonderful couple. Sadly they were out of town when we passed through this time, It would have been nice to have them meet the amazing Bubbles. Next time...

Helmet hair always looks good.

 Back on the road again, throttling down the highway towards our lawn spot for the night hoping to get there before dark, and in time to see our new hosts, as well as meet up with an old riding buddy. Last time I had seen Johnny, we were chasing hot springs, the solar eclipse, and he was getting pulled over by a Constable (Ambassadors, right Johnny?). 

 Once arriving in Coos Bay, Bubbles and I follow the directions to our hosts house down the long winding gravel driveway, far off the little road that brought us up here. Turning "left at the big rock", Johnny is already waiting for us. The dogs happily charge out of the house so we get to meet them first (as it should be), then our hosts Joni and Gary. We learn Gary just got back riding from Sturgis so de rigueur, we all start the tour in their garage. He is a retired teacher and it's easy to see he has devoted his life to having fun and helping others. They have a giant garage full of cool bikes, a Tiger 800 that Bubbles got to throw her leg over to check if it fits her length challenged in-seam (it does, but barely), projects everywhere, toys for the nearby sand dunes, and he has non-stop energy as we wind our way around their gorgeous property. He and Joanie have 6 kids they foster and we can tell she's the glue holding all this fun together. Smart and easy going she offers all us travelers bedrooms instead of our tents on the lawn and won't take no for an answer. All of us spent a late evening together in the gazebo sitting by a big fire swapping stories of trips, life lessons, and listening to inspiring stories before wandering to bed and settling in for a very deep sleep.

 The best alarm clock is one that smells like coffee and bacon;) Gary and Joni are already up as some of their kids are dropping by with their own kids in tow and not one of them is surprised to find three strangers in the house. Joanie has a deft hand as making a delicious breakfast for 2-20 people at a moments notice. We're positive she got those skills from lots practice in this very welcoming home. Gary offers us a trip to the Oregon sand dunes on his three and four wheelers too! He wasn't even planning on going, and thought he'd just drop everything and go to show us a good time. There's generosity and hospitality, and then theres this amazing family. Next level. As much as Bubbles and I love the sand, very regrettably we have to decline. We have a birthday camping reservations for Bubbles in Big Sur in 3 days. It's the rest of Oregon and half the state of California away and already feeling a little rushed.

You just HAVE to stop, right?

 As good a rider as she is, there are still experiences Bubbles hasn't come across yet, but she's already navigated heavy winds, wet roads, and the steep gravel driveway like a pro and really has the level head needed to stay safe. This level head is what saves her bacon tomorrow. And the next day.

We three travellers departed at the same time and it took about 3 turns for Johnny to lose us, disappearing around the tight corners on his way back to the 101. That's ok we'll be sure to hook up later, watch out for those Constables buddy! After another quick re-stock of water and snacks into our tiny saddlebags we will be deep somewhere in the Redwoods tonight, but not after a few detours to the serene sand dunes that stretch from under the pines to the Pacific ocean. To Bandon, then Port Orford where the 101 hugs the coast, past Gold Beach and Brookings, we hardly noticed leaving Southern Oregon and entering Northern Cali and kept motoring through Crecent city. This is really where the Redwoods start, and there is a secret/not secret road through the Jedediah Smith State park that will have any spectator agog. I promised my girl I would take her one day, but it's all gravel and we need to save something for the next trip. Besides, the best is yet to come where highway "The 1" separates from the 101 and is one of the all-time stellar roadways. There are some truly bucket list viewpoints that can easily be missed if you're in even the slightest hurry. Take the time. Even if re-incarnation is your thing, why not make this life the best life you can. Not even the news of the big fires to the south of us, deters our direction in the least.

Taking all the parkways in that area that go through even more Redwoods paralleling the highway is a must for anyone worthy of reading this drivel. It's a respite from the sun, perfect for motorcycling, and just one of those areas where 'oh wow' involuntarily escapes your lips around every corner. Again it's getting late in the day, and again it's packed with happy campers. A spectacularly massive state park, visible from the International Space Station, and no room for a small pair of dusty motorcyclists to stay for the night. 

After several failed attempts to find a good hidden camp spot, we succumb to going to the main park, the lady in front of us gets the very last, last minute camp site, and we are given semi clear directions "back about 10 miles, turn left" to overflow camping... that is "probably full"... with a 10 minute deadline before it closes too. Closes? It's dirt.

