Wherever You Are, There You Are: Meandering in Southern Oregon and Northern California - Part 3

The experience over the Pacific Coast Ranges lingered in my mind as the bike danced along the 96 toward Hamburg. While this stretch of road was nice and curvy, it was also more heavily trafficked by the logging trucks that were clearing out the charred trees.  I recalled seeing many trees tagged with various colored ribbons as if they were being selected for removal.  Not knowing much about forestry and land management beyond the basics, and having never really thought about the restorative processes after a fire, this ignited my curiosity - and has since led me down an interesting rabbit hole of reading up on forestry, land management, and the responses and interventions conducted after severe fire events; interventions such as salvage logging.  To put it concisely: trees suffer varying degrees of death and injury from fires which doesn't always mean instant death. Some trees suffer critical injury but survive partially. The scope of tree injury and mortality is assessed over periods of time (sometimes months) following a fire in determining the potential for regrowth and the level of impediment that could be posed by invasive factors such as bark beetles and shrubs that can overtake the environment before trees can reseed and germinate. Trees that are dead or not likely to survive, are logged out. Whether or not humans should intervene at all is a subject of great debate. Some people believe you should just let the forest heal itself.

The knowledge I've gleaned so far is a bit much to expound upon without a major digression in this post, but it will undoubtedly shape my attitudes toward the lands I visit and the way I experience forests from this point forward. It also takes me back to a trip I did last year to the Alabama Hills, where I camped out of Lone Pine and visited the Ancient Bristlecone Pine Forest during some explorations in the White Mountains (absolutely stunning, by the way).  I was enamored with it then, and my newfound knowledge has only enlightened my fascination and respect for forestry.  This is what I love about getting lost in the world; the way my experiences draw me away from the mundane and challenge me to feed my knowledge.

Charred bark on a tree in Oregon - kinda looks like scabs over fresh skin.

The stretch along the 96 slowly came back to life with greens as I approached my turnoff for a little road toward Scottys Bar.  Scott River road gradually worked its way into a narrow single lane that reminded me of Highway 229 in Santa Margarita; very narrow with ranches and cabin homes lining the path through the mountains. It was narrow enough to have to pull over or back up to allow oncoming traffic to pass.  The KTM flung fairly easily from side to side as I channeled her inner supermoto but our fun was cut a hair short when I caught up to a truck and we spent the remainder of the time chugging along in low gear down the last mile or so of the road left before the 3. 

Wherever You Are, There You Are: Meandering in Southern Oregon and Northern California - Part 2

It pains me to read of the fire situation in Oregon right now. Time is a funny thing, especially when you travel. It seems like just yesterday I was riding through that section and it was cold, cloudy and rainy. Now it is dry and being ravaged by fires. I recently saw some AP photos that were so devastatingly stunning. As a disaster responder and crisis worker, seeing coverage of these events always hits a little differently knowing the impact and toll it takes on people who are the most effected by the losses they endure to these events. Especially as I mentally prepare to set off on the typed recollection Part 2 of my adventure. When I look back on that section of my ride, its hard to imagine fire standing a chance against all of that moisture. But the storm eventually passed, and once I made it out of the rain I emerged into an otherwise crisp, beautiful Tuesday morning. There was very little traffic on the backroads and I made fairly decent time through the forests and down toward Grants Pass. I took a quick opportunity to snap a photo of Cascade Gorge and then cruised the rest of the way on little roads that paralleled the main freeways. These roads took me through little towns and I smiled as I rode through Grants Pass, as it will forever hold a special place in my heart as a brief home during my childhood. I still fondly remember playing in those trees, watching dad fish in the Rogue River, and eating blackberries right off the bush. To my surprise, the little corner store is still standing... as is my old elementary school. Then again, maybe it wasn't so long ago.

