Dog-TAT-stic 4,000 miles

[piratemonkey 0]

Day 12: McDermitt, NV to Denio Junction, NV

Tuesday 9/20

We woke to the rumble of a large truck passing our tent at about 6 am. When we selected our location the night before, we knew we were near a dirt road, but we figured it was rarely travelled. We were wrong, at least on this day. While we were packing up, another large truck blew by in the other direction -- perhaps the same one? The driver waved at us. He probably found it humorous we were camped by the road that went to the landfill, or perhaps the secret underground nuclear test facility.

We decided to do something a little unusual and start the day with a breakfast in a restaurant. The "Say When" Casino Café looked like a good candidate, if not the only candidate.

Having grown cavalier with restaurants, we took Simon in and dropped his backpack into the booth. The waitress came over, took one look and said, "Oh no, he can't be here. My boss will have a fit. We'll get our license pulled." She said we could get the food to go and then sit at the picnic tables across the street, so we did. It was the first time Simon had gotten the boot from an establishment.

After breakfast we headed into the hills. We started on a wide dirt road and eventually turned off onto a narrower route that wasn't bad (i.e., no silt). We ended up at the gates of ranch, contemplating what to do since the other side of the gate showed no sign of a trail. While we were discussing our options, an old lady (80ish) drove up on a quad. Pointing into the distance, she told us that the road we wanted was "over there." We weren't the first dirtbikers she had intercepted as she mentioned something about riders coming from as far away as Florida. Most women at 80 are watching game shows at an assisted-care facility -- this lady was busy chasing errant dirtbikers off her property.

We rode for a while, with me in the lead (Wayne had taken to riding behind me since he never knew when I would end up on the ground). I pulled up to a gate, got off, and opened it. When I looked back, Wayne was nowhere to be seen. I waited for several minutes, thinking he was taking pictures. After a while, I realized too much time had passed and something had gone wrong so I did a hundred-point turn to get my bike turned around on the narrow trail.

About a half mile around the bend and down the hill I found Wayne standing next to his bike. I was relieved to see that he wasn't injured. Was it a mechanical problem? Not quite: A sidebag had fallen off and the rear wheel sucked it up and jammed it under the fender. Wayne had tried pulling it out but it was thoroughly wedged.

Wayne rolled the bike backwards while I had my hands around the bag, trying to "birth" it. After a bit of coaxing and some smashed fingers, the bag finally popped out.

The flap that helped hold the bag onto the rack was completely ripped off.

Wayne said the sage brush along the trail had been snagging his bag, but since the same thing was happening to me, it was hard to believe the brush alone was responsible. Then it occurred to him: When we were doing the stream crossing yesterday we put a lot of force on the bag trying to pull it past the branches. We must've started the destruction process yesterday and the sage brush just finished it off today.

Fortunately, I carried extra webbing and buckles in case we had a problem with our bags. Wayne moved the heavy items into the other sidebag and then frankensteined a solution that kept the bag attached.

We rode for a while through the same scrubby terrain we'd been in for the past few days. Certain areas were thick with grasshoppers, and as we approached they'd jump en masse and pepper us. I'd go between having my shield up and getting pelted in the face to dropping my shield down and getting too hot. Worse than either was having them lodge in my helmet and feeling them try to kick their way back to freedom. True to my gender when it comes to insects, I dislike them immensely. If those grasshoppers had been cockroaches, my screams would've been heard through all of Nevada.

We encountered a rocky uphill stretch that would become our Nemesis of the Day. I went up first and made it half way before I bounced off a rock and tipped over. My foot was pinned under the bag so I couldn't move and had to wait for Wayne to hike up the hill and move the bike. With nowhere to go, I grabbed my camera and took a picture.

And since I wasn't in tremendous pain, I handed the camera to Wayne so I could later see how I looked. Verdict: stylish.

The bikes were heavy enough that to get them upright, we both needed to lift to avoid destroying our backs. (Just a few months ago Wayne was leveled by a pinched sciatic nerve. A repeat of that on the trail would've required me to build a sled out of sage brush so I could tow his fetal-position-locked body out.) Rather than drop the bike again only to have to pick it up again, I had Wayne ride the bike up the rest of the way. Simon wanted to run alongside the bike, but I screamed myself hoarse to get him to stop -- a tipover would've crushed him. We had to be mindful of the Zone of Regret.

