The ambient temperature showed the mid 50s when I left the motel in the fog, and I smiled knowing it wouldn’t last. And it didn’t. Just outside of the small town of Blue Lake the wide sweeping curves tighten up as the road climbs into the Coast Range.  The twisty highway switchbacks on itself in an effort to gain altitude, and shortly thereafter I pulled into a vista point to put my sunglasses on — I’d climbed above the fog and I wouldn’t see it again until I was almost home a few days later.

Without the coastal fog, the temperature steadily climbed into the 80’s but with very few cars on the road, the bike flowed effortlessly from curve to curve keeping steady airflow through the vents on my helmet and jacket. After the Sheriff  passed me earlier I didn’t see another law enforcement officer all morning. Long stretches of road unspooled ahead with just me and the bike alone and we made the most of it. Please don’t misunderstand me, while I do generally believe the posted speed limit to be a guideline, I’m not one to recklessly flaunt it either. Despite a couple well-documented incidents, I never rode excessively fast when I was younger, and I know I’m not young anymore. The GS is capable of achieving and maintaining truly Autobahn velocities, but I have yet to find myself on the Autobahn. Besides, as highway 299 passes through the Shasta-Trinity National Forest and the road begins to trace the north side of the Trinity river, the gentle curves are much more enjoyable at a leisurely pace to better keep an eye on the snow runoff-swollen river below.

Much sooner than I would have liked the road descended out of the forest of Douglas fir and Ponderosa pine into the chaparral of Manzanitas and madrone. The temperature climbed into the high 90’s, the only reprieve coming as 299 crossed Whiskeytown Lake. I stopped at the Visitor’s Center for some water and enjoyed people watching for a few minutes. Parents conspired about when to meet at the boat launch and what to do for lunch while kids in flip flops darted between SUVs giggling. Not yet noon, the cars passing in and out of the small parking lot made the overlook seem practically bustling. Soon enough I left them all to their lake and I headed east towards Lassen.

I know cities on the map don’t hold any actual malice, but some places I feel legitimately dislike me. Redding is one of those towns. Don’t get me wrong, the feeling is mutual. It’s not an out and out hatred, just an uncomfortable dislike which it evinced initially by spiking the mercury into triple digits as 299 staggered into town. Interstate 5 bisects Redding like a scar, and I suppose if that super slab slashed through me I’d be ornery too. Making my way through the surface streets, the GS’s cooling fan kicked on — she was just as annoyed as I was. After what seemed like an endless parade of stoplights, we crossed the Sacramento river and ignored my GPS’s instructions to take the I5 south onramp, instead making a beeline west out of town on highway 44.

The immediate destination was the Kohm Yah-mah-nee Visitor’s Center in Lassen Volcanic National Park, but there was a problem: despite it being July, the parks main through-road remained closed due to snow. In the build up to the start of the trip, I would report to Smitty the status as recorded on the “2017 Road Clearing Operator Log,” though I insisted on doing it in my best Ken Burn’s Civil War Documentary style: “June 17 – My Dearest Mathilda, We made it about a mile and a half from the Emerald side hill to the Bumpass Hell [that’s a real place name!!] parking lot this week. There is about 10 feet of snow there. I’m afraid I’ve contracted dysentery from McCreary’s terrible cooking and the pain in my amputated leg is something fierce…” Okay, I made up that last sentence, but seriously, the page is worth visiting. Checking the log before we left there hadn’t been an update in almost a week. Smitty logically deduced it was most likely due to the July 4th holiday, but I chalked it up to bear attack. Or Yankees. Oh, and if you think “Bumpass Hell” is an EPIC name for a place, please try on these other names: Chaos Crags, Sulphur Works, Devastated Area. I started to legitimately wonder whether The Eye of Sauron hovered above the summit of Mount Lassen.

Logistically, though, the closure of the through-road meant the normal path through the park — entering from the west, exiting to the south — was right out. I needed to jog down from Highway 99 to 44, and Google Girl (heretofore “GG”)  recommended I make that transition via I5. I had other ideas. Black Butte road led south off of 99, changing names a few times before intersecting 44. And what a glorious stretch of knotted two-lane it would be. A number of roads on this trip entered my “Top 5 Best Roads Ridden” list, and despite the temperature climbing to 105, Black Butte charged bravely up onto that list. It began slowly and technical — second- and third-gear tight switch backs descending rapidly into the canyon formed by the north and south forks of Battle Creek — before flattening out onto a plain of sun-burnt, twisted mesquite and sage with the road narrowing and twisting this way and that around small rises allowing for fourth- and fifth-gear charging while keeping rapt attention to properly roll the bike side to side, accelerating at the apex at just the right time. Did I mention the road was gloriously, blissfuly, delightfully empty? Oh lawd, I didn’t care about the sweat running down my back, it was pure motorcycling Nirvana.

All good things have to end, and soon enough I emerged from my private two-lane onto 36 and the SUVs and trailers heading into the Sierras. My consolation came as the temperature started to fall as we climbed out of the town of Mineral, and the towering pines returned as I turned onto Lassen Peak Highway. I would like to tell you about the majesty of Lassen Volcanic National Park. I’d really like to regale you with detailed descriptions of exactly what passed for Chaos Crags and whether Sulphur Works lived up to its odoriferous billing, but I can’t because that goddamn bear killed the plow operator and my journey through the park ended at the Visitor’s Center. Though I can report that the Kohm Yah-mah-nee Visitor’s Center is a lovely place to have lunch and buy knick-knacks!

Back on the road shortly after noon, and I had a lovely meandering ride along the western shore of Lake Almanor as I picked up Highway 89 heading south. The road tightened into what would have been a gloriously serpentine run had it not been for the drawn out construction delays. It was in one of these delays just outside of Quincy that I had one of the most terrifying experiences of the whole trip. With the engine off and the bike on the side stand, I raised the chin-bar of my helmet to get a little more air as I reclined a bit on the seat. I stared ahead at the stopped traffic waiting for the flag person to turn their “STOP” sign to “SLOW” when I caught motion out of my peripheral vision. First, a long spindly antenna waved into view, and then a long leg appeared– I swatted the side of my helmet to see a four-inch flying beetle drop to the road next to me. I barely had time to catch my breath as the aforementioned sign turned, motors started, and traffic slowly started to move. I left the chin-bar up, shifting into second as we made our way into the single-track construction zone. The pace picked up and I lowered the chin bar… and right across the entire view of my closed visor was the giant beetle! I will confess I screamed like a little girl as I batted it away (again). Mercifully, like in space, in your helmet no one can hear you scream (like a little girl).

Fortunately, after that encounter the ride remained blissfully uneventful. Reaching Sierraville I realized that Smitty and my trepidation about the spot as a day’s end destination were justified. It’s not that it’s not a cute little mountain town, it’s just that Cute Little Mountain Towns tend to cater to a particular clientèle, like those who use “antique” as a verb and who own numerous pieces of clothing made of cashmere. So I was grateful to turn right as highway 89 led southwest out of that Cute Little Mountain Town.

Indeed Truckee beckoned, and it wasn’t long until I rolled into the Peter and Marina’s driveway a little sore after a seven hour day in the saddle. I’ll leave the family reunion for the next update.

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.