All the Way to the Water - Day 3

Day 3 : LAST ALONE DAY (BEST EVER)

Highway 12 going west out of Missoula Montana travels through Lolo National Forest while in Montana and then it changes to Clearwater National Forest as you enter Idaho. This road is arguably one of the top motorcycle roads in America. 217 miles of clean pavement through a mountainous pristine pine forest while following the river through the valleys. Lightly traveled by regular vehicles because it was longer in time than to take the interstate around the mountains’ this scenic byway is surely one of the most amazing places I have ever been,  and one memory in a day full of once in a lifetime moments I would experience on this fantastic day.

One traveling habit I picked up over the years is to plan on the hotel you stay. I like to stay on the far side of town when I am traveling through a place so in the morning I can leave without having to go through town during rush hours to get my day started. In Missoula, I found a nice place on the west side of town along Highway 12 leading out of town and into the Lolo forest. The next morning I was online looking at the route I was planning and noticed that there were several towns along the way so I could stop for a break, or fuel in lots of places. Being unfamiliar with the area, I asked the gal at the desk if I could get gas along highway 12. 217 miles is the outside edge of my range on a full tank and I had about 2/3rds left so my plan was to go about 30 miles, take a break and fill up and then I would have no trouble getting out the other side.  The lady at the front desk confirmed that there were a few towns along the way to buy fuel so I headed out without worry along Highway 12.

As I entered the national forest, I saw a sign that said ‘Dangerous Curves-Next 217 Miles’. Now while that sounds ominous to some...it is a motorcycle enthusiasts dream. I knew I was in for a terrific day with the combination of curvy roads, and scenic vistas for the next 4 hours.  The road was recently paved, clean from debris, well marked and a joy to ride on. The shoulders were narrow but the road followed the river and there were many places to pull out and enjoy the solitude of the early morning as the river splashed along merrily. I regret I only stopped a couple of times but I knew I had a long way to go that day with nearly 700 miles to go to get to Portland and lots of  riding to do. The early sun did not reach the bottoms of every canyon so the ride was cool and the air sweetly scented by the pines.

After a short while riding, I came upon the first of the “towns” along the way. I had been assured that here were many places to buy fuel so I was not worried when I left the hotel this morning with less than a full tank. However, as I passed through this small group of buildings I noticed 1 filling station that had gone out of business. Making no real note of it I simply pressed on to the next place along the highway. I was still immensely enjoying the ride as the road swung left and right and over gentle hills as it followed the river. I settled into the rhythm of the road….lean left, left, left…straight, straight, straight…lean right ,right, right…straight, straight, straight…it went on for miles… Another town! This town was even less populated than the last one…early Sunday morning and nobody was around…and NO fuel available..?

I was now past the point of return. I did not have enough fuel to get BACK to Missoula...I had gone too far for that. So I did a find on my GPS for fuel…next fuel along the route…? 72 Miles. I quickly glanced at my fuel gauge and did an experienced estimate of remaining fuel multiplied by the average MPG I thought I was getting that morning and came up with a total number of estimated miles to EMPTY…64..! I was going to be short...I would run out of fuel somewhere around 10 miles shy of the next fuel stop.

DAMN! How did I let that happen to me…? I recalculated one more time...and came up with the same answer...and again…short! What could I do…? I decided the only thing to do was keep moving and get as close as I could and then wait for some assistance by a passer-by. However, I had seen very little traffic on the road this morning over the past hour and I was concerned that the wait might take quite some time. Moreover, I had a long way to go…I was not happy with me at that moment. This realization pulled the fun out of the ride and it quickly became a math test as I recalculated the fuel consumption every few miles and the answer never changed…I was going to be short 8-10 miles. I tried to figure out how to stretch my fuel. I knew from experience that optimum economy was achieved on this bike at around 61 MPH. The road was primarily marked 45 to 55 so I set the cruise at 61.  At that point I was climbing hills and descending into valleys so I decided to coast down every hill (some of which were pretty far down) by pulling in the clutch lever and idling. Yes- I was that concerned about running out of fuel in the heart of the national wilderness. I knew deep in the back of my head that I would never save enough fuel doing this to make a real difference but at least I felt like I was doing something.

Mile after mile rolled by and the routine of fuel economy was getting stressful. Every time I “guess-timated” my empty spot I realized I was not going to make it. Just not enough fuel savings happening to stretch the last gallon enough….Then I saw a sign partially hidden in the trees. It said ‘Last fuel – Next Left’ . WHAT!?! REALLY!?! This was it...I was saved! This place was NOT in the gps database..?!

