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.

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.

Turning Inland (Crater Lake National Park)

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Sixteen, Monday June 18

I wake up to a vaguely familiar sound I can’t immediately identify… Rain! Make lemonade, They say, and since it’s a rare treat for me to luxuriate in the cozy soundscape of a rain shower, I make no hurry to climb out of my pillowy-billowy goose down cocoon.  I’m not concerned about the delay, since, as is so often the case in this land so dense with must-see-ums, today’s planned destination is only a 200 mile hop away.  My little rain shower is an especially friendly one, because it graciously moves off after a short while, allowing me to stay dry when breaking camp.

What Mother Nature hast giveth, She now taketh away.  My happy rain shower is back, and it’s indubitably icy cold as I head east.  But a sunny window opens briefly over the Rogue-Umpqua Scenic Byway, revealing a startling variety of shades of green.  This is no camera trick!




By the time I reach Diamond Lake, the weather is simply Siberian.  The only options around for food and fuel are at the Diamond Lake Resort* so I stop at the Cafe to stoke the metabolic fires.  The place is packed with hungry and cold fishermen, seeking shelter and clutching cups of steaming coffee while contemplating the icy looking waves on the lake.  It’s a good strategy for the moment, and I’m happy to join them, even if my burger isn’t a memorable one, and the restaurant itself is drafty and cold. I fill up and have so much coffee that I start asking for decaf, but no amount of food and hot drink will nudge my core temperature into the normal operating range.  I’m thoroughly chilled and I simply can’t shake it. But I have things to see and trails to hike, so I move on.

It’s not any warmer at Crater Lake National Park.  In fact, much of it is under 15 feet of snow, some of which fell yesterday. I’ve yet to pack snowshoes on my motorcycle**, so it appears I won’t be spending the rest of my day exploring the area on foot.  Even riding around the lake is out, since the East Rim Drive hasn’t even been plowed yet.  But this doesn’t mean it isn’t spectacular, and though I must briefly detach from my electric vest life line in order to do so, I can’t pass by the Watchman Overlook without dismounting and gawking with chattering teeth.
 


It takes some grit to convince my frozen arms to push the bars left and right hard enough to have a good sporting run, but the show must go on, ho, ho,*** and the road down to the campground, my final stretch of the Volcanic Legacy Scenic Byway for the day, is a short but serpentine delight.  The campground is at a lower elevation than the lake viewpoints, but a little math reveals that waking up to freezing rain is a very real possibility.  I have no desire to test my two tires on ice in the morning, no, no, so I head down 40 more miles to even lower and blessedly warmer territory.  The ride takes me through a fairyland of tall evergreens, almost certainly the stateside home of Hansel and Gretel, and on to Joseph Stewart State Recreation Area, for an amble by the Rogue River and its Lost Creek Reservoir and pleasant conversation with the friendly campground hosts.

Rain, cold, and an unsatisfying lunch, but all on two wheels.  And though I don’t consider my day a bad one at all, motorcyclists aren’t lying when they say a bad day on two wheels is better than a good day anywhere else.  I return to my plush cocoon and look forward to the morning, no matter what weather the day may bring.

*The word resort is a generous one, at least by my definition.  Think grill, old school gas station, and and simple cabins.  Not a complaint, just an observation and disclosure.
** Although I plan to this winter.  And I like to think I’ll write about it, too.
*** In tribute to Hunter S. Thompson’s Sausage Creature.

Li’l Burro’s First Camping Trip (Gila Box RNCA and Black Hills Back Country Byway)

Almost exactly a year to the day after the Ducati’s first camping trip, the Yamaha (with joyous bray) and I (still comically overdressed in my Alpinestar Stella Bat Pants complete with knee sliders, fully zipped to my Motoport Kevlar Monroe track approved jacket) lit off for Li’l Burro’s inaugural overnight journey.  Indicative of another unexplored corner of familiar territory, the signs for Gila Box Riparian National Conservation Area and the Black Hills Back Country Byway have often piqued my curiosity, and I knew that my sturdy XT225 and I (or one of us, anyway) were up to the task of more practice on unpaved terrain.

Here’s the Yamaha first draft packing system.  My new top rack arrived, predictably, just as I put on my helmet for departure, and a top box still needs to be acquired, but I managed to carry what I needed with my new saddle bags and go-to tail bag.

