I've lived in the Sandy area my whole life and for the first time this morning saw a sunrise behind Mt. Hood unlike any I've ever seen before. In theory it should be a frequent occurrence. High clouds gave the sunrise a palette to paint upon, pink and orange. Beautiful but far from unusual. What made this sunrise special was the shadow the mountain itself cast upon the clouds above.
A dark black cone of shadow was cast from the sun rising behind the mountain. It seemed to be standing on its point on the very tip of the mountain and angled up and away onto the clouds above. It would make sense that this would occur often. All that's required is the sun rising, the mountain standing there, and clouds for the shadow to fall upon. But for some reason I've never seen this event until today.
As I was pulling out of my driveway and making my way through my neighborhood to the main street on my way into work, I saw the pink clouds of a beautiful sunrise in my mirror. When I turned right and began riding north I looked over my right shoulder and caught a glimpse of the mountain shadow on the clouds. As soon as I got to highway 26 I headed east -- instead of west, toward work -- and got onto Bluff Road heading north. There were a half dozen cars at the Jonsrud Viewpoint checking out the same scene I sought. I pulled over, blinkers going so a distracted cager wouldn't rear-end me, and gazed at the sunrise behind Mt. Hood, and that unusual cone of shadow on the clouds.
It was sublime.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
Around the Willamette Valley
I've lived in Oregon my entire life but never truly appreciated the beauty of the Willamette Valley. What you see heading down I-5 is barely the tip of the iceberg. I took a day off of work and clocked nearly 200 miles hitting the back roads of the western Oregon countryside and was amazed at what I saw.
I live in Sandy, on the foothills of Mt. Hood. When I left the house just before 8 am it was under cloudy skies. I headed south through Estacada and continued on Highway 211 toward Molalla. A few light sprinkles dotted my face shield, but the road was slowly drying out as the clouds struggled to break up. When I got to Molalla I headed south on 213 toward Silverton. This route is familiar and I've ridden it dozes of times (it's open all year).
Once I got to the quaint town of Silverton I told my GPS to take me to Pratum, a community I had never heard of until hitting the maps the prior evening. Normally I would continue south toward Stayton but this time my route took me more to the west, about halfway between 213 and I-5. The area is predominantly rural, with small farms of all types everywhere. There was fog in patches and the low clouds overhead were breaking up, giving me striking glimpses of the sun rising behind massive oaks and other deciduous trees. The feeling reminded me of the English countryside.
I made it to Pratum, and it was barely big enough to qualify map-hood. I'd call it a community rather than a town. I pulled over and told my GPS to take me to Mcleay, southward. Similar to Pratum, it was small and quaint and more a community than a town. The small two lane roads passed through green farm fields and clumps of oak trees, still devoid of leaves during this late winter ride.
At Mcleay I repeated the process. Pull over and tell my GPS to take me to my next waypoint. This time I was headed for Turner, which was a small town just east of the busy interstate. So far I had visited three new towns and would bag several more before the day was through. Turner marked the southernmost town on the day's tour and once there I turned west. I crossed under I-5 to the community of Sunnyside, one of two such named communities in Oregon (the other near Clackamas to the north). There was quite a bit of fog so riding at a slower pace was appropriate. So far I hadn't seen a single other motorcycle and had been thankfully free of Anti-Destination League members as well.
I was now west of I-5 and in new territory. My next destination was Independence, Oregon but I didn't have a safe place to pull over and program my GPS, so I trusted my instincts and headed due west on Hylo road (aptly named). I came to a T intersection at Liberty road and was unsure which way to go, so I pulled over and told my GPS to take me to Independence (I already had it, being on two wheels).
My Zumo took me north through the community of Rosedale (like the song) and into the city limits of the state capital, Salem, before pointing me west again on the twisty, narrow gravel Vitae Springs Road between very expensive houses tucked privately into copses of trees. The gravel was no problem for my dual-sport V-Strom but I was a little concerned about my GPS' route choice. It wasn't 30 seconds before I dropped down onto River Road and continued west. I crossed over the Willamette River for the first time that day and entered the town of Independence, Oregon.
Independence was founded in the mid-1800's. It still kept its old time charm, with 2- and 3-story brick buildings on a classic American main street. The trees lining the streets were full of white early Spring blooms. I half expected Steven Spielberg to be standing on a street corner shouting directions to his film crew. It was such a dose of Americana that it almost looked artificial. I pulled into the parking lot of a mortuary of all places and told my GPS to take me to Monmouth, home of Western Oregon University. When I was a senior in high school I wanted to study economics at what was then called Western Oregon State College, but I studied computer science at Oregon Institute of Technology in Klamath Falls instead, at my father's urging.
