I knew this. The desert is very cold at night. Air and ground are still toasty at sunset and one is fooled into dressing lightly when crawling into the sleeping bag. That would be a mistake. At around 3:00 AM the cold wakes me up and I heap everything I have on top of me to hold the heat in. Then the sun comes up and quickly warms the tent and its contents to simmer in short order.

My road today led me south on 95 through Parker Dam which is a lush and green little haven in the desert, then east on 60 to Phoenix. This is a secondary road that more or less parallels the Interstate, and I aim to avoid Interstate highways if at all possible. Interstate highways are evil, built with the sole intention of getting the traveler to a destination as quickly and uneventfully as possible. As you may have gathered, that is certainly not the intention of Bruce and The Bruiser. Life is a journey not a destination, best lived on the secondary roads.

The Bruiser arrives in Arizona

Cactus appeared for the first time among the vegetation lining the roadside and became more densely scattered as The Bruiser and I probed the heart of Arizona. One variety in particular is sporting a glorious show of red flowers as spring seeps into the landscape.

Cactus flowers

Being the Easter weekend I thought ahead (imagine that!) and booked a motel in Tempe (a suburb of Phoenix immediately adjacent to Arizona State University) The loose plan is to do what is called a ‘shamrock tour’ of Arizona, touring the state by looping out from a centre point. Arizona has so much to offer that it is difficult to explore it effectively by driving in a straight line.

Streets and sidewalks in this neighbourhood are heavily populated by college students in various states of departure from sobriety, ever hopeful, I suppose, that all the book learnin’ that went on before spring break will still be stored in memory when they return where they left off.

Youth. I’m certainly glad I spent mine with greater diligence and responsibility.

Don't worry if you don't see a post from me for a couple of days. Rather than writing and posting every day perhaps I will consolidate this Arizona experience.

Happy Easter, Everybody! I hope the Easter Jackrabbit is good to you.

Up early to prowl the strangely quiet streets in search of a cup of coffee. Early morning in Vegas just has the aura of a hangover.

Decided to drive up the Strip one last time on the way out, and noticed several huge developments of hotel/casinos that were half constructed and stalled, the exposed iron beams rusting and the plywood bleached by the sun. Caught in the 2008 crash, I suppose, and the economy is still not healthy enough for the bankrollers to return to it.

Avarice, it would seem, exceeded tangibility. Intriguing but not inappropriate that that should happen here.

With the help of my invaluable GPS (God bless the Garmin people for this remarkable little device!)we found our way out of the sprawling city and headed south on 95. It was an uneventful and not particularly interesting ride with its long, straight, fast and largely featureless highway. Stopped for gas and internet here and there, the latter typically at a McDonald’s WiFi. All similar, but with some parochial differences that tickle me sometimes.

I have always thought so too. It is nice that they have finally come to terms with it!

It just seems hopeless, doesn't it?

Really? Is it necessary to put that on a sign? 

And while we're at it...

My old buddy Franco has spoken often of the little town of Laughlin about 150 km south of Vegas that was otherwise unknown to me. It was a little miniature of Las Vegas, with only the glitzy little strip in a town far too small to contain it. Laughlin seems like a clean, untroubled little adult playground On the opposite bank of the Colorado River is the much larger Boulder City, Arizona which I suppose offers the economic base and infrastructure support, and the bridge between them functions as an umbilical cord.

 The highways meander around in this southern tip of Nevada, criss-crossing into California and Arizona until I lost track of what state I was in. The most obvious clue was that the price of gas was $1.00/gallon more whenever I crossed into California.

  Famous Route 66 has been replaced or paved over by I-40, and brief sections of it either still exist in part or at least the heritage is acknowledged. (How many cities can you remember from the song? You get one point each).

At a parking lot in Lake Havasu I met a fellow who owned the bike parked next to mine, his being a brand new Victory and an absolute beauty it is. Rick bought it as a 65^th birthday present to himself. We got carried into a long conversation about bikes, bucket lists, and various fates that fortunes that have taken us to our present states and circumstances. He is a cancer survivor with a zest for life, much energy and enthusiasm, and I think a new inspiration for taking his fine new machine on the road and doing some touring and seeking some adventures. I am not certain what is encouraging that particular idea, but I certainly support it. :)

Rick and his Victory, celebrating victory!

Rick dropped what he was doing and led me down the highway about 10 miles to a pull out off the highway which is a popular place to wild camp. His friend Max, a snowbird from Utah, camps out here in the winter time. She was parked there in her rig but feeling quite ill, so made only a brief appearance.