As I eased over gently, I saw a driveway disappear into the trees. An old paved driveway leading to what seemed a campground rising from the forest shrouded in mists like Brigadoon. The road forked and I chose the left uphill way, which just happened to lead to the rearward side of the general store that served the cottages. As I eased around to the front of the store, I saw them…gas pumps! Halleluiah . I parked and removed my helmet. The fuel light was not on yet but I had many miles on that tank and was very grateful to find this oasis in the forest called Lochsa Lodge.  As I organized myself and climbed off the bike the attendant wandered out of the camp store and said a cheery “Good Morning”. It was still early on a Sunday as the sun was just beginning to crest the tops of the trees higher up the side of the valley we were nestled into. He smiled when he saw me, and I responded with “Am I glad to see you!” ..he smirked a crooked grin and understated…”WE hear that a lot”.

I proceeded to fill my tank with fuel and decided the stress of the past hour, knowing I would run out of fuel eventually, had earned me a nice break. I went into the camp store and purchased a helmet sticker for my collection as well as paid for the gas and engaged the attendant in small talk. He was not the owner but an employee and he had lived nearby much of the past 30 years. The Lochsa Lodge was a get away with several primitive log cabins; a shower house, and the main restaurant eatery lodge building. Built along the path of the original Lewis & Clark exploration trail it served as a link to the rugged forest outdoors located in every direction from where we stood. According to him, this was as close as one could get to experiencing the area of 200 years ago. I elected to wander about a little and see this neat place. The quiet of the morning was musical with twittering birds, and the scampering squirrels’ busily rustling about the underbrush, and a faint crackle of the fire that warmed the lodge house from the nearby smoke shed.  I noticed the fog lifting off the structures as the sun burned the dew from the wooden shingles, and the smell of the pine forest coupled with a cooking breakfast served to further emblazon the moment into my memory.

Now with a full tank of fuel and a refreshed spirit I was ready to take on the remainder of that great motorcycle road that is Hy 12. I exited the lodge gas stop and found the highway empty and inviting and I pointed the bike west to continue this greatly adventurous day. Only 75 miles into my 700+ miles day, I knew I had some serious saddle time in front of me but I relished the challenge knowing I was ready.  The road opened before me and I discovered  a new vista around every corner. The river continued to sparkle its way down the valley and the trees lined the road like sentries at the ready.

The rising sun had warmed the air and the beauty of the wilderness was all around me as I motored along alone. No traffic, no people, no buildings, just the road.  The next sign I found gave me encouragement that my day was really just beginning. Another 45 miles of pristine curves to explore!


A quick glance at my clock and I realized it was still early in the day and I had already encountered such adventure and challenge. I was still working on my 2^nd cup of coffee as I wound my way down the valley and through the woods of Idaho.

Throughout the morning, I made notice of the many different sensations I experienced. The chill of the early hours, the wetness in the air and on the ground in the shadows, the smell of the pine forest and the crisp clear air, the sun dappling the road surface as it sliced its way through the trees, and the feel of the wind against my face. That is the essence of motorcycle riding for me…the experiencing each sense as I pass in the environment, not as I pass through… I was so completely enjoying myself that time melted away and the miles passed under my tires without notice. The single reason I understood that time had passed was when I realized I had left the pine forests and entered a new geography of gigantic gently rolling hills.  The river I had been riding next too all day was changing from a quickly moving, rock strewn white water surface to a wider, more relaxed water course as the mountains retreated and the land leveled .I stopped by a quiet pull off and simply marveled at my good fortune that day to be sitting here, in all of the earths splendor, and completely alone, no other car, or person to be seen nor heard anywhere.

I spent about 30 minutes here compeltely alone in the world.

Soon after leaving the solitude of the creek side stop, I began to notice the dramatic change of topography. The rolling hills has stopped being a lush vibrant green loaded with brush and tress and started taking on a golden brown hue that was all together familiar and foreign. The hills seemed covered by a fuzzy blanket of golden brown, like a layer of light brown snow and yet it could not be such a thing? I began to search my mind for a reasonable explanation for what I was seeing – then I realized I was looking at the vast grain fields of eastern Washington. These are the “amber waves of grain” sung about for 100 years in “America the beautiful”. Except these waves had been harvested leaving only the stubble of golden amber in the fields.

