This image distorts the size
of the Clearwater River. It is quite a ways down the banks to
the river, probably 30 feet or so.
Welcome to Labor Day. This Monday morning was pretty warm for a river campground high up in the Idaho highlands, even during September. Rick and I were busy breaking camp when an older fellah scuffled over to talk about motorcycles, our trip, and, hey, even the Navy. He'd been a biker too (aren't they all?) and you could see that "I-wanna-go" look in his eyes when we got all the stuff stowed on the ZG's. His eyes danced when we fired ‘em up and putt-putted quietly down the lane and out of the campgrounds. Before we left, I learned that this fellah was about a year younger than me. Dang, I gotta start looking closer into the mirror in the morning when I shave, or at least turn on the lights. I must be getting gray.
As I said before, Rick and I planned to ride into Bend, Oregon, together and visit COG's membership director. We'd been offered a place to sleep and good company there. Yup, we inadvertently trashed that idea when we decided to visit Glacier, even though, at the time, we talked ourselves into thinking we could somehow do both.
OK, maybe we don't have a clue after all.
We decided to split up this day. I had the time, but Rick needed to keep his job. And besides, the scotch was all gone. Generally speakin', parties used to end about the same time da juice did. Parties aren't what they used to be. Rick and I enjoyed a slow ride down US-12. We stopped in Lowell, Idaho, for breakfast. A local peace officer was enjoying his coffee until the waitress served our order. Then, the officer moseyed out the door, into his cruiser and headed west on US-12. We figured he'd be waiting for us down the road a piece. We were disappointed later when we surmised that we must have passed his hiding place without finding him. Drat! Not long after, we reached ID-13. Rick turned south for a his long ride home. We didn't stop, just exchanged waves as Rick leaned left and I kept chugging west on US-12 toward Lewiston. We're hoping Bend is still there when we pass through the next time.
This image distorts the size of the Clearwater River. It is quite a ways down the banks to the river, probably 30 feet or so.
US-12 follows a valley and the Clearwater River all the way to Lewiston. I wanted to make it to the Oregon coast before the end of the day, so I had to keep moving. I followed US-12 into and across the southeast corner of Washington State. I always wanted to see a town that would name itself (or permit someone else to name it) Walla Walla. The name sticks in my mind, but the town could well be in Iowa ... not much different about it. A while later I came upon the majestic Columbia River. I knew it was coming, but it still took my breath away ... . and that's coming from a guy who has lived near the Missouri River for quite awhile and crossed the Mighty Mississippi many times, all up and down its middle America course. It wasn't long before I was on I-84, riding west along the river and enjoying every minute of it (yeah, I can have fun on a slab if Ithe traffic is thin and the cagers behave themselves). After a while, I came upon a humongous traffic snarl east of Portland. There were signs along the road warning drivers about the likelihood of delays. It wasn't long before the ending-holiday traffic was worse than awful. Thin became busy, busy became conjested, and stop and go wasn't far behind. Damn! Its here (and so am I). After awhile, I noticed another cycle rider a few cars ahead of me. After about 10 minutes of crawling with the traffic, he jumped out of the lane and onto the shoulder. He putted out of sight in about 10 seconds, just cruising slow and watching the cages. I lasted about 40 minutes and 2 miles more. Nope, I wasn't going to do it. Nope, not even ... a, a, a ... then everyone seemed to be getting a little impatient (distraught) with the situation. Not me, of course, but I said, the heck with it "Bear". Let's you and me run down this ramp, up the other side, onto the shoulder and down the road! So we did. Naughty? You may have another word for it. So did I, "RELIEF." Delicious also came to mind, but ... and my mudda woulda slapped me.
US-12 in Washington State smacks right into the Columbia River and ends not too far from where I took this photo, near the Oregon border. There is no way I can make an image on this page that can make you feel like you are standing next to it. Can't get there? Go to Arecebo and you can get the same feeling.
The last time I rode through Portland, I got lost trying to find US-26 heading west to the Oregon coast. I somehow ended up on US-30. Now I understood why. US-26 was now almost brannie-new coming out of Portland ... the road was wide, smooth, and uncluttered. But for awhile, I thought it was hunting season on that road. Every little fuzzy-cheeked town cop or deputy seemed to be on a mission to snag revenue. The road was big and beautiful and the speed limit was set artificially low. Says who? Well, the people getting tickets were mostly solid-citizen types, mothers and matrons driving sedans and min-vans .. . old duffers in worn pickups. They were going the good-sense speed your mind frames for itself to suit current road conditions, but the cops were feeding like gulls on freshly hatched sea turtles. They and their local authorities should be ashamed of themselves. It wasn't pretty and it gave me one of two reasons to believe this state is a more than just a little "tense." No, I didn't get snagged. I luckily noticed one with a "ray-gun" clocking cars from an overpass when I stopped on the down side of an entrance ramp to add a sweatshirt for the ever-cooling air. A little later, I saw a couple of black and whites with their prey on the side of the road, so I stayed low to stay lucky. I decided that US-26 wasn't fit for casual travel so I turned southwest onto Oregon 6. It wasn't a bad road. I climbed a few hills and it had a few twisties, but I was tired and leery of the local revenue extenders. I knew I was in the way and oughta move out after the third "cage" passed me.
I thought I would have no problem finding a motel in Tillamook. Who wants to stay in Tillamook? Exactly. So there wasn't much to choose from. Well, there was one motel I saw, but it looked like a "just-drive-on-by" to me. That was a sad decision. Soon it was dark and the afternoon's hot air had turned to a serious oceanside chill. I pulled off the coastal highway a bit south after seeing signs that led to a couple of motels in Pacific City. One was handy and good enough for the night (my tent would have served OK if I could have some fool to put it up for me). I inspected my rear wheel and saw that the rear wheel was covered with oil/grease seepage. Shiny black streaks were beginning to run on the tire from the wheel rim to the tread. Notions of slip and slide slid into my head. Not a happy prospect. Oh well, gotta do something about that soon. "Bear" and rode 578 miles today, some of which were a real treat, others would be better served here on the web than on "Bear."
As I walked around the deserted town that night, I began to think I needed to a rest longer than "just for tonight." But then I thought, who the heck needs a rest from this bliss? Tired old fat men on motorcycles are a good place to start looking.
On to a startling event on the Oregon coast, then a turn around Crater Lake or back to Glacier Park and Lolo Pass.
