scottieh wrote:I ate some adult brownies and had a nice evening relaxing

Mezo.

A gift from southern california. Her advice, "eat HALF of one." :D

Before leaving Austin I had planned on meeting a guy who lived north of San Francisco to buy some specialty camping supplies. We never agreed on a location but I trusted he was sincere. However first I wanted to put some new tires on my bike because the Dunlop 606's had already run 662 miles on tarmac. The mechanic who put them on put the fear of soft tires in my head by claiming they would not least to Portland (dead wrong by the way). Long story short, the Cycle Gear in San Francisco did not have them but ordered them to be delivered up in Portland in five days due to it being the fourth of july weekend. [Since the KLR has become popular in America, 17" rear rims are the norm for enduro tire manufacturers here. I wanted to have Avon Gripsters again but none of the books in store had them in production. So we finally decided on Pirelli MT-90's 21-90/90, and 18-120/80.] I was going to have to keep riding on the 606's with the fear of a blowout.

Leaving town was a clusterfuck. We were leaving an incredibly dense, incredibly populated city at midday rush hour on Fourth of July weekend (big shit) and cross the most iconic bridge in the USA, the Golden Gate Bridge. It must have looked like this the day we drove across, only add a ton of cars:



I got to practice lane splitting again, this time in heavy, still traffic. I met a lot of other bikers at red lights while splitting who were going out for a day trip and had nice brief conversations about where I was going and had been doing. I especially like the camaraderie shared between riders who enjoy the ride as much as the place they are going. This one group of ladies were going swimming. One of the girls was sporting a 1981 Honda Hawk. It was kinda hot seeing a girl handle a bike like that. She had put a custom sticker on the tank that read "HAWK" in big letters. They warned not to split lanes on the Golden Gate Bridge.

We ignored that. Traffic was bad all the way on the bridge and out the 101. The bridge was foggy and cold and there were broken down cars clogging up everything. I tried to stop myself but I had to go. Zip zip zip. Everything bottlenecked into a 2-lane highway filled with every single goddamn person in San Francisco going out of town. I noticed another biker in front of me darting around cars into oncoming traffic, so I took off after him. I knew Steve would follow. As typical, we got cocky and started overtaking in corners again and speeding into blind hills to shoot a gap. Then we got to a bend in the road as we were crossing the double yellow to pass and I saw in front of me a California Highway Patrol bike cop waiting to catch bikers like us. It was going to be his lucky day - 4 bikers all breaking the same law. I looked behind me and saw Steve and another biker behind him.

The cop pulled in front of all four of us as we drove down the road and signaled for us to pull over. That wasn't going to happen so I let the first guy follow the cop and I took off. Yes, I evaded him. And Steve was right behind me. The fourth guy must have pulled over because we moved like white lightning and passed more and more cars to get the hell away. Quickly we darted into traffic at a red light and moved to the front and stopped. I couldn't believe we had done that. We sped along some more trying to act normal and let our hearts slow down. When we came to a town a CHP cop was directing traffic. I thought we were fucked. I thought the bike cop might have radioed ahead. But when then traffic cop waved us through we knew we had done it. That felt amazing.

We stopped for lunch still reeling from the pre-noon adventure in beautiful Marin county, where as a future friend would say they have more money than god. We drove along beautiful scenic lakes past wild flowers and mountain cliffs. The highway 1 was as gorgeous as ever. We rode along the coast as the day wore on and turned down a twisty section on the map that cut across to the 101 where I could find my friend somewhere in Mendocino county and get my gear. We stopped once though because we came across a vista so beautiful, so visually dense that it compelled me to pull over. Can I talk enough about how beautiful California is? I'll try to tone it down a little

Map of twisty inland road. Lots of elevation changes.


So we finally get to this tiny town about 25 miles from the highway along the border of a national park. We eat dinner at the only restaurant open, some hoity toity place where soup bowls are cups and soup cups are tea cups. I drank a lot of beer. Eating out more than I should, but it's fun so why fight it? We get our gear together and are told there is a motorcycle adventure park about 10 miles into the national park where we can camp. It's far past dark now and I ride slow for Steve's visual health. Sure enough, there's a camp with a dozen families grilling out their supper and listening to loud country music. I choose to sleep on the ground in the open air and Steve picked the picnic table. He's afraid of bugs. Hehe. It was a beautiful night and with every breath I took to lull myself to sleep I breathed in the mountains and the stream and the grass and the bugs and the warmth that I was amongst.

Maybe the cop thought you was just another crazy European tourist riding that Tenere?