It's always an adventure in California to need to sleep. Without $60+ and a 'reservation' for a patch of dirt, the state that commands the vast majority of coastline and temperate west coast, considers you vagrant and 'move along buddy' for even the shortest of rests to safely re-joining the motoring masses. This stress of trying to keep up with the ever changing 'California rules' is typical here, where any mis-step ends up with predictable inconvenience, and a fine. 

After a very long day of riding, we raced back the way we came, missed the turn off twice, discussed our predicament, and settled on shooting towards the unknown. We guessed at a paved single track road, DEEP in the forest that went on, and on, and on. I expected it to lead us directly to the lair of the Yeti, but instead it finally opened up to a tiny camp ground, an unmanned fee shack, and it took 2 rounds of embarrassingly rumbling through the library quiet campsite, to find the last, but perfect, little spot. Left seemingly just for us! Setting up the tent is fast to thankfully take off sweaty riding jeans and boots to be replaced with shorts and flip flops. 

Luxurious accommodations

We took a stroll around and as dark moved in, the small spots quieted down and we got to see many deer foraging for berries and rustling of little foresty animals doing little foresty animal things. We were so deep in the forest that there wasn't a hint of light pollution, late night revellers, or any type of sign of humans bedsides the 25 or so of us lucky enough to keep this very special place in our memory now.

Oh, Deer!

To wake up in such a peaceful place means theres no real sign you need to wake up at all. No alarm clock, no traffic, not even much light through the trees. The road beckons us further and it's one day closer to her birthday so the simple morning routine of coffee, breakfast bar, and packing back into the bags is done easily before I break the silence by thumbing the starter on a high compression V-twin. It's late in the morning but still a little embarrassing.

The Turkeys coffee game is strong.

And he's ready to go:) Plenty of songs were written about the feeling you get right at this point.

Our secret little road out is worthy of it's own visit, and leads us back to the parkway, then the 101S, thankfully getting to Leggett for the turn off to be back on the 1, past the drive-thru tree (a must see!), smashing corners on my favorite road thought even more Redwoods, and eventually lunch at, you guessed it, a brewery! North Coast brewing happens to make Bubbles favorite beer, but its full to capacity. So it's large paper bowls of delicious Clam Chowder on the curb, and then t-shirt and trinket shopping after. 

What? Is there something behind me?

As long as dad jokes are funny, silly touristy shit will still be fun.

No bad days out here.

I have been though this town of Fort Bragg before but have so far missed Glass Beach. Excited to see something I know my little Bubbles will enjoy, we go the right way, oops wrong way, oops right way to the beach, for a stroll. It's a curious spot and worth a look, but the main attraction was surprisingly all the baby deer around and the fattest, ballsy-ist squirrels you've ever seen! We fully expected one to walk over, pull out a tiny squirrel sized shank and demand, "whats in the basket?... bitch".

The heat from the day before had completely disappeared behind a grey blanket of clouds as we pushed on, adding the occasional layer of clothing to stay toasty. Not much fear of rain, but sprinkles were all around as we added the southbound miles. This may have been our longest day riding as we pushed on through the sunset trying to halve our next days miles to Big Sur and camping reservations. 

A little stroll through Cuffeys Cove Cemetery for a good friend with a genealogy habit yield some amazing wildflowers and coastal views. Not that we were rushing per se. Highway 1 is always worth every mile. Theres a balance to winging it, and common sense.

Common sense had us sleeping in a community park on this night.

 

Episode 9: Home. The other one.

      We have killed for beauty. I mean the royal “we”… unless my sweet Bubbles has a terrible secret? But the seriousness of the subject cannot be overstated. We humans really have killed for beauty. It is at the same time, both universally understood and completely indescribable in it’s perfect form. It is Budda’s search for Knowing, Ghandi’s search for Peace, or Pirsig’s quest for Quality. In the simplest terms… Charlize Theron:) More complex is when our desire for beauty overwhelms our reasoning. The hot/crazy matrix, buying lots of impractical motorcycles, or having bags of gelatin sewn in your chest. Ask an architect and beauty is in 'sacred geometry', a mathematician may say the Mandelbrot set, someone religious would say it’s Heaven, while an artist would spent their life writing musical notes in just the right order, or painting many little happy trees. Beauty also has a terrible and inescapable truth. Just like a rainbow, as you get closer to your goal, your goal gets farther away. We know all this and yet…. 