Rick, my friend, if you are reading this I thank you for your generous and inspirational spirit and wish you good health and great adventure. I would like to see some pictures of your ingenious bike trailer when you get it refabricated.

The moon is now full and huge here in the Arizona desert. A fresh and gusty wind flutters at my tent flaps.

Ahh….

It was a beautiful, clear, and initially warm night. The desert was still and silent. That has been said about this place—that there is a quietness to it and I will testify to that. Sounds get muffled somehow and it is tranquil to the point of being eery.  I fell asleep immediately. But not for long. The coyotes set up a chorus of chilling howls in the wee hours that brought me to full attention in a hurry. I don’t know how far away they were, but I’ll tell you I looked outside the tent to see if they had made off with some groceries off the bike. Their pups could be heard chiming in as well with their little yips and whines, just happy to be part of the pack. The babies were now part of the choir! Evidently they had dispatched some poor little rabbit and were having a primal ceremony. I have seen something similar at football games. In any case, all the other rabbits are on the alert, I'll wager, and those dogs won’t be sneaking up on another one right away.

On the road this morning I encountered a coyote who had mastered a unique hunting/gathering strategy. He stood in the middle of the road and cars invariably stopped to take pictures of him and occasionally throw him food.

"Hey Buddy, can you spare some change"?

"Hmmm.. whatcha got in there"?

  I stopped as well and he came over to sniff out the festering foodstuffs in my saddle bags.

Did some good riding and good dawdling today as I rode due south down 178 to take in all that Death Valley has to show. Another windy day that kept me on my toes anticipating strong side gusts in the exposed sections, which was pretty much most of it come to think of it. When following another bike I could see how we were leaning into the wind by several degrees just to keep a straight course. We must have looked like sailboats. It was warm, about 32C, but that was very easy to take. The record is 134F  which by my calculations is almost 57 C. There has been less than one inch of rain in the past 12 months. Spring is late, and little yellow flowers are popping out on what I believe are mesquite bushes.

That said, I was quite surprised to see a sprawling grove of palm trees, green grass and all sorts of plants at Furnace Creek. This is a classic oasis, where water burbles out of the ground in the middle of the desert. It is an odd phenomenon that has something to do with confined aquifers, but I won’t bore you with more geology today.

An Oasis, named after a car wash of the same name.

Water!!!

On to Badwater Basin which is a huge salt pan at 282 ft below sealevel. There is some water in it but it is quite undrinkable. Believe it or not there are little snails that thrive in the stuff. The mountains across the valley at this lowest point reach almost 12,000 ft high! This is truly a landscape of extremes!

Man in Black at The Badwater Basin

Finally turning east over the 5000 ft pass to Shoshone and found myself emerging from Death Valley alive and well. Quite an unforgettable place!

Some drunk went wild with a paintbrush and splattered the rocks and hills with an unlikely palette of colours. There are colourful and contorted sedimentary strata and evidence of volcanism as well. Lava flows and cinder cones are seen here and there, and these weather from black to red, orange, yellow, and sometimes blue/green.

And then… what the heck. Las Vegas is only an hour and a half away and The Bruiser has never been there before. So we cruised up and down The Strip a couple of times, and people waved at us and cheered. Evidently my blog has an impressive readership!

The Bruiser cruises The Strip!

Oh but it is a garish place! As much as it is bright and lively and flashy and colourful, it is seamy and excessive beyond measure. Little wonder so much of the planet despises the western world! 

But, it had to be seen. And such a contrast from the stillness I awoke to this morning!

Hot, tired and dusty it was just too difficult to keep going that late in the day with the task of finding a campsite beyond the city. Coincidently my home for the night is called the “Oasis”, which is fitting… and not. It is situated right in the Old Vegas to the north of The Strip and a block from Fremont which is the old strip, but renovated to now include a huge digital screen canopy over the street that lights up with a loud video production every half hour. Dinner was a gross hotdog and beer. Joining the throng of middle class America I walked it from one end to the other, taking in the shops and casinos and bars with their blinking lights of all the primary colours and the antics of buskers and dancers and painters and magicians and people dressed up as cartoon characters.

Yes, you read that correctly.

I think I prefer sleeping with sagebrush and coyotes.

A little geology lesson, if I may.

