A Wind Delay and a Basque Dinner

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Twenty-One, Saturday June 23

I’ve packed up, fueled up, checked my tire pressure, re-loaded my grocery supplies, and am ready for a 200 mile sporting run of the Sierra Nevadas.  Yesterday’s survey of Lake Tahoe was lovely, but  a proper motorcycle tour always balances sightseeing with aggressive riding, and I’m looking forward to what I know will be one of the highlights of my summer.

But I'm disappointed to quickly discover that this blustery day is not just going to make for some cold riding.  I’m blown off my line on a 10 mile an hour switchback, and 60 miles into my ride, I already know what I’ll be writing:  200 miles of glorious, twisty road, and I spent the day fighting to keep my Ducati on the pavement. The wind, if anything, is picking up, and I can’t bear the thought of the lost opportunity.  Sporting run postponed, I spend the day holed up along with seemingly every other motorcyclist on the road, catching up on business, instead.  I need to check the weather, and since tomorrow looks promising, line up another night of camping in the area, for Sierra Run Take Two.  I shrug and face reality. I am going to have to traverse the desert again, and I might as well use this lost day to come up with the least painful strategy to do so.   It takes quite a bit of time, checking routes, distances, and weather reports with my slow phone and now well worn maps, but I formulate a plan.  It's almost too good to be true, but the forecast for Death Valley looks shockingly mild for the end of June – barely 100 degrees! – so I opt to avoid some of the boring freeways and cross through the national park instead.  Ironically, I’ll likely be able to cool off in the rain projected to fall in  northern Arizona at about the time I roll into Flagstaff.

While it may have brought a halt to my sporting day, I’ve got inside intel on the Tahoe area, and the wind won’t keep me from my planned dinner destination of JT Basque in Garderville, NV.

I have a passerby take a photo with my phone, so I can email it to friends who I know have shared many lively, convivial repasts here.  It will surely make them smile.




I quickly see the attraction of this place.  While I choose my main course from just a few items, all manner of extras (including wine if I could have indulged) come to the table freely, each one a more delightful surprise than the next.

I’ve ordered rabbit, but first comes bread and a big bowl from which I ladle as much hot soup as I’d like.  Soup is good food.  Especially after my breezy ride.




Now – what’s this? – a beef stew, beans, a green salad, all surprises to me.




Finally my rabbit arrives, with a healthy serving of fries.  Is this all for me?




They must be reading my mind, because after a good meal, I like a little sweet bite.




This isn’t the very best food I’ve ever eaten, but it’s comforting, rustic, and tasty, and the merry, vibrant, genial feel of it all makes this a place I’d like to return to, with a warm circle of friends sharing the bounty of this good table.

I ride back to my home for the evening.  The waves and clouds on Fallen Leaf Lake belie the windy day.




Tonight it’s my turn to be the friendly, helpful camp neighbor. The cheerful trio of campers next to me is not equipped for the cold, and I help them cover the screens and holes in their awkward piecemeal tent with blankets and zip ties. I am rewarded with songs around the camp fire, and a pleasant bedtime snack of wine and s’mores.

Circumnavigation (Lake Tahoe)

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Twenty, Friday June 22

It’s taken over two hours, a walk to the drip coffee bar and barely functional computers at Vicky’s Cyber Cafe, lengthy consultation with my camp hosts, and the shuffling of my possessions across the campground, but I have tent space secured for the next two nights.  Today I’ll be at Tahoe State Recreation Area again, but in a different slot, and tomorrow I’ll move to Fallen Leaf Campground on the south end of the lake.  So while I am not free to change my plans on a whim, I can set aside the worry of where I’ll spend the next few nights, and simply enjoy my activities.  Around the lake I go!