All for this indescribable, unachievable thing. 

     Anyone who’s been outside their house can tell you that the worst circumstances make the best stories. As long as you live to tell them. Right now the Bose speakers in my helmet are very accurately reproducing the sound of a woman I love, who is crying. Even worse is, it’s my fault. It doesn’t matter that the Columbia River Gorge was carved through rock thousands of years ago by a glacier and channels air to be world renowned for windsurfing, or that there is no other option than to move forward. The next couple hours will be us, heading due West, being blown around uncontrollably in these nightmarish 40mph gusty winds. It’s bad enough we have the hazards on and are hugging the emergency lane, while trying not to be rear-ended by instagramming Prius drivers, or blown into the dirt by the passing logging trucks. We pull off the freeway to take the tall camping bags off her Kite-a-saki and build a pyramid on the back seat of my heavier Buell that would make an ancient Egyptian proud. Even standing upright is difficult in these conditions, theres no respite, and it’s not letting up.

     This means a plan change. We do get a tasty, but somber lunch in The Dalles, a cool little town catering to tourists and wind surfers, but we’re in no mood to see the sights, bypassing Brewery Grade and countless kite surfing shops. No way we are going to cross the bridge into Washington without being fish food no matter how lovely and empty the 2 lane W14 is, and no way we are crossing back over on the epic grated roadway on the Bridge of the Gods back into Oregon. We are in survival mode today. No roads parallel the 84, nowhere to stay, so our choice is to move forward, with no choice number two. We stop on a few turnouts to de-stress and stretch out the D-string tendons in our necks and no shit, The Gorge is amazing. We don’t care.

     Pulling up to Mumzys house will always be special, and today a bit more so. Since we lost Kendra, my entire blood family unit is her… and me. She is at once a beautiful, welcoming, razor sharp witted pragmatist, and the softest, most generous person I have ever even heard a story of. Her grand smile at the doorway is all us dirty biker savages needed to see to completely change our mood. And beer(s).

     A trip to Mumzys is never complete without a few honey-dews. Happily, I’ll hang pictures, move heavy stuff from A to B, sometimes from B back to A, and re-supply whatever. When a Costco run in necessary it can get interesting with only our motorcycles and her Miata.

Paper products were scarce! 

     Bubbles and I are un-stinking our clothes in the laundry, stocking cupboards, swapping stories, and know this will be an unusually short stay. No matter the hurry, it’s always worth the time to slow down a bit and appreciate the loved ones around us. Mumzy has spent a lifetime sharpening her intuition and refining her skills as both Astrologer and Tarot reader. I used to think hippie-shit! non scientific, even religious blasphemy. But for my life, she has had the gift, of being right. Theres no denying that. She taught me an open mind is better than ignorance, and her guidance has been invaluable. Her latest delve into expanding her skills, is a relationship of each discipline we call the Taa daa! Tarot-a-Scope™:)

Theres a lot going on here:)

     The last morning has us sipping perfect strong, dash-of-cinnamon, pinch of salt, pour-over coffee, finishing the last of the marionberry pie slices, sheepishly disrupting the heavy quiet with a cacophony of V-twin exhaust note, and yelling I love you’s from inside our helmets. Today we seek cheese! For once, we are heading south and our new southerly route is easy. No more GPS, we’re going PCH all the way. Turn too far right and you get wet, because Pacific Ocean. Too far left and it hurts because, mountains. Like I said, easy!  Except the leaving part:(

I love these girls!

     The 6 to the coast is open spaces, tall trees, smooth turns, green grass, horses, and a lot of weed dispensaries. Just before the southern turn on the 101 is the newly remodeled Tillamook Creamery! I still remember visiting as a child (hippies do free shit), and in the same orange and cream VW bus from before (I didn’t ask Mumzy about the conception thing), but we are shocked back into reality now that we’re here. Because reality has smacked us right in the face mask.

     We’re careful. Not scared… but careful. We don’t want to get sick or worse, be carriers and get someone we love sick. Bubbles has someone who is particularly vulnerable to this terrible thing at home so she is well suited to taking care of germs before they take care of her. Being on a motorcycle is easy to stay distanced, but we are aware that even getting in a accident will take valuable resources from people who need it. The choice is easy to bypass the crowd around free ice cream, see the sights from a distance, and keep on truckin’. 

Ya, the curb is red, but we are passing up free ice cream!

