The Plan Is No Longer Relevant

I am a lifelong traveler and adventure seeker.  My wife is the same.  Our long term goal is to travel as much as possible and experience as much as possible.  At whatever erratic interval that we see old friends or distant family we have to field the “What is your plan?” line of questioning.  If I am feeling feisty, I channel my inner anarchist and toss out “Do I look like the kind of person who has a plan?”  When I am behaving myself, the answer is that we don’t have a plan.  We used to have plans and we weren’t happy.  We were so focused on THE PLAN that more often than not, we missed what was truly important. 

Scrubbing Bubbles

I have a statement that will send older generations into spasms – The PLAN is not the most important thing in life.  It doesn’t even break the top ten.  This is not a new idea.  My favorite fictional character of all time, Zorba, was not a planner.  More recently, this theme has been studied in depth in the movie Fight Club.  Zorba would have mopped the floor with Tyler Durden, I would like to point out.

What lengths are necessary to escape The Plan?  For me, it was the death of a parent.  My mother was an incandescent soul.  Don’t get me wrong, she had faults just like the rest of us.  I am neither excusing nor ignoring that she was imperfect.  But when it came down to it, she had a great love of life.  Whether she was scuba diving along the coast of Kauai and touring the Northwest with my father or running through museums and riding every damn train that I could possibly find through the UK, she was adventurous and loved life. 

I want to grow up to be this kind of person

My mom toed the line – career, family, kids, house, dog, cat.  She managed to cram as much life into her life as possible.  Where it is an all too common story that life becomes a never-ending to do list, she defied that doom and enriched my father’s and my lives while she was at it.  She could never be accused of not living a full life, even when it ran much shorter than anyone expected.  During the years that my mom was ill, I tried to do what I felt was important and still maintain the plan.

I continued my career in New York for a year.  After the year, it was clear to me that I wasn’t able to split my focus anymore.  Molly and I left New York and we moved back to Idaho.  I thought that I could manage my career and still lend support and spend time with family.  My job search tended to resemble Jason Seigel’s in The Five Year Engagement.  I didn’t quite get laughed out of restaurants for the decision I had made, but it was close.  I had even researched opening a restaurant and when the potential investors fell through (wisely on their part) filed away the project. 

In time, I found a job as a chef at an excellent restaurant.  Molly had a much more difficult time finding meaningful work and it was stressful and disheartening for her.  Eventually we got on our feet and began some semblance of life again.  We were back on track with The Plan and were (geographically) close to my family. 

My mom, meanwhile, was trending towards improved health.  This was the last true upswing that she experienced.  She and my dad celebrated by traveling to Hawaii and Costa Rica.  During the time in Costa Rica she began to experience gastrointestinal issues.  This continued and while I blithely signed on to being the operating partner in a new venture, her cancer came back out of remission. 

Cute Couples, eh?

According to The Plan, I was eventually supposed to branch out and become The Chef.  I was young enough and had the work ethic and skill set to become a Big Deal.  Instead of being with my parents as they struggled through another round of Chemotherapy I put myself and my wife inside a 120 degree metal box with our livelihood and welfare dependent on the success of said metal box.  Why?  Because it fit The Plan.  I worked 90-100 hour weeks, Molly put in 50-60 hour weeks (20+ of those hours unpaid each week), drove us into debt supporting a business that was unsupportable and came within a hair’s breadth of destroying my marriage.  All in the name of The Plan.

My parents struggled through the surgery and chemotherapy without me again.  I might as well have been in New York for all the good having me near was doing.  The cancer went into remission again and because I am incapable of learning my lesson, I took the Executive Chef position for a restaurant group in Boise.  Instead of minimizing my time commitments and stress, I had just doubled down.  I was now in charge of two restaurants with weekly changing menus and a total of five service periods.  Saturdays and Sundays it was not uncommon for me to work from 7am until Midnight. 

Now if this was a Lifetime Movie, what would happen next?  That’s right, the cancer came back.  And for a third time, my family went through Chemo without me.  One of the few good things about my new position was that the restaurants were 8 blocks from the hospital where my mom went through her treatments.  I was able to leave work and go to meetings and occasionally visit my mom in her hospital room. 

Goes for relationships, too

This time the cancer didn’t go away.  There was no remission.  I was still putting in 70-80 hour weeks and working 6-7 days a week.  It didn’t matter that my family and my marriage were going off the rails, technically my life was still going according to The Plan.  When the announcement was made that my mother’s cancer was terminal, I was in shock.  I had been in Idaho for nearly three years at this point but had never done what I moved there to do.  That week my mother confided in me that she wanted to see the ocean one last time.  I was adamant.  I was going to take her to see the ocean again.  It didn’t matter if we had to leave the next day, we were going to make it happen.

