“ In the early mornin’ rain…”
As Lightfoot sings it, the image is kind of whimsical and almost nice. Granted, he misses his loved ones and has crawled into a bottle… but really. The guy has no idea!
And while we’re at it, “Carefree Highway” is stupid too!
Let’s back up.
I had already been up an hour when my 6:30 alarm went off. The wind screeched outside, blowing the cover off The Bruiser twice in the night. The thing is almost shrinkwrapped over the bike and it is a trick to remove even when I struggle do it the right way. Then I looked across the street to see a park bench upended! Had the bike been parked sideways to the wind it would likely have been toppled.
My strategy was to get south and under the storm as early in the day as possible. Weather maps showed the storm slamming into Crescent City around noon. This is one of the worst storms on record for this region with six inches of rain expected over the next three days. How is that for timing? I believed that if I could suffer through it for about 100-200 km, the worst of it would be behind me.
That was nearly true.
That was nearly true.
As I readied myself and secured the gear in the face of this wicked storm, I felt like I was preparing to run into the guns at Gallipoli!
On the road at daybreak. For a couple of hours it was wet but not horrible. Some side gusts body-slammed me and at times I feared that I was going to be flicked off the road like a bug, but I reached Crescent City and was feeling cautiously optimistic.
Then the firehose hit me without pause for 8 hours and almost 500 km. I was wondering if I needed to drive to Mexico before I could get this storm behind me.
Each town had a fast food joint with wifi, coffee and warm, dry air for me to marinate in and I used them like stepping stones. I did attract some attention as I slogged in through the door and sat down in a little puddle. “Ah shore hope thet’s waterproof”, one fellow ventured.
Then the firehose hit me without pause for 8 hours and almost 500 km. I was wondering if I needed to drive to Mexico before I could get this storm behind me.
Each town had a fast food joint with wifi, coffee and warm, dry air for me to marinate in and I used them like stepping stones. I did attract some attention as I slogged in through the door and sat down in a little puddle. “Ah shore hope thet’s waterproof”, one fellow ventured.
“Parts of it are”, I said.
I am quite certain that the waitress in Prince Rupert would not have selected these particular gloves I bought which, in spite of the promise emblazed upon its little tag, are neither warm nor waterproof. I wrung buckets of water from them at every stop.
The big rollers were sensational! I was compelled to stop whenever I touched the coast to marvel at their perfect curls and the effect of the wind upon them. The waves were so high, and the wind was so strong, that the tops were ripped off them and flung away in an explosion of seaspray. I regret that I just couldn’t wrestle off my soggy mitts and extract my camera to photograph the scene each time. And of course when I did, I missed the moments.
And then, the Redwoods! What a marvel! Timeless monsters shrouded in a thick mist, appearing only as ghostly images in the distant, secret places in the forest background.
And some other curious sights.
Oh, and the rain! Sometimes I would “come to” and be suddenly aware of how awful it was. If I had had windshield wipers they would be set to‘high’. It was the kind of rain that forces one to pull over and wait for the deluge to pass. But as I had no intention of sitting on the roadside for three days I felt I had little choice but to brave it. Luckily, the wind and the rain did not conspire to drill me simultaneously, and my rain gear was pretty effective for the most part.
And, as you have rightly surmised, I did survive the day.
What I know about geography suggests to me that it is drier in the rainshadow of coastal mountains. So I ditched my plan to follow the coast to Mendocino and instead cut inland on 101 to Ukiah and the Sonoma Valley. Arriving at Willits, soggy and exhausted, I puddled in to the McDonalds, whereupon one of the locals pointed out that the coast is usually much drier than this valley.
So where was this guy when I needed some good advice?
So where was this guy when I needed some good advice?
Just south of Ukiah and at the fringe of Sonoma County, the torrent eased to light rain and then virtually ceased. I crossed the Russian River, which, I cannot resist saying, was indeed a rushin’ river.
Sorry.
Lots of vineyards on the broad, flat plains, and the vines are still in a state of winter dormancy.
I finally settled into a cute, well dressed little town called Cloverdale where I found a motel with wifi (here I am!) and a bathtub. In good haste, I filled the latter with hot water, threw myself in it, and greedily sucked heat back into my body.
Cranked the heater to maximum and tossed everything I own over it. The windows and mirrors are now all fogged up and paint is peeling from the walls.
And I don’t think I have ever enjoyed a beer so much!