     The Oregon coast is one of the great pleasures to ride. You can thank the Cascade Mountain Range, but not why you think. Bubbles and I are used to using the mountains in So Cal for thin curvy roads and weekend rides, but the Cascades are much too high and craggy for that. There are only a few passes that connect this stellar rocky coastline and the main grey artery of I-5 billboards and truck stops. It’s a pain in the ass for people to get here in numbers and that is why you find perfect little towns, lost in time. 

So much awesome in this pic

The joke is not lost on all 15 of the locals

When in Beaver.....

Don't you dare mess with the fish, but definitely jump on the back of a strange land animal!

Pacific City has a neat beach with a haystack rock and just in time for lunch...

Pelican Brewing! Follow the billboard. Worth it. No barbers though:(

Sometimes ya just gotta stop and stare.

Bubbles gets it.

    

     There are literally endless distractions and this is exactly why we are here. We have a destination of Coos bay at the border with a welcoming bunk-a-biker family but only halfway down the coast now and in no particular hurry to miss all this.

      

     Beauty is in the journey, not the goal.

Episode 8: Kites and Tears

       Perspective is a powerful and ultimately positive tool. It has the power to open dialogue, open minds, center oneself, and even relieve stress. People have been saying “Walk a mile in their shoes” since shoes were invented. I guess it would have been 'Walk a long way in Unga Bungas woolly mammoth skin sandals', but I digress. Navigating todays society, it feels like people are looking for a reason to disagree, be offended, or feel superior. 'Winning the sentence' without regard to the point. Perspective is so easy to find, but you are the one who needs to look. Find and use that power to bridge a gap between yourself and a stranger, and you will be comforted to find the commonality that all of us Earthlings share. Hopefully it's motorcycles. And beer.

     The Bubbles and I are in high spirts. The well rested day in the Outlaws private cabin gave us a chance to completely unpack, inventory, and re-pack. A Marionberry pie breakfast, and having most of Crater Lake Nat’l park to ourselves means life’s pretty good right now. We are drifting through the north end and sweet curves of the Umpqua Nat'l Forest on another sunny and warm day to hook up with the 97 and head in the general direction of the highest concentration of local breweries in Oregon. It's an easy ride towards Bend, plenty of lakes, grasslands, and even more trees. It's a cool place that has a way of being a big city, but still out of the way. It's that disconnection which lets local flavor take hold in place of the usual corporate branding and let creativity flourish. We're here because one of Bubbles many contributions to this fun journey was finding a Facebook link for Bunk-a-biker, where like minded people can share their home (or yard) for the night to put up people crazy enough to be thousands of miles from home with no plan for sleeping. Thats us. Perfect.

     Just as the sun is just getting to that shade of orange that reminds you it’s going to be dark soon, we crossed the city line and checked in to the Book of Faces to get the address to pop in the GPS. Rounding the corner of a tree filled neighborhood (ya, it’s still Oregon) I spy a cool looking place. It’s got muscle car projects under covers, patinaed farm trucks, and a garage full of motorcycles. Just as I’m exclaiming over the comms “Whoa! Wouldn’t it be cool if….” ya, thats the place. We rumble up as Andrew comes out of the garage wearing cover-alls and holding one of the familiar red shop rags that is just so comforting to a life long mechanic like myself. My people are good people.

     We spent the next half hour in the street, rapid fire talking cars, bikes, and adventures, before we even get into the driveway. Andrew himself is just back from an over 3000 mile trip on the first bike he ever bought, a 1967 Shovelhead, that now wears the grime, mud and bugs that would be expected from an all guys trip like that. I’m sure we didn’t get all the stories, as it should be. It’s not long before we also meet his charming wife Miranda who gushes excitedly about the new-to-her CB200 twin that will be her first bike, the little Briggs powered scoot that he’s got their 9 year old daughter fiddling with, and when the the boys Arthur and Henry come out to play we really feel like old friends already. The boys are in the jumping-off-whatever-they-can-find stage and it is very comforting to know people still let their kids get dirty. You get good humans that way.

How cool is this??

Sometimes the stories are better untold;)

     A quick unpack and tent set-up next to the fire pit, I need to run to town for a few small items and by the time I’m back, Andrew has an excellent batch of BBQ chicken done and sipping whiskey. Just like the old friends we are, we kept them up way too late swapping stories by the crackling fire until we all finally gave in to droopy eyelids and settled in for the night. This is our very first time trying the Bunk-a-biker thing and its Andrew and Mirandas first time too! None of us knew what to expect, especially during a pandemic, but if this experience is any indication, all of us are ready for the next one.