I told my job that I was going to take time off.  They were very gracious and told me to take whatever time I needed.  I tried to plan an excursion to the coast.  It is only a seven hour drive from Caldwell after all.  But it was too late.  My mom deteriorated so quickly that it wasn’t feasible to even make an overnight trip.  I shifted gears and we were going to go to McCall one last time.  McCall was having a very dry summer and there were forest fires running rampant through the area, closing down the highway and at bare minimum, the air quality was bright, flaming red.  We couldn’t go to McCall. 

Honorary Son

I had nearly three years to do these things and they were all too late.  I ended up taking a week off work and spending it in the chair next to her bed.  This is what The Plan had given me.  I had run my marriage into the ground and wasted the last years of my mother’s life.  I had broken the next to last promise that I made to my mom.  What had I gotten out of it?  I won some awards.  Made a name for myself.  Garnered national acclaim.  The cost was far too high.

During one of my mother’s more lucid times in hospice, we had a conversation about my life at that time.  She was proud of me and all I had accomplished, but she didn’t like how I treated Molly.  I promised to take better care of Molly, my relationship, and my marriage.  This is the last promise that I made to my mom.

What can be more important than experiencing this?

When asked what she wants to do with her life, Molly will say “Travel the World.”  We work hard.  We live well within our means.  We scrimp and save.  But the money doesn’t go to a 401(k) or a Roth IRA.  It definitely doesn’t go towards some ephemeral retirement 30 years in the future.  The money goes to the next move.  The next trip.  The next adventure.  Where will we be going?  Not even we know.  But you better believe that when we do take off on another “trip of a lifetime”, everything will be going according to plan.

Mishaps, Bloopers and Mayhem

There are many things that can go right on a road trip.  You can catch the perfect stretch of road, come across unexpected treats, meet new people.  I am not writing about those things.  This is an exposition, nay, an homage, to all the dumb things that happen on the American Highways.

Yes, that says 106. No, it isn't lying.

While putting the bike through its paces after its time at the mechanic, I decided to go south to the Mexican Border.  I had this idea that I would ride down to Mexico and then up to Canada.  To be honest, it was probably not well thought out.  I headed south in rush hour.  I know, I know.  I got caught in traffic and construction and ended up getting turned around. 

My solution was to hop back onto the Freeway and see where I would end up.  I hit the bottom of the on ramp and there it was.  A sign that said “Next Exit: Mexico”.  For your information, that means there is no more US.  I turned back up the on ramp, hopped the curb and headed up the berm back to the good old US of A.  While I realize that what I had done is wildly illegal, judging by the fact that there was a path cut through the landscaping I wasn’t the first to make this mistake.

The event planner is not amused.

This was the first of many instances of me getting turned around or lost.  For better or worse, I was on a motorcycle.  I didn’t have a GPS unit.  I had a prepaid Virgin Smartphone that worked when and if it wanted.  It came in handy when it did work but there was no guarantee.  Each night I would map out my route for the next day and log it in my travel journal so I did have a preplanned route.  I would promptly forget where I was going every morning. 

I got turned around going through San Francisco.  I got lost going to Gilroy.  I got lost three times on the way to Crater Lake.  I damn near got lost in the farmlands just outside my hometown.  I was in a caravan through Idaho and Montana and we did pretty well.  Fortunately it is quite difficult to get lost out on the plains.  I made up for it by getting lost in Minneapolis over and over again.

Does it make Argyle milk?

* * *

There are very few things as humiliating as dropping your motorcycle.  I had a couple of drops, fortunately slow easy ones.  I was in the parking lot of an O’Reilly’s in California and had just picked up a quart of motorcycle oil.  I had parked right in front of a sign that said “No working on vehicles in the parking lot” and I was feeling uppity.  Tell me not to work on my bike.  You are an auto parts store, of course I am going to work on my bike in your parking lot.  Normally when I check and fill the oil, I put the bike on the center stand like a reasonable, intelligent human being would.  This time I left it on the kickstand because I was busy fighting the power. 

Well, the handlebars were blocking the dipstick so I turned the handlebars.  BMW F650’s are known for having a very upright resting position.  I know this.  I turned around to pick up the oil and just bumped the bike.  When I turned back towards the motorcycle it was just starting to tip.  I tossed the quart of oil, which was fortunately still closed, and grabbed the handlebars and rear grab bars.  I was too late to stop the fall, but I did manage to slow it enough that it gently rested on the ground.  I heaved the bike upright and looked inside the store where all the staff watched my misadventure with rapt attention. 

