I hadn’t expected the always-welcome opportunity to hang out with family on this trip, but I also didn’t expect to be riding this trip myself. I was happy to catch up with Peter and Marina, as well as my sister, Jenny, and her husband, Torben. Shortly after arriving, Peter and Marina’s oldest, Mathias conscripted me to play Legos with him, followed by water gun fights, and more Legos. Hey, works for me! The next morning Peter and Marina were hosting a small horde to celebrate their youngest’s, Soren’s, first birthday. Determined not to get in their way and also to get a jump on what would be another long day riding, I headed out fairly early.

Already in a nostalgic mood after hanging out with family, the next hour or so doubled down. Truckee and Tahoe have been frequent vacation destinations of my family since before I could remember – particularly King’s Beach and Incline Village. GG’s route was predictable, and one I’d traveled so many times before – Highway 267 out of Truckee right into King’s Beach right on the always-stunning Lake Tahoe. Somewhere between crossing the King’s Beach city limits and passing the turn offs for Speckled Street and Dolly Varden Avenue (sites of long-ago family vacations) I developed a major lump in my throat. Moments later I turned onto North Lake Boulevard (Highway 28) and passed Jason’s Beachside Grille and Coon Street, so fraught with memories… I’m not ashamed to report that tears don’t fall far behind a full-face helmet.

And that was just the beginning – the shuttered Cal-Neva at state line, and into Incline Village. Part of me – the masochistic side – wanted me to drive by the golf course where my dad played his last rounds of golf. Not this day. Time to make some new memories. I stayed on 28… and immediately hit my first construction delay of the day.

Soon enough I picked up Highway 50 on the eastern side of the lake and left the azure waters and tangled emotions behind, cresting the Carson Range at Spooner Summit before twisting down into Carson City. Maybe some day I’d plan a trip just to come back and revisit the memories I have encircling the lake. Today, though, I had a date with one of my favorite thoroughfares in the West: highway 395.

If you’re not familiar with highway 395 or if you are and wonder why a major interstate would make my Favorite Roads list, it’s not the road itself, but what the road passes through. Beginning east of Los Angeles, 395 traces its way north along the eastern edge of the Sierra mountains – this was my introduction to 395, picking it up next to the towering wall of mountains before turning off for Death Valley a few years ago. But, seriously, that’s the whole thing – Death Valley, Owen’s lakebed, Manzanar, Devil’s Postpile National Monument, the Ancient Bristlecone Pine forest, Bodie, and the list goes on. You have to venture off 395 to see these things, but 395 is the spine connecting them all. North of where I picked it up in Carson City, it continues on into the desert of eastern Oregon and up into Washington. This isn’t a Pacific Coast Highway kind of beauty. No, the word that comes to mind most is “desolate.” But there’s harsh beauty, heartbreaking history, and vistas that leave you breathless. That is, if you’re willing to look. Despite the dozens of pins I’ve dropped alongside the highway on my Google map, this was only the second time I’ve traveled on it.

And, in truth, out of Carson City 395 failed to instill the awe it did when I rode past the sand dunes on my left and Joshua trees on my right much further south. But then the Carson City suburbs faded away and soon enough I was tracking along Topaz Lake, with the mountains tightening in on either side and I was back in love with 395 again. The road followed the narrow river valley carved by the Walker River, and I had to pull into a vista area to marvel at the white water coursing next to the road. Fueled by the snow melt after a record-breaking snowfall, I walked the short interpretive trail explaining the geology, hydrology, and history of the river valley. That’s when the thunder started – not the weather kind, but the sound of two dozen Harleys pulling into the small rest stop. One of the riders (from the Modesto Harley’s Owners Group) told me they had come over Sonora pass on their way to spend the night at Topaz Lake. I wished them well as I headed south again.

I passed the turn off to Sonora Pass – highway 108 – without missing a beat, but a little further up I had to seriously rein in my wanderlust. Just north of Mono Lake and my turn off there’s the eastern turn off for highway 270 that leads to the ghost town of Bodie. If you don’t know about Bodie, read up on it. I visited once with my family when I was too young to appreciate it, and it has held my imagination since. Now I was just 28 miles away and the motorcycle pulled as if drawn magnetically towards the turn lane to highway 270. However, I fought the boy in me because I knew that it was more than 28 miles, as the last third of the road is washboard dirt. I didn’t have time, not today. But I’ll be back – after all, it’s on my bucket list.

Highway 395 descends precipitously towards the north end of Mono Lake and its tufa moonscape. Truth be told, the most stunning tufas (limestone deposits that bubbled up and solidified out of geothermal activity) lay further south than I would travel – chalk that up for another day. I did stop at the visitor’s center, taking in the view and interpretive center. I was disappointed that I wasn’t able to procure a “Save Mono Lake” bumper sticker from their gift shop – a slogan familiar to any California child of the 80’s.

