The accelerated rate of escaping air from my mattress is
putting my butt on the ground at about 4:00 AM now. I have gained the temerity
to tough it through, but not with the squawking of crows, pheasants, pigeons,
roosters...and so help me, a bloody goose walked right around my tent at
sunrise honking like a New Delhi
taxicab. So I got up early.
And it was cold. But when I reached the campground near Fossil
where I had originally planned to spend the night, the temperature was 6C
lower, so I had called it right. That would have frozen my bottles.
I love that little town and have visited it several times in
my biker travels through this area. The Timber Wolf Restaurant has the worst
coffee I have tasted and the food is horrible, but it is the social epicenter
and I enjoy listening to the local banter and relentless teasing among old
friends. I had a single pancake about the size and weight of a hubcap and
struggled with it for much of the day.
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| Downtown Fossil. At rush hour. |
Fossil is a
fossil. Its infrastructure is circa 1910 and it appears, on the face of it, to
be a fully functional little town.. The City Hall, Public Library and Fire
Department share the same small, single story building. The Mercantile has been
selling everything you would ever really need since 1903. Everybody greets
everybody by name.
Fossil also has
fossils. Just behind the sports field of the little high school is a fossil
locality in an outcropping of shale that visitors are invited to chip away at.
There are even rock hammers made available for you if you are so disposed.
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| Plant fossils are found against the hill behind the soccer pitch at Weaver High School. |
I
spoke over the fence with John the custodian as the kids practiced their track
and field events. The town is shrinking, he said. School enrollment is currently
38, down from 400. Lumber operations are closed due to the successful efforts
of the environmentalists to save the spotted owl. Ranching is the mainstay of
the area, but that is about it. I did see several homes for sale in town, and
there are not many homes to start with.
This way or that way? A single choice changes the journey.
At an intersection at Fossil I turned in what was not my intended direction and
went north instead of west. So this blog would otherwise have had a far different
ending. Funny, that.
Windmills line the hills on the sides of the Columbia River. Hundreds of them! In places, as far as
the eye can see.
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| The Bruiser say, "Hey! Look at me! I'm Don Quixote!" He's pretty funny for a Suzuki. |
I crossed the big river at Biggs, and followed Hwy 14 on the
Washington side west to Carson. It was quite a beautiful ride.
Wildflowers were in full and dramatic bloom on the roadside. Recreational water
sporters were fishing, sailing, and windsurfing all along the river’s course.
Vineyards are greening up in preparation for this year’s vintage, and the
rocks—oh yes, the rocks!—were splendid.
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| The Mighty Columbia River. In the background, Mt Jefferson, one of the 13 volcanoes in the Cascade Range. In the foreground, next year's wine. |
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| Sequence of lava flows making up the Columbia Plateau. |
Let me tell you more about that. About 15 million years ago,
about the time that big magma chamber was moving east relative to the North
American Plate and spitting out volcanoes right, left and centre, a series of
eruptions in eastern-central Washington spilled out layers of very fluid lava
called basalt. Basalt is the stuff that spews out in Hawaii. It is very fluid and forms lakes of
lava rather than mounding up to form volcanic mountains. As many as 300 flows
formed layers of lava almost 2 km thick. The Columbia
River cut a mighty gorge through them, exposing many of these
layers that are easily seen in cross section along the sides of the river. Had
I decided to go east into Grand Coulee I could
really tell you a story, but that
will have to wait for another time. Or give me a few drinks and I’ll tell you
anyway.
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| A collaboration of rocks and flowers |
As we approached camping time, we steered inland at Carson and sought a
humble residency for the evening. Following a sign down a long road to a Forestry
Campground called Panther Creek, we encountered a gate across the entrance.
Closed? You buggers! Well, The Bruiser is nothing if not nimble, so we squeezed
around the gate (don’t read this, Kids) and installed ourselves at a most
secluded little site in the heart of the west coast forests. A beautiful blue
river gushes nearby, and with a preponderance of firewood I had the first
campfire since someone gave me a Presto Log in the bayou of Louisiana.
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| Camping the way I like it in the Pacific rainforest. Without the rain. |
The Bruiser and I have but a single day more of exploration
of the world within our scope and grasp before meeting up with my son-in-law,
Brent who will escort me home (circuitously) from Seattle on Saturday. It is with a curious
mélange of relief and regret that I must end this soon. I will soon have to
occupy myself with endeavours beyond riding and writing, and you, my faithful
followers, will soon need something else to read so help you sleep at night.
But I’m not quite done yet.