Dammit Montana, how am I supposed to sleep now?

I dropped the bike again in Idaho while trying to load it into my dad’s truck.  Once again, I managed to slow the fall somewhat but this time I smashed my right calf in the process.  The third drop came in Minnesota as I was washing the bike.  I didn’t want to wash it in the driveway because it was covered with 4000 miles of grease, grime, dead bugs and road schmegma.  I had the bike up on the center stand (who says I don’t learn my lesson?) and was hosing down the bike.  The curb was uneven and the water washed just enough of the bike’s footing away and down it went.  This time, I wasn’t able to catch it.  Nothing a new turn signal off Ebay couldn’t fix.

* * *

Despite a few close calls I never wiped out on the trip.  There was the turn in the Redwoods that almost got me and the Oregon driver who tried to run me off the road.  I never actually hit the ground until I pulled off the road in South Dakota to camp.  I was exhausted and had just done roughly 550 miles that day.  I went off road down a heavily rutted two track at a steep grade to get to the creek I was supposed to camp at.

Post Indo Camping Session

Like most times something dumb happens, I wasn’t riding or being careful like normal.  When riding a heavily rutted road down a steep grade, you keep your feet off the pegs and keep yourself upright.  Or in my case, keep feet on pegs and when the bike tips, launch yourself down the hill like the proverbial sack of potatoes.  The bike hit at just the right angle and actually was held up by my pack.  I plotzed down the hill and had to strip out of my gear and lever the bike back up.  After that, I admitted defeat and walked the bike down the hill and did a field strip to make sure it was running fine.  If I am going to wreck this was the best case scenario by far. 

When you are on a motorcycle for 8-10 hours a day, you spend way too much time in your own head.  I told myself jokes.  I sang along to Neal Diamond and David Bowie.  I thought up crazy ideas like writing a series of children’s books that correspond with the travel blog.  I contemplated smart ass comments to put in said travel blog.  Whenever possible all these thoughts, ideas and time killing actions have made it into my travel journal. 

* * *

One of the goofiest things that happened on the road involved my camelpack.  No, not the slap and tickle.  That was earlier.  I got in the habit of taking a mouthful of water and swishing it around to get rid of the taste of dead cat and deader fast food that would develop while riding.  I was happily cruising along at 70 mph and swishing away when I coughed, spraying a mouthful of dead cat water across the inside of my helmet.  I managed to keep the bike going in the right direction and cracked my visor a bit to dry out the inside of my sun shade and visor.  If I did swerve a bit, I blame it on the fact that I was hysterically laughing during the whole recovery. 

I don't even know what to say...

When I needed to stretch my legs, I would stand up on the pegs and sit on top of my pack.  This gave me enough positional variation that I didn’t have a ton of cramping issues.  During this adjustment, it was common for my shirt to come un-tucked from my pants.  Not a big deal most of the time.  Somewhere in South Dakota I was stretching and a bee got caught in the folds of my shirt and proceeded to sting me just above my right kidney.  Once again, I didn’t eat pavement but I did exercise my broad knowledge of profanity.

Lobotomy

I had purchased new armored motorcycle riding pants just for this trip.  I had them all adjusted nicely at the beginning but didn’t think about how they would wear in.  I was riding through northern California and stretched my legs in the fashion just described.  But when I stood on the pegs, the newly stretched waistband caught on my pack and pulled down my pants and boxers leaving me somewhere between serious plumber’s crack and full blown mooning the minivan that was following me.  On the bright side, they waved as they passed when I pulled over to fix my wardrobe malfunction.

* * *

Molly and I just recently binge-watched the show True Blood.  There is a notable scene where Jason gets kidnapped by a pack of inbred werepanthers, doped up on Viagra and gang raped by all the women in the pack in an attempt to improve their genetic diversity.  I nearly had a similar experience in Eastern South Dakota.  It was the afternoon of July Fourth and everyone had already been drinking.  I was about 30 miles from Western Minnesota and I stopped for gas.

Loser buys the beer and gets a Tetanus shot

I came out of the gas station and there were a group of young women checking out my bike.  This wasn’t the first time I met people curious about the trip and I greeted them warmly.  They were very inebriated and wanted me to come party.  I declined and they wanted to take pictures.  Then pictures of me with the bike.  Then why didn’t I want to come party with them?  After passing up the opportunity to party again, there were more pictures, this time with the girls hugging me.  And not letting go until it was VERY awkward.  And I was asked if I wanted to party again. 