Arrival!

Despite its loose surfaces (from my perspective, anyway), hills and switchbacks, the Black Hills Back Country Byway is still, you know, a road, and therefore a not too terribly challenging 21 mile journey from Solomon to Clifton, AZ.   The perfect path in my battle with my long held pathological fear of ground that moves beneath my tires! I toddled along, as a novice does, mostly in 2nd gear, occasionally exploring the environs of 3rd, and, in a few areas, approaching the fearsome and highly illegal speed of 30mph (indicated).*  If it had been at the starting line, I may have even beaten my grandfather’s old red riding lawn tractor by a nose.

We start down here...

... and go up...

 

... and up some more, before coming back down to the river.  Off in the distance,  Eagle Creek Canyon.

 
 
Before my return trip, I seek my reward.  Except it wasn’t.  This dish, from PJ’s Family Restaurant, reminded me why, for so long, I thought I didn’t like Mexican food.  Grey, wholly unseasoned beef, wrapped in flabby tortillas, topped with a lifeless sauce, served with beans having a surface like the dry cracked desert floor of Death Valley just didn’t do the trick.  I choked some of it down anyway, it being, basically, a matter of survival.  Serves me right for not opting for the camping standard  bacon cheese burger.  The first meal I had when I got home was chosen specifically to erase the memory.  Enchiladas of slow cooked chipotle pinto beans and freshly grilled nopalitos, inside my homemade tortillas and smothered with my favorite recipe red chile sauce.  Oh, wait, I do like Mexican food! 
 

Blech!

The burro, cooling its heels in the flowers outside my window.

The Gila Box Riparian National Conservation Area is a cooling, trickling, burbling, thirst quenching desert sanctuary, and I find myself disappointed that my photographs don’t really evoke the miraculousness of coming across such a place after riding 150 miles across the parched and seemingly-barren desert.  It shouldn’t be surprising to discover the concentration of wildlife in these precious areas, but it’s still an amazing phenomenon to witness.  Alas, with a camera that shoots a whopping 1.1 frames per second, my time is better spent enjoying the wildlife rather than trying to photograph it.

A sight for sore (and hot, and thirsty) eyes: first glimpse of the Gila River from the Gila Box RNCA West Entrance.

A century or so ago, Arizona was criss-crossed with these lovely life giving riparian scenes but now, while we still have the rivers, they just don't have any water in them!  The conservation area has four perennial waterways within its boundries - the Gila, Bonita Creek, the San Francisco and Eagle Creek.  That's no small thing around here.

 

The cliffs of the "Gila Box" are formed from "Gila Conglomerate."  Now I understand why it's so darn hard to sink a tent stake into the ground here!

All manner of birds I can't name live here (plus a few that I can - vermillion flycatchers, green herons, great blue herons, red-tailed hawks and lots of talkative finchy looking things), several types of actual fish live in the rivers (a really weird concept, if you're from Arizona) and, not surprisingly, hosts of grazing beasts and predators big and small find the area a happy hunting ground.

There could not be a more pleasant place to watch hawks circle like a gang of GXSRs in a Circle K parking lot: Bonita Springs Watchable Wildlife Area

  

Cool respite near Serna Cabin.

 

“Scary Hill!,” I, as a moto-passenger, have deemed them, either singing or screeching (depending) from the back seat.  Yep, even though you can see the lip of this particular hill is, mercifully,  paved, most were not.   My inexperienced technique?  Lean back and raise a toast to the principles of engine braking.

19% grade!  I am Not Making This Up.

One has to be content to let this place slowly reveal itself.  The Cottonwood Trail loops around to many interesting sites, but one would never know that if one started from the campground.

Trail?  What Trail?  Where does it go?  How long is it?  Is it a loop?  Do I have time before sunset? It's not in my personality make-up to not ask these things, and I had to consciously tell myself to shut up and walk.

Here’s an attempt at shooting blind while using a packing strap as a make-shift camera tri-pod.  Not bad, but not especially good, either. Still, I think you can see it was a lovely night, and I enjoyed the stars and the squeak and scratch of the desert critters’ serenade.
 

Li'l Burro under the stars.

Meanwhile, in the paddock, the Ducati is impatiently stomping her dainty little hooves.  A great quantity of quality time is coming soon…

* The posted speed limit for the byway is 15mph. And a good motorcyclist will always admit that, due to a quirk in motorcycle-speedometry, the indicated speed always reads slightly faster than one’s actual speed.

