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Photo by Josh Garcia
Big Pine Creek in California’s Eastern Sierra Nevada certainly ranks among the prettiest streams I’ve ever fished--shaded by big pines (duh!) with large pools and abundant trout. I came around a bend, and found one of those signature holes.
A five-foot waterfall dropped into a green pool, a good eight feet deep. Shallow and slow water along the banks framed a strong current that went deep and swift through the center. Just where big trout feed.
I threw in ...
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Photo by Stephen Bay
In light of how relatively small events coupled with overconfidence can run us off the road, leading at least to embarrassment, I offer the following true confession. Just last June, our Gray Hogs group pulled into Las Vegas with the temp at 109 (this part of the story can be found in “450 Miles of Misery” from June 23 2014), needing food and gas. In & Out cared for the former, Chevron the latter.
Our next stop, Cedar City, lay 180 miles north, then another 130 would take us to Richfield UT to meet the rest of our group. With my ST1300’s tank holding 7.7 gallons and easily averaging 45 mpg, I felt confident I could go 350 miles, and we just had 310. So I passed on gassing up in Cedar...
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Photo by Houghs-The Tour
That day riding along the Oregon combined breath-taking scenery with bone-chilling cold. We’d headed west from Salem to the coast at Pacific City, then we turned north to Tillamook where we had lunch and sampled their world famous cheeses. Well, famous anyplace west of Wisconsin anyway. The beauty of one stretch forced me to shout for joy, with ocean flats on our left as trees formed a canopy over our two lane road. Clouds blocked the sun enough to give a gauzy sense of beauty, but with enough light to see it well.
In all the years of the Gray Hog touring, this road neared the top of the list. But when we turned south, the sun took a nap as the fog rolled in and the world turned gloomy and damp and cold...
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Josh, a few years after the story, on Rock Creek
Something unexpected happened when I first held my grandson, Joshua. He adjusted himself into my chest and his hug reached right into my heart. I’ve never been the same since we connected like that. I suppose it’s only natural he seemed to love fishing.
I started him out fishing with an empty line on a Colorado pond. He doesn’t remember it, but he had to fish “like grandpa.”
Later...
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Photo by Jerry McBride, Durango Herald
Naw, this post won’t direct you to wild parties in your neighborhood! Let’s talk about another kind: deer. In 43 years of riding bikes, much in the mountains, I never gave a thought to deer crossing the road and trying to knock me off the bike. Then a year ago, in Libby MT, our group talked to a local who’d hit 23 deer. Killed 17 of them. That gave me pause. Less than a week later on the road to Eureka, a deer bolted in front of Brad on his bike with no chance to avoid a collision. After the life flight to appropriately named Mercy Medical Center in Redding, doctors tended to multiple broken ribs, a collapsed lung, a broken collar bone and shoulder blade, and a number of abrasions. He now has a plate in his shoulder with 9 screws. He still rides, but that incident got my attention.
So I was particularly cautious leaving Pagosa Springs at 5:30 in the morning with a cup of hot coffee in the cup holder.
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by motorcycleroads.com
AAA maps and locals are not always reliable repositories of good information. Our group pulled out of Cortez CO early with Telluride in our sights. The ride got a bit chilly as we cruised into the town surrounded by the San Juan Mountains at 8700 ft. About 30 elk calmly grazed at the outskirts.
Needing an in internal infusion of warmth, we found Maggie’s Coffee House, only to be met by Mr. Maggie, the husband of the owner and a fellow biker. After some biker talk, he asked if we’d heard of Gateway, the hidden secret of Colorado, the best bike ride in the state. Now, Colorado’s beauty is second to none, so that got our attention.
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Our annual cross country biker group calls itself the Gray Hogs, in a veiled allusion to Tim Allen’s movie Wild Hogs. Two prime requirements to be a Hog: you don’t need to belong to the Harley Owners’ Group, just pack a few extra pounds, and to sport some gray hair. Oh yeah, and to ride a bike and to get along with the charter members.
Even so, old totally dominated a day on our recent ride to the Taos NM area. We visited ...
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Honestly, I never thought of stopping nor turning back. But 450 miles of misery to start the motorcycle trip did wear on me. I’d pulled out of my garage about 5:15 in the morning, and slogged through 80 miles of metropolitan Los Angeles before meeting Mick and Brad at Cajon Pass on I-15. Metro freeway does not qualify as my favored mode. But the metro yielded to desert and desert brought heat and by the time we got to Vegas the bike’s thermometer bumped 100. 11AM.
Lunch at In-and-Out cooled us a bit, but the temp had risen to 105, with 170 miles to go. The temp climbed with the altitude until it maxed at 109. 30 miles from Cedar City it began to cool, and the 99 felt almost chilly. Note the almost. Our motel’s cool pool finished lowering our body temps, and we walked to a nice café next door for dinner.
That night ...
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