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Check further below if you’re curious about the first part of this rambling story.
So, I’d made it to Bozeman. And who knew I’d move there a few years later? I had one friend going to college there who I was close with in high school. We’d lost touch a bit when he took a gap year as a ranch hand in Australia, but he graciously offered to pick me up and host me for a few days, and that he did.
Once I got settled in and cleaned up, I thought over my situation. I had about three grand in the bank and a summer internship starting in a couple of weeks. I figured I could stretch the budget and get a new bike to finish the trip. There was one motorcycle for sale on the Bozeman Craigslist and I bought it. A 1981 Yamaha 850, comfortably larger and faster, and under two grand. I walked the five miles to the seller’s home and drove back through the rain like a madman- helmetless, coatless, but back in the saddle.
After collecting myself for a couple of days, I continued west on interstate 94. One of my destinations was Astoria, Oregon. The coast of that city was home to the absolute classic 1980s coming of age film The Goonies. It might be an odd goal, but I couldn’t miss the chance at seeing the three rock islands which were part of the key to the map to One-Eyed Willy’s hideout used in the film.
I crossed the Continental Divide overland for the first time in my life and got to experience a real mountain pass when making my way through Idaho. I saw the sights in Coeur d’Alene and soon entered the drylands of eastern Oregon. Oregon is a state where you don’t pump your own gas, which isn’t that odd when driving a car, but really weird on a motorcycle. You get the chance to stand straight, legs straddling 600lbs of sizzling metal while staring deep into the eyes of the gas station attendant holding the nozzle just above your crotch and make small talk as you’ve never forced out of your mouth before. Luckily this attendant was hilarious and told me about a motorcycle he once had. He filled it up, lit a cigarette, started to drive away, and the bike went up like a torch with him on it when a bit of ash fell on the spilled gasoline on the top of the tank. “OH SHIT OH SHIT I DID SOMETHING WRONG OH NO” was his described reaction as I chuckled along with the telling of the story. My bike didn’t have a large tank, which I was soon to regret, but filling it took long enough for a second story, in which he was with his friend when the friend hit a deer going 50 on a back road and cut it in two. Surprisingly, neither rider was hurt, but the warning stayed with me.
I camped at hidden spots off the road and made my way to the ocean. I knew I was getting close when I had my first glimpse of a Tsunami Danger Zone sign off the side of the highway. Unlike Oregon, Minnesota doesn’t have tsunamis. Or earthquakes. Or volcanoes. Or poisonous spiders, snakes, scorpions. Or anything, really, but snow and diabetes.
The Oregon Coast turned out to be the most beautiful stretch of land I’d ever experienced. The greenery is lush and overhanging, the sheer cliffs drop hundreds of feet to rock beaches, and the ocean view is pebbled with outcropping rock islands that add to the grandure. I have a coastal bicycle trip already fully planned which I’ll get to someday, maybe after the 18 other latent adventures come to fruition.
I started the southward leg of the journey in Astoria. I checked the oil diligently and professed to pump my own gas going forward, even at the potential loss of further motorcycling anecdotes. I drove to Mt.Hood on a whim and stayed at a campsite in the national forest. I’d be back here as well several years later when finishing up the Pacific Crest Trail. I hiked 300 miles in 7 days that trip, but statistics are for losers.
My mom’s partner told me about a hitchhiking story where the driver he was with got lost on some forest service roads in the mountains of Oregon. I didn’t have a map or working GPS and was fated to replicate the story. Wondering how long my tank would last, after several hours of driving through fog and mud, I made it to a highway and took it south by the angle of the sun. Once I saw the ‘Welcome to California’ sign I knew I was on my way in roughly the right direction. I stopped at a gas station to look at a map and get directions and was accosted by an ancient hobbit looking who was dressed in a long coat and scarf (the weather being the mid-80s) and who must have been less than 4ft tall. “Go west young man!” he shouted at me, in the middle of the convenience store. I responded in a startling affirmation that yes, I was trying. His grizzled voice rejoined that I’d made it about just as far as I could and he hobbled off. I got the map, gas, and was off to the Redwoods, the impetus for the whole trip.
The Redwoods were worth it. I saw them again last week and they’re still worth it. No rainforest or mountain range, even the Himalayas, can compare to the spectacle of a living being reaching up 300ft into the air, with a base wide enough to drive a car through. I implore every person to see them at some point in their life. What else is there in life that can spark such a feeling of profound awe and reverence? I suppose trees are my religion.
I left my bike by the park entrance and hiked to the ocean that evening. Intending to swim, I walked out to the surf and was surprised to see a seal swim by. It was cold enough for what I figured to be an Arctic seal, so I headed back to the tent to read some Cormac McCarthy and idly ponder about introducing myself to the group of college-aged girls at the group camp nearby.
I headed farther south the next day. California is gigantic even if going by motorcycle and not hiking mountain trails, and I took my time. In California, I wanted to see more redwoods (the Sequoias), Death Valley, Lassen Volcanic National Park, eat at an In-and-Out Burger, and experience whatever else came my way. And so I did.
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