Just Feed Me To The Bears - I'm Old Anyway

*** continued from previous post ***

All eyes of the family turned to me. I had their undivided attention. Had I known all it would take to win them to our side was the mention of wildlife it would have made the last 20 minutes much, much simpler. As a typical child of the 1970's, I'd watched many hours of "Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom". If I had known this simple fact I would have lied through my teeth and reveled them with stories of my wilderness adventures based on my memory of the TV shows. True, my recollection was a bit spotty, a tad fuzzy, but I'm sure I could manage. I watched that damn show every Sunday night for years. Why? Because it was something that you had to endure to get to the "Wonderful World of Disney". Which was as close as we got in those days to kiddie-crack. Wild Kingdom was like penance.

Anyway, if pressed I would have regaled them with the tale of hunting the Great White Whale on the open seas, and how I had lost my leg to the demon-beast of the depths.

On second thought, that may have not been "Wild Kingdom". I think that was one of the Brady Bunch vacations. I'm old. I get confused sometimes. Deal with it.

Mark was the first to speak, "Saw a bear in the valley as you came up, did ya?"

His tone was a bit softer, a tad less confrontational. It was obvious that he had seen well over 2 million grizzlies in his life, and had hand-fed most of them so our encounter was - for lack of a better word - 'cute'.

"Yep," I said. "It was quite a trip. Especially the bears. Well and the moose. But the bear was a heck of a lot closer than the moose."

Carl, ever the life of the party, said "You know a bike hit a grizzly last week down on Highway 40. That was a mess."

Oh joy. We were now at the 'maiming and death on a motorcycle' part of the conversation. I decided to play it cool. Besides, there was that 'Highway 40' thingee again.

"Highway 40 ,” I said, “that's quite a ride up from Carnack. I don't know if I'd call it a 'highway' though."

Carl looked at me quizzically. "Carnack? No, that's on the other side."

What the hell?

"The other side?"

"Well yeah," he said, "it comes up from the south. Still gravel though."

I'd have to take a look at that. I wondered if this mythical road was an option for our departure. If it was less than the sheer cliff back to Carnack I wouldn't hesitate - grizzlies or not. I was dreading that steep, slippery, twisty trip back to civilization already. I'd half decided that it might be better just to feed ourselves to the bears and be done with it.
Or at least feed myself to a bear if it turned out there really was a different, and probably easier way up here. Just to escape the wrath of your mother.


*** the journey continues ***

Donner? Party Of One?

*** continued from previous post ***


I turned that bike back around like it was a hovercraft on ice. Lickety-split. Easy as pie. Quick as the impending collapse of the US economy.

By the time I was finished, and we were headed back in the right direction, I was panting, aching, steaming, and experiencing tunnel vision. I forgot my name for a few minutes. I had a nice little interlude in my head where the days were warm and sunny and the roads were dry and clear.

Then - BOOM - I'm back on the bike in the Rockies being a moron.

I turn half-around to your Mother. "Let me ask you something . . . if we had stayed there too long, and I know you only packed a few crackers because you tell me every 10 minutes or so . . . you'd have eaten me, wouldn't' you? A little Donner Party of one. Amiright?"

Mom sighs. "Just get the bike moving."

Sage advice that. So, without further ado I put the bike in gear and we are once again hurtling down a rainy, dusky, gravel road towards oblivion.

Things do begin to look up though. The track in the road gets better. I can get the bike up to about 35 mph now. The stretches are long and straight with plenty of visibility ahead. I suppose the area is gorgeous, but at this point I could not care less. I'm dead. Beat. Nearly defeated. But I would never admit that to anyone.

Umm . . . until now I guess.

Dang.

*** the journey continues ***

Never Waste a Good Emotion

*** continued from previous post ***

I collected myself enough to take a further assessment of the situation.

The road had leveled out - and thank the Gods for that - but the path that lie ahead looked like . . . well, like we were going to be driving possibly THROUGH or INTO a lake. Seriously.
The tiny voice inside said, "Sure. Why not?"

STFU internal voice or I swear to God that I will lobotomize myself here and now. Where's that screwdriver?

"Let's get going," Mom said, and settled back into her seat. "I really, really, really, really need to be off the bike."

Wuss. We had only been riding for . . . okay, we'd been riding for about 13 hours. Still, that's no reason to get testy. I made a mental note to have a talk with your Mom about her attitude. But not right now. Probably not this week. Sometime after Halloween seemed safe. And then I would put it in a letter and make sure I was out of town when she read it.
With another sigh I pulled back onto the gravel and back onto the track. An old sound clip from MSTK3000 popped into my head, (Yeah, it was getting crowded in there.), and said, "Off to meet my doom Mom. See you after school!"

So we putted along the gravel towards the lake. It was definitely easier going now that the road was not at an insane angle, but it was getting very soft between the washboards. 15 mph was about the max speed. Any faster and I felt like my fillings were going to rattle out of my teeth.

As we approached the water the view grew more and more disconcerting. Ahead was a lake. Big lake. Deep lake. On the right side was a sheer rock cliff that rose, from what appeared to be directly from the water, to a height of maybe 150 feet. Or 7000 grams in hell-measure. Naught but water on the left. The road looked like it simply ended.

I wanted to cry, but no one would have heard me and I don' know about you, but that just seems a waste.


*** the journey continues ***

Passing Out is Always An Option

*** continued from previous post ***


I took a deep breath and sat up, stretching the cramps that had set into my arms and hands.