Simon ran back down to me but took off again when the bike neared the top of the hill. It was hot out, but he was compelled to keep running between the two of us. His doggy mind was not comfortable with the pack separation.

Once Wayne parked my bike at the top of the hill, he hiked back to the bottom for his. I waited on the hill in case he needed my help. Just as I had done, Wayne bounced off a rock and the bike pitched over (he's not flat-footed on his bike like he is on mine). I hurried down the hill to help him pick up the bike. A second attempt resulted in another rock confrontation -- man, that DRZ can rear like a spooked horse! -- which Wayne lost. We picked up the bike and bulldogged it to a better spot. Third time's a charm, as Wayne ping-ponged his way to the top of the hill.

It took me at least 15 minutes to hike up the hill. My hip kept seizing up so I had to keep stopping to shake it out (hip replacement is 10/24!). When I rejoined the pack, we decided that just getting to Denio Junction would be good enough for the day. We didn't encounter any other hills that gave us the beat-down, but the ride wasn't exactly relaxing, either. On one downhill I cased the bike hard enough to slam my visor shut -- it was so perfectly in tune with the day that I had to laugh. By now both hands were numb from the continued jarring and it felt like I was trying to work the controls with two canned hams for gloves.

As with the day before, the lower we got, the more streams we went through. The past two days tallied up more water crossings than I had been through in my entire riding life.

Just outside of Denio Junction we came across a pronghorn antelope. Looking at it reminded me of why we were motivated to bring Simon. On our last week-long motorcycle trip, every time I saw an animal I would tell Wayne "It reminded me of Simon!" All it took was a set of big, black eyeballs with a vacuous stare to make me miss the little guy. I suppose I don't like the pack being separated any more than Simon does.

Denio Junction was a beautiful sight for the weary. There was a nice patch of green grass which would've been perfect for camping, but it had Keep Out signs all around it. They probably didn't want people climbing all over God's Ride.

Wayne asked a guy working at the bar if it would've been ok for us to pitch a tent off to the side of the building. The guy came out to check our intended location and gave us his approval. Although it wasn't apparent at first, upon closer inspection we could see that this was where dog owners who stopped for gas let their dogs go poop. At least the poop was dry so we could kick a space clear for the tent.

After we pitched our tent we used the nearby hose for a country bath, or as much of a bath that could be done with the locals staring at us.

People on motorcycles wouldn't have made them blink twice, but our non-traditional gender/species combination -- along with our decision to pitch our tent in the poop zone -- probably made us the best entertainment to come along in months.

The locals carried on well past sunset, but we didn't mind. We were just glad to have our little patch of dried grass for the night.

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Day 12 overview: 68 miles

[dirt dame 559]

Can't say for sure, since I haven't walked a mile in your adventure boots....but I probably would rather be shot than camp in the poop zone next to a honkytonk.

[piratemonkey 0]

Can't say for sure, since I haven't walked a mile in your adventure boots....but I probably would rather be shot than camp in the poop zone next to a honkytonk.

You'd be surprised how inoffensive dried poop is after living with marginal hygiene for almost two weeks.

[paulmbowers 236]

Can't say for sure, since I haven't walked a mile in your adventure boots....but I probably would rather be shot than camp in the poop zone next to a honkytonk.

You'd be surprised how inoffensive dried poop is after living with marginal hygiene for almost two weeks.

Sounds like Mimi is OK with the poop- it's the honkytonk that's really offensive.

Were the Tighten Ups playing by any chance?

[briana 0]

How did you get your foot backwards? Were you trying to ride up the rocky hill facing the wrong direction...

[piratemonkey 0]

How did you get your foot backwards? Were you trying to ride up the rocky hill facing the wrong direction...

I'm going to have to guess that I was trying to jump clear of the bike but failed. Not much spring left in these legs.

[piratemonkey 0]

Wednesday 9/21

I didn't notice Denio Junction's helpful mileage sign until the morning. There was an important value missing that I added for them.

The sun was fully on our camp as we packed up, with the heat brutalizing us well ahead of schedule.

We started with several miles of pavement before turning off into burro country. Burritos -- Spanish for "little donkey" -- were originally made from burro meat when horse meat wasn't available.*

We passed through the standard open landscape that featured our constant companion, the sage brush. This particular section differed a bit as the remnant of two giant conch shells was a reminder of how northwestern Nevada was a landlocked sea and home to the largest mollusk fossil ever found.**

We came across our Nemesis of the Day rather early. It was another long climb with loose rocks of varying sizes. I went first, bouncing around and occasionally planting a foot to keep from falling over. When I got to a level spot, I stopped the bike, took a photo, and waited for Wayne.

