The thick fog had been steadily condensing on the face shield of my helmet and I swiped it clear with my glove just before the passing lane opened up and I down shifted to pass the lumbering red F-150 pickup. I was only a few miles out of Arcata and moving quickly on the fog-damp highway 299 twisting away from the coast up into the Shasta Trinity National Forest. Make no mistake, the F-150 was traveling relatively close to the posted speed limit. But the perfectly paved serpentine road called for a more spirited pace. Beyond the F-150 I upshifted back to 6th and settled into an only-slightly less illicit speed before I noticed a black SUV with a light bar coming up quickly behind me…

Twelve hours earlier I neared the finish of the first leg — or, really, the zero leg — of the walkabout by exiting highway 101 just as my GPS died. Unfortunately, my GPS happened to be on my phone whose charging port had lately been on the fritz. Did I mention that the address of the hotel was also solely on that phone? Not a great end to an otherwise unassuming 230 mile sprint up 101 in near-100 degree heat. The cool fog had already started drifting back onshore as I sat in the parking lot outside the Oriental Buffett trying to resurrect the lifeless black slab with my battery charger so I could divine the address of the hotel I was supposed to meet Smitty. The phone seemed like a fitting metaphor for the unknown nature of the future of the trip.

About 150 miles earlier I had stopped in Ukiah for a delayed lunch and, more importantly, use of the facilities (by which I mean both the restroom as well as the wonderful air conditioning, not necessarily in that order of importance). Smitty forwarded a text he’d just received from his wife — she’d badly thrown out her back. She was trying to determine just how bad it truly was, but be forewarned that she may need him to cancel the trip. Back on the road in the heat, that Worst Case Scenario hovered ahead of me, unseen, over the horizon. We’d been daily eying the state of Tioga pass to determine if we could drop into Yosemite that way (it was now open). We’d weighed the potential scenery of one route versus another. We collaborated on fashioning an antenna mount for my bike so we could stay in touch on the road (and I could put my dormant HAM radio license to use). Now it could literally be done before it began? Maybe. No way to know but keep the freeway sprint up to Arcata.

Now in Arcata and still no way to know until I got the damn phone functioning. Finally, the phone booted— I was just across the freeway. Hurriedly I tossed everything back into the side cases and tank bag, pulled on my helmet and five minutes later rolled into the vacant spot next to Smitty’s antenna-laden Prius. In the upstairs room we shared greetings and pleasantries as well as apprehensions about the next day while I stripped off my riding gear and changed into shorts before heading off in the Prius in search of a BBQ joint in town.

Word came just after dinner: her back was in terrible shape and she desperately needed Smitty to head for home the next morning. I knew Smitty was disappointed, but he’s pragmatic and his wife wouldn’t have asked this of him if it wasn’t serious (later, after he made it home he said if anything she had understated her condition and him heading home was clearly essential). “Well, shit,” I said aloud in the car, and that was about all that was said for a while, the sentiment hanging while we both contemplated what the next day would bring.

My most immediate problem was that I didn’t have a place to stay the next night. While planning Smitty had indicated he was going to get a hotel room each night and I was welcome to crash on the floor so I’d left my camping gear at home. I didn’t have the travel budget for hotels. Looking at the map, we’d decided to arbitrarily finish Day One in the town of Sierraville. Nestled right at the junction of highways 89 and 49, it seemed reasonably midway between Lassen and Yosemite National Parks, the two main touchstones of our proposed walkabout. However both of us had harbored some concerns about this as a destination. First, Smitty had worried the haul from Arcata through Lassen to Sierraville would be too long a leg. My concerns centered around Google searches in the area that turned up only rather boutique-y places to stay. But a little further to the southeast was Truckee, a town I knew well, and where my nephew, Peter, and his wife, Marina, lived with their two sons. Turns out my older sister and her husband were visiting Peter and Marina that weekend. A few texts later and I had a couch to crash on and a mini-family get-together ahead.

We hit up a Safeway in town and got provisions for our very different journeys in the morning, and whiled away the evening trying to bat away the ever-present disappointment with off-hand conversations and already talking about possibly meeting up at a later date to attempt another trip together. The fog had settled heavily over the town, washing up into the adjoining canyons, as I’d find out. Smitty was up and out by 6:30 — he had a long, long drive ahead of him. My itinerary

looked like my route wouldn’t be as long, but not by a heck of a lot; I was on one edge of California and, if all went well, by the end of the day I would be on the other side of the state, a stone’s throw from the Nevada border. By the time Smitty was clearing the coastal fog an hour south, the bike was loaded up again, I was in my riding gear, and I thumbed the starter button.

The fuel injection lit my big boxer engine immediately and settled into a steady rhythm. Shifting into first,  I turned the bike eastward and headed out of the parking lot.

Thirty minutes later, I closed the throttle and the bike slowed abruptly as I awkwardly signaled and changed lanes, hoping that the SUV with the lightbar would keep his speed and pass right by me…

…Which is exactly what he did. The Humbolt County Sheriff clearly had better things to do than worry about my speeding butt. I took that as an omen that the trip was getting better already — that and the fact that my recalcitrant phone was happily charging again.