This dumps you off on a section of the PCH I really like. So much of the PCH is not about the beach. It's about wet rides through fog and rain -- not that there's a dime's worth of difference between the two -- through actual rain-forests, tiny towns. Redwoods.

There's a part that goes past fresh water lagoons. Last year I saw elk here, more elk than squirrels. Worth staying in Eureka overnight and taking this run at dawn.

Also worth taking the cutoff to the Prairie Creek redwood park, it'll drop you right back on the 101. You can get out an walk around or just ride through. The trees here are ridiculously big. Makes you feel like a hobbit.

 

I remember the Dick and Jane reader when I was a kid. I remember looking at the illustrations and thinking, I want to go to that world. To ride my bike under that tree, through that field and over that hill, because I felt there was a whole nother world in that watercolor. The sunshine world.

I get that feeling rolling through every little Oregon beach town. Each with its little harbor, each with its little river disappearing into misty green hills. There really is a world in those hills. Really is a place to go.



This is where I stayed, first night in Oregon. Gold Beach. Misty, rainy. I suppose that is how it's meant to be. At the "Crazy Chinook Inn." I guess it's really called the "Wild Chinook" but I take liberties. The owner's ten-year-old-daughter checked me in, and I would say she was flawless. Remember that next time some hotel clerk can't get it right. It's literally a job a ten-year-old can do.

 

I am at a war memorial outside of Coos Bay, Oregon. It's Memorial Day weekend.

I guess it's been two years since my Dad died. He chose a path of righteousness, signed up for the Army when he turned 18. Not that the warrior path is necessarily righteous. It usually is, that's just not what he had in mind. He was thinking, a job. An honorable pathway out of poverty. And that's what he got, just not in the manner he planned.

He was on his way to Japan, visions of geisha girls dancing in his head, when a change in plan was announced. They would be diverting to Korea, a place no one he knew on that ship had ever heard of.

When they landed in Pusan he could hear the artillery in the hills. He was ordered up to a bridge on the perimeter that had been overrun the night before. They were overrun again. My Dad found himself fighting back-to-back with another soldier as the enemy swarmed through their position. I remember he told me that story many times when I was young. He carefully explained to me, in terms I could understand, that he knew he wouldn't be shot in the back that way.

He never knew the man, never knew his name. Until, astoundingly, he ran into him at a KWVA function a few years ago.

It would not be fair to say he died peacefully -- he had one more kick in the teeth coming -- but before he got sick, he did find peace. He connected with other Korean vets. Connected with Vietnam vets, because he found they had something in common. I found out, before he got sick, he was visiting the local high school's ROTC students every week. I think I know where he was going with this.

My mother took him to Saving Private Ryan, over her objections, because he insisted. The combat scenes didn't bother him, and I understand that. I can't watch a medical drama without a part of me saying, "that's now how it is." The part that bothered him was when the lieutenant, as he was dying, told Ryan, "Earn this." My Dad thought that was a terrible thing to say. A terrible burden to place on a man.

Yet, every man and woman who has survived combat carries that burden.

DSC. Purple Heart. The Army sent out an honor guard for his funeral. They know. He made it home, but still he is a fallen warrior.

It is this civilian's opinion that, while we honor on Memorial Day those who fell in battle, I feel we should also think about those who made it home, and have passed, because they were warriors still, and carried this burden until they day they left us. And also, that our thoughts be with those who are now home, and still with us. Because it seems (to this civilian) that we are really good at sending our people downrange. Not so good at bringing them home again.

 

I stayed in Newport one night. Nye Beach is not as trendy as some would have you believe. It's romantic, meaning, it doesn't brook irony very well. But if you're not in an ironic mood, it's nice.

The Vietnam Vet's memorial, on the other hand, is worth lingering at. There's a walkway down to the beach, where there are rocks. Children look for critters down there, and I will admit they are right, tidal pools are really cool. I saw anemones.

Some trippy sculptures at the memorial.