I make my way toward the north end of sparkling, blue Tahoe.  A detour on the far side of King’s Beach has me wandering through wealthy neighborhoods, and as I finally make my way down the steep hill to the main road, my bike makes one brief, loud “clunk.” Hm. Perhaps I was sloppy in shifting?*

It seems wrong not to explore the twisty line on the map called NV 431/Mount Rose Scenic Byway, so I oblige. I chose wisely -  aside from good riding, there’s a fabulous vista of the lake.

Okay, yeah, I cheated and showed you this photo yesterday, but I actually took it today. Love the time warp that is the blogosphere!

I return back down NV 431 and head south on the Lake Tahoe Eastshore Drive National Scenic Byway.  I can see why it’s a candidate for “the most beautiful drive in America, ” and, as is so often the case, I suffer with the ever present question of whether to stop and take photos, or just sit back and enjoy the moment.  I may regret it later, but it seems for so much of this journey, I am choosing the latter.
 

Memorial Point

Crash!  It's physically startling how the majestic beauty of Lake Tahoe is abruptly shattered by the city of South Lake Tahoe, with its traffic and casinos, but it’s not long before I reach Emerald Bay. Inspiration Point is crowded, for good reason.

It’s hard to get the camera to peek through the trees at the lovely view beneath me.

Vikingsholm Castle is down below, but I know if I stop at every point of interest I’ll lose my flow.  There are just too many for one day.

Tahoe’s waters run clear, deep, and dangerously cold.

A short walk on the Rubicon Trail at DL Bliss State Park.

 

Rubicon Lighthouse: While it looks more like an outhouse than anything else, turns out it's the highest lighthouse in the world.

After my two-wheeled circumnavigation is complete, I decide to tackle it on two feet, or at least as much of the 165 mile Tahoe Rim Trail as I can manage before nightfall.

The few miles I do hike through tall trees is pleasant, although not remarkable. Even so, the physical exertion feels fantastic after having butt in seat all day.
 


My short trek may lack wide vistas, but I feel like a Girl Scout while discovering all the interesting items littering the forest floor.  I find these usual large red sprouts…




… and sticky pine cones the size of footballs.


 

After a short time, I reach what may or may not be the Paige Meadow hinted at by the trail markers. In any case, the meadow and the two mile marker feel like a destination, and my stomach is beginning to gently inquire about tonight’s dinner menu, so I turn around.    My discontent of yesterday has long faded, and I’m more than happy to take advantage of the benefits of urban camping tonight, sipping wine, eating pasta, charging my phone, and having light in which to write.
 

Zia Lina.  Pasta with caramelized onion, arugula and sausage.

*Yes, you will be hearing about this again.

Tahoe Arrival! (Grumpy Pants)

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Nineteen, Thursday June 21

I catch my first glimpse of blue from CA 267 and I pump my fist in victory.  I don’t know if it’s from hearing my friend’s close held childhood memories about the area, or the fact that it is a landmark of the west still unknown to me, but I’ve been wanting to ride to Lake Tahoe for years.  At long last, I have arrived! 

This really wasn't my first view, but it felt just as grand!

The fly in the ointment is that I’m rolling in at the start of the weekend and, having been away from reliable internet for too many days, have no camping reservation.  Between my earlier experiences with “Campground Full” signs in CA, and the fact that more than one person raised an eyebrow upon hearing I planned to camp at Tahoe tonight without a reservation, I should feel lucky I’ve nabbed a spot only a few steps from the lake’s edge.  While Tahoe State Recreation Area is not the loveliest of campgrounds, there are countless diversions for me to pass the time between the moment my bike is safely parked before sunset and the time my head hits the stuff sack.    I can have an actual shower for the low, low price of 50 cents, watch the setting sun cast its colors on the mountains across the lake, dabble my feet in the cool waters of the Truckee River, watch ducklings catch a ride on momma’s back, find myself surrounded, at close range, by well over 50 Canada geese, access the 150 mile Tahoe Rim trail, and (how often does this happen?), later tonight, have just about anything I can imagine to eat (and drink!) all a few steps from my tent.  Tonight is a night of urban camping, and although it’s not my usual choice, it can occasionally be a welcome change from a cold granola dinner in the middle of the forest.  And while I enjoy the rhythm of rolling until mid-afternoon and hiking until sundown, tonight, my frustration with my inability to ride at night, usually a background grumble, chooses to surface to the forefront with a ferocity that takes me by surprise.