Cascade Gorge

The rest of the ride from Grants Pass to Cave Junction was fairly uneventful and a little more trafficked.  I cruised along as the KTM hummed beneath me.  A few towns, a near miss with an old lady in a truck, and a couple of Bigfoot Billboards later and I was sitting at a Chevron double checking and triple checking the route I mapped, the weather radar, and the most recent road conditions.  Radar was indicating some decent clouds up at the top of the Pacific Coast Ranges along Greyback Road, but nothing appeared to be an impediment.  This trip was the first run with my new Rev'it gear setup and I'll have more to report on my overall experience at the end of this writeup.  But for now I'll say I was feeling pretty confident. 

As I started the ascent up Greyback Road, I arrived at a barricade at the entry point.  The barricades were half in the roadway, but the rest of the blockades had been moved revealing quite an opening.  I took that as an all-clear to proceed and off I went. When I had mapped the route, I saw tons of images of lush green forests. This became my expectation, which was quickly uprooted by reality. 

Klamath National Forest, After the Slater Fire of 2020

As mentioned, we are not strangers to fire devastation.  I live in an area that is regularly hit pretty hard by fires and I've seen firsthand the unique culture of trauma and resilience of people who live in these areas.  However, the further I went up Greyback road, the more desolate and eerily still this once lush forest was. I didn't see a single person or animal the entire way until my descent into Happy Camp, and as I reached a crest along the peak, the view was of a horizon of hundreds of thousands of acres of charred and dying trees.  It was humbling and it made my heart heavy. Nature is as vicious as she is mighty and beautiful. My idea to deviate from the pavement onto some fire roads was thwarted by bright signage indicating the instability of the landscape due to the fire damage and unsettled ground (the recent rains probably didn't help). So I spent the next 15-20 miles silently taking in the sights and smells of seemingly abandoned forests before I finally came down into a work camp of Cal Trans Crews who were staged near Happy Camp, working tirelessly to clear out the devastation. 

The View from the Top...

Once I arrived in Happy Camp, I stopped to snap a pic with a Bigfoot Statue at an apparently abandoned gas station.  There I was greeted by a couple of Cal Trans guys, and a local CHP officer who had many questions about the bike. The CHP officer asked if the gates were open on the Oregon side and my response was: "Well, there was an opening wide enough for a truck to fit through so I interpreted that as an invitation."  He smiled.  I smiled nervously and we all went back to talking about bikes before they threw me a few recommendations for routes to avoid the summer tourists and I went on my way.

Wherever You Are, There You Are: Meandering in Southern Oregon and Northern California - Part 1

All Quiet on the Western Front...
Bend, OR Sunrise

It was 5 in the morning and the sky was already glowing. I had spent a few days with my friend at her ranch in Oregon and I was set to make my way back home on a solo motorcycle adventure. I took my time sipping coffee, watching the cows graze, and tying up loose ends in my luggage before strapping everything to the bike. In the days prior to my departure I had been tracking the weather, traffic and construction events and hoping that my timing would be well enough for all of the circumstance to fall in my favor.  Upon last glance, the storm was set to move on by just in time for me to make a clean break, but as we all know Murphy has laws and fortune favors the brave, so off I went. As I made my way out of her driveway the skies slowly opened into a gentle cascade of rain that fell on me for 2 hours. For much of the way I was actually smiling in my helmet. The KTM and her tires were handling the rain with every bit of grace and stability that allowed me to coast along at 70.  My gear was keeping me dry and, even though I got a couple of chills, it felt nice not to be in the 110 degree temps that were in store for me at home. And lets face it: the Pacific Northwest isn't the same if you haven't been escorted out by one of her characteristic showers. My first stop was meant to be Crater Lake, but upon arrival it was covered in clouds and a drizzle so I opted to keep moving and only stop for pictures at the first respite from the drizzle and haze.

