YUKON HO? WELL, NO.

June 28 - July 6th, 2003.

I thought I was going to Alaska and the Yukon, but it turns out I was headed for a fairly intimate meeting with a white pickup truck in Waldport, Oregon. Unfortunately, I had major camera problems during the trip (as in, no pix from my camera), so for the purposes of this website I've been forced to "make do". Please forgive.

At my sister's place in Santa Rosa (CA). Hot weather and casual duds. I think I put some shoes on before leaving. Day 1 was uneventful enough. After an unpleasant sendoff from a friend, I visited my sister and nephew in Santa Rosa. Those kiddie pools are a blast! Just the thing to get you through the midday heat at the north end of the Russian River valley.

How about a nice dip in the "bathwater-warm" kiddie pool before beginning a long journey? My nephew Seaney is the one on the right. No, that water isn't freezing, not a chance. Nope. I stopped at the Ukiah airport for lunch. The aerial tanker (firefighting aircraft) was just sitting on the tarmac, thankfully. Temps were very high, but it just wasn't bad. Occasional spritzs under the riding jacket help a bunch. A little swim at one of the highway rest areas didn't hurt either.

I stopped here, as always. This is a sandbar off of the "Avenue of the Giants", the scenic alternate that parallels hwy 101 north of Leggett (approx) and south of Fortuna (ditto). If you don't like beautiful windy roads under the world's tallest trees, don't take this route. Reached foggy and cold Arcata at 10:30PM (just after dark!) to stay at a friend's cabin. That part of the coast is usually quite chilly, and this night was no exception. It's hard to get out of your sleeping bag when the world is cold and grey.

I spent the first night at my friend's cabin near Arcata. Day 2 was a tad chilly, but then I prefer cold weather over hot. (Except when swimming!) Near Crescent City, which frankly is a bit of a s***hole (as are most prison towns -- but it does make Eureka look pretty good!), I kinda snuck onto the campus of the Pelican Bay State Prison, and rode around without being caught. Not pleasant, but then neither is our self-perpetuating, taxpayer-funded prison industrial complex. Had to see for myself.

Your tax dollars at work supporting the self-perpetuating prison industrial complex at Pelican Bay. Then onwards and upwards, into Oregon. Traffic was not light, as I would discover to my detriment later. At least it was cool, forcing me to wear all of my protective gear. I got a good vibe off of the southern Oregon coast. Felt very remote and working class, without some of the urban yuppy feel of the central Oregon coast, or the frank squalor of northern California lumber towns. Isolating the coast from the inland areas are the rugged mountains of the Siskiyou National Forest, public wonderland. Cutting through these mountains are the mighty Smith, Eel, Umqua and Rogue rivers.

The Oregon Dunes The whole Oregon Dunes area was a bit crowded, especially with the July 4th weekend fast approaching. A campground I stopped at (not to camp!) was booked solid through the following week, even though it was only June 29th. I guess if you want to play in the dunes on your ATV or other 4WD vehicle, this is the place you come to. And everyone does. The campground host, who lived in Portland but had grown up in the South Bay, said he was going to leave before the holiday got rolling and the revelers got rowdy. I was supposed to end up in Portland (to stay with Kristen's dad there) but progress was slow, so I had to call to postpone my arrival one day. Or so I thought.

Well it wasn't quite this bad. I don't mind logging, actually I'm for it, but there's got to be a better way than massive clearcuts. At least it'll grow back here. Note the homogenous stands of trees, likely past clearcuts. After riding around in the dark for an hour, on a wild goose chase in search of some nice quiet National Forest to camp in, I ended up returning to the state forest logging road near Gardiner and camping in a "tree farm". That's what they call it, after a clearcut is replanted with identical fast-growing trees. And it turns out that the logging trucks start rolling at 3:30AM, which combined with the lightest of rains it didn't make for an easy night.

The shape of things to come? Day 3 started out just fine. I've heard that this part of the Oregon coast is called the Banana Belt, because it's as foggy. The town of Florence was surprisingly large and "modern", in the strip-mall sense of the word. The little community of Yachats seemed like a tourist retreat, which turned me off. (Apparently a lot of famous people live there. The pennants hanging from the lightposts on the main street, if you can call it that, said: "La De Da - Yachats!" I s*** you not. I wonder how many other people think of Chris Farley when they see this?) But here's where things got interesting. Heading north on 101 through Waldport, there was a pickup truck headin' south, waiting to turn left across my path. This is the classic bike-car accident, so naturally I was paying attention. But after the danger was apparently past, and the truck much too close to have time to brake, he pulled across my lane. Shit! Now maybe if I had successfully done a maximum-effort brake, the truck might have had time to exit my lane before I skidded past. Maybe! But that's not what happened. Instead, I grabbed more brake (front and rear) than my bike could handle, probably locked up the front brake, and almost instantly the bike and body were sliding down the road at 45+MPH. I had a clear path (thank god) and slid to a stop, jumped up, and got help in picking up the bike and "rolling" it out of the intersection. I didn't have a scratch (my gear wasn't so lucky), but got banged up in the shoulder and knee. Nothing a couple of weeks won't heal, hopefully. The bike wasn't so lucky. Going down on its left side, it threw me to left, while it went right. (Thank god again, if these directions had been reversed...) And bikes slide faster than people. It appears to have slid into the rear wheel of the pickup, literally exploding the bike's headlight, fairing, and instrument cluster. And bending the forks, and handlebars, and frame, and footpeg, etc.