Ive done the same a couple of times, my thinking is there going to ticket you anyhow just to raise revenue,
so sod it a few more dollars & points for evading don't make any difference & if you get away with it,,,bonus.

Mezo.

Scottie mate.... you should write a book or two..... you've got a talent there..

GeoffD wrote:Scottie mate.... you should write a book or two..... you've got a talent there..

Thanks Geoff. Maybe one day I'll slow down enough to take that time. For now these ride reports will satisfy me.

Leaving the motorcycle camp was slow going as the long days and hard sleeping surfaces tend to drag the mornings out for me. Steve was up by 6am. I don't know what he does during the 2 hours he waits for me to get up. I tend to wait for the first morning's rays of light to hit the tent before I feel like it's time to get up. The campsite was already buzzing with activity as the different camps were starting up their dirt bikes to go for a ride through the woods. I considered riding a little but I don't handle the dirt well by myself, so rather than risk an accident, I took a long walk instead. Our goal for the day was to travel through the fabled "Avenue of The Giants" a 31-mile stretch of road that detours through some of the densest and tallest Redwood groves in California.




These redwood trees made us look like ants. Every turn was another gasp as the groves of trees extended far beyond our line of sight in every direction. These are the largest living things on the planet. Most trees are larger in size and mass than a fully grown humpback whale. The largest tree in the area, nicknamed General Sherman is 275 feet tall and is the largest living thing in the world and is somewhere between 2,300 and 2,700 years old. Sadly we did not stop to pay the general a visit, but perhaps next time.

The next town was Ureka, California and we needed to find a Harley dealership so Steve could replace a bolt on his bike. He's stubborn sometimes, and seems to think that even a seat bolt needs to be from a Harley shop, and that a local hardware supply store simply won't due. I joke with him about it and enjoy the detours. However every Harley dealership in a straight line from here to Portland is closed because of the Fourth of July weekend. Our efforts were not in vain though as we passed along a growing collection of towns whose abandoned industry of railroads for tree logging and wide rivers provided a gorgeous backdrop to our ride. We connected with the 101 highway as the California 1 merged with the 101, ending that renowned stretch of road. Efforts had been made in the past to continue the road along the cost, but repairs were too costly and numerous to maintain the road, so it was left to the locals, creating what is known as the "Lost Coast" a portion of the California coast mostly untouched by development. I was implored to go by my friends in Austin, but time was not permitting as I need to get to Portland as soon as possible. All of you American national and international travellers take note, the California Lost Coast is not to be missed.



We stopped to eat a late lunch in the coastal town Crescent City. It reminded me a lot of the New England coastal towns I had visited years ago, where my father's parents raised their families. It was gray and moody and the air was salty and the people earthy. Leaving town I drove slowly, trying to soak it all in. As I write this the details of each stoplight and landmark are blurring into a general feeling of good, bad, happy, windy, salty, tiring, etc. I guess that's why people take pictures on vacations. In another 60 miles we had reached the Oregon border. We wanted to camp but every single campsite for miles around had been occupied by other families doing the same thing for the holiday weekend. We were forced to drive an extra 35 miles to the next campsite at Gold Beach, Oregon and stay at an RV park. It was worth the drive because our only alternative at that time was a hotel room, and to me that's like marking my arm with a knife. Steve and I sat up late talking about the Vietnam war (he was a marine there), aliens, 2012, tattoos, his marriage, my relationship, bikes, stars, the coast, everything. It was real male bonding without all the bromance. Just good conversation with good people. Tomorrow would be our last day of riding as we would be arriving in Portland and Steve would be going home and I would be going camping in the woods.

scottieh wrote:Steve and I sat up late talking about the Vietnam war (he was a marine there), aliens, 2012, tattoos, his marriage, my relationship, bikes, stars, the coast, everything. It was real male bonding without all the bromance.

Phew !!

Thought you was going to say "it was a real Brokeback Mountain feel"

Mezo.

Great wright up Scottieh,

Took me back to my US trip in '99. (L.A. to New York)

Wish we'd had time to see the "Lost coast" but we rented Harleys & didn't have much time to explore

Harley owners are the same the world over, EVERYTHING has to be genuine.
When we had ower oil changed, half way across, the ex-harley mechanic said "don't use harley oil & filters, it's crap. They buy cheap, then put their name on it."