Mom gives her ducklings a ride in the Truckee River.

To those of you who would say “Oh, just this once” or “It’s only a few miles,” I invite you to squint such that your eyelids are open no more than a atom’s width.  Really.  Got it?   Now, ride your motorcycle (or bicycle, or whatever) just this once, or just for a few miles. What'?  You can only see 10 feet in front of you?  Kind of-sort of-ish?  Now  you get it. Because that’s pretty much what I’m working with. Even deep shade disorients me. After dropping my bike in a familiar but dimly lit parking garage, unable to judge the turn into my space, I now know to stop, plant feet (I have to guess when to actually take my feet off the pegs, because I can’t really judge my speed when I’m coming to a stop), and paddle my way to safety.  Tunnels are no better, and as soon as I enter one, I am floating ten feet above my ride, no longer in contact with the road, or having any understanding of where my body (or motorcycle) is in space.  My eyes cling to the light at the end if I am, indeed lucky enough to be able to see it, or, perhaps, to the brake lights in front of me if there are some.  I am suddenly proverbially and literally religious. If you can now grasp the terror I have at being stranded after nightfall, perhaps now you understand why I opted to grab the first available campsite today, no matter what.  Whenever the topic arises in casual conversation with other riders, they always nod in agreement.  “I never ride at night.”  And then,  “Unless I can’t find a hotel, or I’m out for a late dinner.”   How nice to be able to make exceptions!  For me there are none.  Period.   A few days ago, I met a fellow rider who did, in fact, get it.  “I never ride without a tent.  It’s just too damn terrifying.”  I can’t tell you how validating it was to hear that.  To date, ophthalmologists offer a shrug, but no real assistance. Perhaps my eyes are dry. That is about as ludicrous as offering a starving child in Africa an oyster cracker for lunch.  Or a slight adjustment in my prescription?  Laughable.   “Huh,” the last one said.  “You lose depth perception, too? Interesting.” 

The "Tahoe Gal."

While I generally make peace with this handicap, tonight I can not seem to manage it.  I’m all too aware that while I can enjoy the benefits of my current accommodations, I am practically without free will in choosing them.  My riding plans have me staying in the Tahoe area for three nights, and although I typically dislike the process of campsite “shopping,” today, for a change, I would like to scope out the various campgrounds before selecting one.  Quite simply, I am more than annoyed it’s not an option. In fact, I am so worried about not finding a site I not only pull into the first campground with vacancy, I feel I must grab the first available site without a preliminary survey loop, lest I be punished for my selectiveness. Tomorrow the hunt will begin again, because I am only allowed one night as a walk-in camper at my current location.

I am mad that my inability to ride at night seems to dictate my every move and that, despite the diversions I enjoy, they simply cover up the fact that I am, quite plainly, marooned until sunrise.  I might be in the Garden of Eden, but even so, I'm stuck there.  And if it's a creep-out campground, well I'm stuck there, too.  It’s not unusual for me to ride 400 miles with nothing more than one glove gas stops, (no time to take off the second glove!), to ensure I arrive at my destination in a timely fashion.

I am surrounded on all sides.

 If you've ever seen a goose on the attack, neck poised at a threatening angle, you know to be wary.

 Between my experiences at animal rescues, and the old video of my childhood dog being chased on a slippy slidey frozen pond - well, I know!

Long after nightfall, I look down at my meal at  Rosie’s Cafe and chuckle to myself at the absurdity of my complaint.  I should be here drinking this wine and eating this pizza not because I have to, but because I want to!