When he didn't show up I knew something was up. It was too hot to keep my gear on so I removed my helmet and jacket, threw on my hiking hat, and walked to a point where I could see down the hill.

Wayne was stopped but standing, so that was a good sign. I could see him gesturing but I couldn't hear anything so I made my way down the hill. When I got there he explained he was ricocheting around and needed to remove the backpack so Simon wouldn't get hurt if the bike went down. I took Simon and let him out of the bag. As Wayne rode on, Simon and I made our way behind him. (There'd be photos here if I hadn't left my camera back with the bike.)

We reconvened at the top of the hill. It was only mid morning, it was hot as hell, and the route was likely to get worse before it got better. Based on our maps, we were on a stretch of road that appeared as a solid line. Somewhere in the offing that line turned into a dotted line and based on our experience with dotted lines on maps, it could get ugly.

Simon was panting so hard his face had a slight snarl to it. If he entered the heat exhaustion phase we'd have few resources to cool him down. I played the conservative card: Let's take the pavement to Lakeview.

For most of the 2,000 miles we'd done, Wayne was a hero -- possibly a saint -- for carrying Simon and never complaining. I was relieved he didn't argue with me about the proposed route change. I've taken Simon on easier dirt stretches so I knew the weight was a game changer -- it was the difference between feeling like a competent vs incompetent rider. The day would've been brutal for Wayne and Simon; I was the one who had it easy.

So back we went past the many burros.

Before hitting the pavement we stopped to air up the tires. Simon availed himself to the only shade for miles around.

There wasn't much to report about Highway 140 except that it had a stretch of the most awesome curves I've ever had the pleasure of riding. The flow was incredible.

Snack break and more hiding from the sun. If panting correlated to effort, Simon was running a marathon today.

The scenery transitioned as we made our way into Oregon. More trees were dotting the hillsides and the animal signs changed from burros to a bighorn sheep.

When we got to Lakeview we grabbed a sandwich and then scoped out our camping options. Juniper RV park was a few miles out of town and it got rave online reviews so we camped there (the reviews were right; the place was five stars). All it took to make me smile was a shower.

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* This is a lie I thought I'd see if I could perpetuate through people who don't read footnotes.

** See above footnote.

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Day 13 overview: 160 miles

[Covered in Dust 162]

Nice report Zina. I was going to question a couple of your statements until I read your footnotes :-). Did I read right that you are going under the knife on Monday? I asked my Doc again about it and she keeps telling me to put it off as long as I can stand it (I think I might be getting there).

Covered

[piratemonkey 0]

Nice report Zina. I was going to question a couple of your statements until I read your footnotes :-). Did I read right that you are going under the knife on Monday? I asked my Doc again about it and she keeps telling me to put it off as long as I can stand it (I think I might be getting there).

Covered

Yes, Monday's the big day! I am very excited to get this done so I can get on with life as a non-gimp. They tell patients they may be in the hospital for up to four days...I'm hoping that's mainly because most of the patients are 80. I want to be out the next day with my Vicodin script in hand. It's not an organ transplant, fercrissakes.

I guess since you read the footnotes you won't be the one helping me with the burro-meat legend.

[Covered in Dust 162]

No Burro-burritos for me. Good luck Monday, I'm having a little work done monday also but not quite as much as yours. I'll be watching how your recovery goes to see if/when I want to get my hip done. Keep us posted on your recovery progress and thanks for the great ride report. I know a lot of us look forward to it everyday.

Chris

[eddie 0]

Loving these ride reports!

As for your upcoming procedure, I have a late 40s friend who had a hip replacement last March. He was riding again by mid May and the only issue he has had is an occasional squeaking sound.

No, I'm not kidding.

[piratemonkey 0]

Day 14: Lakeview, OR to Crater Lake, OR

Thursday 9/22

We were folding up the tent this morning when we noticed it was wet. It was strange to have so much condensation in one corner. I gave it a sniff and realized that there was an odor to it...and a yellow tint. Could've been Simon, but it seemed to be a lot of pee for such a small dog.