Beautiful pics. mate

Rick (also glad there were no "Broke Ring Mountain" moments)

Woke up late again, this time to the faintest of light illuminating my tent. When I poked my head out the mountains all around me had the lightest wisps of morning fog creeping up their sides, shrinking away from the gentle sunlight. Steve had been awake for hours and said just twenty minutes before the entire site was shrouded in fog. He calls it June Gloom. Apparently it is common for this part of the world to be endlessly foggy, but all of our day trips had been completely absent of most fog. In fact, I had not seen a single patch of fog besides what little there was this morning, and absolutely no rain! What luck! I leisurely packed my things up and used the bathroom. The bathrooms are worth mentioning because at this RV park they were so good you might as well have walked into your own bathroom at home. It was a nice surprise and made the price for the night worth it.

We took off and quickly stopped a few towns away for lunch. Since it was now the 4th of July, every town was full of excitement. We tried eating a pancake breakfast at the local VFW (veterans of foreign war) but when we realized we would be stuck in a parade in the center of town if we waited, we decided to move further out of town to eat. Both Steve and I are a cordial form of impatient. We love chatting with people and relaxing at our own pace but stick us in traffic and we become caged beasts. The diner we chose was staffed with one cook, one waitress and all the locals and the banter between kitchen and waitress was priceless. Our breakfast of eggs, bacon, biscuits, and juice might as well have come from heaven. We chatted up the people at the next table, an older couple who had lived in the town for 30 years. They had recently moved down to the water but were finding the wind to be too much. We took off again and I marveled at the variety of the Oregon coast. Huge rock formations jutted out of the water cut off from the land and sustained a delicate balance of life atop their peaks brought by the wind, the water and the birds. The weather stayed clear and cool and made riding very enjoyable. I was still reeling from the heat and wind of the southwest so every moment I was conscious of the environment, I was thankful I was not being abused by another dust storm.



Somewhere along the way we crossed the Rogue River, a spectacular example of nature untamed http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rogue_River_(Oregon). The view from the coastal highway was beautiful and I could only imagine what lay 100 miles upstream where salmon runs and whitewater formed what I believe to be what remains of the wild west. All along my journey I was being bordered by civilization. Here I let my imagination run wild upstream and envisioned bears swatting salmon jumping up waterfalls and beaver felling trees into rushing water. I learned later much of the river was settled with suburban homes, but I took comfort in knowing most attempts to dam the river were foiled by angry salmon fishermen who blew them up. My kind of people.

We arrived in a region of Oregon known for its dairy called Tillamook. Much like the Normandie Basin in France, Tillamook is a low valley near the sea that bred wind and rain with a cool temperate climate. We could smell the dairy farms from miles away as we turned inland on one last winding river road before met up with the highway arteries that fed into Portland. The bike was running brilliantly. Even with the knobby tires I was holding great traction around the fast sweepers and climbs as we wound our way round the inland mountains. All too soon we were on straight road heading right for the city. Mount Saint Helen and Mount Hood loomed large off in the distance. We arrived in the city and I phoned my new friend I met online through the couchsurfing.org website who had promised us a place to sleep for the night. Arriving at his house was relieving. I was able to unpack my bike fully for the first time, taking the saddle bags and top tank off and go for a unencumbered ride to the grocery store to buy dinner. We cooked steaks, mashed potatoes, asparagus, ate bread and drank red wine. It was heavenly. Not much more than an hour later I was asleep on the floor while Steve took the fold out couch. It was our last day riding together and we both knew it. Steve would have to ride the Interstate back down to southern California for some medical testing and I was heading off into the woods to accomplish the reason I left on the trip, to camp in the woods of Washington with the Rainbow Family.

I started another day late and behind schedule as the comfort of a cool floor kept me sleeping through the house's early morning activity. Steve also slept late, something he claims he hadn't done in years. Since the war he's had PTSD and nightmares every night for 30 years. Even with regressive hypnosis it only decreased their frequency and so this trip he said had been the best sleep he could remember getting. So off we rode together to find some oil so I could top off my tank. During my last oil change I accidentally followed the owner's manual recommendation for oil quantity and only filled up to the "low" level in the tank. Foolish me. The bike chirped a little from the valves as a reminder that 'hey dummy, I need more oil.' Thus began yet another debate in the auto parts store about the benefits between motorcycle oil and regular car oil. For some reason I caved and just bought the damn motorcycle oil. Back at the house I began to plan my route to the woods for there was no physical address given, just some GPS coordinates and google maps directions. Where I was going was a national forest. To WHAT exactly I was going is a little harder to explain.