This region is known as ‘basin and range’ topography. Millions of years ago the churning inferno in the mantle a thousand kilometers under us attempted to rip the continent into two pieces, but it had a tough time doing it so finally gave up and quit. That left a deep rift trending north-south sort of along the California/Nevada border and in fact further north as well. The surface expression of that failed rift is a number of deep, flat bottomed valleys with a series of mountain ranges between them. Death Valley is one of them, but it has several parallel neighbours. The upshot of this is that as you traverse the region in a west-east direction, you keep climbing up and over mountains and crossing wide, flat valleys, I am now in the fourth such valley. The summit of the mountain pass to the west is about 5000 ft. As I came down the eastern flank there were signs announcing 4000 ft, 3000 ft, 2000 ft… I felt like I was coming in for a landing! The last time I descended so far and so fast I was in a 747.

Tonight I am camped out in the desert at Stovepipe Wells and the elevation is about sealevel.

The Bruiser arrives at Death Valley

Joshua trees dot the landscape in the less arid regions outside the Death Valley reserve.










The temperature was a comfortable 25 C for much of the day, dropping to about 18C at the summits and about 30C  when I stopped for the day.

Nice placenames!

If you look over the edge you will see the bottom of Death Valley, 5000 ft below

The big lesson I have learned here is to fill the gas tank and the water bottles at every opportunity. I was counting on a fill up at Tondo but the station had no gas. The next one was at Panamint Springs 50 miles away.

 “And between here and there there ain’t nothin’!” offered a helpful local. And he was quite right.

Miles and miles of nothin' but miles and miles.

When I did stop for gas there it was about $1.50/gal more than the normal price. Quite exorbitant, I thought. But after I did some arithmetic if figured it is still a few cents less than it was in North Vancouver when I left!

Often I would encounter a realty sign announcing a property for sale at a location far out in the absolute bugger-alls. Houses or trailers were perched on an unshaded slope like toaster ovens on a shelf.  Now, I do understand the motive of the vendor (somewhat more than I do the property owners who are staying put) but have to wonder how the realtors make a living here.

I would say it is a buyers’ market.

My little camp in the desert.

Exquisite!

Notice the little lizard tracks in the sand at the edge of the brush.









At the time of this posting I have found my way out of Death Valley and am in metro Pahrump. Seriously.

Internet has been rather scarce for me lately.

More later!

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

Brrrrrr.....

Sunny and breezy all day.

Picked up my trail heading south on Hwy 1, following the coast and enjoying the eye popping scenery. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be like one of those wall-eyed lizards that could keep one eye on the road and the other one bugged off scanning the scenery? They do look kind of goofy, though, and only another wall-eyed lizard would ever consider taking you out for dinner and drinks.

Somewhere near Salinas… (I’ve always wanted to be able to say that)... I stopped for lunch. It was in Monterey, actually. Another one of those tourist meccas that I am making a point of visiting.

 Snacked at a pretty spot on the shore just on the edge of Cannery Row and watched the seagulls dance with the pounding surf.











Took a little walk along Cannery Row just to see if my legs still work. It is a busy, kitchy, and colourful place, that occasionally gives tribute to the Steinbeck novel which made it famous.

I was looking forward to cruising the 17 Mile Drive, a fabulously scenic bit of shoreline with the Pebble Beach golf course at its southern end. I have driven and bicycled it a few times, once with The Mikoman sitting in a little milk crate fastened to the back of the bike.  The bad news was that motorcycles are now prohibited from the Drive! I suppose some irresponsible sportbike yahoos tore up and down the twisty road so the local administration decided this was a good way to put an end to it. I personally don’t see the justice in it, but the fellow at the gate was in no position to do anything but recite the policy.

Did a quick run through the funky and narrow streets of Carmel on the way through, then smacked my lips as I headed for Big Sur. This is a run that I have anticipated for many years, and I was not disappointed!

I was advised to gas up before getting started as the services along the way take advantage of their position as being the only show in town and double their prices. Literally. So I did, and they were right.

It is an excellent bikers’ highway. Apart from being very easy on the eyes, it is as curvaceous as a Vegas chorus line. Lots of sharp, linked and well engineered turns on a good surface. I had some fun. I will admit that the abrupt cliff edge and a 1000 ft  drop was a bit disconcerting and it certainly compromised the spirit of the ride from time to time.

My progress was slowed by my compulsion to stop and take pictures at every outlook. And there were many. I am running out of superlatives to describe the beauty of the landscapes I am encountering. I promise I will not rant any more about the surf… except for this: the monster waves I have seen and raved about so far were pipsqueaks compared to what I saw today. These were walls of water that I imagined tsunami must look like. That wicked storm to the north of us has really stirred up some action and it is an amazing sight. I did manage to capture some video of waves exploding on the rocky shore and tossing spray up the height of an apartment building, but I think the file is too big to load on this blog.

So many pictures I didn’t take! Wildflowers of every colour form a carpet over the rocks and occasional dunes, punctuated by spears of pampas grass. Sandy little coves appear, many with streams that slice through their beaches like miniature canyons.