Even though the high Tioga pass beckoned, I was famished and in need of gas (having last filled up my enormous tank in Quincy the day before), so I made my way into Lee Vining. After a lazy lunch at Bodie Mike’s and some overpriced petrol, I turned onto Highway 120 towards Yosemite. I’ve  mentioned before how Smith and I had kept an eye on the plow logs for Lassen National Park, we were also keeping an eye on the opening of Tioga pass. Just days before we left we’d amended our route to follow a much more circuitous route into Yosemite resigning ourselves to the fact that, like Lassen, Tioga wouldn’t open in time for us.

In its second-latest opening in recent memory, the road had been cleared and open to traffic just a week earlier. As the road switch backed up 3000 feet to the 9,943 foot summit. The scenery became as dramatic and extreme as the climb. The high 90’s of Lee Vining gave way to lovely 60s and the trees thinned and finally disappeared as we approached the high timberline. Impromptu waterfalls flowed down the steep mountainside as the last of the snow gave way to summer heat. I stopped at one point to take a picture of a roadside waterfall below a gnarled whitebark pine.

At the summit I passed through the Yosemite East Gate and had to stop a few miles later to take pictures of the gorgeous sub-alpine Tuolumne meadows surrounded by the granite domes that characterize the area. I found a perfect cluster of lodgepole pines shading an exposed smooth granite boulder and spent some quality time listening to the wind and watching the shadows cast by the occasional high cloud track across the surrounding rock faces.

Checking my watch and the GPS, my destination for the night loomed surprisingly distant. While the climb from Lee Vining to Tioga Pass transpires in a short, steep run, the descent from the meadows down into the park (and back out, as I was heading) meandered its way through forests and along lakes. Beautiful, certainly, but stuck behind a never-ending string of SUVs and campers with the temperature rising as the elevation dropped, I found myself getting increasingly frustrated. Eventually highway 120 turns into Big Oak Flat Road and a fair number of our convoy turned off to stay in the park. We finally exited the park and left the painfully slow speed limit behind, though the bus leading our long line of cars didn’t choose to heed the higher speed. Fortunately, the road swept gracefully around a curve, straightened, and the double yellow center line turned to single dashes. I dropped two gears, opened the throttle wide, and the bus (and trailing cars) were behind me. Hallelujah!

The only firm place Smitty had booked ahead of time was the  Buck Meadows Lodge, predicting – wisely – that in the height of tourist season places in the general vicinity of Yosemite would fill up fast. And he was right – as I pulled up to the office, they prominently displayed a sign reading, “We’re all booked!” The place had a lot going for it – right on highway 120, Buck Meadows Lodge shares amenities (pool!) with its sibling property next door (the more motel-looking Yosemite Westgate Lodge), a bustling restaurant attached, and it was the closest lodging to the west Yosemite gate that didn’t require at least a two day minimum. Unfortunately for Smitty, they also had a pay-ahead, no-cancellation policy. Smitty was kind enough to explain the situation to the

front desk ahead of my arrival, so when I finally climbed off my bike in the 100 degree heat, the woman at the counter knew what was going on and pointed me to my room. Well, not a room – it was an adorable detached small cabin! I will say that cabin was fantastic – cozy, but very well set up with a mini-fridge and microwave. I point this out because when I turned the bike off in front of the cabin I cared about only three basic things: 1) functioning air conditioning (check), 2) drinkable water (right outside of Yosemite? Seriously? Check) and 3) a shower. No sooner did I get inside did I immediately climb out of my sweat-drenched gear and gratefully stand beneath the shower on full-cold. Several hours passed beneath that shower head… Okay, it felt that way at least. I got out and did my best to re-hydrate before throwing on fresh shorts, a clean shirt and heading to the restaurant.

stepping inside the door, I immediately appreciated the industrial-grade air conditioning lowering

the ambient temperature inside to blissfully cool levels. Myriad families and couples occupied the small dining room and I didn’t immediately spot a vacant table for me, but I did see the bar to my left completely deserted. The hostess confirmed I could order food in there, and within moments I’d placed an order for a slab of red meat and the bartender was pulling a giant frosted goblet of Fat Tire Ale on draught. As I waited for my dinner, I noticed the over-enthusiastic AC was actually creating small waves across the the surface of my beer. As I sat there beneath the stuffed torso of a black bear with my giant beer, I thought back on a day that began in Truckee, traveled along a resplendent  Lake Tahoe, down 395 only to cross the nearly 10,000 foot Tioga pass The bartender asked,”Everything okay?”

I took a sip of the cold beer (from the placid, non-wave-tossed side of the goblet) and responded, “Right this second, I don’t think there’s a happier person on earth.”

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.