The Pacific coast’s volcanic mountains were this day’s west coast riding focus.
The first eight miles along their southward US97 trek was a long winding four lane hill climb up from their Columbia River valley floor motel at Biggs Junction to the high plains of north-central Oregon’s wheat belt.
Once on the plain they could see to the east the mountain trails that lead to the Clarno Nut Beds. These archeological sites are world famous, since they contain the most varieties of ancient life form specimens in a single location. During the Eocene period (38 – 55 million years ago) the area was like sub-tropical Costa Rica. The endless wheat field terrain that stretched between the eastern and western horizon mountain ridges was undisturbed save for the vast numbers of electricity generating wind turbines.
Fifty miles or so along this plateau ride they passed through what appeared to be a ghost town. The signs said it was called Shaniko. The buildings appeared to be turn of the 20th century in origin. There was an abandoned fire truck that forlornly stood next to the road way. They couldn’t puzzle out the vehicle’s portents were as they putted past. Given the past week’s events, they were sure that it was attempting to tell them something.
The day’s primary attraction was Crater Lake National Park, a little more than three hours south of Shaniko. Starting just north of the park until they passed Mount Shasta on I5 they journeyed along Oregon’s and California’s scenic volcanic byways. This encompassed the brims of volcanic lakes, diverse wetlands, scenic ranches, thriving croplands, and forests full of bald eagles.
The volcanic part of this segment was unbelievable! It was like motoring through the 1940 Disney movie landscape of Fantasia where the dinosaurs marched to their deaths as earth’s volcanoes suffocated most living things on Earth accompanied by classical music.
Crater Highway started just inside the park’s entrance amidst a verdant alpine forest setting and ended at the lake by way of a charred volcanic flatland and craggy mountain reaches.
They made their way to the crater’s edge through a veritable blizzard of a billion mating yellow butterflies that suicided themselves on their scooters, clothing and goggles. The last half mile to Crater Rim Drive was additionally complicated by the narrow 22 foot wide road’s severe drop offs on both sides. Here was another daily double: a not-so-tasty bug plague and a knife-edged road ride.
Crater Lake was once a towering mountain that was decapitated by a massive volcanic explosion 7700 years ago. At 6 miles wide it is America’s deepest lake at 1,943 feet. No place else on earth combines a deep, pure lake, so blue in color; sheer surrounding cliffs, almost two thousand feet high; two picturesque islands; and a violent volcanic past. It is a place of immeasurable beauty. They rode the rim for a little more than half of its 33 mile circumference.
After eating a leisurely lunch at the park’s Annie Creek restaurant, they hurried out the back entrance of the park to reconnect with US 97, cross into California, join and head south along I5 and ride past Mount Shasta en route another scooter oil change at a Redding California motorcycle dealership.
While they had not travelled the minimum miles for a scooter sludge exchange, they tried to treat their rides gently since they depended on them for so much.
The eighty five miles from north of Weed on route 97 and along I5 to Redding encompassed the hottest place they had ever been in their lives. That included the military desert survival school in the California in the 60s and 70s.
For more than an hour and a half, they were assaulted by hellish temperatures exceeding 117 degrees Fahrenheit, while doing 65+ MPH. The sun was a malevolent and merciless furnace with their motorcycles’ engine heat pushing their bodies past their melting points. The wind blast acted like a bellows superheating their insides. The concrete anvil’s pavement reflected heat coupled with wind blast probably raised the effective temperature on their chests and faces to in excess of 150 degrees.
As they turned onto I5, they hazily connected the abandoned fire truck dot in Shaniko to their situation as they seared themselves past well done. They breathed exclusively through their noses the last sixty minutes, since opening their mouths scorched their lips and tongues.
Metal surfaces on their bikes including the clutch and brake levers burned like hell when touched by the exposed skin of their hands.
They were being pounded by an unseen fiendish iron worker. They sensed themselves weakening under this assault. Next they lost their sense of smell and were astounded by this inability to detect the oily unburnt diesel odor in the struggling semis’ exhausts as they labored up and down the volcanic mountain sides along I5’s track.
During the last fifteen miles, they ceased sweating.
Oblivious of the prospects for tire-thrown debris, they repeatedly sought the coolness in the eastward leaning sun shadows cast by high balling, semi-tractor trailers. After 30 seconds of relief, they would move on out of these danger zones back onto the pitiless smith’s pounding block for more hammering.
They arrived at the dealership without incident. In a state of heat exhaustion, they woozily staggered off of their bikes and into the air conditioned showroom. Marlow soaked his head and gulped down a large quantity of cold fountain water. Augustus stood stony eyed underneath a fast moving ceiling fan in the middle of three dozen chromed-out Harley Davidson models. It was twenty or thirty minutes before Rex began sweating again as his core temperature dropped to acceptable limits. It was another ten minutes before Marlow and Augustus could talk to the dealership’s maintenance department about the oil changes they had originally wanted.
Thoroughly exhausted, they booked rooms at a Motel 6 next door to the dealership. None of them remember much from that day after they cooled down in the dealership. Augustus later told Marlow that Rex took a dip in the motel pool. Rex to this day doesn’t remember doing so.
They annealed themselves that day. That long heating, relentless pounding and slow cooling altered their humanness that afternoon. Their natural properties of strength and brittleness shifted. Like metals on a blacksmith’s anvil, they were shaped and formed on that concrete pavement hammering block for as yet unrevealed ends.
Hardened by the Highway
Five-hundred miles from the Canadian border
The days getting longer, the days getting hotter
Hardened by the highway leaning on blue elixir
A little bit drier but not much wiser
The days keep on running down through the seasons
Ran through a fiery mountain road, wildly for no reason
Devil almost collected his due for the moments they’re seizing
Still nothing was lost that’s left to believe in
They got little to lose and their only companions
Are the roads they love, the hills they are rambling
Engine roars echoes from the back of the canyon
Hungry for more than plain understanding
Sometimes it gets hard, sometimes it’s amusing
When wisdom gained is just an illusion
When blind old men know best what to make of confusion
And dead men know nothing at all
Still they dream of a road that’ll curve out in front of them
They hope for another day when the sweet road will guide them
To a place where all pain will drain from them
They’ll pull off riding boots with the day’s traveling behind them
But it’s five-hundred miles from the Canadian border
The days getting longer, the days getting hotter
Hardened by the highway they ride on its shoulder
A little bit tired, a little bit older
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