Redding, CA is hot--Texas hot. Somehow, central California felt hotter than my ride through west Texas. After 2 hours of marinating in my own juices (...gross...), I arrived at the moto shop. I was relieved that my tire patch had made it, but I was not looking forward to dropping money on a new tire.
I found Jason behind the parts counter and we remarked on our common red-headed representation. I chatted with him about my trip and I think I gave him a case of wanderlust. He convinced the shop guys to change out my tire in 1 hour instead of 3 and Jason treated me to lunch in the meantime--what a guy! We clicked immediately. There were a handful of recent life experiences with which we could both relate. We returned to the shop after lunch and the bike was ready to go, although I don't think Jason wanted me to leave. I checked the spark plugs and found that they were sporting an almost neon orange color. It was very strange, but I attributed it to the funky air at the Burning Man Festival.
I left Redding in the middle of the afternoon and rode west on CA SR299, a beautiful, twisty road through the Trinity National Forest. Attention men: this road had the highest number of babes on sportbikes that I have ever witnessed. I kept getting my ass handed to me by Suzuki SV's, Ducati Monsters and Ninja 650's--all piloted by small-framed riders with ponytails swooshing around from under their helmets. At gas stations, I determined that these riders were total babes! I chatted with one of them, Nancy, who was another fellow red-head (whoever says that we are a dying breed is full of shit). She was an art curator from the bay area who had ridden up for the weekend. I envied her access to such amazing roads. We exchanged information and then she smoked my ass on her SV 1000. I had been taking it easy on my new rear tire (which I am totally milking as an excuse for getting smoked) since it was a higher profile, more sporty tire that felt very different than my old knobby one. It made the bike handle much differently and I didn't want to take any chances on the sharp curves of SR 299. I had one of my few close calls on this road. The northern California hippie engineers did not design the roads with the proper banking. On some curves, especially chicanes, the banking was in the opposite direction of the curve radius which come as a surprise to a rider who is faced with a seemingly sharper curve than what was anticipated. I almost lost it in one of the turns. I was forced to take a turn much wider than I had planned and was inches from hitting the gravel shoulder and low-side crashing. Aside from this time and when a stupid blond woman in a giant SUV nearly ran me off the interstate outside of Reno (which I had anticipated, so I was able to avoid disaster), I didn't have any other close calls--not bad for a several thousand mile trip.
I rolled into Willow City, CA just as a Sasquatch crossed the road in front of me--no, really. It was the beginning of the city's annual Bigfoot Days celebration weekend. Apparently, Willow City is located near where the first Bigfoot sighting occurred--you've seen the famous photo. Anyway, there were several costumed Sasquatches rambling around town. It was surreal.
I arrived in Arcata, CA around sunset and checked into a motel. This was going to be my first "real" shower in almost a week and I was looking forward to it. I had expected the motel room, priced at $75 (above my normal price range), to be clean and include little bottles of organic hair care products and Roman digestion dwarf to massage my belly after eating. Instead I found a run-down room with more stains than a whore house, cigarette burns in the sheets, patched-together chairs, and a toilet that made a sound like a dying parakeet. I am not usually a complainer. In accordance with my origin in the Lutheran-dominated state of Minnesota, I have a tendency to just take what I am given and not complain, regardless of how horrendous the offering. Minnesotans actually enjoy getting a shitty deal--to eat whatever gross hotdish is put before them, to be happy about getting the small, non-corner piece of cake, to accept incorrect change in a transaction for fear of "making a scene,"--they feel too guilty about it getting what they want. It is absurd and I had to break ranks and put my foot down. I complained about the room and the stoned hippy girl a the front desk gave me a different room. I opened the door to the replacement room, only to find a similarly awful dump but with the addition of a cat pee aroma and three spiders scuttling around the room, one of them on the bed. As I was discerning the origin of the stain on the wall, a hoopti ass ride rolled up and the hippie occupants started doing maintenance on it 4 feet from my door. Two doors down, a room full of hippies were already wasted and blasting their music. This whole place was not only crawling with spiders, but also with damned hippies. By this point, I was so sick of hippies.