Awesome folks!

    The cool clear air rustling through pine trees and a big bright moon once again made for the best sleep one can have. The sun coming up came around way too soon but with solid sleep like that we both woke up raring to go! Excellent coffee (thanks Miranda!), Cliff bar, and some genuinely sad goodbyes had us back on the road north. 

:)

     Next stop on our list of destinations-not-destinations is to see my own lovely Mumzy, Lady-of-the-Manor. Her house is still in little Lake Oswego where I grew up as a kid, which is about 20 miles west of Portland and 180 short miles from Bend. A direct shot would have us feet up and relaxing in about 3 1/2 hours for cocktails, laundry, and a couple days rest. Or we could take 8 hours to get there, going 350 miles in a day while battling nightmarish winds along the Columbia River Gorge the whole way. Hmmm.

     On our way up to the Columbia River Gorge through central Oregon it struck me that this land, all this land, fertile, temperate, open, is just so empty. The roads are smooth and well maintained, a few (two?) tiny little towns that are supported by river rafting the Dechutes River and not really anything else. It’s not as arrow straight as you’d imagine, some great curves and dips to play in and even though we’d been blessed with excellent weather the whole way, as we went up in elevation it got pretty cold for being August! We would plateau over a hill and see Mt. Hood in the distance, temptingly close, but for 2 hours of heading straight for it, it sure didn’t seem to be getting any bigger on the horizon. After crossing the Dechutes river at the tiny, welcoming town of Maupin, we pulled over to rest for a bit and had a visitor on a RoadKing stop for the obligatory wellness check (motorcyclists are awesome). He had just finished white water rafting in these rainy, freezing temps and was riding home (where?) in his t-shirt. Crazy.

2 hours, still heading straight towards Mt Hood.

Nice place for a rest.

I wonder what she's doing behind this convenient pile of rocks? 

     The plan was to continue up the 97/197 to The Dalles for lunch, cross over into Washington and for a run right to Mumzys house on the 14 along the Gorge. We got right up to The Dalles when WHAM! Bubbles was going to have a very big, very scary test of being a motorcycle rider.

     There are notable milestones to anything that requires skill to do well. Some things can be studied beforehand, trained for, planned for, but other skills can only be built by experience. It’s the latter thats the worst for a motorcyclist. Anything unexpected is frightening, and it's frightening because it is truly dangerous. Ask a rider and the answer of what they hate the most will probably be the same. Rain? Na. Tires and electronics today are amazing. Ice? Maybe, but it's your fault being out there when you should be sipping brandy by the fire. It's wind. Big, 40mph, gusty, bullshit wind. You have no control of the invisible hand waiting to smack you into the next lane as logging trucks, and oblivious people in a hurry rip around you. Add that we're on the first freeway we've seen in 1000 miles and a little woman on a fully faired, feather weight bike thats stacked with bags is a kite and thats a recipe for fear and panic.

We stripped off as many bags as we could off her bike and thats her, contemplating life.

Because fuck you, wind.

    

Episode 7: Turkeys, and Deer, and Outlaws, oh my!

      Embarking on a journey shouldn't be to dis-connect, or to connect. Done correctly, you will do both. You hopefully find your balance. If you are balanced, you can handle unexpected things, your confidence will grow, and you can relax, look up and see wonderful things, instead of staring at your own two shaky feet.

     Seeing a Chevy Corvette isn't really that big a deal, even for a car-guy like me. Seeing a row of 30 of them cruising by is a little special, but having them all rumble by, through a desolate town where we have yet to see a single human, and 50 miles from any other desolate town, is special. 

It felt like our own personal parade, so we waved.

     The respite from the sun under our Canby canopy was short lived when the buzzing grew louder, and the more observant of us two (hint: it's not me) said "Hey, look. A wasp nest.". Want to know what 'It's time to go' sounds like? A bunch of wasps. That's what it sounds like. Jacket on, gloves on, dammit!, gloves back off, put helmet on, gloves back on again, restart the still empty motorcycles and head down the highway, letting the breeze chill the sweat off through perforated leather second skin.

     My 403 pound Buell is about half the weight of the bikes you usually see in the Starbucks parking lot, but I still don't want to push it along the highway. This routine of seeking out long stretches of unpopulated beauty and undependable maps mean I'm back to mental DTE calculations. I'm nerdy enough that I do it more for fun than for worry, but something happened this time. I quit dividing, and I quit caring. For real this time.