Lassen Volcanic National Park

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Eighteen, Wednesday June 20

It may have taken having narrowly escaped both a run in with an axe murderer and/or Bigfoot yesterday and near assault by dinosaurs this morning,  but I am actually glad to be headed away from the ever-mesmerizing Pacific Ocean.

Since I’ve been so cold while riding the last few days, I pass over a recommended bakery and begin my morning with what probably amounts to more calories than I usually eat in an entire day.   The hippy happy Blue Cafe in Arcata provides me a delicious veggie omelet, buttery biscuits, sausage, coffee, juice and… a power outlet.   Stomach and gizmos fully charged!  Go!

The Trinity Scenic Byway doesn’t start off promising, but - twists and turns and hills, oh my! - by the time I get further east, I find what very well  may be the sportiest section of asphalt since my day ride in Marin County.  The hairpins on the downhill slope are laid out before me with nothing to obstruct my view. And despite yesterday’s fun, I am more than ready to lean over the tank and explore the edges of my tires in earnest.  Except I’m moving so slowly I’m forced to carve out serpentines within my lane just to keep off the clutch.  I and at least 50 other cars are following a construction pilot car, creeping along at a painful pace for miles. It’s hot and getting hotter, and I am still wearing my wool riding clothes and electric vest.  By the time I reach Redding, the dash tells me it’s 102 degrees.  Even so, I am handling this weather challenge with much more grace than the cold conditions of two days ago, and I resist removing any layers because I look ahead and see snow.  Lots of it.  I know that within a half hour I will be Up There.

And here is Up There.  “There” being Lassen Volcanic National Park.  I had never even heard of it until I started planning my trip, but after seeing it on the map, I declared it a necessary destination.




I snap a photo of the bike. Why have I taken so few of it, when it's the very point of my trip?  Probably because I can see the real live thing any time I want to.  I already know what it looks like.




Alas, much like at Crater Lake National Park, all the trails at Lassen are still under many feet of snow. I will not be hiking “Bumpass Hell” (so named by Kendall Bumpass who, in 1864, fell into a boiling pool, losing his leg) and viewing interesting hydrothermal features today.   Nor will I be summiting Lassen Peak, viewing Kings Creek Falls, or even learning a bit about the park at any of the Visitor’s Centers, because they are closed.

Instead, I take great joy in my consolation prize – riding back and forth along the twisty scenic bit of CA 89, more of the Volcanic Legacy Scenic Byway, that runs through the park.  One pass for the scenery, another for the corners...




I pull in near my campsite to catch my breath and fill the tank.  This road is good fun and deserves yet another pass.  But something is wrong with the fueling station credit card reader, and the attendant, who is just closing up shop, will not take a cash sale. Looks like I’m marooned until morning.


No matter. I amuse myself by stalking geese…




… and watching the light turn golden on the trees across Manzanita Lake.



Lucky me.  It’s been another good day.

Final View of the Pacific: Bigfoot, Whales, Baby Dinosaurs, and Breaking the Comfort Zone.

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Seventeen, Tuesday June 19

When I first starting cooking up a “some-day” tour of California, a few little grey lines at the tippy top of the state map caught my eye.  There’s nothing overtly special looking about the loop comprised of CA 92, CA 299 and CA 3, no can’t-miss (relatively speaking) destinations along the way, and although grey squiggly lines on any map call out “For a Good Time, Ride Here”, when you’re sitting at your kitchen table in Tucson, AZ, those particular routes just seem so… far away. Exotic, even.

It must have been a good instinct, because an 89 mile stretch of CA 92 is also known as the Bigfoot Scenic Byway. How could you not ride the road that “takes you through the region boasting the most sightings of Bigfoot of anywhere in the country?”