Rogue-Umpqua Divide National Forest

The Motorcycle Through The Trees:
Rogue-Umpqua Divide Forest

Last year, during a similar solo trip, I came to appreciate how much of our landscape is national forests.  As such, on this trip I made a game of making note of at least 6 different National Forests or National forest areas that I would meander through.  As much as this was originally envisioned to be a coastal trip, the mountains were calling... and I went. As much as it was a mapped out adventure, there were also detours down the rabbit hole of inquiries that arise in the mind and heart of one who comes to witness nature in some of its rawest forms in any given moment.  

Aaaaaaaand We're Back!

 I'm fresh out of an exploration on two wheels and finding that some places remind me of old haunts and I started to feel a little homesick for writing. As such, here we are. Right here, right now... several years since my last noteworthy contribution, but many miles, smiles and a few oh-shit moments since then. 

I've just crested the peak of my 40th year of life and the descent into 41 was a grand one.  1100 miles from Oregon to California, divvyed up over the last days of 40 and the first days of 41; all spent in the seat of a most worthwhile motorcycle. Many fond reflections, and even more optimistic aspirations of what new places and people I will encounter on this leg of my life journey. Here's to the sacred archives of what lies behind us, the sun setting on our pasts, and the bountiful glow of infinite possibilities that lie ahead. 

  

Road Trippin' to the Dan Rouit Flat Track Museum - Clovis, CA

While I consider myself to be pretty young in my 'career' as a motorcyclist, I will say that it has certainly captivated me enough to where I can come to appreciate just about anything on two wheels and the type of racing that each different type of bike is tailored to.  In my newfound interest in developing the off-road skills, I have to admit that flat tracking is definitely somewhere on the agenda.  I mean c'mon, balls to the wall and the art of sliding the rear end just sounds like a helluva good time.  For this reason, among others, I decided to arrange a little road trip.

For those who haven't heard of it, the Dan Rouit Flat Track Museum is truly an epic effort of an homage to Flat Track Racing history.  I would say "American Flat Track History," but the truth is, they even got their hands on some British grass track bikes and other Japanese variants of speedway racing history. They have them on display alongside all of the others.  Since Fresno is only a couple hours drive (or a day's ride if you take the scenic route) I decided to take my dad and the boyfriend on a little road trip to quell my hankerin' for a little mini-adventure.  We would have taken the bikes, but dad hasn't been in the best of health lately and I was a little leery of asking him to take the bike out (which he would have because he is quite adamant when it comes to things like this). I didn't want him to miss out on something that he likely had quite a stake in when he was younger, so off we went. Piled in my little tracker, gnoshing on drive through and rocking out to various rock jams.

I really didn't know what to expect since, I'll confess, I didn't even know the place was in existence.  And that includes the various conversations I've had with the infamous flat tracking pro, Digger Helm over the years during my pit stops into our local dive bar.  Still, we made it there in ample time to catch a healthy group of people who rode in on a variety of bikes to celebrate the "open house." I guess, normally the place is only open by appointment, or during select hours.

It's an unassuming kind of place situated in the heart of a quiet residential street near Gettysburg Avenue.  You walk in the door and there's a room with memorabilia and recorded flat track races playing on a large screen TV.  Everyone is talking bikes... everyone is honoring bikes, and immediately you feel like you've walked into a bbq after a good day's riding.  But then you get to the next room, and your heart skips a beat.  Bikes line the walls; pictures, posters, old racing flyers, pieces of memorabilia, steel shoes, all of it glistening (and some of it rusty) under a humble row of fluorescent lights.  It all comes together beautifully.

I'll admit that my eyes welled up a little when I walked into the room.  Its a difficult feeling to explain.  Its one of those moments where you stand in a room invigorated by the experiences of icons, heroes, and people who have taken a passion that you identify with and went into it full bore, etching moments in the space-time continuum that will likely never be erased.  This kind of shit isn't done by the faint of heart and you can feel the spirit and taste the dirt the instant you walk into the room. You might even feel a few sympathy pains in your ankles and ribs as you imagine the trial and consequence of developing the skills that make a successful racer stand out from the rest. When you add to it that the only soundtrack that resonates through the place is the sound of the guys who were there swappin' race stories, it makes your soul smile a little bit.

