In God, a Motorcycle, and the Open Road, Chapter 3 told how I pulled into Groton, Connecticut, looking for a bar to view Nixon’s resignation during Watergate. If you have the book, pull out Chapter 3 to get the story in detail, but briefly, this long-haired hippie biker walked into what looked like a redneck bar, realized he better get out of Dodge, reversed course only to be accosted by a burly guy at the other end of the dark hallway, became VERY concerned, only to discover it wasn’t a burly guy, but my own reflection in a mirror. Yeah, one tough biker!
Then…
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Over the last five years or so, Brad proved himself as “the Wizard of Waze” on our Gray Hogs trips—he’d enter our ultimate destination, calculate in any traffic issues, add in some stops along the way, and we’d blissfully follow his lead, never worrying nor looking at our maps, just riding. We got spoiled, until…
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Hyder, Alaska is a strange town: a United States town that uses Canadian money and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police for law enforcement. Even though you can only enter Hyder from Stewart, British Columbia, Canada, you need no passport to get in this sovereign US territory. Just to get out. And yes, it looked like a ghost town as Rich and I rode our bikes there on a foggy and drizzly morning. We saw none of the fourteen people who supposedly live there. But if you look carefully and…
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A few years back while living in the Conejo Valley, one Friday at about 6 AM I walked out to get the morning paper and found clear, calm blue skies, and a nicely temperate temperature. Why so many move to SoCal. By 10 AM, everything changed. The typical slight southwest wind reversed itself into a Santa Ana condition, a high gale coming from the northeast, with gusts up to 70 mph. And I was headed into the wind that afternoon, leaving for a…
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A few years back while living in the Conejo Valley, one Friday at about 6 AM I walked out to get the morning paper and found clear, calm blue skies, and a nicely temperate temperature. Why so many move to SoCal. By 10 AM, everything changed. The typical slight southwest wind reversed itself into a Santa Ana condition, a high gale coming from the northeast, with gusts up to 70 mph. And I was headed into the wind that afternoon, leaving for a…
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OK, I may get the nautical terms wrong, or just not use them, but I AM a landlubber with limited sailing experiences. My first came when good friends and former neighbors, Ray and Carol Ann, invited Sheila and me to join them for a day on the waters of San Diego with their sailboat. The air rushed past my face as we flew into the wind. One side lifted as we turned, reminding me of taking a tight turn on my motorcycle, but somehow even more thrilling. Then Ray invited to experience the joy of “driving” it, and encouraged me to take a wild turn as one side cleared the water. My wife screamed “Slow down!” in fear, even as Ray encouraged me on. I confess, I listened to…
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Earlier in the day, the trout on Rock Creek almost jumped into my creel. I’d parked alongside the road and hiked overland to a rarely fished stretch, not another fisherman in sight. Anywhere. I loved both the solitude and lack of competition. The first hole yielded a small brown, maybe 8”, who likely appreciated being returned to his frigid home.
He was the first of twelve trout caught in just over two hours that day; two were keepers at 14” each, and provided dinner for Sheila and me my first night back. Pizza at the campground’s café and a hot shower seemed to top off the day. But God was yet to surprise me. Relaxing in the small cabin…
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Winter may be southern California’s finest season. The temps are moderate (we’ve been in the 80s for most of February) and winter rains turn the hills into a lush green with native grasses. But weeds accompany the native grasses. Often abundantly. Our house has a slope, about 20 feet high and 90 feet long, covered with ice plant. I’ve discovered weeding it often is best, but navigating the bank in my old steel baseball cleats in my 70s can wear me out. So, I do it in stages. Just a few weeks ago…
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