So, after coffee, scones, conversation with yet more generous camp neighbors, and a little canine playtime with their German Shorthair Pointer, I leave Joseph Stewart State Recreation Area in Oregon, and head that direction.  If I told you CA 92 was a fearsome test of cornering skills, I’d be lying.  But even the humble corner is made to be enjoyed, and I’m having a party on the asphalt, with a pirouette here and high kick there, ho ho**... I’m on my way!  No wind or fog, no rain nor bitter cold, no black-as-night redwood shade,  distracting world class views (although the Klamath River is simply lovely) or must stop destinations keep me from my appointed rounds.  I’m riding in that perfect place, brushing the very outer edge of my comfort zone and life is simply grand.

The day brings me another gift!  The Salmon River Outpost in Somes Bar stocks not just the usual ice cream sandwiches, but fresh organic fruit and espresso as well.




I haven’t really decided where I’ll be staying tonight, which is unusual for me.  Evidently there are whales to be seen at the mouth of the Klamath River, but I missed that opportunity a few days ago. Plus, in a desperate search for fuel, I skipped the Newton B. Drury Scenic Parkway through the Redwoods on that same day.  Although I’ll be taking a chance at finding a camping spot if I head back in that direction now, It Makes Sense At The Time to do so anyway.  Besides, after my last few short days of riding, I’m in the mood to put some miles behind me today.

So after my snack I take a 140 mile detour to the Klamath River Overlook, back at Del Norte Coast Redwoods State Park. The viewpoint turn off doesn’t feel like an official park road, and I’m starting to wonder exactly where I’m going. The road is becoming alarmingly narrower and steeper the further I go, and I’m having very clear visions of having to stop to turn around, finding myself in a situation where I can’t reach the ground, and consequently having to pick up my loaded bike on a blind hill.  Yep. I do indeed miss the parking area.  Instead of continuing on, hoping to find a place to safely if not comfortably turn around, I chicken out  and gingerly balance and tippy toe my heavy-to-me bike backwards down the steep hill. I am, admittedly, rather terrified if not in a life-threatening sort of way, then definitely in a don’t-want-to-drop-much-less-have-to-pick-up-my-pretty-motorcycle sort of way. But I manage my awkward, wimpy maneuver, and, even better, no one sees me do it. Hah!

Although you can’t see them, there are, indeed, whales down there.  In fact, I could hardly see them.  "They look like ants!"  - errr, minnows, maybe, I'm so high over the sea.   I stare at a rock for a long time before deciding it’s not a whale.  But I do see a few and they delight me to no end.




I’m having another bone chilling moment in a very windy place, so I eventually need to move on. Plus, there is the pesky matter of still not having a place to stake my tent.  It’s getting late, and for the third time today, I’m stretching my comfort zone, although this time it’s not in the fun way.

I head south, towards CA 299, my starting line for tomorrow, and begin the hunt for a campsite.  They are full, full, and fuller.  It’s getting late, late, and later.  Seemed Like A Good Idea at the Time, eh?  By the time I pull into Big Lagoon County Park, I know I’ll be camping there whether there’s a space for me or not, and I’m already working out a pathetic “but I can’t ride at night” plea, should I need to deliver it to a stony faced camp host. I’ve simply run out of daylight, and I really can’t safely ride even another mile.