Telling my GPS to take me to Monmouth wasn't worth the effort because I was already on Monmouth St. and the town itself was only 2 minutes due west.
My fuel gauge showed 135 miles and although I can go over 200 miles on a tank of gas, I took the opportunity to pull into a Chevron and fill up. There are gas stations in many of the smaller towns, but the quality of their fuel is suspect and my butt needed a break anyway. After fueling up, I headed into Monmouth proper before ending my westward travel by turning north on Highway 99W.
Highway 99 are twin roads. Both run north and south, like all odd-numbered highways, but 99W is on the west side of I-5 and 99E is on the east side. I have traveled most of 99E but had never spent much time on its western twin until today. Once again I pulled over and told my GPS to take me to my next destination, this time a town to the northwest called Dallas.
Dallas is another small town, about the same size as Sandy, my home town. It seemed I was on the truck route as I never saw the downtown proper. Repeating the process of pulling over and programming my next destination, I was soon heading north on Perrydale road.
On my ride so far I had noticed a growing trend. Farms on the valley floor with modest homes surrounded by modest or less-than-modest fences, big fancy houses on the numerous hill tops surrounded by expensive white fences and accessed by gated paved driveways lined with trees. I wondered what the hilltop dwellers did for a living. The amount of land and the size of these homes undoubtedly pushed their purchase price well into the millions of dollars. I didn't see just one or two of these estates, either. I saw dozens. Basically every small hill had a large fancy house on top. It made me wonder how California's famous Napa Valley compared in topography and economic demographics. Regardless, the verdant valley views (sorry, I couldn't resist) were incredible.
Perrydale Road met Highway 22, the route many people take to the Oregon Coast to dodge the traffic and speeding-ticket nightmare of Newberg and Dundee a little to the north. I got on 22 westbound for about a quarter mile before heading north again on Perrydale. With the many small two lane country roads and lack of proper signage, I was thankful I had a GPS to guide me along. After a few turns and road changes I made it to Amity. I did a slow ride through the tiny town and scoped out the eatery options. I saw Ashes Cafe on the main drag and saw that it was both open and seemingly popular. Never eat at a restaurant that has no customers; it's a bad sign. I saw a few scary-looking houses, too, but nothing worthy of a horror movie. I turned around and headed back, parking in front of Ashes Cafe.
The inside was rather run down and the waitress, Leona, looked like she needs to cut back on the meth a little. The food was tolerable. The coffee tasted burnt and the bacon was a confusion of nearly raw on one half and so overcooked on the other it crumbled when eaten. Two older gentlemen sat at the counter in front of me, one wearing a jacket plastered with military patches and slogans reminding us to remember those who have fallen in prior conflicts. Leona provided good service but her demeanor chilled whenever she came to my table. I never figured out why. Perhaps she only liked Harley-Davidson riders, guessing by the H-D poster on the wall above the kitchen food service window.
I paid the $7.50 ticket with a $10 bill, put my jacket on and headed out into the sunshine. My next destination was Dayton, a town I had visited on a similar day ride in February the year prior. From that point on I would be traveling familiar roads. By the time I reached Dayton, however, my clutch hand was beginning to hurt. The feeling was similar to how people describe carpal tunnel syndrome. It doesn't hurt to hold the clutch in, but the motion of squeezing the lever brought an increasing level of pain.
My intended route home would take me south to Hubbard, back to the east side of I-5, then up a confusing jumble of back roads through Canby and Redlands to home. I knew that the increasing level of pain in my clutch hand wouldn't survive that kind of route so got onto 18 eastbound and followed the traffic through Dundee, Newberg, Sherwood, and Tualatin. I hit I-205 northbound to the Clackamas exit, and came home via Highway 212 through Damascus and Boring.
By the time I got home my left wrist was in a lot of pain with every shift but I still had a smile on my face. As Neil Peart says (I quote him a lot), "When I'm riding I'm glad to be alive. When I stop riding I'm glad to be alive." Despite the seemingly long route, I was home by 1 pm. I rode approximately 180 miles. I began to wonder why I'm able to clock a dozen 250+ mile days back to back on my long summer trips without wrist pain, yet a sub-200 mile day ride makes me cut my trip short. A similar thing happened a year prior when I had to ride through the heart of Salem. It's not the miles, it's how many times I have to shift that gets me. It's the repetition. I'm going to do some research to see if there are some exercises I can do to strengthen and condition my clutch hand. Perhaps those spring-grip exercisers that have been around for decades will help.
Either way, I was thankful for the trip. I saw some fantastic scenery and obtained a new appreciation for the beauty of the Willamette Valley. I also visited several small towns in my home state for the first time. Overall it was a wonderful ride.