One girl regaled me about having never left the state of South Dakota, which started a fierce argument.  Apparently, she had been to Minneapolis as a kid with her friend.  Never mind the fact that we were thirty miles from the Minnesota border.  They wanted to know if I had  gone through the Black Hills.  When I replied that I had, they were quite impressed.  On the bright side, the drunker of the them did remember her childhood trip there.  She loves her state.  She loves the corn growing behind the truck stop.  She reaaally loved my bike.  Can she have a ride?  Unfortunately, I am leaving the state, which you have a strong aversion to.  And speaking of which, I must be going.  Right now.

When I told Molly this story she was laughing hysterically and I quote: “You almost got Werepanthered!”  The sympathy was somewhat lacking.

The "Placist" Conspiracy

As a habitual and pathologically determined rolling stone, one of the things that baffles me the most about people at large is the idea that This Is The Greatest Place On Earth.  I am relatively well traveled but more importantly I have lived all over the US.  Over and over, wherever I live at the time, I hear people with little to no frame of reference declare that wherever they live is The Greatest Place On Earth.

Kipahulu, HI

Don’t get me wrong, there are great things about every place I have lived.  But there are also seriously messed up things as well.  It seems like the less people have branched out of their comfort zone the more likely they are to firmly entrench themselves as Placists. 

Big Sur, CA

I know a person who falls firmly in this category.  I don’t want to embarrass this person, so I will designate them Exhibit A.  Exhibit A has lived in Idaho their entire life.  This person is well traveled and intelligent.  I recently rode a motorcycle nearly the entire length of Highway One, one of the most technical rides in the US.  Exhibit A was baffled that I wasn’t worried about the ride in Idaho.  Let me be clear – the scary part of the ride through Idaho is the fact that if something goes wrong, there is No One out there to help. 

Denver, CO

In California, there is always another town, another gas station, another driver coming through that you can flag down.  That is not the case in Idaho.  East of Riggins is a big ball of nothing until Montana.  The ride itself is a cakewalk.  Exhibit A couldn’t believe that I was dismissing the difficulty of the drive.  I explained multiple times that compared to what I rode regularly on Maui and what I had just done in California trumped anything that Idaho could throw at me.  Caveat – ON PAVEMENT.  You leave pavement in Idaho, it might take the Marines, Air Force and National Guard to find your ass.  I was not leaving pavement.

Cottage Grove, MN

The discussion got to the point that I flat out told Exhibit A to get over it – just because it was Idaho didn’t mean anything.  If Exhibit A is a Placist, I am the Anti-Placist.  I have an immediate response to poke holes in a Placist’s misplaced sense of superiority.  It is a common trope to find the New Yorker who refuses to leave the city, insisting that there is nothing outside of NYC that they can’t find in the city.  I immediately say “Skiing.”  The response is that either they don’t ski and have no interest in doing so, or they bring up cross country skiing in Central Park.  Just to be clear, Cross Country Skiing is an evil, malicious trap that masquerades as something that could be fun and turns out to be a Scandinavian torture technique.  Now if the New Yorker responded that the skiing sucks on the east coast so why bother, I could buy that. 

I currently live in Hawaii.  I have to admit, it is pretty hard to beat for some things.  But the best place ever?  If you have never left the islands how can you be sure?  Just the cost of food alone should bump Hawaii out of the running.  I have been off the grid on an island in disputed waters off the coast of Cambodia and have paid less for my meals than I do here.

Sturgis, SD - R.I.P.

The more people travel the broader their perspective grows.  If said person moves and experiences a new area in depth, their perspective broadens even further. 

What I run into, especially in the area where I grew up, is I express too much disdain in response to unfounded claims of glory.  Every time I see an article on Facebook about how great Boise is I want to write a scathing diatribe about the political, economic and social conditions of the other 98% of the state of Idaho.  Boise is a cool little town.  Yes, I said town.  Get over it Boise.  Cities have suburbs with larger populations than the entirety of Boise.  There are many cities that have populations that dwarf the entire population of the state of Idaho.  Boise is a town.  See?  I did it again.

Glacier National Park, MT

While on my motorcycle trip, my Anti-Placist behavior did me and my faithful readers a disservice.  The closer I got to where I grew up, the less pictures I took.  The less documentation and notes I put in my travel journal.  Why?  Because I grew up here and am overly familiar with the area and know it in and out, warts and all.  I lost my objectivity.  Idaho is a starkly beautiful state.  As far as outdoor scenery goes, it has damn near everything but the ocean.  There are some big ass lakes, though.