It’s not comforting to spend the night in a place that has the distinct menacing vibe of a suspense psychothriller.  But if you’ve got night vision problems like mine,  and Door Number One offers possibly getting slashed and murdered, while Door Number Two offers definitely crashing, definitely wrecking your pretty Ducati, and possibly sustaining serious injury and/or dying, you will stride steadfastly and confidently through the former portal, without so much as even knocking. The campground is threatening in the creepiest of can’t-quite-figure-out-why ways.  The usual signage is absent, and I’m having trouble determining if the space I’ve claimed is actually an official site or not. The host seems to have abandoned his post, and other campers are walking around looking a bit dazed and confused. The washrooms are locked and campers are expected to make use of a couple of soiled and overflowing porto-lets instead.  There’s not much to do, and it’s getting dark fast.  If I build my tent quickly enough and hide within, perhaps the axe-murderer (or - eep! - Sasquatch!) will pick on someone else.  I turn on my little emergency GPS transponder thingy.  You know.  Just in case.  A few moments later another motorcyclist rolls by and stops to chat.  I don’t bother to hide my relief, and, honestly, neither does he.  We are Motorcyclists, and We Are In This Together.  He can’t quite figure out the sketchy scene either, and invites me to share his spot.  Since I’m already set up, I decline (gasp!  maybe he’s the axe-murderer?), but I do take him up on his offer to share his campfire for a stretch.  (Campfire?  Axe-murderer or not, I’m IN!)  Turns out he’s not an escaped criminal (as far as I can tell, but who can really know these things?), but “NolaNomad,” a Super Duke riding chef, on his very last day of a five week motorcycle tour of Colorado.  We have an enjoyable evening discussing the finer points of the culinary uses for fennel pollen (Gah!  Why did I not collect some on the Channel Islands earlier??), camping hammocks (he has one hanging up – very cool, but I would freeze), and, of course, motorcycles.

It’s early morning and I’m awake, happy to discover that I have not been slashed by an axe murderer or carried away by BigFoot overnight.   But I realize the sound that brought me to premature consciousness is a loud chorus of what can only be baby dinosaurs.***  With this level of noise, there must be an awful lot of them and they’re right next to my tent.  And although I went to bed thinking anything could happen in this creepy place, assault by baby dinosaurs is not one of the potential hazards that came to mind.

I blow a hasty kiss goodbye to the Pacific, as it shall be the last time I see her on this trip, and flee to the mountains.

*I can’t help myself. Thanks again, Sausage Creature.
** Turns out, I'd see the same grey whales, at a different point in their migration a few years later in Baja.
*** Not really.  Turns out I was sleeping right next to a cormorant rookery.  I poked around a bit out of curiosity, but wasn’t going to disturb the demarcated area.  I couldn’t see them, but for a few early risers flying overhead, but – wow! - what a sound!  Fascinating.

Oysters and Redwoods

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Fourteen, Saturday June 16

My morning  begins in the company of friendly camp neighbors.  Pancakes and coffee (in a cup with an automated push button stir feature!) appear before me and I, traveling sans camp stove of any sort,  am not too shy to enjoy their kind generosity. Although they’re not riding now, they’re motorcyclists, too, so we have much to discuss.

As pleasant as the company and hot breakfast may be, I do eventually break camp and leave the lovely McKerricher State Park.  In a happy Eating on Two Wheels coincidence,  I’ll be passing through Arcata, CA on the very day of their annual Oyster Festival.

The festival is One Seriously Big Win, and I’m not the only one that thinks so.




The lines for oysters and beer are long, and it’s disappointing to have to abstain from the beer, but while waiting, I have plenty of time to ponder my choices and discuss their merits with others. I’m surprised when the couple in line behind me offer to purchase my motorcycle jacket.  I guess I’m not the only rider that has difficulty finding small sizes.  I decline.  I’m sort of using it, yanno?

Oysters are lightly barbecued around these parts.  There must be a hundred grills in action.






The “Cypress Grove Truffle Tremor” oysters are sold out, so I give the candied bacon ones a try. Smokey and delicious, with a sweet salty kick, but in the end, the spicy garlicky* ones are my favorites.




I’ve spent a few hours sampling before I head, once again, north.  I want to arrive at Del Norte Coast Redwood State Park** in time to hike amongst the trees.  And when I do arrive, it’s with a brief moment of confusion. It seems my motorcycle has arrived ahead of me!  Right next to my assigned spot, I see a red Ducati 696, nearly identical to my own. I’ve seen plenty of bikes at campgrounds, but this is the first Ducati street bike I’ve seen, other than my own.  Turns out, it belongs to Alec, another friendly camp neighbor, who has not just a motorcycle with him, but a small camper loaded down with countless toys - canoes, bicycles, and a space for his Ducati. He’s just acquired the bike, and before I’m even unloaded, he’s visiting, eager to investigate my luggage system, taking photos of every detail.  I am so proud!