Route:
View Larger Map
I live in Sandy, on the foothills of Mt. Hood. When I left the house just before 8 am it was under cloudy skies. I headed south through Estacada and continued on Highway 211 toward Molalla. A few light sprinkles dotted my face shield, but the road was slowly drying out as the clouds struggled to break up. When I got to Molalla I headed south on 213 toward Silverton. This route is familiar and I've ridden it dozes of times (it's open all year).
Once I got to the quaint town of Silverton I told my GPS to take me to Pratum, a community I had never heard of until hitting the maps the prior evening. Normally I would continue south toward Stayton but this time my route took me more to the west, about halfway between 213 and I-5. The area is predominantly rural, with small farms of all types everywhere. There was fog in patches and the low clouds overhead were breaking up, giving me striking glimpses of the sun rising behind massive oaks and other deciduous trees. The feeling reminded me of the English countryside.
I made it to Pratum, and it was barely big enough to qualify map-hood. I'd call it a community rather than a town. I pulled over and told my GPS to take me to Mcleay, southward. Similar to Pratum, it was small and quaint and more a community than a town. The small two lane roads passed through green farm fields and clumps of oak trees, still devoid of leaves during this late winter ride.
At Mcleay I repeated the process. Pull over and tell my GPS to take me to my next waypoint. This time I was headed for Turner, which was a small town just east of the busy interstate. So far I had visited three new towns and would bag several more before the day was through. Turner marked the southernmost town on the day's tour and once there I turned west. I crossed under I-5 to the community of Sunnyside, one of two such named communities in Oregon (the other near Clackamas to the north). There was quite a bit of fog so riding at a slower pace was appropriate. So far I hadn't seen a single other motorcycle and had been thankfully free of Anti-Destination League members as well.
I was now west of I-5 and in new territory. My next destination was Independence, Oregon but I didn't have a safe place to pull over and program my GPS, so I trusted my instincts and headed due west on Hylo road (aptly named). I came to a T intersection at Liberty road and was unsure which way to go, so I pulled over and told my GPS to take me to Independence (I already had it, being on two wheels).
My Zumo took me north through the community of Rosedale (like the song) and into the city limits of the state capital, Salem, before pointing me west again on the twisty, narrow gravel Vitae Springs Road between very expensive houses tucked privately into copses of trees. The gravel was no problem for my dual-sport V-Strom but I was a little concerned about my GPS' route choice. It wasn't 30 seconds before I dropped down onto River Road and continued west. I crossed over the Willamette River for the first time that day and entered the town of Independence, Oregon.
Independence was founded in the mid-1800's. It still kept its old time charm, with 2- and 3-story brick buildings on a classic American main street. The trees lining the streets were full of white early Spring blooms. I half expected Steven Spielberg to be standing on a street corner shouting directions to his film crew. It was such a dose of Americana that it almost looked artificial. I pulled into the parking lot of a mortuary of all places and told my GPS to take me to Monmouth, home of Western Oregon University. When I was a senior in high school I wanted to study economics at what was then called Western Oregon State College, but I studied computer science at Oregon Institute of Technology in Klamath Falls instead, at my father's urging.
Telling my GPS to take me to Monmouth wasn't worth the effort because I was already on Monmouth St. and the town itself was only 2 minutes due west.
My fuel gauge showed 135 miles and although I can go over 200 miles on a tank of gas, I took the opportunity to pull into a Chevron and fill up. There are gas stations in many of the smaller towns, but the quality of their fuel is suspect and my butt needed a break anyway. After fueling up, I headed into Monmouth proper before ending my westward travel by turning north on Highway 99W.
Highway 99 are twin roads. Both run north and south, like all odd-numbered highways, but 99W is on the west side of I-5 and 99E is on the east side. I have traveled most of 99E but had never spent much time on its western twin until today. Once again I pulled over and told my GPS to take me to my next destination, this time a town to the northwest called Dallas.
Dallas is another small town, about the same size as Sandy, my home town. It seemed I was on the truck route as I never saw the downtown proper. Repeating the process of pulling over and programming my next destination, I was soon heading north on Perrydale road.
On my ride so far I had noticed a growing trend. Farms on the valley floor with modest homes surrounded by modest or less-than-modest fences, big fancy houses on the numerous hill tops surrounded by expensive white fences and accessed by gated paved driveways lined with trees. I wondered what the hilltop dwellers did for a living. The amount of land and the size of these homes undoubtedly pushed their purchase price well into the millions of dollars. I didn't see just one or two of these estates, either. I saw dozens. Basically every small hill had a large fancy house on top. It made me wonder how California's famous Napa Valley compared in topography and economic demographics. Regardless, the verdant valley views (sorry, I couldn't resist) were incredible.