NM Reprise (Ode to AZ 78 a.k.a. the Curley Traynor Memorial Highway)

Small state parks aren’t necessarily my favorite places, with their trash cans, eau-dor de toilettes, and premium camping fees, but, as you saw in my last post, I find myself plunking down my tent at these very sites with some regularity.  Having to make a point to dismount well before sunset, I do enjoy the little amusements they offer within walking distance of my home-away-from-home.  A short hike, wildlife viewing, a swim, or soak in a natural hot spring is a fine way to stretch out and pass the time between my safely-before-sundown-arrival and the point at which I relinquish and burrow into my enormous down sleeping bag.  So, for my first “weekend” (actual day of week not withstanding) since early January, I found myself at Roper Lake State Park yet again.  Its location near so many wonderful roads makes it an obvious choice*, and what’s not to like about riding your Ducati by day, and testing out your new Ducati bikini (thanks, Santa!) in the hot springs by night?

I was feeling rather lazy, by camping standards, so instead of moving on to a new site each night as I usually do, I pitched my tent only once, and returned to the same location each evening.  Oh, languid luxury!  Since I absolutely, positively needed a repeat of NM 152 (last seen on my foliage ride in October 2011), this arrangement meant I needed to go to Hillsboro and back in one day.  You might remember that last time the ride there** took me seven or eight hours, so I pared it down to the essentials.  AZ 191, AZ 78, NM 180, NM 152, Hillsboro for lunch, then straight back the way I came.  Even so, I had 350 miles to cover, much of it sporty and twisty.  So much for languid luxury, but I wasn’t complaining.  Bring it!

I opened the door to the Hillsboro General Store & Country Cafe with its customary jangle, and there he was!  Embree!  I’m not sure whose eyes lit up quicker, but we recognized each other on the spot.  After a bear hung greeting, I enjoyed my repast (this time a cheeseburger and fries – an inalienable right when motorcycle touring) with non other then Embree Hale, Petroglyph Hunter extraordinaire, who I met in this very cafe last October.

For someone who is full of smiles and laughter, he sure takes a serious portrait.

 



We discussed the finer points of various wild west lost treasure stories, the location of a few of the thousands of petroglyphs he’s photographed to date, and marveled at our good fortune, having met again by pure coincidence.

A beautifully ornate turquoise and silver watch.  I can’t think of a better place for it than Embree’s wrist.

I was sure I would repeat the “up and back” method the next day on AZ 191, or perhaps a loop going up 191 and back down a more northerly portion of NM 180.  So I was surprised to wake up and find my bike pointed in a different direction.  What, no moto-bliss of AZ 191?  Headed west, instead, out into the straight away nothingness that is AZ 70?  Motorcycle camping demands a spirit of exploration, and I knew the Coronado Scenic Byway (now AZ 191 but once known as Rte 666 “The Devil’s Trail,” perhaps for good reason) to be a gravel fest this time of year, so I decided to investigate the tiny strip of gray around San Carlos Lake, Indian Route 3, that morning, and then see what the afternoon would bring.  Well, I’m here to tell you that just because the map legend informs you that a thin gray line is indeed a paved road, it does not mean it’s an appropriate place for your racing rims and sport suspension.  Ouch.  Lovely scenery, but the bumpity bump bump for 40 long miles brought to mind the stern admonishments of the Ducati dealer advising me to treat my Marchesini rims with love and tenderness, and the guilt I bear from trashing both my bicycle rims commuting on the city streets of Tucson.  Evidently, “paved” is open to interpretation and can also mean dirt, sand, gravel, and (mostly) vast stretches of pot holes lacking any safe zones of asphalt whatsoever to balance upon to circumvent said potholes.  I’ll say it again.  Ouch.  (See Update Footnote!)

San Carlos Lake is formed by the Coolidge Dam.  It was completed in 1930, an age when, it seems, beautiful architectural details were still the norm.

The Gila river as it leaves Coolidge Dam

More architectural whimsy

Pairs of lamps grace each entrance as IR 3 passes over the dam.  The place was utterly deserted.  How many people actually see these lovely details?

San Carlos Lake, as seen from the faraway and desolate land of unending jarring potholes known as IR-3.