We packed Maxima pre-oiled filters and today was change day. What was once bright blue was now a Shake-n-Bake brown.

We checked the inside to make sure it was doing what it was supposed to do and we were pleased to see a clean underbelly.

I might stick with these inexpensive disposable air filters. While I have a very high tolerance for menial tasks, cleaning air filters is in my top ten list of Undesirable Things To Do. The girly part of me that despises insects must also be responsible for my repulsion to filthy, tacky air filters.

Ready to leave behind the rocks of Nevada, we looked forward to getting into the Oregon forest. We started out on a twisty paved road that eventually transitioned into a gravel road. The change of terrain was a good time to give Simon his first break. He got his usual "test snack" to check his happiness level. I liked to make him work for it because if he was the least bit physically damaged or depressed, he certainly would not go the extra circus-style mile for half of a lousy peanut.

It didn't take long before we came across logging activity. I heard that's what Oregon's all about: murdering trees*. (And, of course, not being allowed to pump your own gas.)

These chains looked wickedly heavy and expensive.

Soon after passing this, a logging truck came around the corner. Just as we had been warned, the drivers are CRAZY. Even though this over-caffeinated guy saw us, he never backed off the gas. Since he was hogging most of the road, I pulled over to stop and just as I had put my foot down the truck flew by. Had I stumbled at all and tipped towards the truck, I would've been instantly wound into his axle.

We experienced our first Oregon commuter bottleneck in the form of this clawed badboy.

The driver was on his phone, repeatedly looking out his window and over the side of the vehicle. The track kept catching and jerking the vehicle violently. Wayne took some hard looks down the side, but he could see that trying to pass a piece of heavy equipment having seizures would've only ended in tears. Thankfully, the driver eventually glanced back and saw us. He pulled over and let us by.

We made our way through the forest, enjoying the unrocky, unhot, unsilty environment.

Everything was going fine until we came upon the Sycan River which was the widest water crossing we had encountered so far on this trip.

Wayne did a little depth test with a stick and it didn't look promising. We'd have to go at least waist deep to get through.

We walked along the bank to see if there was a better place to cross, but we only found more impressive ways to fail. With only two of us to deal with a water crossing gone awry, we decided to find another way out.

Just a little way down the road we came across some people on horseback and asked if there was a better place to cross the river. They told us that the easiest thing for us to do would be to take the main dirt road out to Beatty. Not wanting to drive around the forest all afternoon just to find out that other crossing points of the Sycan River were equally futile, we followed their instructions and made our way to Beatty.

We were enjoying some cheap pre-made sandwiches from the little market while planning our next move. A guy pulled up on a Harley and asked if he could share our picnic table. We were fine with it so he sat down.

He proceeded to tell us that he was just visiting his 57-year-old twin brother in the hospital, who was crushed by a vehicle that he had jacked up and then slid under without using jack stands as back-ups. He had broken ribs, a punctured spleen, and a whole menu of other problems I couldn't remember. He was in a medically induced coma and had already come down with a case of pneumonia.

The guy started talking about how crazy people were nowadays because the economy was bad and how they were out of work and resorting to desperate measures. He mentioned that a transient had pulled a knife on him a couple of days ago which forced him to respond by pulling a gun on the transient. Perhaps he felt his story was lacking color so he did a re-enactment for us...

"The guy said GIVE ME YOUR WALLET!" At this point he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a handgun (something Glock-like), pointed it in the direction of the street, and stated loudly but evenly, "IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT?" He said this caused the transient to flee. Never in my life had I so badly wanted to take a picture, but I didn't want the gun swung in our direction. I kept the camera pocketed. Sigh.

He added that he had taken a life before and it made him sick for days. He said he would never again hurt anyone... unless he had to.

He moved onto another story that took place decades ago in San Francisco, where his connections with underworld types gave him employment at strip clubs and massage parlors. It was there he met a Chinese girl that he really liked. The problem was that he was white and such a relationship would never be sanctioned. Her brother was a martial arts expert and at some point beat the crap out of him but they later became good friends; so good, in fact, that he studied martial arts under him for 13 years. He said that although he knew martial arts, he wouldn't use it to hurt anyone... unless he had to.

He recounted how he was in a bar in Arizona. He didn't drink -- he was just having his usual soda. He said a drunk guy around 260 lbs had it out for him, adding "I knew he had to hurt him real quick." So he did, taking the guy down in an instant with his honed martial art skills. He declared that from that time forward, nobody in that bar ever messed with him or his soda again.