  

The road wandered among this golden sea for miles, climbing over huge hills, and weaving through the maze of rounded hilltops always seeming to seek the easiest paths along the way to Walla Walla. As I neared a more densely populated area late in the morning (for what seemed the first time in a long time) I happened upon some traffic sharing this wonderful Highway 12. I also noticed in the distance giant plumes of white smoke rising above the hilltops; one each to my left, right and straight-ahead. As I rode between the smoke pillars, miles away to each side of me and nowhere near to being in sight, I smelled the unmistakable odor of grass fire. I had smelled it once long ago in my youth when a field near my home had caught fire in the middle of a long summer drought, and I rode my then peddle bike to see what the fire trucks were doing. Back then, the firefighters (mostly a volunteer force) had walked into the open field of perhaps 50 acres and were fighting the fire with water can, and rake and shovel and the excitement of it was instantly recalled to me from the very smell of this yet to be seen fire. I knew at that moment that the farmers were in the process of burning off the stubble to prepare the fields for the next crop and I was grateful for my luck, being in the area as this was occurring. I then focused my attention on the plume of smoke rising directly in front of me, no longer with trepidation of what I might find but rather with anticipation of what I hoped to experience.   Soon I found what I instinctively knew I would…the smoke plume that I had been riding toward much of the past hour directly in front of me was a field being burned off! In addition, it was a field that ran within a few dozen yards of the highway I was traveling. As I approached the thickening, smoke I knew I had hunted it down, neither through any great skill nor planning but by the dumbest of luck (a theme prevalent during the next few days). As I crested a hill, I found it…the fire raging through the 6” tall grain stubble and a few hard-working men following the flames and controlling the burn through the sheer volume of their experience. The fire raged for 300 yards, billowing white smoke skyward at the top of the 20-foot tall flames. So near the road was the fire that I could intensely feel the heat and the sound of the crackling combined with the inflowing rush of air to feed the fire was exhilarating.  Quickly it was over…and I kept riding westward…!

I stopped for lunch in Walla Walla Washington and pondered about the morning I had just gone through. I had followed the Lewis & Clark trail into the vast forests of northern Idaho and experienced the feeling of being in trouble due to poor planning. “Lost” in the vast pine forest was not a pleasant feeling. I had felt the quiet of the wilderness as I relaxed near the river. I had discovered the vast grain fields of western USA and been “this close” to a huge fire. All before lunch!

Continuing westward on Highway 12 from Walla Walla, I soon junctioned  into Highway 730 which is a short section of road that is only there to connect Highway 12 to Interstate 84. The beauty of this 20-mile section is that it runs directly along the Columbia River. When you approach from the east, you can see that there is a body of water directly in front and it looks like a man-made reservoir. It appears clean, and cool and serene and not altogether large. What I didn’t realize is that this river runs all the way to the water…the Pacific Ocean!  The road glides gently near the water, so close in fact that the train tracks that also parallel the river is outside the road. As I headed west, the river near on my right and the tracks on my left created a unique “shelf” I was riding on. Up to the tracks or down to the water were my only choices if I was to leave the road surface. The valley this section ran through was not so high as to be impressive however; it was far enough up each side to trap in the heat of the mid-day sun.

Soon I ran out of Hy 730 and hit Interstate 84 westward. I-84 is typical interstate highway with two lanes running in each direction except this one happened to run alongside the Columbia River for most of the rest of my considerable journey that day.  The interstate was not crowded, traffic was flowing at a very good pace, and I settled into the comfortable confines of familiar riding patterns. Interstate riding is different from state or county roadways. All the traffic is going the same direction, at similar speeds, with no cross traffic to worry about and little to do but ride along. I set the cb to channel 19 so I could listen in to the truckers who were making their living riding these highways and turned the iPod a little louder to cover the wind noise. The miles melted away quickly (as they tend to do at 75 MPH) and soon I knew I was approaching a very different environment. The mountains had faded behind me and the rolling hills with the vast fields of grain were a distant spec in my rearview mirrors. I could no longer see the plumes of smoke from the several fires I had ridden past not too long ago. I could sense that something was changing as I watched the river beside me get progressively wider and more serene. There were occasional fishing boats bobbing in the river, and a few pleasure craft

pulled skiers dressed in wet suits to ward off the cold of the mountain runoff as it made its way to the sea.  The area was changing from a fall like brown of the harvested grain to a much more lush green. The grass along the highway had started to go dormant but the trees had not yet taken notice of the impending fall season. As I came over a rise, I noticed it; miles of neatly planted rows of tress. Endlessly knitting the landscape as each section was a different height. One could easily tell this was a vast tree farm that had been cultivated as certainly as a Wisconsin farmer plants corn or beans. Trees as a renewable crop along the interstate for miles. Of course, it made perfect sense to have this tree farm here. Along a rolling river, in the open spaces that are eastern Washington state. I marveled at the efficiency of it. Each row as straight as an arrow, with spacing such that machinery could fit between but not so much that any was wasted.  Years and years of planning, planting and care went into each section. Some trees topping out at what must have been 30 feet tall, and each subsequent section slightly shorter, the next years crop having been planted.