Perrydale Road met Highway 22, the route many people take to the Oregon Coast to dodge the traffic and speeding-ticket nightmare of Newberg and Dundee a little to the north. I got on 22 westbound for about a quarter mile before heading north again on Perrydale. With the many small two lane country roads and lack of proper signage, I was thankful I had a GPS to guide me along. After a few turns and road changes I made it to Amity. I did a slow ride through the tiny town and scoped out the eatery options. I saw Ashes Cafe on the main drag and saw that it was both open and seemingly popular. Never eat at a restaurant that has no customers; it's a bad sign. I saw a few scary-looking houses, too, but nothing worthy of a horror movie. I turned around and headed back, parking in front of Ashes Cafe.
The inside was rather run down and the waitress, Leona, looked like she needs to cut back on the meth a little. The food was tolerable. The coffee tasted burnt and the bacon was a confusion of nearly raw on one half and so overcooked on the other it crumbled when eaten. Two older gentlemen sat at the counter in front of me, one wearing a jacket plastered with military patches and slogans reminding us to remember those who have fallen in prior conflicts. Leona provided good service but her demeanor chilled whenever she came to my table. I never figured out why. Perhaps she only liked Harley-Davidson riders, guessing by the H-D poster on the wall above the kitchen food service window.
I paid the $7.50 ticket with a $10 bill, put my jacket on and headed out into the sunshine. My next destination was Dayton, a town I had visited on a similar day ride in February the year prior. From that point on I would be traveling familiar roads. By the time I reached Dayton, however, my clutch hand was beginning to hurt. The feeling was similar to how people describe carpal tunnel syndrome. It doesn't hurt to hold the clutch in, but the motion of squeezing the lever brought an increasing level of pain.
My intended route home would take me south to Hubbard, back to the east side of I-5, then up a confusing jumble of back roads through Canby and Redlands to home. I knew that the increasing level of pain in my clutch hand wouldn't survive that kind of route so got onto 18 eastbound and followed the traffic through Dundee, Newberg, Sherwood, and Tualatin. I hit I-205 northbound to the Clackamas exit, and came home via Highway 212 through Damascus and Boring.
By the time I got home my left wrist was in a lot of pain with every shift but I still had a smile on my face. As Neil Peart says (I quote him a lot), "When I'm riding I'm glad to be alive. When I stop riding I'm glad to be alive." Despite the seemingly long route, I was home by 1 pm. I rode approximately 180 miles. I began to wonder why I'm able to clock a dozen 250+ mile days back to back on my long summer trips without wrist pain, yet a sub-200 mile day ride makes me cut my trip short. A similar thing happened a year prior when I had to ride through the heart of Salem. It's not the miles, it's how many times I have to shift that gets me. It's the repetition. I'm going to do some research to see if there are some exercises I can do to strengthen and condition my clutch hand. Perhaps those spring-grip exercisers that have been around for decades will help.
Either way, I was thankful for the trip. I saw some fantastic scenery and obtained a new appreciation for the beauty of the Willamette Valley. I also visited several small towns in my home state for the first time. Overall it was a wonderful ride.
Route:
View Larger Map
Monday, March 1, 2010
Marmot revisited
It was a beautiful pre-Spring day on Saturday, and after running errands and mowing the lawn, I decided to take a short ride. For the first time since late last summer, I wore my riding denim pants instead of my armored textile pant. The weather was great, with temps around 60 degrees and mostly sunny skies.
I gassed up at the Chevron in Sandy, then headed down Ten Eyke Road, crossed the Sandy River at Revenue Bridge, then headed east on Marmot Road. I followed it all the way to Barlow Trail Road, then continued east until I got to Lolo Pass Road where I turned around and headed back the same way.
It's a short run but it's fairly technical, with several challenging hairpin turns and other odd-radius turns. There are some blind curves and a blind hill as well, and the ride is great practice. There are several stretches that are shaded and never see the sunlight, so traction can be an issue. Other sections get a lot of needles and leaves from overhanging trees and picking a line out of the slippery stuff requires focus.
Route:
View Larger Map
I gassed up at the Chevron in Sandy, then headed down Ten Eyke Road, crossed the Sandy River at Revenue Bridge, then headed east on Marmot Road. I followed it all the way to Barlow Trail Road, then continued east until I got to Lolo Pass Road where I turned around and headed back the same way.