The desert dweller in me can’t believe my campsite looks like this:




I carry my gear up a few darling wooden steps to my perch within the lush growth and set up camp. As I had hoped, I have time for some hiking.   Oh, the lively greenness of it all!



Moss…




… and slugs…




…and ferns…




…not to mention the preposterously tall trees. I’m a long way from the  Mojave Desert!



Like most days on this trip, I’ve not ridden nearly as far in one day as I typically do when touring.  In California, it turns out, the points of interest are just too close together for me to cover even 300 miles most days.  It’s not a bad problem to have, but it’s certainly different.  Despite the leisurely pace, I’m tired, and find myself at a fireside campground talk to keep myself awake until nightfall.  It’s enjoyable, so why not?

Tomorrow – Oregon!

* Not surprising, because I put raw garlic and chile flakes on nearly everything I eat.
** Redwood National Park, Del Norte Coast Redwoods, Jedediah Smith Redwoods, and Prairie Creek Redwoods are contiguous and all fall under the joint jurisdiction of the National Park Service and California State Parks. So much to see in just one small area.  *sigh*  I’ve barely scratched the surface.

Back in the Saddle*: More glory on the Pacific Coast Highway (Mendocino and McKerricher State Park)

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Thirteen, Friday June 15

Funny, I think of San Francisco as northern California, but if you look at the map, it isn’t at all.  It’s hardly past the half way point up the coast, really, so – what luck! - there’s plenty more of the state left to see.

After a two day sabbatical from my sort-of-sabbatical, it feels good to be riding again.  Disappointingly, but not surprisingly, I don’t have the glorious open roads I had earlier, when I retrace my path north of the Golden Gate Bridge.  But as I continue away from the city, the traffic eventually thins out, while the pavement remains smooth and ever-twisty.   Even so, I find myself thinking something I’ve never thought before or since:  I almost don’t mind being stuck behind this RV, it’s that beautiful (the view, not the RV).   And then I have another thought, a terrible and terrifying thought:  The rest of my trip - no way, no how can it possibly measure up.    With more than a little sadness,  I brace myself for disappointment, and make a special point to savor what remains of the painfully beautiful California coast I've come to adore.

Are you tired of the Pacific Coast Highway yet?  Clearly, I am not.  As I wind my way ever northward, the ocean view slowly shifts into something more cozy, rustic, and rugged with a misty feeling even though the sky is clear, recalling a Folger’s coffee advertisement backdrop, perhaps, with less of the sparkly almost gaudy Hollywood blingy-blue green of my more southerly exploration.  But it’s getting cold, too, and, in a bizarre break with my character, I’ve yet to reach for my electric vest.   I quickly realize that by the time I reach Mendocino, there’s a very good chance I will simply fall over when I try to put my feet down as I come to a stop.  I am that unsure I’ll be able to move at all.  When I do arrive, I don’t fall over, but I can barely make the left hand turn into town towards the gas station, because I can’t move my arms.  A BMW rider passes me impatiently as I try to do so, and I wonder what he must think I’m doing.  A moment later we find ourselves at the same pump, paying  nearly $6/gallon for gas.  He makes a funny comment,  but I don’t even care about the price.  I’m freezing, and hungry and need to stop.  Besides, Mendocino is beautiful and I have a special point of interest here to visit.

Here’s the Kelley House Museum.  Remember my host in San Francisco?  Her name is Kelley.  No, not Kelly, but Kelley.  It’s also her mom’s maiden name.  And no, it’s not a coincidence.  The museum is closed by the time I arrive, but I have fun peering in the windows.