Owyhee Reservoir, OR

There is also plenty of local character.  I was in a position to show both the good and the bad of the area and didn’t do either.  I had the opportunity to show the poverty and despair that is pervading the areas around the State of Ada.  I had the opportunity to show the resilient spirit of the locals and celebrate things like the Fourth of July Porcupine Races in Council and Chainsaw Carvings.  I rode through and thought “You’ve seen one Chainsaw Carving of a bear, you have seen a thousand” without realizing that maybe my readers in Hawaii and New York haven’t seen a Chainsaw Carving of a bear.  That sort of Redneckerry is prohibited in most places outside of little mountain towns.  FYI – Chainsaw carvings are pretty grotesque as a finished product but really fun to watch being made at the Fair. 

New York City, NY

As I got further from where I grew up, I started taking pictures and documenting the trip again.  As I really hit my stride in Montana I was in full road trip writer mode again.  But I am missing a chunk of the trip.  I could cheat and go back through Molly’s photos from when we lived there.  In fact I probably will cheat so you have something pretty to look at while trudging through my prose.  But at least I am fessing up to my shortcomings.

Riggins, ID

Due to my lack of fortitude and understanding of my duties as a travel blogger I have a challenge for my readers, especially in Idaho.  Send me pictures and descriptions of why where you live is the best.  I will write in the captions and build a post around it.  Tag me on Facebook, add them in comments, email them to me.  This is your opportunity to sell me on your Best Place In The World and my punishment for being an Anti-Placist snob.

Where There's Smoke, There's Fire

The next leg of the trip began in Caldwell, Idaho.  I was joined on this length of the trip by Marsha and my Dad in his truck as compatriot/support vehicle.  When I described the relative desolation of Eastern Oregon it has nothing on the bulk of Idaho.  Idaho has the most remote areas in the lower 48 and some of the most forbidding terrain.  To be able to maintain my goal of riding state highways and experiencing the country to its fullest I needed back up.  My old man was willing to take the plunge and join in.



White Bird Hill Lookout

We originally planned to portage the bike in the back of his truck and I would ride the interesting stretches of highway and would cruise in the truck for the hot, flat, straight and boring segments.  Well, I knew that he had a new truck, but it didn’t really occur to either of us that the new truck was six inches higher than his old truck.  And the old truck was difficult to get a bike in the back.  Add to that limited familiarity with ramps and we were not in the best of situations.  We tried to load the bike up and ended up dropping the bike and smashing my leg.  I immediately injured everyone’s feelings in a thirty foot radius and put the kibosh on the idea.

If we had difficulty putting a fully functioning motorcycle in the back of the truck on flat ground in ideal conditions, putting the bike in the back of the truck in less than ideal conditions probably wouldn’t happen.  My dad suggested hooking up the toy trailer but I am averse to trailers.  I made the call that I was going to ride the whole way.  My dad, being the former Boy Scout who raised me, the gear junkie, still brought the ramp along.

White Bird Hill

One of the primary compromises that came about with having a four-wheeled vehicle in the caravan was the route.  We took a lot more of the straight, hot, flat, boring highways in consideration of the Chevy 2500 trailing in my wake. 

Our first stop was Orofino in North Central Idaho.  There are two routes north to New Meadows, where they converge.  My favorite route is to head east and then north through Cascade, Donnelly and McCall.  I love McCall and it is a gorgeous route.  It is also much busier and slower.  The other route is west back to Oregon and north through Weiser, Cambridge and Council.  I don’t like Weiser.  I never have.  It is a pathological dislike and I can’t explain it.  It is also a faster, easier route, especially for a truck.  We went through Weiser.  Have I mentioned I dislike Weiser?

I did get to see that Council is continuing the grand tradition of Fourth of July Porcupine Races.  For whatever reason (like I was constantly working and never took days off) I have always missed out on the Porcupine Races.  Molly has always wanted to go but it just hasn’t happened.  I also cruised by our old Morel Mushroom hunting grounds.  No, I won’t tell you where.  Here’s a hint – it is somewhere between Caldwell and New Meadows on Highway 95.  Good luck! 

This day was not very fun

There is a fun stretch of mountain highway between Council and New Meadows before you hit the high plains.  When you arrive in New Meadows, Highway 95 and 55 merge and 95 runs due north from New Meadows through Riggins to White Bird. 