It's a short run but it's fairly technical, with several challenging hairpin turns and other odd-radius turns. There are some blind curves and a blind hill as well, and the ride is great practice. There are several stretches that are shaded and never see the sunlight, so traction can be an issue. Other sections get a lot of needles and leaves from overhanging trees and picking a line out of the slippery stuff requires focus.
Route:
View Larger Map
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Quick words of wisdom
When reading an article on Neil Peart's personal web site, about a bike trip to Yellowstone, he mentioned a journal entry he made sitting in a restaurant in Utah, after a 790-mile day. "Every detail I think of putting down seems inconsequential, yet it is the sum of those details that made the day." When I get done with a trip and start thinking about posting my ride report, that's very much how I feel as well. I did a lot of things, saw a lot of things, and experienced a lot of things, but sometimes it feels as if I'm conveying meaningless details when I write about them.
As anyone that rides a lot can tell you, any one experience or site or sensation by itself may not seem like a big deal, but it's the totality of it all that motivates us to keep doing it.
Some things cannot be conveyed by the written word or in photographs. They simply have to be experienced in person.
As anyone that rides a lot can tell you, any one experience or site or sensation by itself may not seem like a big deal, but it's the totality of it all that motivates us to keep doing it.
Some things cannot be conveyed by the written word or in photographs. They simply have to be experienced in person.
Monday, February 22, 2010
24 Hours to Southern Washington
This time of year the weather dictates my riding schedule more than anything. Because the weekend looked dry and free of frozen precipitation, it seemed like a great opportunity to get on the bike and make a quick trip to my sister's house in southern Washington. I had been needing to visit her for some time as I've been building a web site to highlight her artwork (www.TamlenCreations.com) and we needed to go over some project related items, so it made sense to combine the work with pleasure and make a bike trip out of it.
I invited my friend Mike to go along. He and I have known each other since the 3rd grade and share a love of motorcycles, getting our endorsements within a few months of each other three years ago. The idea was to leave from our jobs mid-day on Friday and meet up somewhere, then ride together the rest of the way. We coordinated our departure times at 1pm and planned to meet at the Steigerwald Lake wildlife refuge parking lot in Washougal, Washington.
[caption id="attachment_496" align="alignright" width="320" caption="Steigerwald Lake wildlife refuge"]
[/caption]
Unfortunately Mike got stuck in stop-and-go traffic on I-5 heading out of Portland and arrived a little more than an hour late. Stop-and-go on a motorcycle is not fun and I felt bad for him, but he had his usual "Whatever, man. Let's ride!" attitude so that's what we did.
The route was SR14 eastbound, and as usual we got stuck behind a series of slow cars and a semi. We pulled over at the Cape Horn viewpoint
[caption id="attachment_497" align="alignleft" width="320" caption="Viewpoint at Cape Horn, SR14, Washington"]
[/caption]
and took some photos, then continued on to the Chevron in North Bonneville for a snack break. Mike ate carrots, I ate a Snickers and Frappucino. I keep telling Mike that calories don't count when you're on two wheels but I don't think he believes me.
There was a 20 mph headwind but we could tell that it was gradually easing up as we continued eastward. We stopped again at a rest area just west of Lyle for a bio break and Mike took the opportunity to snap a few photos
[caption id="attachment_498" align="alignright" width="340" caption="Rest area, Mike's bike"]
[/caption]
of his bike with the setting sun over the Columbia River in the background. I saw a guy walking up the trail below the viewpoint carrying a tri-pod and camera bags. Obviously he recognized the photo opportunity as well.
Mike commented that his hands were starting to get fairly cold with his warmer-weather riding gloves so I offered him my cold-weather gauntlets. He passed, and we continued down SR14 to the junction with Highway 142 northbound at Lyle.
Turning left we headed up 142 which followed the beautiful Klickitat River. Many sections of the road were in the shade and some spots were wet but the temperature was above freezing so we had no worries about sliding. Being mid-February the oak trees in the river valley were still devoid of leaves. Although we were out of the east wind, the air became noticeably cooler as we rode north through the river valley. Even though I was dressed for the cold weather, I could tell it was probably getting colder than Mike's gloves could handle so I pulled off the road and dug out my cold-weather gauntlets. When Mike rolled up behind me I extended them to him and with a big grin he gladly accepted them. With warmer hands, we rode onward.
By the time we reached the top of the river valley to continue east toward Goldendale, the sun was getting close to the horizon. Our intention was to gas up in Goldendale before heading out into the hinterlands where my sister and her husband live, 30 minutes east of town. By the time we rolled into the Chevron Mike's low fuel light was flashing. We filled our tanks and headed east on the Bickleton Highway.