     Bubbles trusty, brand new, and completely inappropriate for the task, Ninja sport bike has been trucking along above the speed limit for a week now and still getting 55+mpg. We have a gas can thanks to the more foresighted of us two (still not me), and hell, who cares? We have food, water, tent, and worst case she has the range to get some gas for me. So I better be nice to her from now on.

     It's about 60 miles to the border through the still breathtaking Modoc National Forest and on the map we only see 2 towns between our escape of waspy Canby, CA., and the Welcome to Oregon sign. Surprisingly, on this still empty stretch of highway another group of riders went cruising past. Loaded down with soft luggage like we are, but in full race leather suits on 1000cc hyper-sport bikes, the luggage haphazardly strapped to their tiny arrow shaped tails and the ubiquitous bikers friend (the black 6-hook elastic netting) holding the whole mess together. In this deserted environment, it's awesome to see other people doing fun things on inappropriate motorcycles. 

     The first city we see is Cornell, Ca. who's town sign should just read 'Don't bother', and next up is Tule Lake that has the go-juice we need. Even with the elevation changes, it has been a beautiful warm and clear day the whole way up, so we took advantage of the gas stop to change up clothing layers a bit and pick Klamath Lake for lunch. It's the closest we have been to lots of people for days now, and it feels a little unnerving. Theres no facts to quote but with every birthday that earns me this grey hair, I notice that when just a few people are together, they are nice, helpful, and trustworthy. I can't say the same about population. Add that it's 5 months into a new globally-wide, mysterious disease, political madness, and it's an understandably uneasy feeling for everyone, and it shows. I miss handshakes... and hugs.

     Crossing a border is always an exciting moment. The physical manifestation of a mental goal. For me, this border is a time machine that takes me to growing up in Oregon, and having my hippie parents take us kids in the orange VW bus (the same one I was probably conceived in) to hike Klamath Falls. For Bubbles, it is much bigger than that. Never ever would she have thought she would be crossing into another state, confidently riding her own motorcycle 700 miles away from her home, when only a year prior she was almost too scared to get on the back of someone else's. An exciting time to be Bubbles:)

     Borders are also good for reinvigorating your senses. Noting the little changes in your surroundings,  like peoples slang, signage, even the cows look different! It sure invigorates the traveller.

     The goal for this evening is to stay at Bubbles' ex-inlaws guest cabin in Rogue River. I have met the awesome 'outlaws' Robert and Barbara before and am excited to see them again in their own comfortable setting. 

Just a regular, normal, Oregon backyard.

What are YOU lookin' at?

Hey turkey!

     Riding high on their incredible hospitality, we took a well deserved extra day to relax and re-set, swapping stories and clinking glasses. Robert is one of those true riders with the chips to prove it, and Barbara has been his compatriot since her days as a beach bunny in Santa Barbara, Ca. They are a super fun couple and our visit with them won't soon be forgotten.

The chips to prove it.

If motorcycles could talk.

     Refreshed and re-packed, it was time for goodbyes. But before we headed back out on our own we were tantalizingly close to one of my favorite destinations. 

Mmmmmarionberry pie.

     I have been known to make that 1600 mile round trip from home, for their homemade Marionberry pie and ice cream.

The pie is near some lake up there.

Had the place to ourselves!

     Happily back on the longest path we could find, the winding roads around Crater Lake are perfect for spirited riding while taking in the vistas and valleys in that most spectacular scenery. Even caught off guard by the $50 entrance fee for just 2 motorcycles? (ugh), that place is much more than just the lake, and deserves a lot more exploration. For now though, our destination is much farther north and will still be a few more days away, so tonight we meet total strangers, and sleep in their backyard.

Episode 6: Sleeping in gas stations ain't so bad either.

    I'm dying. My beautiful little Bubbles is dying too. And so are you. Theres no technology, no amount of money, no religion, nothing that can save you from the inevitable. Even Bugs Bunny knows "No one gets out alive, Mack". So, now that thats settled... how you gonna live?

    "Once more into the fray, into the last good fight I'll ever know. Live and die on this day. Live and die on this day" 

John Ottway's unnamed father

     Truth be told we are a long, long way from fighting giant Alaskan wolves with our bare hands. But it's a good reminder that 'longevity' is not a goal. 