Riggins bottoms out at 1800 feet elevation and is the gateway to the Salmon River.  Remember when I was talking about forbidding wilderness and desolation?  The Salmon River is also known as The River of No Return and The Frank Church Wilderness Area is the largest unspoiled wilderness region in the contiguous United States.  Not a place you want to break down in.  My favorite way to describe it is you can drop a pin in the center of the wilderness area, map a radius of nearly 50 miles in any direction, and there is nothing.  No towns, road, or access of pretty much any kind. 

Heading north from Riggins, you have a steep climb up White Bird Hill.  It is a ten-fifteen mile stretch with a relatively consistent grade of 4-5%.  It doesn’t feel like much but when you stop at the lookout, you have gained some serious altitude above the valley.  There is a nifty memorial about the Nez Perce Tribe massacring a US Calvary Regiment and the brief but bloody conflict that ensued.  In this part of the country, a Native American Population wasn’t considered legit if they hadn’t offed an Army unit of some kind.  There is a lot of gruesome history to be learned when you leave the freeways behind.

Nez Perce made their Bones

We descended through the pass into Grangeville.  This particular section of Idaho really goes against expectation.  You have travelled through high desert, dove down into the Salmon River Canyon, climbed back out up Whitebird Hill, and what do you find?  Wheat, grain and feed fields.  You are now in a high mountain valley that is stuffed to the gills with agriculture and more importantly, it is still going strong.  The fields run right up to the edge of the mountains and in some cases, abuts the forest itself. 

We reached Kamiah, which is my Dad’s happy place.  It is a place of family, sanctuary and adventure.  For him it holds cherished memories his whole life.  While it doesn’t hold nearly the emotional significance to me as it does my father, it was good to see how things have changed.  To be honest, one of my earliest memories is getting my head stuck in the steering wheel of the old International tractor.

My old enemy, I see the years have taken a toll

I parked the bike for a bit and hopped in the truck.  We headed up to the Lamm Family farm in Woodland.  From there we toured the area and confirmed that the more things change, the more they stay the same.  My old man pointed out Carrot Road, a nasty piece of work that was a shortcut to Orofino.  I didn’t need to ride a glorified gravel two track down the back of a mountain and was happy to head back to Kamiah and go the long way round.  FYI – I am not adverse to leaving the pavement, but going down a 6-7% winding gravel grade for fifteen miles is no one’s idea of a good time.  I would be interested in going up it, but that wasn’t an option.

Looking over the valley

I hopped back on the bike and we took the last leg of the day north on Highway 12 to Orofino.  It was very hot out and the entire populations of Kamiah, Greer and Orofino were playing in the Clearwater River.  Did I mention it was hot out?  Kamiah was 106 degrees and when we arrived in Orofino, it was 110 degrees.  I have black riding gear.  It was hot.  If I wasn’t in a caravan, there is a good chance that I would have stopped at one of the beaches, stripped down, and gone swimming in my boxers.  This was by far the hottest leg of the entire trip.

We arrived in Orofino and stopped at Dennis and Lane’s place.  I hadn’t seen D&L in ages and it was great to catch up.  They have a technological palace built semi off-the-grid (I ruined that now!) and it is gorgeous.  They were kind enough to feed me glass upon glass of water as we went back and forth on the pool table.  Dennis felt I was abusing his cues with my break.  He was probably right.

We all headed into town for dinner and afterwards drove up to Dworshak (pronounced just like the Czech Composer) Reservoir.  There was a small forest fire and we watched the pontoon plane scooping up water and dumping in the fire.  The dam was also running into the Clearwater River.  I got some great video of the pontoon plane dumping water back into the reservoir.  I had been regaled by Tim and Liz’s little boy about the adventures of Dusty the Forest Fire Fighter Prop Plane and was ecstatic to get the video.  I paid for my art – I had to use heavy zoom on my little point and shoot camera which required draping myself over a basalt boulder and using it to steady the camera.  Did I mention it was hot out?

 

Out of Oregon, or The Mammoth Leg

Oregon is a little strange about their roadways.  The speed limits are asinine and the state trooper’s predilection of preying on out of state drivers is legendary.  Add in the fact that the basic fines for speeding are in the hundreds of dollars and you get the feeling that Oregon does not want your business.  What do you expect from a state full of people who aren’t trusted to pump their own gas.

 

The first thing I noticed about Oregon was that they couldn’t care less about the fires in California.  Up and down the length of California there were firefighter camps and warnings about campfires and fireworks, both of which were illegal when I rode through.  Just on the other side of the border in Oregon was of all things, Firework Stands.  Not ten miles from a forest fire camp Oregon was happily selling fireworks.  Two months later, we all saw how well that worked out.