As a reward for a job well done despite the circumstances, the Ducati got a long drink of premium unleaded and I enjoyed an ice cream sandwich. (Like bacon cheeseburgers, ice cream sandwiches are also a moto-touring inalienable right.)  Thinking we needed a breath of, well, smooth asphalt, the afternoon called for a repeat of AZ 78.  I haven’t told you about AZ 78, have I?  I can’t imagine why.  On the map, it appears so very plain and homely.  Don’t be fooled, it’s a gem that has it all – from tricky, dippily, sneakily, blind, narrow, switchbacky sections to cliffhanging sweepers that go on so long they’re positively dizzying, with everything in between – and, (get this), all of it is on pavement worthy of a racetrack.  No gravel, no cars, no tar snakes, no pot holes, no suspiciously loose looking chip and seal, absolutely nothing to impede your death defying journey into New Mexico.  The first time I rode it, I found myself thinking I could happily spend an entire weekend camped out in Safford, AZ riding this 30 mile stretch to Mule Creek, NM over and over and over.  Turns out this was my weekend to fully consummate my love affair with the “A.M. Curley Traynor Memorial Highway***.”  Oh yes, and it was good.  In fact, (Ah, fickle love of woman!) the next morning I forsook Mount Graham completely (plenty of snow up there still, and conflicting reports regarding access to and condition of the road) for more of the same.

The view from the never ending time and space continuum warping sweepers dare you to take your eyes of the road.   Best to wait until the ride comes to a complete stop.

The Ducati and I catch our breath outside the Mule Creek, NM Post Office.

Mule Creek, NM.  I never tire of these lonely grassy landscapes.  So different than the AZ side of the state line.

It was hard to tear myself away, but all good things must come to an at least temporary end.  Not able to bear the thought of 100 miles of mind numbing freeway, I headed home past San Carlos Lake (Skipping IR-3, thank you very much), to Globe, AZ, west on scenic US 60 to Superior (this stretch being one of the first I saw on a youtube video featuring a posse of squidly**** motorcycle riders),  and down the dramatic 10% grade of AZ 177 (as steep as I remembered from the first time I rode it, back in my pre-blog days, stuck behind a slow moving truck, and concerned I would start rolling backwards if I went any slower).  Oh, the last fuel fill up before home is a sad one!

*Not to be stuck in a rut, I have a new plan for later this month. Same area, different campsite, different roads, different motorcycle!
** Last time I went a bit further, to Elephant Butte State Park, but riding to  Hillsboro gets the job done as far as covering the sporty fun part goes.
*** So named in 1974 for the area rancher who was instrumental in having a paved road between the two states.  The few remaining gravel portions were finally paved in the mid 1970’s!
**** “Stupidly QUick and Imminently Dead,” or something like that. You know, those safety gear-less riders, screaming about on their ratty Suzuki Gxsrs, who are unable to keep both wheels on the ground on public roads.  They give us all a bad name.
UPDATE - Next ride out, and guess who has a leaking fork seal?   (Kicks self.)

Fall Foliage Ride – New Mexico 2011

Lest you’ve been duped into thinking that I’ve been keeping current on my posts this year, here’s one that’s nearly six months behind. Wouldn’t it be nice to be equipped with a fancy netbook for my upcoming big trip?  In any case, I had a few days at my disposal late last October, and decided a foliage viewing ride was in order.  That’s as good of an excuse as any, right?   Northern AZ perhaps?  With low temps predicted to be in the teens?  Try again.  Why not revisit some roads in New Mexico, but this time without the rain?

Not about to mess with perfection, I started the trip the very same way, pointing my two wheels directly at Mount Graham, with its formidable Swift Trail Parkway that rises, via a delightful concentration of steep hairpin turns, from 3,000 feet to over 10,000 in 33 miles.  I can’t think of a better way to warm up the tires.  Except by the time I got there, it was too late in the day to do anything other than settle into camp at Roper Lake State Park.  It’s a tricky transition, that first night out.  Still shaking off the frustrations of the work day and the inevitable packing hang ups, I wasn’t happy to find hoses reminiscent of porcupine quills sticking out of my bike when I dismounted that evening.  My set-up-camp routine was rusty, too, but all those gremlins, along with my disappointment in not having had time to enjoy Mount Graham were soothed by the natural hot springs I knew, from this trip, to be waiting for me.