I just wanted to stay in a halfway decent room and away from the granola-munchers. At $75, I was getting screwed. These rooms were a $20 value at best. I had a better hotel room in the ghetto of Quito, Ecuador and that was only $10.
However, all of the other rooms in town for the Blues on the Bay music festival that weekend. I was trapped in this dump and it really brought be down. I called a hotel in Eureka, CA, six miles away and scored a room due to a last-minute cancellation. The only issue was that the room was over $100 and I had already dropped a few hundred on a new tire that day. I decided that it was worth my sanity. I told the front desk girl that I needed a refund and loaded the bike back up.
As I was repacking the bike, an interaction with my would-be neighbor confirmed that I was making the right decision. He was a parody of hippies everywhere, but he was legitimately moronic--it wasn't just an act. He came up to me and oogled my bike, but not in the manner of an appreciative fellow motorcyclist--more like the way that a thief scans and determines the value of merchandise. Between calling his friends "brah" and asking random hippie girls if they were going to the Jerry Garcia Tribute Laser Show, he told me about his friends' plans to buy motorcycles, grow out their beards, dye them gray, and dress like old motorcycle dudes to as a cover to transport hash across the country. I wished him luck with that and got the hell out of there.
I rode 6 miles south along Arcata Bay to Eureka, CA. The whole time, my engine was misfiring and I was worried that I would not make it the whole way. For some reason, misty weather made the bike run poorly. Or was it just the spark plugs? I didn't care, I just wanted to get to a comfortable bed, free of hippies, spiders, or strange stains. I arrived at a Victorian-era hotel that was set up like a public house, with a bar on the corner and rooms upstairs. It was carved and gilded to excess but it was exactly what I needed. The interior included a large theater with a stained-glass ceiling, where they let me park my motorcycle. My bike was not used to such decadence. On all other days, it had been ridden hard and put away wet. Because she was not housebroken, I had to put some newspapers under her so she didn't leak on the polished wood floors.
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| Clara in her ballroom attire...and diaper |
The hotel maintenance guy, Ty, helped me bring the bike inside--he sensed immediately that the bike was way too big for me. We struck up a conversation. He was a good kid. My room was ridiculous--it had been furnished with actual antique Victorian furniture, not "antique-effect" furniture. The room was only $100, which was crazy, considering the quality. But when I opened the shower to finally chip off the grime from Burning Man and a 10 mile walk through the high desert, a spider was in there waiting for me...of course. I stalked it, then mercilessly smashed it using 30x more force than was needed to kill it (in the style of my friend Anne, who taught me well). I took the longest, most indulgent shower of my life, single-handedly contributing to depletion of the local aquifer and bogarting all the hot water from other guests. Don't tell my eco-conscious friends. It's ok, I plant trees for a living--can't a girl get a carbon credit or two?
Day 18 - Eureka, CA to Crescent City, CA
I got a really late start out of Eureka, partially due to a bagel indulgence and partially due to some motorcycle love. I topped Clara up with oil...there was a suspicious amount missing, but I let it slide. Oil color: redwood buttress. I noticed that Ty had left me a red rose on my handlebars.
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| Awwww |
Awww. He was one of a few dozen men I left with a longing in their hearts. It was not my intention, but honestly it felt really great to be complimented and given the googly-eyes by smitten gents, so indulged myself and let them bring it on. More than simply providing a not-so-hideous thing to look at, I think I inspired envy--they wanted to be in my place and they admired me for actually following through and carrying on this trip. I planted the seed in their minds of a fantasy, an existence they desired that was contrary to the everyday one around them. I know the feeling well and it made me feel great to know that I was finally on the other side.
I made my way up the misty coast and into Redwood National and State Parks. This is what I had come to the coast for. The woody behemoths flanking my route were more impressive than I'd imagined. I even got a little misty-eyed about them (remember, I'm still in soft, fluffy northern California, where it's ok to cry about anything).
I took a scenic spur road through Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park and it made me wish I had started earlier in the day so I could explore more of the trails. My heels and ankles were still crippled by the recent unintended High Desert Half-Marathon, so I rationalized my laziness and walked all of the .15 mile loops normally reserved for the obese RV-hibernators. The spores of filamentous soil bacteria, the botanical volatile oils carried as aerosols by the damp air, the musty animal aromas, the worm poo, and the aromatic esters created by mycelium busting through rotten wood lignin all made love in my nostrils. It was like a drug.