I found my bread and butter on Highway 199 and was ready to crush the road through the pass.  As I am leaning into a turn at a respectable speed, I see a “Motorcyclists Use Caution” road sign.  I think “Hey, fair enough.”  And then I hit the grooved asphalt on the turn at 65mph. 

I can just imagine the conversation.

“You know, we have too many motorcyclists enjoying our mountainous terrain.”

“Yeah, those bastards are always speeding and taking turns too fast.”

“I’ve got a great idea:  How about we groove the corners and remove the traction when they need it the most!”

“That’s brilliant!  We will do it on every turn that could potentially be fun in the entire state!”

If there is anything out there in the universe that determines true karmic justice – I’m talking to you, Jeebus-Hari Krishna-Buddha-Vishnu-Moonbeam – please, please give whoever decided to groove the turns on mountain highways a highly uncomfortable venereal disease.  I don’t want them to get HIV or anything like that, but I want it to feel like they are pissing razor blades.

While I didn’t wreck, the entire experience was borderline terrifying.  I stopped for the evening in Grant’s Pass, Oregon.  While looking over my bike for the evening, I had a couple of older guys pull into the lot near me.  They were both riding big double bagger Harleys.  I headed over to shoot the breeze for a minute and checked out their bikes.  The difference between my bike and theirs couldn’t have been more stark.  I was on a 16 year old base model BMW and probably the best feature on the bike were the Pelican Boxes I had installed myself. 

Cupholders, man.  Just what a motorcycle needs.

Their Harley’s were tip top and had ALL the extras.  Stereo, Cruise Control, Control Panel, CB Scanner, Bluetooth and Cupholders.  Cupholders, I tell you.  Honestly, I can do without pretty much all of that, but the Cupholder was pretty cool.  They had Big Gulps in the damn things.  At this stage in my life, I can’t fathom paying that amount of money and not getting a car.  Motorcycles are supposed to be the inexpensive option, you know?  At the same time, I was proud of them getting out on the road. 

More than once, I was asked where I was going, what I was doing.  When I described the trip, the most frequent response I got was “I wish I could do something like that.”  Either they don’t have the time or they felt that they were too old.  I am here to say:  If you have always wanted to do a motorcycle trip, just do it!  If you think you are too old, that’s what those massive double bagger land yachts are for!  If you don’t have time, do weekend trips!  Get out on the road!

I got up way too early and got ready to leave Grant’s Pass.  The plan was to ride to Bend and see how I was doing and potentially continue on from there.  I fired up the crappy coffee maker in the hotel room and ended up with 4 cups of bad, watery coffee.  Pretty much the opposite of Caroline’s black tar coffee.  FYI – when on a long distance motorcycle trip, too much liquid is worse than not enough caffeine.  I drank a cup of my brown tinged water and got on my way.

Tastes worse than it looks

 

The route was going to be fun – cut just north of Crater Lake and then ride along the Little Deschutes River up to Bend.  I circumvented Crater Lake because the bike is carbureted.  The pass into Crater Lake is close to 10,000 feet elevation and going from sea level to 10,000 feet and back down is asking for trouble.  I did not want to have to do a field strip and adjustment because my curiosity got the best of me.  The pass north of Crater Lake was just under 7000 feet and I didn’t have a problem but past performance is no guarantee of future success.

I am going to take a brief moment to discuss Oregon Signage and Drivers.  I hit Gold Hill just outside of Grant’s Pass and was trying to follow the signs to Crater Lake.  Crater Lake is kind of a big deal, you know?  There is a sign pointing to Crater Lake about 100 feet before a 4 way intersection.  And no signage at the intersection.  You have a 50/50 chance of picking the correct route.  This was a reoccurring theme throughout the Northwest.  The mindset is “If you are here, you know where you are.”  Wrong.  I am on the back of a motorcycle and need clear, direct signs. 

Diff'rent Strokes, Diff'rent Folks

Oregon Drivers are schizophrenic.  They would consistently slowdown 10-15 mph below the speed limit any time that the road became the tiniest bit curvy.  As soon as it straightened out, they would speed up to 10 mph over the speed limit.  The first time this happened in a passing lane, the car tried to cut me off as I was passing.  I may have kicked his fender just a bit as we merged.  I was furious.  Dude goes fifteen mph below the speed limit for ten miles, and then speeds up and tries to run me off the road when I pass.  I couldn’t believe it and it turns out, he is an accurate cross section of the Oregon Driver demographic.  Guys like him are the reason why Oregon drivers are not allowed to pump their own gas.

While I was being tortured by the population of Oregon, I didn’t stop to take very many pictures.  I was short on caffeine, frustrated and the bike was still running a little funky.  The ride along the Little Deschutes was beautiful, but you will just have to trust me on it.