The temperature was getting noticeably colder by the mile. The last two miles of the trip were on gravel and dirt road, wet and slightly muddy in many places. I stood up on my pegs but the forward pegs on Mikes Suzuki M50 didn't allow that so he took the bumps sitting down. By the time we pulled into the driveway of my sister's house the sun was below the horizon and only twilight illuminated our arrival. The temperature was 35 degrees and dropping quickly.
Part of this trip involved an equipment experiment. My sleeping bag, although very lightweight and compact, wasn't overly warm so I purchased an ultra-thin but high-tech liner from REI to add some insulation without bulk to my sleeping system. My sister and her husband have a wood stove and their house is usually hovering around 80 degrees inside, much too warm for my tastes, so Mike took the guest bedroom while I pitched my one-man tent on the back deck and chose to test out my new sleeping arrangement. We stayed up until close to 11pm talking, before our mutual yawns told us it was time to call it a night. I went outside and crawled into my sleeping bag.
The temperature outside dropped to 20 degrees, but that didn't keep the coyotes from howling. I was surprised to find out the sleeping bag liner I bought -- seemingly made from spider silk and smoke -- did a wonderful job keeping me warm. Because the air was so cold, however, any piece of flesh exposed became painfully cold. Even though I wore a fleece hat and had the sleeping bag cinched up around my head, I still had spots that couldn't be completely covered. The rest of my body was perfectly comfortable, however. At around 1:30 am I had to go to the bathroom and decided that I had proven my sleeping bag liner worked as advertised and decided to spend the rest of the night on the couch inside.
The next morning there was a gray layer of frost on our bikes. We drank tea and coffee and ate hot breakfast sandwiches, then Tami and I worked on her web site for a while. Not wanting to get home after dark, Mike and I began packing up and loading our bikes. We rolled up the driveway and with a couple of "meep-meep" toots on the bike horns, we were on our way back home.
Mike and I rode through Goldendale on 142, back the way we came, but turned north toward the tiny mountain communities of Glenwood and Trout Lake.
[caption id="attachment_499" align="alignright" width="340" caption="Mike and his Suzuki M50"]
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The road descended down the side of a river valley and Mike and I took the opportunity to snap several photos of both the scenery and each other as we rode by. The river wound its way along the bottom of the valley below and we could see the road ahead doing the same down the other side of the valley.
I relied on my bike's GPS to help us navigate the two-lane country roads between Glenwood and Trout Lake. We caught glimpses of Mt. Adams, skirting and shy behind cloud cover. Just before reaching Glenwood the clouds lifted and we got a good shot of the mountain.
[caption id="attachment_501" align="alignright" width="320" caption="Mt. Adams southern face"]
[/caption]
We stopped at the General Store in Trout lake eager for a corn dog, but they were fresh out so we decided to press on and have lunch in Stevenson.
SR141 south is a beautiful drive interspersed between forest and small farms and ranches. Property values are substantially higher than one might expect, however, due at least in part to the scenic beauty of the area. It wasn't long before we got stuck behind some slow cagers, however. Maintaining caution, we followed behind until we got to SR14 at the confluence of the White Salmon and Columbia Rivers. Turning west, we picked up our pace under beautiful sunny skies and the glistening river to our left and continued on to Stevenson.
We parked our bikes in front of the Skamania County Courthouse and walked across the street to the Big River Grill for lunch. Mike had a reuben with tomato basil soup and I had a grilled salmon sandwich with the soup as well. Rested and fed, we went back outside into the sunshine. I intended to cross back over to Oregon via the Bridge of the Gods into Cascade Locks, while Mike would continue west on SR14 before crossing into Oregon either via the I-205 or I-5 bridge. So we shook hands, said our goodbyes, and continued on our separate ways.
Just west of Stevenson I crossed the high, narrow and fairly scary Bridge of the Gods. The swift wind tilted my bike sideways several times over the short bridge span, but I've jumped out of airplanes before so it wasn't as scary as it would have been otherwise. I paid my toll, then got on I-84 for a quick ride to Troutdale, then home to Sandy.
Route:
View Larger Map
I invited my friend Mike to go along. He and I have known each other since the 3rd grade and share a love of motorcycles, getting our endorsements within a few months of each other three years ago. The idea was to leave from our jobs mid-day on Friday and meet up somewhere, then ride together the rest of the way. We coordinated our departure times at 1pm and planned to meet at the Steigerwald Lake wildlife refuge parking lot in Washougal, Washington.
[caption id="attachment_496" align="alignright" width="320" caption="Steigerwald Lake wildlife refuge"]
[/caption]Unfortunately Mike got stuck in stop-and-go traffic on I-5 heading out of Portland and arrived a little more than an hour late. Stop-and-go on a motorcycle is not fun and I felt bad for him, but he had his usual "Whatever, man. Let's ride!" attitude so that's what we did.