My home for the night is a campground near Lucia, a bit more than half way down this section of highway. This is the first time I have set up my camping gear, so I will need to hone my routine for set up, cooking, and stowage. Sunset was a colourful backdrop to my nest in the eucalyptus grove. Big waves are slamming into the rocks below me and the air has the fragrance of the trees, the seaspray, and campfire smoke.

Awoke to a most grizzly morning with the familiar driving rain and punishing wind. It looked like a good day to hunker down if it was going to last the day, so I settled in for a read, some writing and lounging. True to the forecast from the good people at The Weather Network, it settled down around 11:00. Thereupon I packed my bags and headed for San Francisco for the day.

The Ocean View Hotel. A very comfortable port in another storm. Note the wet, shrinkwrapped machine in the parking lot.

Sunny and warm it was! A delightful time was had by man and machine as we toured the traditional points of interest: Fishermans’ Wharf, Lombard Street (we talked about it, but elected instead to take a picture rather than a reckless risk), China Town, and the cable car route along Powell Street. It was fun leaning back and motoring up those fabulously steep hills. City landscapes of San Francisco are like no other. There is a kind of romance in this place recognized by anyone who has ever been here.

I also thought it might be interesting to visit Haight Ashbury. Guided by my trusty little GPS we zigzagged an unconventional route and arrived at the hippy epicentre of the 1960’s. Now, two generations later , it seems like very effort has been made by shopkeepers and streetgoers alike to keep that old flavour alive. I suspect the motivation is partly cultural, partly historical, but largely commercial. Garish and trip-inspired artwork, smoke shops, Tibetan Earth Stores… and on it goes. The residents were in full costume, right down to the beads and tie-dyed teeshirts. 

Can you read the street sign?

Nearby Golden Gate Park is the haven for hordes of the young and the restless. Dressed in rags and lounging in the grass they all look like they have given up already. I was on the verge of forming a disapproving thought about their drop-out lifestyle when something occurred to me. I visited this place today because it was kind of iconic for my generation, representing a time and a place that defined us in some way.  I reckon that the disheveled young reprobates that squatted in the park in 1968 looked pretty much like these kids, and those of my current age cast the same sort of dismissal as I was inclined to do today.

But make no mistake—they are disheveled reprobates and they should clean themselves up and get a job!

How far we’ve come. *sigh*

It was an enjoyable ride back down Hwy 1 to my digs for the night. The views were lovely, the sun warm on my face. I checked in at the Pt. Montara hostel and settled myself in. It looks like I will be the lone occupant of my dormitory room for four. The place is otherwise teaming with girl guides, excited and characteristically high pitched. But we have a lot to learn from young people who have such enthusiasm for life. Pity that we can be inclined to lose that.

Pt. Montara is a lighthouse. It is also the site of a very cool and friendly hostel in a setting that is the stuff of postcard collections. I sat on the edge of the cliff for about an hour to drink it in. A low sun in a clear sky lit up the violent surf that exploded on the rocky shores. Neighbouring storms have prompted surf warnings all along the coast, and that makes for some sensational shore action!

At 8:30 we all gathered in the meeting room to observe Earth Hour. Janice, our proprietor, did a nice job talking to the kids about ways that they can act responsibly in this world—and for the management of the problems they have inherited from us. 

Hardly seems fair does it?

Sorry, kids.

On 'Suffering'. It's not so bad.

More than a few of my friends and family who have been following my humble ramblings have commented on the misery and suffering that I have endured plowing through the cold and the rain. Not stated in the kindness of their words is the concealed fear that I am a wee bit nuts!

In response to their message of concern (and thank you for checking in on me, My Dear Ones!) I must say that I am happy beyond measure with my ‘suffering’. Both in the immediate short term astride my noble steed, and in my life story thus far. Not because it is particularly heroic to ‘suffer’ or that it is an expression of masochistic inclinations, but because it is, at least to some degree, healthy and invigorating. And frankly, it is the only way to grow. To paraphrase Viktor Frankl in his essential book “Man’s Search for Meaning”, ‘suffering is the price one pays for achieving those things which are worthwhile and meaningful in one’s life’.

And let’s face it—it is inevitable!

Aeschylus was a Greek playwright (never got an Oscar nomination, poor bugger) who made a career of writing recreational tragedies. He cited Zeus and others of his godly ilk with the message for we mortals that ‘wisdom comes only from suffering’.  It enlarges us. If one was to reduce that thought to the size of a fridge magnet it might say, “those things that don’t kill you, make you stronger”. 