 

It's not Big Sur. Not to me and maybe not to anybody. I went to a concert down there and met a guy who calls himself Leafy Green. He makes fine glass. "Brother," he said, "Loving yourself, loving another person, and loving all of humanity is the same game. You can't pick and choose." He's right I suppose. Just not sure I give a rat's behind about any of those things.

He spins also. Late at night they went to "Silent Disco," where you get wireless headphones. So odd to see people rocking out, just jamming with their friends, in total silence. He spun at about 4 am. We were dancing at first, then we were just standing there, with our jaws hanging. That was some trippy stuff. After a while we were just lying there on the ground, staring at the stars, in bliss.

Big Sur is Big Sur. Still, the pacific coast is the pacific coast. There's plenty of this:

 

When you're young, your bucket list has an equity of sorts. It's a way of building up life credits. When you're old, it has the opposite effect. It's a countdown. For example, I have traveled almost all of Route 66 between Texas and California. There was a time when I would have been eager to put the final stretch, near Barstow, in the bag. Now, I am not eager to do so. Not just because Barstow is nothing to scream about. I now see a value in leaving something undone.

That said, I did not complete the PCH.

I made it over the bridge at Astoria, which was terrifying, and enjoyed the Washington coast marshlands. I did not see any bears, but if I were a bear that's where I would be. I turned inland at Aberdeen, into a fine sunny day, and bunked down in Olympia. The next day I pressed into Seattle.

I am not a Motel 6 partisan. I will stay in a place that is haunted. Or in a boutique hotel if it is cool.

Hotel Max is so cool it hurts a little. My daughter would say I am not cool enough to stay here. I say, "I was cool until you came along," and believe I still am to a certain extent.



San Fran has some work to do if they don't want to lose convention business to Seattle. Seattle is hoity-toity, so it has that against it. I am aware of addiction, and homelessness. The contention that treating these people is somehow a violation of their civil rights is both preposterous, and convenient if you prefer to spend your money elsewhere, for example on corruption. I did not see any addicts literally shooting up in downtown Seattle, which is likely to give them a competitive edge over San Fran moving forward. That, from a person who has an irrational love for San Francisco. Just saying.

 

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday I learned a lot. I felt smart, and decided I should do something stupid to balance it out. So I got on my bike.

Highway 2 looks like a good way to get through the Cascades on paper. In real life, it was OK. Four-laned a lot of the way, with traffic. I got glimpses of the mountains through the fog. The Cascades are serious mountains, and it was nice getting some of that alpine goodness in as little as 1500 feet above sea level. Where the air is thick like molasses, and smells of a fine sativa. Earthy, with pine, and a hint of diesel.

I wondered if it was biker-friendly. I saw a sign that said, "Larry's Bar-B-Q. Eat. Big. Meal." I thought, they love us!. Later I saw a sign that said, "Family nudist park, one mile." I thought, they will learn to hate us eventually. I remain undecided.

That opens up to the expansive Columbia River Basin:



Theme song: The Long and Winding Road.

 

I stayed overnight in Rizville, WA. A town that is frozen in time, like a lot of towns I saw. The railroad didn't bypass it, so it's a town. But the interstate did, so it's stuck in about 1950.



There are even period-correct, beautifully restored cars parked on the street. There is a bar there. I went to it and had a fine IPA, and a burger.

 

I was told, "Get to Lewisville," so I did. 261 goes though verdant wheat fields teaming with deer into canyonlands formed by God-knows-what, current theory is that there was an inland sea in the Columbia basin several times, and someone drained the bathtub repeatedly. Highway 12 into Lewiston and beyond is gloriously twisty and crappy. I'm getting to where I don't trust good pavement, worry that it doesn't have enough stick-um.

The plan is to follow Lewis and Clark's eastward journey along the Snake River, to the Clearwater and then the Lochsa River.

Snake river coming into Lewiston:



As we go into the mountains it is heavily forested but little in the way of alpine views. Many rafters on the river.

 

You Sir have a way with words! I found myself longing to be where you were, I found myself in quiet reflection and crying when you spoke of your Dad and the Vietnam Memorial, and I find myself longing for that long road trip! You have a gift for words! Please keep telling your tale, I love to read about your adventures.