I arrived in Bend at 1pm and stopped for tacos.  While I was there, I ordered all the parts I needed to repair the bike once I hit Idaho.  Did you know that on the mainland you can order parts, have them shipped Priority Mail and they show up like 3 days later?  It was a completely different experience than what I am used to on the islands.  Here, I order parts, pay an equal amount of money for shipping, some parts show up five days later, some show up eight days later, some are backordered, some never show, and eventually the bike has been disassembled for three weeks before all the parts are on island and at that point, all I want to do is light the bike on fire and throw it off the Pali.  That is an actual thing, you know.  Lighting vehicles on fire and throwing them off the Pali.

I was in Bend and Caldwell, Idaho was only about 250 miles away.  I had ridden about 275 miles already and was feeling good.  It didn’t make sense to find a place to stay when I had 8 hours of daylight left to ride.  Never mind the fact that I had already ridden for about six hours.  I pounded the first Red Bull of the day and headed east from Bend on Highway 20. 

Not Deer.

I had a major misconception going into this ride.  I assumed (that’s a bad preface, isn’t it!) that if a town is in a nationally published atlas, it will have basic services.  This was proven false multiple times, the first was in Central Oregon.  There is nothing between Bend and Burns.  I slowed down at Brothers and Hampton (both towns are in my Rand McNally 2016 US Road Atlas) and both towns had dried up and blown away.  There were no services for 110 miles east of Bend.  I stopped in Riley for gas at 118 miles on the tank and stopped again in Burns 30 miles later out of pure paranoia. 

Central Oregon is borderline wasteland.  It is arid, high desert and has never been claimed through modern irrigation techniques like Eastern Oregon has.  I blew through at seventy miles per hour and didn’t miss much.  East of Burns is a different story.  The high desert continues up through the Stinkingwater Pass but beyond that the highway runs along the Malheur River.  I was very fortunate and had a brand new, ungrooved (bastards) fresh asphalt highway with No One else on the road.  I passed one semi-truck and it was the only vehicle in my lane for seventy plus miles.  That stretch of highway from Burns to Vale redeemed Oregon for me. 

Dustan Bristol, I don't know how you do it

It was late afternoon and I had multiple warnings about deer – I saw no deer.  Quite a few “slow elk” as they are called in my family, but no deer.  I was almost disappointed but at the same time, the damn things love to run out in front of motorcycles so it was probably for the best.  Look through the Boise, ID Craigslist Motorcycle Listings sometime and every time you see a great deal on a bike they hit a deer out on Warm Springs. 

Highway 20 has some great names.  There is the aforementioned Stinkingwater Pass followed by the Drinkwater Pass.  While on a motorcycle trip, you spend a lot of time in your own head.  I came up with all sorts of fantastical reasons for the names.  Turns out that the Harney Basin is volcanic in nature, like most of Eastern Oregon and Southern Idaho and Harney Lake is Alkaline-Saline in nature.  In other words, the water is bad.  You cross the Drinkwater Pass and you reach the Malheur River which is potable.  Boring, but it makes sense.

As I went through Vale the terrain turned from pasture to farmland.  And in came the bugs.  I had no bug issues all the way to Vale and then the good times were over.  I was pasted with bugs for the next 2000 miles. 

I grew up in Caldwell, Idaho and had been through Vale, Nyssa and the surrounding towns.  I remembered none of it.  Fortunately there were just enough signs for me to not get completely lost.  It would be a little embarrassing to get lost in what was essentially my backyard.  There were just enough signs pointing to Boise that I knew what direction to go. 

I rolled into my Dad’s place just after 8pm.  I had been on the bike over twelve hours and clocked 533 miles.  As I parked in front of the shop, I took a few minutes to remove gloves, helmet and my backpack.  I wasn’t savoring the moment so much as doing everything I could not to fall off the bike in front of the neighbors.  They would never let me live it down.  My knee and back were pretty much shot at that point.

A real shop! Not a parking stall!

When I managed to heave myself off the bike I still had work to do.  Fortunately I had plenty of nervous energy left from my third Red Bull.  I got the bike up on the center stand, pulled all the body panels off and peeled away all the chunks and strips of foil.  I got the field strip done and made sure that I was in good shape to begin the repairs the following day.

The final tally for this leg of the trip from San Diego, California to Caldwell, Idaho was 1883 miles in five days.  The overwhelming majority of the rid had been on State Highways and I had ridden the length of California from South to North and the width of Oregon from West to East.