After a bowl of blessedly warm and caloric but not particularly delicious angel hair with tomato basil cream sauce at “A Cultured Affair,” I head to the water.  It makes for a nice backdrop for the flowers everywhere and I lazily dabble around a bit, enjoying the peaceful landscape while waiting for the pasta to raise my core body temp and blood glucose levels before continuing on my way.






Even though the population density is thinning out, campgrounds are still full and I had only one option when I made a reservation a few days ago.  But the West Pine Campground at MacKerricher State Park is everything the Lake Casitas Campground was not.  Such a diversity of beauty!  Tall pines create a feeling of quiet and privacy at each site, but a few steps away lie rolling dunes covered in interesting plant life. Beyond, the frothy sea.
 


I continue down the beach, looking here and there, and I nearly trip over a sea lion.  Pardon me!
 


There’s tidal lagoon Cleone Lake to explore, and the trail and boardwalk around it takes me deep into those trees you see at the far side.  It’s a Central American jungle back there, dense with enormous and unrecognizable brilliantly green plants having leaves so preposterously big they might double as a kayak and float me across the lake, up to the distant floating mats of pink flowers that are too far away to photograph.  Such a bizarre contrast to the simple blustery coastline only a few steps away!



The surf is up at Laguna Point, and I’m captivated by the crashing waves, but I have no real luck in preserving the excitement on camera.  Too late, I notice my SD card is full, and the other is by now a mile or two behind me, in the Ducati top box.    I’m mesmerized by the surf, and it’s not hard to believe the signs describing the potential for dangerous rogue waves. “Never turn your back on the ocean!”  “Stay back and stay alive!”






Back in my tent, consciousness ebbs into slumber as I listen to the roiling sea.

* I started this post months ago.  Funny that my “Back in the Saddle” post should appear after my unexpected blog hiatus.

Napa and Sonoma on Four Wheels

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Twelve, Thursday June 14

It’s an Eating on Two Wheels dream of mine to ride to (and eat at) the French Laundry in Napa Valley.  And although I’m darn close to attaining it, today I’m going to Napa in a car and roaming around the French Laundry produce gardens instead.  I want to spend some time with my friend and perhaps taste a bit of wine (both of which require a car), plus it seems one needs to reserve a table at Thomas Keller’s three star restaurant months in advance. Shrug.  C'est la vie.

Not surprisingly, the vistas are rolling and vine covered.




The French Laundry gardens are full of produce (and chickens!) of all sorts.  Artichokes plants, related to thistles, seem an improbable food source.  I'm glad someone thought otherwise.




Bouchon Bakery, another Thomas Keller venture, doesn’t require any advance planning.  Time for our first culinary tasting!  For the second day in a row, I find myself at an extraordinary bakery, and have a difficult decision to make.   Likely I can’t go wrong.
 


The Ham and Cheese on Baguette (not shown) and a lemon tart both score well.
 


We’re thirsty, and Etude Winery calls us, if for no other reason than its musical name.  The enormous black and white photographs of the property displayed in the tasting room are simply spectacular - much more so than the palatable but not amazing wine, although I admit we didn't spring for the reserve tasting.   The real point of interest is the property's history.  It was once a brandy distillery connected to the Remy Martin name, and when it was purchased by the Etude folks, a number of fine barrels of aged liquid gold were included in the transaction.  So if the wine doesn't please, you can bring home a bottle of pinot noir or blended brandy instead.

Helmet hair sans helmet.  Hmmph.  I'm going to have to start going through the strenuous routine of actually combing my hair if I'm going to include photos of myself.

 


The surprise hit of the day: A fried oyster Po’ Boy at the funky retro Fremont Diner in Sonoma.  Fantabulous.




Evidently one can eat well in wine country, even without a table at the French Laundry.  But happy taste buds aside, two days out of the saddle is plenty.  Tomorrow it’s time to get back on the bike.