It was all there... even samples of dirt from different tracks.

I easily spent a couple of hours there... walking through and then walking through again.  It was a lot to take in, like an interactive encyclopedia of racing that doesn't quite make it in its entirety onto the record books.  As much as it may have been one man's obsession, it was also a collaborative effort of many in the racing world, including Digger Helm, and Melissa Paris, who each had items provided for display. But the list didn't stop there, not by a long shot and the inventory spoke for itself and of the people who participated in making it what it was.  Bikes from practically every manufacturer, each with their own histories or representing the history of their fleet in the world of flat tracking, many of them situated as-is in "race form." 

After a while of meandering through the place.  My pops settled into a chair outside.  He was quiet, which isn't entirely out of character for him.  But his demeanor was a little different.  "How ya doin' dad?"  I asked as I plopped down next to him.  

He sighed... "Oh, I dunno... a lot of names in there I haven't heard or seen in a long time." It was noticeable that I hadn't just taken my dad on the average road trip.  I had taken him back in time to the days when he and his buddies all huddled around bikes and finagled modifications in the garage well into the hours of the night... back before ECU tuning, and traction control.  At a particular moment, as I sat with him, the words of a man that I had overheard earlier whilst admiring the collection resonated through my mind and it was somethin' to the effect of: 

And there I was, ya know, my buddy lives back east and I was goin' to visit him and he was tellin' me they were gonna be doin' races.  I said, "can I bring my race bike?" And he said "sure can," so I did.  And when I got out there to the races I asked 'em what class I should race in and the guy says to me "it don't matter... we're all runnin' in the same class out here... everybody's just here to race."

This museum was one of many that exist across the united states.  If you haven't put one of these places on your ride route, I highly recommend making it a point to do so.  You can find more information on where to find these places by visiting this link: http://www.vft.org/vftmuseums.html.  

To see more pictures from our trip, visit my photo site here: https://theapexdream.smugmug.com/In-the-World

Babes in the Dirt: Gone With the Wind - Conclusion

Once the other babes returned, we took a break and then set off on a quest for more uncharted territory.  As we puttered down the main drag, we reached the end of the park and another road that intersected. As an aspiring adventure rider, I am quite keen on exploring roads I've never been down before.  As we idled at the intersection I looked back and over at the other babes.  "How do you guys feel about seeing where this road leads?"  Everyone was up for it and we set off to see where this new journey would take us.  The further along we went, the dirtier the road became; gradually degrading into a narrow patchwork path of asphalt and potholes that seductively wound its way up the mountain. It wasn't the best road for a sportbike, but that wasn't even the slightest bit of a problem since none of us were on our sportbikes today.  

As we rounded a few turns a few miles in, broken down van emerged into view.  It wasn't exactly a white creeper van with free candy written on it, but it was sitting on a couple of flat tires and had a piece of paper propped up in the window with illegible writing on it.  It was the perfect scene for a murderous booby-trap, but still we slowed down enough to take a gander as we rode by. Most of the road was washed out in that corner and it appeared almost as though some debris had disabled the vehicle... 3 years ago.  

Shortly thereafter I rounded a corner that carried us up a semi steep ascent.  To my right, a mountainside, to my left, the valley had all but disappeared into the horizon. 

