All that lovely but oh so damp sea air has to go somewhere when it cools down at night, and in the morning everything was as wet as if it had rained. And it was a chilly sleep.
In order to keep the laptop, camera and ipod charged when I am on the road and far away from wall outlets, I rigged up an inverter which is wired directly into the battery and is on a cord long enough to run back into my bags. I hooked it all up this morning, but without the bike running it killed my battery. So I enlisted the help of a young teacher I befriended last evening and got him to push the bike to jump start it. And off we went.
Speaking of teachers down here, I read in the San Francisco paper how the local superintendent is stripping teacher seniority clauses, laying off teachers thought to be less effective, and hiring other teachers on “special assignment” to work with students outside regular schedules in order to boost achievement. Interesting.
Today’s theme is “variation”. I was astounded at the profound environmental transitions between locations very short distances apart.
The first 100 km was the continuation of the coastal route on Hwy 1 from Carmel to Morro Bay. It is truly one of the nicest roads and certainly the most satisfying motorcycle route I have ever seen.
A gaggle of tourists gawking over a railing is always a good indication of something interesting, so we pulled over to check it out. Hundred of elephant seals were lounging on the sandy beach to sleep, scratch and catch some rays. According to the signage this is their favourite spot and March/April is their time. Must be spring break for them too.
As I returned to the parking lot a dozen bikes piloted by a grey haired gang of n’er do-wells were just pulling in. I chatted with one fellow with BC plates who hales from Vernon, snowbirds at Palm Desert, and rides with his geriatric biker gang while he is here. He gave me some advice about the Death Valley route that I am aiming for shortly, so I was grateful for that.
Time to stock up on some groceries at Morro Bay. Washed the salt off The Bruiser and restored his chrome to its former glory, then turned inland on Hwy 41 and then 58. The coastal air, dunes and grasses were quickly replaced by rolling hills and pastures, liberally sprinkled with big, gnarly oak trees and ambivalent cattle. I rounded a corner, quite literally, and it abruptly changed to sagebrush similar to our Cariboo Country. A short distance later it became a tabletop flat field of grass where the only trees in sight were clustered around family farms thinly scattered all the way out to the horizon.
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| Tumbleweed strained out of the wind by a fence |
The road roller coastered then climbed up and over the small coastal range, offering thrilling twists and turns that I could enjoy with full spirit and without the fear of flying off into space as with the coastal highway. When one is in a groove it is like skiing, cutting swooping turns in soft and billowy snow. There will be a full treatise on the mechanics and skill sets of riding at a later time, but this was great fun.
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| Descending the coastal range. Great Valley seen in the distance |
On the other side of that range lay the vast interior valley of California. Flat and featureless, it grew nothing but sparse grass that didn’t look capable of crops or grazing livestock. Quite a number of wellhead oil pumps were scattered around, most rusted and abandoned as the little pocket of oil somewhere beneath them were eventually depleted. Kind of a microcosm of things to come.
My route took me to Bakersfield, which considers itself the 'produce section' of the California supermarket. And indeed, farmland and orchards of fruit and nut trees abound. But a tourist hub it ain’t. I motored through it as quickly as I could. ‘Nuff said.
My route took me to Bakersfield, which considers itself the 'produce section' of the California supermarket. And indeed, farmland and orchards of fruit and nut trees abound. But a tourist hub it ain’t. I motored through it as quickly as I could. ‘Nuff said.
Imagine my surprise when just east of this rather uninspiring area, Hwy 178 led me through a very pretty little canyon cleft through the hills called the Kern River.
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| Geological Michelin Men. Termed 'spheroidal weathering' for the geologically inclined |
Weathered rocks on the canyon walls resembled little Michelin Men sculptures and the river spilled over numerous little rapids and watered a lush greenery on its banks.
Sunset comes around 7:30 but it was getting dark in the canyon before 6. I was headed for Isabella Lake another half hour away, but just happened upon what could only be a gift from the Wildcamping gods. Once a small walk-in campground, this little site beside the river was redesignated as a picnic area, and then for some reason was closed altogether. The parking lot had weeds growing out of the pavement so it had been in disuse for some time. The Bruiser squeezed quite nicely past the gate and the place was ours. It is a lovely spot and, happily, completely untouched by vandals. It seems like the picnic tables were all replaced by nice metal ones just before it was decommissioned. Most considerate, I thought.
Sunset comes around 7:30 but it was getting dark in the canyon before 6. I was headed for Isabella Lake another half hour away, but just happened upon what could only be a gift from the Wildcamping gods. Once a small walk-in campground, this little site beside the river was redesignated as a picnic area, and then for some reason was closed altogether. The parking lot had weeds growing out of the pavement so it had been in disuse for some time. The Bruiser squeezed quite nicely past the gate and the place was ours. It is a lovely spot and, happily, completely untouched by vandals. It seems like the picnic tables were all replaced by nice metal ones just before it was decommissioned. Most considerate, I thought.
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| Can you spot Waldo's tent? |
So The Bruiser and I settled in, made some dinner, set up camp in a secluded little niche and got comfortable. I went down to the babbling brook, dropped my gear and had what turned out to be a very bracing bath. I didn’t know they had glaciers down here! Wasn’t it more likely that this river was fed by the warm waters of Death Valley just to the east? Well, no, actually, Death Valley doesn’t have any water.
Let’s say that I am… refreshed.
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| Brrrrrr..... |