And so he went on. The tales seemed a bit tall, but it was suitable entertainment as we sat there and ate our sandwiches. In hindsight, his tale weaved in a few details of the moment. The girl he liked was Chinese, as was (and still is) the girl sitting across the table for him. And about him beating up that guy in Arizona? He was drinking a can of Arizona Iced Tea... yes...Keyser Söze lives.**

He did give us one piece of information that might've been useful. He told us not to camp anywhere near Chiloquin, suggesting that the area was unsavory, even by his tastes. He said that people have disappeared from there, although I'm betting they were locals caught up in some criminal enterprise gone wrong and not motorcyclists with a dog. Still, it was touching to hear him say, "I don't want to be reading about you two in the paper."

On his advice, and because Chiloquin did seem a little funky when we got there, we pressed on to Crater Lake, where the Mazama campground had tons of openings.

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* Yes, I phrased it as such just to get a rise out of you. I, personally, do not have a problem with murdered trees because without them we would not have toilet paper or chainsaw art.

** Please see "The Usual Suspects" if this reference is lost on you.

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Day 14 overview: 176 miles

[Spyder 2]

I really love the 'Simon Says' pictures.

[paulmbowers 236]

.. yes...Keyser Söze lives.**

Who is Kaiser Soze?

[piratemonkey 0]

Who is Kaiser Soze?

Exaaaaactly...

[mainblockhead 0]

Love watching this tread!!! Thanks!

[piratemonkey 0]

Day 15: Crater Lake, OR to Canyonville, OR

Friday 9/23

Mazama campground is at 6,000 feet so the morning was pretty chilly. My standard look before 7:00 am -- especially anywhere above 4,000 feet -- is "well entrenched."

If you're wondering where Simon sleeps, Wayne isn't as cold-blooded as I am so his partially zipped sleeping bag affords Simon in-and-out privileges when the temps get low.

Ready for a hot cup of instant coffee, I mustered my courage and hauled my ass out of the tent.

I got up and went over to the bear locker to get the Jetboil stove. When I looked down at the dirt I saw an unbroken pattern of circles: Our Sidi boot prints had been completely replaced by bear paw prints. Seeing that made me glad we didn't try dry camping in the area. I packed bear spray but I didn't want to have to temporarily blind Yogi just for coveting our Top Ramen.

On our way out of Mazama campground, we stopped at the store for something durably sheathed in plastic that would pass for breakfast. Oily muffin? Toffee peanuts? Jalapeno and cheese crackers? I settled for a bag of overpriced trail mix. When I came out of the store, Wayne was chatting up a cyclist who had a custom-built bike easily worth more than our two DRZs combined. Wayne used to build bike frames so they were understandably rhapsodizing over fine details like the welds. Her riding partner eventually pulled up with her equally unique bike. I don't know fancy bike stuff, but I do know that my favorite color is green so I found these bikes to be quite attractive.

Before continuing east, we did the 30-mile Rim Drive around Crater Lake. The deep blue hue of the water was (pick an adjective): majestic / enchanting / other worldly / jaw dropping / super freaky / undoubtedly fake.

After leaving Crater lake we headed back into the Oregon dirt. There was nothing exceptional to report; just more in the pattern of nice roads, trees, and weather.

The farther east we went, the lower we dropped in elevation. By the time we parked our bikes and took the very short walk over to this Rogue River overlook, I was dragging from the heat. Simon felt more like 30 lbs than 15. It seems like the fate of a camping motorcyclist is one of always being too cold or too hot -- wasn't it just this morning that I put on almost every piece of clothing I had packed?

On the road to Tiller (and our daily dose of ice cream), I kept seeing sparkling cotton candy on the trees.

Every now and then there'd be a small tree completely entombed, like it was a Halloween prop. I thought it was the handiwork of spiders but upon closer inspection they were filled with worms (specifically, the Fall Web Worm).

While eating our ice cream, Tiller's only Rastafarian came along and asked us about our travels. His herbal-based cologne was pungent, which might have explained why he parked across the street -- he didn't want to give patrons near the store a vicious contact high when he opened the door to his rolling water pipe. He suggested -- almost insisted -- that we camp at the very back of the nearby rest stop, and that no one would bother us there. We opted not to since he would probably be the one bothering us.