Bad things happen when heavy objects stop instantaneously at 45MPH. Just glad it wasn't me! To make a long story shorter, I was taken in by the family (four generations, most recently transplanted from Philadelphia) that owned the restaurant at the intersection. They let me sleep at their house for two nights, fed me endlessly (mmm, cheesesteaks!), and best of all, Charlie and Rob patched up my bike! It turned out they were masters of the expedient, and knew immediately how to wire up a Walmart floodlight, hotwire the ignition, bend back the easy stuff, tape up a new rear-view mirror, etc, etc. I was fucking amazed, and just as grateful.

A little more about the family. I sure wish those pictures had come out, next time through Waldport maybe I can wrastle some up. Rob is the boss. Only 30 years old, he had already built a successful lawncare business back in Philly, and lost it to a messy divorce. Now he was the main investor behind the restaurant , as well as holding another part-time job as a medical attendant. Resourceful, he treated me like a king. We ran some errands up in Newport, and as far as fixing my bike and dealing with the DMV accident report, he knew exactly what to do. I foresee a bright, but not an easy, future. Charlie is the local boy, though he'd also lived in Montana and maybe Oklahoma. He had a lot of tall tales, and I bet most of them were true. He said he's hunted and killed almost every game animal on the continent. (And he looked at lot like my friend Chris Hylands, down to the long hair and black leather jacket.) I'm still marveling at some of the work he did fixing up the bike. A deft man with a roll of electrical tape and a crowbar! Shannon is Charlie's fiancee, and another Philly transplant. She was point woman for the restaurant, after Mary (see below). Her daughter Stacy Anne was a real cutie. One of my fondest memories of the whole trip was seeing Stacy Anne, aged almost three, go outside herself and play within 30 feet of busy hwy 101. (The adults kept yelling at her to stay out of the parking lot.) Seeing kids run free like this, unchained by parental fears, is one of the best parts of rural travel, and makes me feel glad to be alive. Shannon's other child, Shamus Michael (age 8?), lives with Rob and his wife Lisa Anne (hope I got that name right, we only really met once). Lastly, Mary is the matron: Rob's mother-in-law, Shannon's grandmother, and Stacy Anne and Shamus Michael's great grandmother. She was old time Philly, and welcomed all the restaurant's guests (including me!) with warmth and hospitality. And she makes one mean cheese steak.

Ready to roll again! Actually, things weren't this squared away until more than a week after getting home. One day 5, both the bike and my body were healed enough to start the trek home. It had taken three days to get up to Waldport, so I figured it would take four or five to get home. In the event, five it was. Days are very long this time of year, and it took me maybe five hours to get back down to Coos Bay. My body was not happy. But then I decided to leave the coast, and the thrill of exploration kicked in. Heading inland, I checked out Coquile, which is unusual in being the county seat when the coastal towns are much larger. Once upon a time, I guess. The county jail was also smack dab on the edge of downtown, practically. Next came Myrtle Point, a town with a lot of history and a quaint feel that seemed a bit out-of-step with the present. Lastly I'll mention the small and improbable town of Powers, which seemed like it really oughtn't exist. Then into the Siskiyou National Forest. Climbing a dirt road several miles up the ridgeline, euphoria took over. This is what's great about America: roaded wilderness, and lots of it. Camping at the end of a secluded road, I thought about writing a letter to the driver of the pickup truck that almost killed me, telling him I was fine and having a great time. I also realized I might write a book about something I love, wilderness touring by motorbike. The latter was an epiphany, and a epitome -- this whole trip was about turning adversity and near tragedy into wonderful adventure, and now I had an excuse to write a book?!? Holy shit.