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| Newton B. Drury Scenic Parkway |
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| Big ass trunk with lots o' epiphytes |
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| Clara, for scale |
At some point in that day (I can't remember when--it may have been a dream), I took a spur road and I happened upon the magical place where all of the sexy woodsmen congregate, also known as a wildland firefighter outpost. Ladies--these men aren't the reserve wildland firefighters, the pudgy kids called up from Wisconsin during large fire outbreaks--these men are the Feds, the professional forester/hotties. When they are not jumping from helicopters with chainsaws in their hands, they are collecting data, growing their beards, rescuing baby owls, and sculpting their trim, chiseled, herculean bodies--the kind of men that make a woman want to throw themselves into their arms and cry "save me!" despite a lack of any dire situation. They were a little surprised that I was there--I guess most tourists didn't venture down this road. They had warm, friendly smiles so I stopped the bike to chat. One of the hunky specimens approached me and said "What's a sexy woman on a sexy motorcycle doing out here" as he threw an ax over his shoulder and winked. Just kidding. That didn't really happen. I only wished it had happened. Anyway, I told them about the motorcycle trip, which they became very curious about. I also told them that I work with trees for a living and we chatted about their forestry work. I'd never blushed before during a conversation about forest stand structure and fuel loading--until that day. Both parties impressed, we parted ways after exchanging information, agreeing to keep in touch. Sorry ladies (and some of you guys), I was too shy to snap a photo with them.
I continued on along the Redwood Highway to Hwy 199, which followed the Smith River. I had hoped to camp at Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park, but it was full of RV campers for the holiday weekend. Damn. I tried pleading with the campground manager, saying I had ridden all the way from Texas to camp here (which really was true), but I got no sympathy. Government workers never have any sympathy for whiners. They are trained to have no emotion whatsoever. I should know--I work with them.
So I checked into yet another motel, but this one was normal, boring, and cheap. No spiders. I unloaded my stuff from the bike and took her for an evening stroll through the redwoods. I stopped along the way to pick more fresh blackberries than a person can eat in three days...and I ate them all in one sitting. Take that, Whole Foods! I see your fresh, organic, $6.99/pint blackberries and I raise you a "hyper-local" endorsement, so shove it. I'm going to have a hard time buying blackberries after visiting the Pacific Northwest.
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| Mmm. Freshly picked blackberries. I ate them until I was sick |
A local couple joined me and the man, Mike, told me about all the best fishing spots along the Smith River--too bad I don't fish (Winston, I took notes!). I followed the road along the river and was treated to yet another gorgeous sunset. Over the course of the trip, I'd witnessed more sunsets than I had in months!
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| Sunset stroll with Clara along the Smith River |
I continued on the same road until it narrowed and then turned to gravel. It was getting dark. The road sign listed 15 miles of winding roads. I followed the road for 1 mile and the road continued to deteriorate. Because the flat tire in the desert incident was so fresh in my mind and because I had no food, water, shelter, or tools with me, I decided to turn around and conquer this road in the morning.
As I sat outside my hotel room, I tuned into the drama in the hotel proprietor's life. It was better than TV. The proprietor was one of those women who had taken on (or been handed) way too much in their lives. She ran the hotel, cleaned the hotel, and watched after her kids and her sister's kids all day. Her phone conversations sounded like the dialogue from a Jerry Springer Show. She was tough as nails but I could tell that she was constantly on the brink of a meltdown. I chose my words carefully with her and I tiptoed around her like she was a wild animal. She approached me the next day to tell me that she envied my life--"no kids, no husband, no boyfriend--you are free to roam around the country on your motorcycle. I envy you, girl." I felt bad for her--she was a sweet woman but she was completely worn down. I felt fortunate to be at a place in my life that afforded this amazing opportunity. I took note of the people in my life who had introduced me to motorcycles and the people who gave me the courage to do a trip like this. As I drifted off to sleep, I thanked my lucky stars to have (or have had) them in my life.
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