We continued on to Canyonville, which was the biggest place we'd been to since Moab. Just off the I-5, Canyonville had plenty of services for travellers. We ended up at the Stanton County Park on the South Umpqua River. Here I am seeing if Simon can get swept away in three inches of water. He's balking as if he knows he will.

Only after Simon was done frolicking along the river did we see the Dogs Prohibited sign, which was facing in what I'd call the "strategically inferior" direction.

The sound of traffic on the I-5 kept Wayne up for a lot of the night. He's never learned to embrace the beauty of earplugs, which I consider a top ten travel necessity.

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Day 15 overview: 137 miles

[piratemonkey 0]

Day 16: Canyonville, OR to Port Orford, OR

Saturday 9/24

At only 747 ft, the morning in Canyonville was far more pleasant than the frigid handful we'd previously risen to.* A storm was in the forecast, but for now the sun was still a rising king.

The first part of the day's ride was on pavement and it was one of the nicest back roads I'd ever ridden. Here's my disclaimer: My first dozen years as a motorcyclist was pavement-only so I have to admit that there's always a sort of "homecoming" when I go from dirt to pavement, especially if the dirt has been very, very bad to me. Given this sometimes-distorted favoritism, I might give a paved road more credit than it's worth, but this one was the real deal. It's called Cow Creek Road and if you do a search on it, you'll find some very positive things written by street riders about this scenic byway.

This photo doesn't showcase the awesome landscape, but it does show how the road is free of leaves, cow pies, potholes and tar snakes. It'll surprise you to learn that the phrase "cleanliness is next to godliness" originally referred to pavement, not people (four of the Twelve Apostles were amateur roadracers**).

The railroad track running along Cow Creek is still in use. All that medicinal herb has got to get shipped somehow, someway... CHOO CHOO!

Nearby was a good spot for Simon to take a break. If I weren't travelling by bike I would've picked the wild berries that seemed to be everywhere. As it was, I had already exploded a small packet of grape jelly in my bag and there was no way the wild berries would offer any more resistance in their naked form.

Not sure what type of caterpillar this is, but a large one would make a good cleaning tool.

We got off Cow Creek Road and started heading up into the mountain. There was a mix of tight-n-twisty single-lane paved and dirt roads.

We came across the washed out stretched encountered by another ADVrider. I climbed down into the ravine to verify that it was impassable, and it certainly was.

Nice place to hang out if you're a troll, though.

The road leading up to the washout was getting overgrown so it had probably served its purpose as a logging road and wouldn't be repaired. We backtracked and found another way to continue west.

The afternoon started to take on a pre-winter pall. We stopped to throw on extra layers and take stock of the clouds coming in. We were protected from the wind while in the trees, but we could definitely feel how active it was on the exposed ridge lines.

We rode the unchanging logging road for hours. Unlike the desert, where you can at least focus on a distant mountain and feel some sense of accomplishment as the faraway point grows larger, all you get in the forest are trees in your face. You're trapped in the small intestine of roads: turn after turn after turn after turn with nothing to see but endless polyps in the form of trees. In the words of the dead president who gave rise to the greatest Halloween/bank robbery mask: "A tree is a tree -- how many more do you need to look at?" How many more, indeed.

We took a snack break during which the usual begging took place. We pulled out the maps and tried to figure out where we were at and how much longer we'd have to wind our way through the Logging Road Purgatory.

It wasn't too long after this break that we finally dropped out onto the pavement. Wayne gave a celebratory fist pump. I rescinded the wish I had been harboring for the past hour in which all of the Oregon forests were burnt to a crisp so I could have a view.

The pavement leg into Port Orford went quickly.

We found a tidy RV park and paid for a night's stay. But before pitching our tent, we had to go put the frosting on the cake...

...photo shoot on the beach!

We wanted to celebrate with a Mexican dinner and margaritas, but the town's only Mexican restaurant didn't serve booze. The alternative: We got the Mexican dinner to-go and picked up a four-pack of Bartles and Jaymes "Margarita Flavored Malt Cooler" at the local market. It was a poor substitute for the real thing, but at least we had something alcoholic -- it was our first taste of booze since we started the trip.

So the first phase of the WAT (West America Trails -- our version of the TAT) was done. It felt great to reach Port Orford in honor of John-Mark (Wayne piloted the very bike John-Mark had planned to ride).

Up next: Getting home on the back roads.