The mountains of the Siskiyou National Forest looked something like this. On the morning of day 6, all was right with the world. The forest was too dense for much walking, and without trails, so after a little bushwhacking I hit the road. Ending up at a creek (next to a tiny and little-used but still active mining claim), I spent the afternoon wading and thinking, and took a "waterbottle shower". It was good to be alive. While I was walking down this stream, in the water and wearing nothing but shorts and flip-flops, I started mentally writing my bike-touring book. Super cool. Unfortunately, it was not so cool trying to swim with my injured shoulder. Heading up for the ridgeline again, I made camp (wilderness roads good!) and had dinner. Then for an evening of walking, except that my shoulder/ribs was now so bad, I couldn't walk, or even breath deeply. This was both alarming and unwelcome, because here I was up in the mountains with the time to walk around, and all I could do was sit and eat my last food and feed the mosquitos. Oh well, no day is perfect! Day 7 saw me come down from the heights, ride several miles of truly horrible gravel road coated with a black "dust-reduction" tar-like substance that I can still smell when I ride the bike, weeks later. Then on to the fantastic little village of Agnes, just across the river from a major road, but isolated because there's no bridge. Highly recommended: the store is run by the nicest folks, they were having a BBQ on the day I visited, and the one-room museum is definitely not to be missed. From Agnes I returned to the coast, stopping to almost get stuck in a sandbar of the Rogue river. That would be bad news: injuries and stuck bikes go very poorly together. The Rogue here is moderately terrorized by large and fast tourboats. Looks like fun. (Upstream belongs to the kayakers, as I understand it. But that gets complicated, the river upstream goes through the flatlands near Medford, and higher than it begins up in the mountains near Crater Lake. ) Then south, back into California. This time I rode around Crescent City a bunch, checking out the municipal airport (charmingly down by the ocean, like so many coastal town airports) and the business/industrial district. I try to ride around most towns at least a bit, rather than just passing through. It's the journey, not the destination, that's important. On this evening, the 4th of July, the entire town was heading for the docks for the fireworks and party. It was a little scary (see my earlier s***hole comments) and a lot chilly. Some of these towns just feel so squalid. Maybe it's me, maybe I should spend more time in the Third World and learn to appreciate what we have. But I've also spent a couple of months in Northern Europe, and after that it's painfully obvious how much poverty and crime we have in this country of ours. Bail bond commercials and endless Fox-style excrement on TV, it's a very depressing situation. I raced down 101 to Arcata, trying to beat the dark and cold. (My "headlight" was neither legal nor terribly effective after dark.) This really is a beautiful route, especially when the CHP doesn't get you. Arriving at my friend's cabin, I found that he'd just arrived minutes before. Quite a stroke of luck, considering that he mostly lives in Berkeley now. We spent the next two nights drinking, fixing the bike, doing errands in town, hanging with Christopher's friend Carl, etc. Christopher and his ladyfriend Elizabeth were very hospitable, and insisted I stay for the second night to recuperate. A good call, I needed it. I camped both nights, and the second night we had a bonfire, and my dear doggy friend Bart slept out with me. Very cool. Day 9, and back to the Bay Area. I got off of 101 and took the slower roads when feasible. South of Eureka one can find the little burg of Loleta, highly recommended. A stop at the old cemetery in Fortuna was also cool. (Cemeteries are great places to stop and soak up some history, and pay your respects.) Then past hwy 36, a simply fantastic way to get across the mountains to Red Bluff and the north end of the Central Valley, down the Avenue of the Giants (see note above), and back to 101. In Ukiah I turned east, taking the road that parallels 101 on the other side of the Russian River. Starting in Talmage, where (surprisingly) there's a giant Buddhist campus, I headed south looking for a place to take a dip. I found a sandy sandbar where off-road vehicles play, an example of the vanishing private land open to public recreational use. (Thanks, personal injury attorneys!) In the sand, I almost got stuck, and had to unload the bike and expend some very valuable healing capital pulling the bike out. I could have tried to just power my way out, which usually works, but when it doesn't work you're in deep s***, to the point where the bottom of the bike is resting on the ground, the wheels useless. Didn't want that. Time to get wet! After wading, eating lunch, and packing up, a gentleman and his dog walked by. We talked, and he invited me to share a smoke by the water. Very cool, the kind of thing that happens when you travel in the country. He was studying to be a criminal investigator, and was very much involved in the criminal justice universe. I asked him if he enjoyed the work/lifestyle, and he said he really did, so I softpedalled on mentioning how corrosive I believe that world to be. The work needs to get done, so I guess it's good that there are people who enjoy doing it. It's worth mentioning that it's pretty common knowledge that cops and criminals are very similar in temperament, and in fact historically the jobs overlap.

Home at last! Two hours later, cold and dark and very sore and hungry, I was home again. The next couple of weeks were spent recovering, and in prolonged dealings with getting the bike back in shape. Settling the insurance claim against the pickup truck driver, deciding how to fix the bike, locating/ordering parts, installing said parts, getting my riding gear repaired, etc, etc. This was really all I did, and all I thought about. What I didn't think much about was whether I should stop riding for a while. If the bike was all I could think about, I couldn't think about giving up the bike. Two weeks after the accident, my shoulder is slowly healing, despite moderately heavy use. My knee is almost better, and my back (which was having a very bad month even before the accident, which didn't help things) also gradually improving. And all these problems had better hurry up and go away -- in August I'll be spending two weeks swimming in Vermont and sailing the Maine coast, and in September, motorbiking to Colorado/Wyoming/Montana maybe?!?

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