The route was SR14 eastbound, and as usual we got stuck behind a series of slow cars and a semi. We pulled over at the Cape Horn viewpoint
[caption id="attachment_497" align="alignleft" width="320" caption="Viewpoint at Cape Horn, SR14, Washington"]
[/caption]and took some photos, then continued on to the Chevron in North Bonneville for a snack break. Mike ate carrots, I ate a Snickers and Frappucino. I keep telling Mike that calories don't count when you're on two wheels but I don't think he believes me.
There was a 20 mph headwind but we could tell that it was gradually easing up as we continued eastward. We stopped again at a rest area just west of Lyle for a bio break and Mike took the opportunity to snap a few photos
[caption id="attachment_498" align="alignright" width="340" caption="Rest area, Mike's bike"]
[/caption]of his bike with the setting sun over the Columbia River in the background. I saw a guy walking up the trail below the viewpoint carrying a tri-pod and camera bags. Obviously he recognized the photo opportunity as well.
Mike commented that his hands were starting to get fairly cold with his warmer-weather riding gloves so I offered him my cold-weather gauntlets. He passed, and we continued down SR14 to the junction with Highway 142 northbound at Lyle.
Turning left we headed up 142 which followed the beautiful Klickitat River. Many sections of the road were in the shade and some spots were wet but the temperature was above freezing so we had no worries about sliding. Being mid-February the oak trees in the river valley were still devoid of leaves. Although we were out of the east wind, the air became noticeably cooler as we rode north through the river valley. Even though I was dressed for the cold weather, I could tell it was probably getting colder than Mike's gloves could handle so I pulled off the road and dug out my cold-weather gauntlets. When Mike rolled up behind me I extended them to him and with a big grin he gladly accepted them. With warmer hands, we rode onward.
By the time we reached the top of the river valley to continue east toward Goldendale, the sun was getting close to the horizon. Our intention was to gas up in Goldendale before heading out into the hinterlands where my sister and her husband live, 30 minutes east of town. By the time we rolled into the Chevron Mike's low fuel light was flashing. We filled our tanks and headed east on the Bickleton Highway.
The temperature was getting noticeably colder by the mile. The last two miles of the trip were on gravel and dirt road, wet and slightly muddy in many places. I stood up on my pegs but the forward pegs on Mikes Suzuki M50 didn't allow that so he took the bumps sitting down. By the time we pulled into the driveway of my sister's house the sun was below the horizon and only twilight illuminated our arrival. The temperature was 35 degrees and dropping quickly.
Part of this trip involved an equipment experiment. My sleeping bag, although very lightweight and compact, wasn't overly warm so I purchased an ultra-thin but high-tech liner from REI to add some insulation without bulk to my sleeping system. My sister and her husband have a wood stove and their house is usually hovering around 80 degrees inside, much too warm for my tastes, so Mike took the guest bedroom while I pitched my one-man tent on the back deck and chose to test out my new sleeping arrangement. We stayed up until close to 11pm talking, before our mutual yawns told us it was time to call it a night. I went outside and crawled into my sleeping bag.
The temperature outside dropped to 20 degrees, but that didn't keep the coyotes from howling. I was surprised to find out the sleeping bag liner I bought -- seemingly made from spider silk and smoke -- did a wonderful job keeping me warm. Because the air was so cold, however, any piece of flesh exposed became painfully cold. Even though I wore a fleece hat and had the sleeping bag cinched up around my head, I still had spots that couldn't be completely covered. The rest of my body was perfectly comfortable, however. At around 1:30 am I had to go to the bathroom and decided that I had proven my sleeping bag liner worked as advertised and decided to spend the rest of the night on the couch inside.
The next morning there was a gray layer of frost on our bikes. We drank tea and coffee and ate hot breakfast sandwiches, then Tami and I worked on her web site for a while. Not wanting to get home after dark, Mike and I began packing up and loading our bikes. We rolled up the driveway and with a couple of "meep-meep" toots on the bike horns, we were on our way back home.
Mike and I rode through Goldendale on 142, back the way we came, but turned north toward the tiny mountain communities of Glenwood and Trout Lake.
[caption id="attachment_499" align="alignright" width="340" caption="Mike and his Suzuki M50"]
[/caption]The road descended down the side of a river valley and Mike and I took the opportunity to snap several photos of both the scenery and each other as we rode by. The river wound its way along the bottom of the valley below and we could see the road ahead doing the same down the other side of the valley.