This hose sprang from the emissions canister, another from the top of the vertical cylinder. I shrugged, put them back, and that was the end of that.  Gratitude for small (big?) favors.

Good morning!  It was quite a lively night, between the growling animal just outside my tent that thankfully ambled off in response to a stern “Go Away!,” and the truly unearthly sound of coyotes yipping and singing like far-gone lunatic dogs touched by the moon.  Next stop:  Elephant Butte Lake State Park, carefully selected for its location on the far side of NM 152, and the fact that it and the site I was leaving were the only two spots anywhere within reach not forecast to drop below freezing.  The roads between the two sites?  Without question, the stuff of sport touring motorcycle advertisements.  250 miles, a dizzying percentage of which are twisty enough to be first and second gear material. Signs warning that it will take at least two hours to cover the 45 miles of narrow and windy NM 15 between Silver City and the Gila Cliff Dwellings can only mean one thing:  Good times ahead!

All told, the day’s journey took me seven or eight hours.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  I hadn’t had such a satisfying stretch of technical riding (sans traffic and road hazards, to boot!) in, well, maybe ever.  Sweet Ducati, with its sprung hoses of yesterday, all is forgiven! 

Elephant Butte Lake State Park was my first real peek at the American Southwest many years ago.  It knocked me flat then (in spite of the centipede I pulled out of my sleeping bag), having never seen anything like it,  and it was amusing to see it again, with eyes that have seen so much of the wondrous west since then.

I knew the ride east would be a long (and glorious) day, which meant the camera stayed in its case, and lunch was a sandwich while re-fueling.  On my return, I decided to skip NM 35 and 15 (“Trail of the Mountain Spirits Scenic Byway” – such romantic scenic byway names!) in favor of breakfast in Hillsboro, NM and a few photo stops.

Hillsboro, once home to a Labor Day Apple Festival (sadly ended in 2007), is a cute little town on the Geronimo Trail Scenic Byway (NM 152), and was just the right place on the map to stop for the first real meal I’d had since I left Tucson.   The hash browns and toast  at the Hillsboro General Store & Country Cafe were serviceable, if not notable, but the “Picante” spicy sausage omelet was a hit, as were the endless antique odds and ends displayed throughout the shop.  In an unusual variation of my solo dining theme, I had the pleasure of a fascinating dining partner, curious miner/cowboy turned photographer, Embree “Sonny” Hale, who, after finding his favorite one stolen, has made it his goal to photograph every petroglyph in New Mexico.  He showed me his nearby studio, and he saw me off as I launched.   Funny how we peered at each other, equally fascinated, as if through a telescope of space and time, me on my red spaceship buzzing with myriad electronic gizmos, he, in his dusty boots and neckerchief, a for-real man of the genuine old west.  I didn’t know it then, but our paths would cross again one day.

Embree “Sonny” Hale, Petroglyph Hunter

A little detour onto NM 211 afforded a pretty vignette of the Gila River.  Not quite the fall colors of New England, but since out here any tree at all is cause for celebration as a source of shade and harbinger of precious water, a view like this is every bit as breath taking, and perhaps more meaningful.

 

Ducati, Picturesque (in my opinion) Dead Tree,  and Cotton Field, near Solomon, AZ.

The next morning it was time to take care of some unfinished business.  Mount Graham, king of the Pinaleño Mountains, awaits!  Up, down, up, down, up down!  Left, right, left, right, left right!  Until the gas tank was as close to dry as I dared.

Fall Colors atop Mount Graham: Yellow Aspens with Red Ducati

I had a final stop in mind before heading home, but which would win out?  My phobia of riding the “long dirt road” to get there, or my desire for a slice of pie at Apple Annie’s orchard?

Despite the dramatic internal conflict, I obeyed my sweet tooth.

A crisp cool apple was just the thing after living a few days on camp food.  Check out the road behind me.  I guess “long and dirt” sometimes means “short and paved.”  Unfortunately the reverse can be true as well.  I recently learned that a map indication of “paved” can be open to interpretation.  More on that next post.

Three stars for this trip.  It was so good that I rode much of it again, along with a few new roads, last weekend.  And I won’t take six months to show you the photos.

Recipe:  Put three green tomatoes on the windowsill. Go motorcycle camping. Come home and make up for lost vegetable eating time by devouring an enormous tomato salad.