So, we did what anyone would do in the middle of nowhere with some potential creepers lurking in the wilderness: we struck some poses:

And then we rode some more, and then stopped for a few more photo opps:

 Then we rode some more; until the road could be rode no more... as in, "road's closed."  It took us a little bit of time to reach the end of the journey, and when we did it was just like any other mountain road: no real warning, just a closed gate.  The end of this road was near a small stream and we figured that while we were in the neighborhood, we might as well park the bikes and do some exploring.  So we did.  As we pulled off into what looked like the entrance to a campsite, it quickly became obvious that this was likely to be a permanent campout for whomever resided in a tattered looking motorhome painted like the American flag. Unaffected by the potential set up for a murderous encounter, we propped the bikes up and ventured through some fine California foliage to take a gander at the stream. It wasn't until 3 of us made our way through said foliage that Babe #2 pointed out: "You guys, I'm not going down there... there is poison oak all over the place and I'm not walking through that."   The three of us looked back to take a closer observation. Indeed, it appeared that we had successfully made our way through various PO bushes without consequence. All I will say on that subject is that ATGATT has it's merits, and being covered from head to toe in multiple layers was certainly fitting for the occasion; otherwise, we might have all been in for a pretty uncomfortable ride back.

But we made it back.  And as we rolled back into town we headed down another trail that was simply so appropriately named, that we couldn't really help but leave our tracks on it. 

Cougar Trail... ;)

I must confess that I may or may not have been the catalyst for an unfortunate dropping of a dual sport.  It may or may not have been due to my inability to carry enough speed through sand and my unfortunate position in the path of one of the other babes who was moving along at a much quicker pace. Still, at least nobody was hurt, even if I felt pretty bad for being in her way.  We regrouped and tooled around for a bit before heading back to the campground where the mini-bike races were set to begin shortly.  As we pulled up to our camp, the first few practice laps were unfolding and we made it just in time to crack some frosty beers and prop our asses into some chairs and onto the tailgate from our little campsite we had front row seats to the action.  As I watched the practice laps I kinda wished I would have made it a point to get back in time to join the races, and I made a note that I would do so next year. 

Girls on bikes that came in all shapes and sizes, slidin' boots around the mini-oval.  Judging by the chorus of laughter resonating from inside their helmets, I would say that everyone was having a blast.  It was the most fitting end to the day and a most exemplary example of what happens when you bring motorcycles and good people together... She-nanigans.

Babes in the Dirt: Gone With the Wind Part III

At some point after we had scarfed down some Sausage McMuffins, we sauntered over to the riders meeting.  It was similar to any track day but tailored toward simply keeping things cool when riding on the trails and being aware of the rules for the area.  Fox introduced their ambassadors, Stancemoto announced that they were giving away free moto-socks to each of us attendees, Stumptown Coffee was dishing out some cold brew, and of course, the law-dogs gave us the low down on basically, how not to die or get in trouble with the law.  Afterwards, we were off to the trails.  And we all scurried back to our camps to prep for the adventures.  Babe #1 seized the opportunity to take off on her own adventure to fulfill her hiking plans for the day.  It was a bummer, but breaking your collarbone in 4 places does warrant some legitimacy in excusing one from action.  She set off, but not before snapping the official commemorative photo of our group.

I will openly admit that I am horrible at riding in the dirt.  I think we got off to a good start as we puttered down the road with the more experienced babes in the lead, using their best judgement to identify a trail that wouldn't immediately lead to the catastrophic failure of the two of us who were less talented in the dirt.  I wasn't feeling particularly tense, as some of the skills of riding a motorcycle are universal.  But some definitely aren't.  We turned off of the main road onto a trail that started off pretty decent.  The dirt gradually start to loosen up and there began a sparse drizzling of rocks.  I perched up on the pegs even though I probably really didn't need to.  It makes me feel a little more stable when I do, and I coasted along behind everyone as we made our way into the catacombs of dirt eutopia. Each little slip of the rear made me smile a little even though I was still apprehensive about jumping into a handful of throttle. I felt as though I could be the master of this flat moderate packed dirty stuff.  But then the slightest little curve came about and I immediately checked my ego and settled back into my reluctance to do anything "too crazy." 