I relied on my bike's GPS to help us navigate the two-lane country roads between Glenwood and Trout Lake. We caught glimpses of Mt. Adams, skirting and shy behind cloud cover. Just before reaching Glenwood the clouds lifted and we got a good shot of the mountain.
[caption id="attachment_501" align="alignright" width="320" caption="Mt. Adams southern face"]
[/caption]We stopped at the General Store in Trout lake eager for a corn dog, but they were fresh out so we decided to press on and have lunch in Stevenson.
SR141 south is a beautiful drive interspersed between forest and small farms and ranches. Property values are substantially higher than one might expect, however, due at least in part to the scenic beauty of the area. It wasn't long before we got stuck behind some slow cagers, however. Maintaining caution, we followed behind until we got to SR14 at the confluence of the White Salmon and Columbia Rivers. Turning west, we picked up our pace under beautiful sunny skies and the glistening river to our left and continued on to Stevenson.
We parked our bikes in front of the Skamania County Courthouse and walked across the street to the Big River Grill for lunch. Mike had a reuben with tomato basil soup and I had a grilled salmon sandwich with the soup as well. Rested and fed, we went back outside into the sunshine. I intended to cross back over to Oregon via the Bridge of the Gods into Cascade Locks, while Mike would continue west on SR14 before crossing into Oregon either via the I-205 or I-5 bridge. So we shook hands, said our goodbyes, and continued on our separate ways.
Just west of Stevenson I crossed the high, narrow and fairly scary Bridge of the Gods. The swift wind tilted my bike sideways several times over the short bridge span, but I've jumped out of airplanes before so it wasn't as scary as it would have been otherwise. I paid my toll, then got on I-84 for a quick ride to Troutdale, then home to Sandy.
Route:
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Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Commuting Week
It's not official but I'm commuting on my bike every day this week. The weather has been across the board, too. Cold but dry Monday, rainy coming in on Tuesday but dry on the way home, very foggy on the way in this morning but presently clear blue skies with an increasing east wind.
I've found that keeping my bike semi-packed and ready to go in the garage at night makes it easier to get motivated to ride to work the next morning. Normally my car is parked in front of it and I have to pull it out of the garage just to get to my bike. When I ride to work I usually park the car in the driveway the night before, making access to the bike much easier.
I've found that keeping my bike semi-packed and ready to go in the garage at night makes it easier to get motivated to ride to work the next morning. Normally my car is parked in front of it and I have to pull it out of the garage just to get to my bike. When I ride to work I usually park the car in the driveway the night before, making access to the bike much easier.
Monday, February 1, 2010
To the Valley and back
Sunday afforded me another opportunity to get out and ride. It was overcast but dry, mostly. I headed south to Estacada, then southwest toward Molalla. There were some ADL members out and about, slowing things down for the rest of us that aren't deluded into thinking we're closer to God because we drive 10 mph under the speed limit on Sundays. I gassed up at the Chevron in Molalla before continuing west to Woodburn.
Once in Woodburn I turned north on Highway 213 and rode into Canby before looping back eastward. Unfortunately I got stuck behind more members of the ADL so I pulled over and dug my sunglasses from my tank bag, taking the opportunity to let go of the aggravation inspired by slow cagers.
Too late. I wasn't back on the road more than 10 seconds before a lady in a mini-van pulled out in front of me and drove 40 mph in a 55 mph zone. I never had a chance to pass safely, but fortunately she turned off a couple of miles down the road. Once I met back up with highway 211, I continued east toward Marquam on a road I had never traveled before. The two-lane country road passed through a small community of Barlow amidst numerous Christmas tree farms and other agricultural endeavors.
At Marquam I turned left and continued back to Molalla, where I stopped for a cheeseburger and mocha at the busy McDonalds. Back on the road I went north to Mulino before heading east again through Colton and back to Estacada and Sandy via the route I came.
Once in Woodburn I turned north on Highway 213 and rode into Canby before looping back eastward. Unfortunately I got stuck behind more members of the ADL so I pulled over and dug my sunglasses from my tank bag, taking the opportunity to let go of the aggravation inspired by slow cagers.
Too late. I wasn't back on the road more than 10 seconds before a lady in a mini-van pulled out in front of me and drove 40 mph in a 55 mph zone. I never had a chance to pass safely, but fortunately she turned off a couple of miles down the road. Once I met back up with highway 211, I continued east toward Marquam on a road I had never traveled before. The two-lane country road passed through a small community of Barlow amidst numerous Christmas tree farms and other agricultural endeavors.
At Marquam I turned left and continued back to Molalla, where I stopped for a cheeseburger and mocha at the busy McDonalds. Back on the road I went north to Mulino before heading east again through Colton and back to Estacada and Sandy via the route I came.
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