     Long distances with the distracting glow of the gas reserve light on, no longer forces me into constant mental DTE calculations. Following a thin black line to a minuscule dot on an untrustworthy map is now the norm. The sun diving towards the mountain tops much too soon to be anywhere before dark is completely acceptable. We have now officially hit the sweet spot of the journey, and rumbling along quite nicely!

     Bubbles and I are prepared just enough to be comfortable anywhere, we have enough supplies for a night or two, and we've been on the road long enough that our setup and tear down nightly ritual is refined and fast so theres really no daily destination at all anymore. Just wait 'till dusk and start looking for somewhere with a view. The sweet spot.

     Since her call to make the right turn from Lassen park into the unknown, it's been a little quiet on the comms, but now theres a bit of chatter from Bubbles when she see's the first sign of anything for many miles now and it looks like a gas station! Nope. The pumps are just displays. From the 1930's. In front of the Old Station RV park. Luckily on the other side of town (pretty much the other side of the RV park) there is a real gas station set into the pines and easily 100 miles from anything at all, besides the RV park of the same name. Our range may only be about 200 miles between fill-ups but I'll never get tired of topping both bikes to the brim for less than a $20 bill. The Old Station's uh... old station, is predictably full of trinkets and happily well stocked for travelers. Not many people live permanently in this splendid forest. It's one thing to stare out the window of a climate controlled car, another to ride through on a motorcycle, and yet quite another to live in such a place.

     By now we are crystal clear that all State campgrounds are closed 'for our safety', and private campgrounds are open (because capitalism trumps safety), but they are all predictably full to capacity. We will be tossing the tent in a random field tonight. Gassed up and snacked up, we are both donning our leather exoskeletons again, ready to hunt for the perfect spot when Bubbles pipes up. "Hey, maybe that guy knows a place? He's my kinda people." Of course he is. A shovel in one hand, a beer in the other (Ok, ok, so he's my kind of people too). She comes back in a couple minutes with the confident strut of a woman who just killed a giant Alaskan wolf with her bare hands.

    "See that bench way under those beautiful trees?" Yup. "He owns the place and said help yourself, anywhere you want, free of charge". Ok then! Grab an extra beer from their cooler, we're setting up the dice game tonight!

Tree hugger!

See? Not bad at all:)

Turkey approved.

     Happily set up camp and it got dark really quickly. The station had closed for the night, and no traffic to speak of on that tiny road so we really had the place to ourselves.

Ready for dice!

Just enough time to look at tomorrows roads

Dang Turkey can't hold his beer.

     A pretty cool and restful night, we got to watch the big bright moon cross the sky through the net roof again and only had a few critters rustling in the leaves, curious about their new field mates, left us both ready to rip up through this barren part of California heading into Oregon. Just a quick re-stock in the morning, some trinket purchases and a hearty thank you and g'bye to the owner for a fantastic night in a really awesome place. The back yard of a gas station. 

     So, if you're counting our homeless sleepover destination list, bar (check), gas station (check). So whats next? Under a bridge?

     North of Old Station all the way to the Oregon border is pretty barren and uninhabited. Odd, considering the land is rich and the weathers nice. The 89 had provided a scenic rambling way north up to this point but we were at a crossroads, literally. Option one is to stay on 89 and it would run into the dreaded Interstate 5 right at Weed, Ca. Option 2 is instant death. Well, option 2 wasn't really instant death (but we would have picked it anyway), it was the 299 running even further into no mans land towards the large dot of Canby, Ca and the Modoc Nat'l Forest. The valley roads are arrow straight for miles and the mountain passes are tree lined and groomed but almost boring. Right about the time we thought we'd seen all this place had to offer, a tiny little detour into a 'viewpoint' showed us how wrong we were.

Stunning waterfall, river, mountain, what else do you need? 

Don't jump!

    Almost bored of the majesty we had just ridden through and it just goes to show ya what you could miss if you're not looking. Over that pass and back down to a valley and it looks like theres an artist/farmer that lives here too.

Whats more Americana than skeletons on bikes?

    So close to the Oregon border now, and what a milestone that will be! We had bypassed the tiny dots of towns that had fuel on our way to the large dot on the map of Canby, Ca for a last fill up, a turn on to the 139, so we can make it all the way through the nothingness to Klamath Lake, Or. Theres one gas station in Canby.

And the wasps hadn't found us. Yet.