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* Admittedly, San Diegans wring their hands nervously when it drops into the 50s. When it drops into the 40s the 911 switchboard gets jammed.

** You won't find this info in Wikipedia; I'll see if I can add it myself.

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Day 16 overview: 133 miles

[RogerTOWM 0]

Great report Zina! Can I go with you guys if you do it again? The photo of your two boys sleeping should be your wall paper, sooooo cute!

[piratemonkey 0]

Day 17: Port Orford, OR to Crescent City, CA

Sunday 9/25

The rains came during the night escorted by high winds. We camped under redwood trees so we were protected from the full force of the weather. The downside of our location was listening to tree parts dropping on the tent all night. I woke frequently from the thumping noises, half expecting to hear the crack of a branch just before it went through us like a toothpick fulfilling its manifest destiny with an hors d'oeuvre. Thankfully, the tree menace was all bark and no bite, just like our undersized tent-mate.

We spent the morning in the rec room posting pics and availing ourselves to the coffee and muffins that the proprietor made available to the guests. At a paltry $12 for the night (hot shower included), we highly recommend the Port Orford RV Village if you're ever in the area.

On our way out of town we stopped at a gas station. Four loaded-up dualsporters pulled in for gas. Dualsporters in Port Orford? If they weren't doing the TAT, I'd eat my helmet, dirty liner and all.

No helmet consumption required on my part: The crew was from England* and they had just completed the TAT starting from Tennessee (three men, one woman). Not to belittle our journey, but theirs seemed like a real journey. Not only did they start from Tennessee, but they also had to deal with the logistics of getting their bikes shipped over. And the language barrier! How many times did they end up with #$@&! potato chips when they really wanted french fries?

We cruised down the 101 south for a while. The trailing edge of the storm had not yet fully trailed away so we were buffetted about by heavy winds. The salt spray made it impossible to keep our shields clear and after a while of lousy visibility and constant shaking from the wind, I actually started feeling rather car sick. The occasional stop for road repairs was a welcomed break.

Breakfast time. Simon was allowed to accompany us into a small restaurant. Perhaps a large carbo sponge buried in sweet carbo sauce was what I needed to soothe my queasy stomach. I slipped Simon just enough to keep him from crying.

Just north of Crescent City we turned onto a dirt road that wound through private property.

At one point I noted the distinct smell of "indie" commerce. Fences and gates along our route were well-marked by No Trespassing signs. It's not as if Oregon didn't have their share of signs, but the frequency of the signs in California made me wonder if there was some sort of law whereby if you posted a warning at least every few hundred yards, you had a legal right to vaporize anybody who stepped foot on your property.

The road we were on was supposed to be a public road that reconnected with the pavement, but we found ourselves at a closed gate. The property right next to it had its gates wide open but our GPS showed that road going nowhere.

Not wanting to piss off the type of people who choose a life of self-exile in the forest**, we found a different way back to the main road.

One of the highlights of the trip was the ride through Jedediah Smith State Park. I grew up in Northern California and have visited the redwoods many times, but they never stop blowing my mind. If ever there was a place that would pass as Middle Earth, it would be the land of old growth redwoods.

We found a horse stable on the edge of Crescent City that also doubled as a campground.

The camp sites were far apart and many of them were in pockets of trees, offering total privacy. Here's Wayne and Simon entering the lair.

From inside the lair we could keep an eye on our nearest neighbor, the dude in the Buick.

We ran into the owner and she said that she wanted campers to have the experience she had as a kid, where people in tents weren't treated like second class citizens to those in RVs. I don't know if goats were a part of her childhood camping experience, but she had a couple with markings very similar to Simon's. I held Simon up to see if he noticed they were soul brothers, but all he did was flame off so I think the connection was lost on him.

Back to our nearest neighbor: The twenty-something guy was sleeping in his well-worn Buick because he had to leave his aunt and uncle's house due to an unspecified domestic violence issue (I would've asked for more details but it already seemed like he was telling us too much). He looked like the kind of guy who could visit violence upon someone, so I made sure I knew where my bear spray was that night.

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* I do see the Australian flags on their bikes, but I could've sworn they said they were from England. My apologies to them if I have their country wrong.

** Many years ago I was hiking with Mexican friends in the interior of Mexico. We stumbled upon a pot farm in the dark; nobody was around. The next day on our way out we encountered men with rifles in hand. They said they would've shot us but they knew we weren't the federales and even if we reported them, they were harvesting and would be gone by the time anyone got there. Lesson learned: Pot farmers might or might not shoot you.