Rainbow Family
You see in America there exists an underground network of people who live a separate life in the margins of society. You might see them on the street asking for spare change and you may call them homeless or bums or street kids or something else, but in essence these people have chosen to live a life that does not conform to modern society. I'm not sure if this rings true all around the world, but here in America it's a large population. Mainly it's a state of mind, having to do with a constant fight for what they believe to be the proper way to live. Namely, a communal existence based on consensus decision making. Every year they have a "National Gathering" in a different national forest in America centered around the 4th of July. It changes states and forests every year and often the exact location is not known until a week or two before. Anybody can go. It is free, there is no electricity, no running water, no alcohol and no money. It's a hippie festival but what's so special about it is that it is a self-governed existence built on fire, mud, stone and goodwill towards others that every person brings with them to share with everybody else. If you showed up with nothing on your back but the clothes you were wearing, you could find food, warmth, a place to sleep and company all for free. If you came with a car full of watermelons and passed them out, great. If you did nothing but play music all day and smoke pot sitting around the campfire, that's cool too. But the quality of life is completely determined by how much work you put in to making it. It's like hitting the reset button on civilization and forcing everyone to start from zero again. The first people to establish camp in the woods must walk in and realize there is absolutely nothing ready made for them to use. They must bring it all or make it. To me that's very liberating, using my hands to build something from the ground up. It's even better when it's 10,000 people and it's a small community that is being created. So that's why I did this trip. I wanted to live in the woods with this mindframe even if only for a few days. This is my third year attending, second year riding in on a motorcycle. I met Steve riding to the Rainbow Gathering in Pennsylvania last year and I am happy to be riding with him again.

Here are some pictures I took last year in Pennsylvania:



And here's my bike and I last year. 1989 Yamaha Virago. 2500 miles in 10 days. I was happy to sell it to buy the Tenere.


Here it is after I lost my saddle bags somewhere in Arkansas.


So with all my routes planned and my bike packed and all the goodbyes said, Steve and I took off for the highway and split. He went south, I went north. And for the first time in 4 days I am alone again. The road cut through the rural hills of northern Oregon and into southern Washington. There were flowers along the road and the temperature was around 70 degrees fahrenheit. Perfect riding weather. There were streams bursting from the side of the mountain everywhere, and I crossed huge fast flowing rivers of white water. There was snow on the mountain tops too. Slowly I worked my way north and the visage of Mount Saint Helen grew larger and larger. I kept going and came to a sign that warned of a road closure due to snow. I had been told there would be snow so I do not think twice. However, my road quickly deteriorated into a pitted and pockmarked gravel road so full of holes I almost lost it a couple of times. In addition to all the camping gear and the tires, I had also slung a 5 gallon jug of water to the back of the bike that swayed freely from side to side. It acted like a giant pendulum weight and threw off everything I know about riding on two wheels. I was lucky to turn around realizing I had gone to wrong way and did not fall again as I passed through the same rough section a second time.

As I exited my mistaken road I came upon another biker with his bags strewn about the ground and three guys trying to push the bike. It seemed the guy's clutch cable snapped and was stuck in 4th gear. Oddly he did not know you can still shift without a clutch so I saved the day and shifted it into neutral and they moved the bike off the road and into the shade. The two of us then spent the next two hours devising a makeshift clutch cable from a bicycle brake cable he brought and some extra nuts I had floating around in my pocket for his 1978 Kawasaki 650. We got the bike all tied up and he took off for Eugene, Oregon, and I felt good about myself for a moment. I got back on the right road and no more than 20 minutes later I was on a slow moving dirt road surrounded by all kinds of buses, jeeps, cars, VW's, pickups and a stream of people trying to come and go on a one lane dirt road. I am home. This is Rainbow Family parking. There is no escaping it. I must wait behind the long lines of cars and eat their dust until I can find a place to park. I get off a few times to ask questions about the main entrance and finally get to a place where I can park my bike out of the way of traffic amidst the confusion of bus village, the very epicenter of activity on this day, the 5th of July. The day after the big day. I start pulling food out of my bags and begin eating as people start chatting with me. I chat with them too and offer them food. One girl walks by picking up trash. We talked briefly and I learned she's from Salt Lake City in Utah. I planned on passing through Salt Lake on my way to Moab, so I asked her if I could crash at her house for a night and she said yes! So I got a phone number and a little bit of hope. It helped that she was cute too. I picked up my stuff and reorganized my life, getting ready for 4 days of camping, and stashed what I did not need back on the bike. I locked it up with a disk lock and hoped nobody will fuck with it. I would not be seeing it for a while.

And so ends the bike riding for a number of days. I may or may not write about the day-to-day events of camping, because despite being endlessly interesting and full constant adventures (like see-sawing on 30-foot long logs crossing a river), I like keeping them as memories. So, we'll see.