Onward I rode toward Oregon and my destination for the night; Portland. The plan was for me to meet my riding buddy at Portland. He already had a reservation near the airport as his wife, who had been traveling with him for the past week, was flying back home to New York and he & I would continue to chase the dream across the western USA. I knew he was checked in and awaiting my arrival as we had recently spoken on the phone and all I had to do was keep on traveling until I got there.  Our plan was to get up early the next day and finalize my run to the ocean. Portland is some 90 miles inland from the Pacific and my goal was to ride all the way there. Not wanting to shortchange myself after coming this far I had insisted we get “all the way to the water” before turning eastbound. Bill had agreed even though it would cost us several hours in the morning and cause us to lengthen our riding time the next day. Bill is a good partner that way and we travel well together as the adventure of the travel, not the destination, is what we relish. Getting there a little later is of no consequence to either of us and we frequently change plans on a whim, a trait we would both find was serendipitous very soon.


On my run to the west, I noticed wind surfers slicing the water along the river and knew I was approaching Portland. It seems the wind from the ocean finds its way up the river, through the canyon gorges and forms a perfect wind tunnel for the surfers to catch the power of the air. They were fascinating to watch as I glided along the highway above them. The practiced maneuvers they executed, turning on a dime, using the wind to lift them from the water surface, breaking the bond with the liquid surface and then catching a puff to hold them airborne for what seemed an unnervingly long time and height, until they expertly touched down again having gained more speed to ripple the river.  Of course, those who are very good at something make it look quite simple and I knew that while this looked like a lot of fun, I was sure it required many hours of practice to get right. 

After a short while, it was time to find fuel. I punched a “find” command in my gps and chose a fuel stop not far up the highway.  I was ready to stop, stretch, and get some feeling back into my nether regions. The range of the Goldwing running at this speed was still over 200 miles, so I had been perched on that seat for more than 3 hours at this point. Amusingly, the same duration between breaks and fuel while riding in a more attention grabbing area (like the forest from this morning) seemed much shorter and less tiring, and the stops on the interstate always seemed too far apart. It might be the ride type, but I think this day it was just because I had been riding a lot to that point and was getting just a little sore. As I rode those last miles to the fuel stop, I noticed a mountaintop in the distance, with just little snow still on the peak, as it poked its way skyward on the horizon.

I watched that peak get closer and closer as I ran along directly at it. The highway would swing very close by it as I approached Portland I came to learn. I wondered what mountain it was as I continued westward into the now late afternoon sun. Evening was upon us when I finally pulled off for fuel and a brief rest.  I was about to get some information that would change the course of events for the next several days.
 A busy gas station waited at the bottom of the ramp, with cars and trucks and even some motorcycles gathered around the pumps. As I pulled in I noticed people looking me over, and I guess I would look a little odd to locals. My bike was loaded down and it must be obvious I was traveling, with my home designed carrying tubes on the passenger foot pegs, and the cooler strapped into the passenger seat, and a road weary look about me and my dirty bike (not clean yet from the day in the North Dakota rains).  I idled up to a fuel pump and gingerly crawled off after I kicked down the side stand. I stretched and unzipped my protective jacket and proceeded to get organized for a leisurely refueling (one thing I had become particularly adept at was quickly filling the tank and getting back on the road, wasted time at a fuel stop can sabotage your travel time). There was one thing I learned out west in Oregon and Washington State. They did not want you to “self serve” your fuel. A state law requires an attendant to fuel your vehicle, it is a part of a jobs act I think, and it was odd to me when I was chastised for trying to swipe my own card and remove the nozzle from the pump.  The attendant looked at me curiously as if I had taken his sandwich or something, and I looked back just as puzzled and said “What?”. It was then the protocol for buying gas was explained to me. It seems I had to hand them my credit card, they then swipe it for you, and then they hand you the fuel nozzle if you are on a motorcycle. In a car, they fill the tank for you if you desire but they will not do a bike. (Fine with me).  I topped off and swung my leg back over and proceeded to move around to a parking spot not occupying a fueling pump space. I needed a comfort break and wandered into the store to use the facility. When I came out a small group of other motorcycle enthusiasts has gathered close by my bike but not around it. It seems the local chapter was out for an evening ride and had stopped for fuel on the way out. Taking this opportunity to get a little local information I walked up and said hello. After a few introductions about who I was, and where I was from (and how quickly I had covered the 2000+ miles to this point) I pointed to the mountain peak and asked the questions…”What mountain is that and can I ride to the top?” I learned that I was staring at Mt Hood, elevation 11,249 feet and there is a road that goes to the Timberline Lodge near the top!