In the end, it’s O.K. Although I will be the first to admit that it never really feels that way at the time. And, as another nameless wag once said, “I’d rather have problems in my life than nothing”.

For me, now, being alone and surviving in constantly changing and evolving environments causes me to rely on myself, to carry a trust and an optimism and confidence in my own capacity and, I suppose, the mercy of the gods.

What else is there?  In the absence of those elements of faith there is only hopelessness and one becomes stuck and stalled and unable to face the challenges that are otherwise purposeful and constructive if we can just convince ourselves to see it that way.

That said, this journey (the one on the motorcycle) is not for the purpose of suffering. I see no reason face peril or to act with recklessness just for the sake of it. (Evel Kneivel was nuts)! This is for personal fulfillment and achievement and growth and enlargement. And by its very nature, that always comes with an invoice. And that is just fine.

I believe that suffering is not a bad thing unless it is defeating. And the difference between defeating suffering and constructive suffering is acceptance and the meaning which one derives from it. A feeling of being victimized by circumstance comes entirely from one’s perception, not from the circumstance. My ultimate goal is to somehow move beyond simply knowing that, to be open to the lessons hard won, and appreciate the wonder of the seemingly mundane.

I saw a little slogan today, “You can’t wait for your ship to come in. You have to swim out to it.”

We could afford a more leisurely start this morning. So I reorganized all my ‘stuff’. Things I need quickly (like raingear, snacks, maps) go on top. Emergency ties and seldom used items like video game joy sticks and Datsun repair manuals go on the bottom. Curiously, I seem to have less stuff than I started with. It’s kind of like a box of corn flakes—shake it around and it all settles to the bottom and creates lots of space.

The day started drizzly, but not grizzly, and finally cleared and warmed up. I even stripped off the rain gear at my lunch stop, wishing I could bury it down there with the joy sticks.How delightful to feel sun on my face, if only briefly! 

The road from Geyserville to Calistoga (connecting the Sonoma and Napa valleys) was gorgeous! Vineyards were plentiful of course, with their little brown and leafless grapevine skeletons laid out with anal precision. 

There were misty hills and farmland, rustic old stone or clapboard buildings, and countless invitations to come on in and taste some wines. Regrettably I passed the kind invitations by. Yes I know. I can hear my Nanaimo friends suck air in through their front teeth at the sound of such blaspheme. I have few principles, but I very rarely drink anything at all when I am on two wheels. And given the high centre of gravity of my steed and my already compromised navigation skills in unfamiliar terrain, I need clarity more than giggles.

But it was a painful decision.

Headed west on 12 at Napa to rejoin the coast at Tomales Bay at Point Reyes National Park, just north of San Francisco. This long and narrow little inlet follows the San Andreas Fault trace as it veers off into the Pacific to form the Mendocino Fracture Zone. Most notably, this was the location of the epicenter of the terrible earthquake that leveled San Francisco in 1906.

I loved the eucalyptus forests that lined the coastal route (Hwy 1 for those following a map) and especially that heady fragrance that reminded me of hippy shops of the 60’s that were always piled high (!) with similarly scented soaps and candles. 

Twists and turns became a tangled series of tight switchbacks, climbing up and over a coastal range that would have offered breathtaking vistas had it not been for the thick fog. A blessing, actually, since there were no shoulders or barricades, so I didn’t mind not looking down. As I age I find I am not particularly fond of heights, and that bugs me.

The road spit me out at the north end of the Golden Gate Bridge. Cruised through Sausalito but was tired and hungry and had to stop and reenergize. When I did become lucid I began to think where to crash for the night. (Note to Self: Have destination alternatives planned out at the start of the day). Drove around the Tiborun Peninsula looking for a non-existent campground, but the ranger dude suggested some alternatives, none of which panned out. There is a federal campground actually underneath the G.G. Bridge on the north end, but one needs to reserve online in advance. On the up side, that particular wild goose chase brought me to an impressive overlook of the bridge and city at a time when the angle of the sun and the cloaking marine fog made an outstanding scene.

It was getting late in the afternoon, so I shot through the city towards Pacifica, a place whose state campground no longer exists. On the way I did encounter a hostel situated at an old lighthouse so I stopped to check it out. The proprietor was an absolute gem. It was filled up but she suggested a hotel less than a mile away, then she phoned and negotiated a rate on my behalf. I did reserve the hostel for tomorrow night and this will give me a chance to backtrack and spend the day in San Francisco and have a bed waiting at day’s end. 

That hostel is something else! I’ll describe it to you tomorrow.

“ 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.

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.

“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?

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!