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Day 17 overview: 103 miles

[Mistress of the dual 1]

Thanks for taking me back....I miss it so.

[Strega 0]

Am I the only one that noticed that it appears that the bitch is riding bitch? Maybe I missed that post already...

[piratemonkey 0]

Am I the only one that noticed that it appears that the bitch is riding bitch? Maybe I missed that post already...

You mean the woman in the Gang of Four at the gas station? Her Honda 250 (wish I was on one) is obscured.

[piratemonkey 0]

Day 18: Crescent City, CA to Bridgeville, CA

Monday 9/26

I knew on our trip we'd be in places where the temp would be low, but because 18 days ago we were packing in the middle of a Southern California heatwave, it was hard to appreciate the concept of discomfort from cold. As such, in an effort to reduce cargo, one of the things I left behind was an extra pair of tights. That was a bad idea, as this is what I had to resort to:

I raided our medical kit for the Ace bandages and wrapped them around my thighs for extra heat retention. Thankfully, it helped.

In the morning as we were headed down the 101, we saw the British TAT contingent travelling in our direction along a frontage road. It's weird: I didn't know their names, let alone any other details about who they were, but it felt like we were seeing long-lost friends. We gave them a hearty wave and received the same in return.

Today's route was a mix of single-lane pavement and logging roads.

The logging trucks kept us on high alert, speeding around the corners as if they were on a closed-course circuit. Wayne spent most of the day in the lead and I figured with him out front, he'd spook the trucks and then they would be slowed down when they got to me. Well, for whatever reasons, the truckers seemed to think it was "one and done" because they'd be back to hauling ass when they got to my corner. You want to make a set of narrow Asian eyes as big and round as saucers? Just have a semi grill materialize in front of them. My eyes were shocked into roundness so many times I think they're permanently stretched out.

Simon liked reading the informative signs about the local redwood ecology. For the record, his lips do not move when he reads.

The golden* hills of Northern California...

...contrasted against the deep green forest.

I don't know how the size of the names on maps are decided, but Bridgeville was in a fairly large font (way bigger than Denio Junction) so we figured that it at least merited one gas station/mini-mart (which Denio Junction offered). If we had done our research ahead of time we would've known that Bridgeville offered nothing and that the large font was selected at random. Bridgeville, it turns out, was the first town ever to go up for auction on eBay. The last owner committed suicide in 2006 and it was up for sale again for a few months after that. Not sure what the current status of the town is other than being devoid of gas, food and lodging.

It was late in the afternoon and we needed to find a place to camp so we headed west on Highway 36 in search of anything suitable. About seven miles down the road we came across Grizzly Creek Redwoods State Park. At first glance the torn up concrete and temporary orange fencing all around suggested that the camp was closed. We pulled in anyways and came across the camp host who said they were open, but that the showers weren't operating. We weren't in need of a shower so we stayed. Ironically, the only two other campers in the 30-space campground were two motorcyclists from San Diego.

The campground was slated to be shut down at the end of 2011 for two years due to budget cuts. However, they were going ahead with the repairs since the money was already earmarked for it. Wise move since two years from now some politico will have squandered that money on his stripper/dancer mistress named Candy, Amber or Destiny.

We asked the host if there was a bear problem at this campground. He said there wasn't because it was legal to hunt bears in the area so they remained wary of humans. Based on that, here's my solution for places where bears aren't hunted and have become a nuisance: Taze them. It won't kill them but it'll teach them that people are the source of a very unpleasant sensation so they had better stay away.

Right next to the campground was the Van Duzen River. I thought I'd be Miss Natural and rinse my socks in the stream instead of the campground sink.

The water was a touch clearer towards the middle so I decided to step my way further in. I got greedy and I paid for it with an ass-plunking. My pants were soaked on a cold night where there was no hope they'd be dry by morning.

But as a diehard fan of futility, I went ahead and hung them on my DRZ anyways. Who knows, perhaps I was next in line as a recipient of a miracle.

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* "Golden" is pretty writer-speak for "bone dry."

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Day 18 overview: 174 miles

[PastaPilot 17]

... some politico will have squandered that money on his stripper, dancer and mistress named Candy, Amber and Destiny.

I fixed it.