Now one thing I knew Bill and I had in common has been to ride to unusual places, get a few pictures, and then move on. We like to call it photo-op riding. Our last two trips together have been in this style and because we spend very little time actually touring the location we photo-op we can see many places and cover a lot of ground in the process. In 2009 we hit Devils Tower, Mt Rushmore, and Crazy Horse on the same day in the rain and overcast. Keep moving and take a few pictures along the way is what we do and we both like to travel this way so I knew immediately that a change of plans needed to be made.  Mt Hood was not on our itinerary (yet) and I made the executive decision to add it for tomorrow. This decision came with a consequence however. In order for me to go “all the way to the water”, I had to do it tonight! Not an easy choice as I knew I had just added another 180 miles to my day (90 out and 90 back once I hit Portland). I called Bill and told him my plan and he said “we’ll see you later” and off I went to Seaside Oregon on the coast of the Pacific Ocean. As I rode, I calculated my arrival time and measured that against the setting sun. I realized that once again, I was going to be in a stressful situation, as I wanted to get there in time for the sunset; and the likelihood of that was very slim indeed. Traffic around Portland and along an unknown state road (Highway 26) were variables I had no control over and all I could do was push on...and push on I did.

Zipping around Portland on the Interstate I kept watch on the lowering sun. It was dropping in the west sky and I was racing it to the water. Once I hit Highway 26, I believed I had a chance to beat the sunset to Seaside. I kept watch of my calculated arrival time on the gps, and with some aggressive riding, I had already cut 2 minutes from the projection. I knew it was going to be close. 

Highway 26 is a non-descript suburban highway heading west-northwest out of Portland toward the ocean. I was certain it was a main thoroughfare for anyone who went to the ocean for relaxation at the seashore. This idea was soon confirmed as I noticed I was the only vehicle headed TOWARD the ocean at this late hour but there was many cars, trucks, SUV’s, jeeps and motor homes coming toward the city. The line of cars exiting the shoreline was impressive and I thanked my luck that I was headed the opposite direction as I climbed the hills that separated the inland lowlands from the ocean side flats.  The darkness was approaching, and as I crested the hill, I knew the race I was running against the setting sun was to be lost. The distance too great, the sun sinking too fast, and the wetness and chill air I felt as I wound my way through the forest clued me into the fact that the nighttime fog was rolling in off the water. The temperature dropped, the fog thickened, and I pushed onward as I knew my quest of the past 3 days was soon to be realized. My trip “all the way to the water” was a scant several miles away now as I approached the outskirts of Seaside.  The lights of the town were fuzzy with fog, and the road surface was gathering dew from the rolling fog bank as it crawled its way inland. Nevertheless, I knew I was close because I could hear the gulls and smell the salt water even from a distance. The road paralleled the shoreline and I was still several hundred yards away. With the darkness and fog, I could not see the surf I had hoped and found a road that lead to a beachfront parking lot.  I could feel the presence of the vastness of the ocean even though fog clouds and darkness obscured it. I needed to walk the last hundred yards to find the water I had come so far to find.




I walked up the path, and out onto the beach and passed a few folks who had built a fire at the crest of the hill leading down to the surf line. I said hello and we exchanged pleasantries for a few moments before I excused myself and continued down to the ocean. When I had taken a few dozen steps, I realized the folly of my attempt to get to the water…the tide was out and all I could see was a great mudflat where the surf pounds the shoreline at high tide.  I laughed aloud at my ignorance of the ocean...the fog… the tides…and the darkness all conspiring against me to prevent me from completing my mission. Nevertheless, I knew I had won a moral victory and smiled with satisfaction at my accomplishment and adventure thus far.

I shuffled back up the hill to the fire pit and asked the kind folks gathered there what they had done with the ocean…? I explained I had come 2200 miles to see the ocean and it wasn’t there? They smiled and laughed with me and consoled me with the thought that it was there…just behind the fog bank and beyond the mudflats, so I had made it after all.

All that was left to do was ride the 90 miles back to Portland; meet Bill and get some sleep. A simple 775-mile day with loads of adventure and a lifetime of memories.