I followed the team as the little trail weaved its way upon a pretty sharp corner that immediately began to jut up the side of a mountain.  It narrowed, and I watched as Babe #2 disappeared around the narrow corner.  Not being too far behind her, I looked at the blind corner above me and immediately cringed a little. Well shit... 2 things are gonna come out of this: I will prevail, or I will have one hell of a story to tell about how I broke my ass within the first hour of my Babes in the Dirt experience. This was already a bit too advanced for me, but I resigned myself to grown a pair of balls and following the path even though I damn near instantly rolled off the throttle. I tried to figure out a line given how little I understood about the lines of dirt riding and where my bike might take me. I mean yeah, I have skill in throttle control and clutch feathering and all of that jazz... and I like to think I am pretty in tune with my sport bike when she is trying to tell me something. But I am definitely not bilingual in the language of low traction on a taller profile bike with squishier suspension and a pretty sweet turn radius. So it really felt like a crap shoot as to where the bike might wind up, regardless of my insistence of not letting her get too crazy.  

As I crept up the hill I heard the sound of motors behind me. Great, a bunch of dudes who were probably pro-badasses held up behind the chick on the girl-bike. I instantly felt guilty as I knew I would be holding them up but I didn't feel bad enough to cave to the pressure to yank the throttle and GTFO of the way.  Instead I muttered in my helmet: "Sorry fuckaz... ya'll get to ride with miss daisy... but I promise I'll pull over at the next turnout."  Within a few seconds the rear tire of babe #2's bike appeared and I noted that she was standing next to it. The other two babes had blasted up the mountain but were aware of our minor setback and I figured they would eventually come back to save us just in time to beat out the vultures.  I glanced up the hill and concluded that this was beyond my level of skill, and I crept my bike as far out of the way as possible; which, was not much given how narrow and curved the trail was. Afterwards, I attempted to turn the bike around without dumping it in the middle of the track.  That wasn't really saying much since the width of the trail was barely wider than the length of my bike... but still... I chickened out and paused to take a picture while I waited for the expert-babe to get my bike out of the way.

The corner... in hindsight

We reconvened at the bottom and the expert babes made note to find trails that were more suited for the limited skillset of us two slower riders, and occasionally the expert-babes would venture up the hills and trails that split from the main track.  I was determined to develop some improvement and during one stop, I declared to one of the expert babes that I really felt that I should work on developing some confidence in cornering in the dirt; hitting the very basics.  We were in the perfect place for it in the middle of a plateau where a bunch of trails had converged on an entry way just outside of a campground and I began doing some circles with my foot out, in order to get a better feel for the dirt style of riding; body position, braking, clutch feathering, etc.  The babes were extremely supportive and even hung around a bit to give me some pointers and laugh with me as I took my riding experience back to level -1. It was one of the many things that made the weekend such an amazing experience.  Being around other women who loved riding as much as I did, and were down to earth, funny, friendly and patient enough to take the time to ensure that everyone was having fun.  In some ways, I felt like I was learning how to ride a motorcycle all over again, but I was having an outright blast riding my XT in my little one-person "barrel race," around circles and along little paths that led to steeper inclines. This weekend was exactly what I needed.

Once I got used to the rear slide and the way the bike settled into its lines, I began to focus more on actually choosing good lines. Mind you, I had only graduated to using 3rd gear at this point, but god damn if it didn't feel every bit of 90 mph. It's a good thing I don't care what people think (even if they were six years old and flying by me like I was some geriatric old lady on a walker), otherwise I might have been a little embarrassed. Instead I just laughed... and laughed, and almost dropped my bike, and laughed some more, and owned every bit of my remedial skill level in dirt riding.

It was a brief exercise, but it did wonders to build up my confidence. Before too long the four of us had re-grouped and set off to explore more uncharted territory.  I was, by no means an expert, but I certainly felt like the bike was less likely to take on a mind of it's own and dart off like a spooked horse into some jagged ravine (okay so I didn't really feel quite that dramatic it, but still... it was an improvement).  So, we rode on for a bit and then two of us broke off to take a break in camp.

The Vendors