I surveyed my surroundings. Well, we definitely were at the top. There were some rolling hills in front of us, but nothing to compare to what we had just navigated. Later, I would discover that we had climbed about 1700 feet in 12 Kilometers. Or, in devil-speak Canadian measurements, about 4.5 liters a minute. Not too shabby. After I restored my heart rate to a manageable level, and decided that I hadn't wet myself, (okay, who am I kidding - hadn't wet myself TOO severely), I took stock.

While we were level, the road surface had not improved. The rain had not improved. Your Mother's mood had not improved by any appreciable degree. Our hypothermia situation had not improved - in fact, it was worse. The temperature had plummeted as we climbed into the Rockies. And, like a big, moldering mutant strawberry cradled in the congealed whipped cream of a day-old Belgian Waffle, twilight was descending. - rapidly.

But, on the positive side, we could be hit by lightening any moment, so there was always hope.

"What do we do now?", Mom asked in a dazed voice. "Do we turn around?"

I thought, however briefly, of turning the bike around and riding down the mountain, and my boys - and you know what I mean by 'the boys' - don't feign ignorance - shot straight up into my throat, through my head, and were dancing somewhere above the tree tops trying to escape. The only thing worse than coming UP that road in this weather, was going DOWN that road in this weather. Miles of braking down the side of a gravel mountain didn't appeal to me. Somewhere, in the recesses of my brain a tiny voice reminded me that I would, at some point, need to take the bike down this very same road. I hate that voice. It's annoying. All high-pitched and squeaky. And preachy to boot. And usually right.

Damn you internal monologue!

"I think I would rather feed marshmallows to alligators with my lips than try and ride back down that road,” I said and wiped rainwater from my glasses. It was an exercise in futility. "Hopefully the worst is behind us. Let's just push on and get to the Lodge."

"Does the GPS say we are close?"

"I don't know. When we met those jeeps Sweet Alice let out a tiny scream then passed out."

Mom pondered this for a moment. "Was passing out an option? I wish I'd known that. I would have blanked out as soon as we hit the gravel."

Let me say this again: Your mother is a wise, wise woman.

*** the journey continues ***

Hold On . . .

*** continued from previous post ***


As the tires hit the gravel, and the nose of the bike pointed toward the Orion cluster, I hear your Mom utter one hushed word that summed up the situation precisely.

"Shit!" she said.

Yes. Shit. Shit indeed.

I was now in a situation where the burden of choice had been removed. Even if we were not at a ridiculous angle, on gravel, the road was too narrow to turn this beast around.

I leaned back and whispered to your Mom the only thing I could, "Hold on."

I don't know if you've ridden the equivalent of a GoldWing up the side of a steep mountain, on marbles, and a cheese-grater surface, but it's really not as much fun as it sounds. The dynamics of the ride change dramatically. Imagine riding a jack-hammer - pogo-stick style - up the steep side of an icy glacier. Now add a rhinoceros strapped to your back. Make that rhinoceros an epileptic. Just for kicks, tell the rhino that he isn't getting into medical school because there is a 'quota' on rhino doctors and you know that it's unfair but he can always go home and take over the family business which happens to be eating grass and dodging poachers.

I leaned over the handlebars of the bike, bringing my feet behind and underneath my body. This gave me a bit of an advantage, allowing me to counter act the fish-tailing motion of the rear of the motorcycle as it skidded over the gravel washboard. I didn't look too far ahead - it made my stomach turn. Because - and this is where it gets funny - the road was not a straight path as I had hoped, but turned into a series of switchbacks. Hairpin switchbacks. Gravely, certain death, hairpin switchbacks that became progressively steeper and steeper.

Mom leaned forward, "Are we doing okay?"

I would have liked to have said something witty, but I was concentrating too hard. "We are okay. We are upright and that's good. Just try to relax back there and keep your weight steady."

"Okay."


*** the journey continues ***

The Road Never Gets Wider or Flatter or Better

*** continued from previous post ***


Now, it was about this time that we started seeing the warnings for Bears tacked to sign-posts every . . . oh, I don't know . . . every ten feet or so. I didn't want your mother to worry, so I tried to distract her whenever one drew near. "Hey," I would say and point in the opposite direction, "is that a squirrel?" Or, "Quick! Look over there! What kind of bird is that?" Or, "Look! Carnival rides!" Much to my chagrin I don't believe it worked.

We passed the Nordic Centre, (Motto: "Nothing Sinister Going On Here. Certainly No Cloning. Please Move Along."), and happened on our first bit of good news in what was proving to be one of the longest days of our lives. A sign. Literally.

"Look!", Mom shouted in the first true enthusiasm I'd heard from her since leaving home, "The sign says, ‘Hidden Valley Lodge - 40 Kilometers', we're going the right way!"

I thought about adding, 'You had any doubts?', but decided that silence and a smile were more apropos.

As we passed the Nordic Centre's entrance, the wide, flat tarmac began to narrow. While the surface was fine, the width closed in on itself going from a very wide two-lane, to a narrow two-lane with no markings, to a wide one-lane road. Not a problem. Others had traveled this path. In addition to guests at the Lodge, I reasoned that there had to be delivery trucks, carriers, etc. that supplied the Lodge and whatever else was up there. I relaxed. I felt as though our 'day from Hell' was at last coming to a close.

Then, the road began to climb. Ha. Not a problem. Then the road REALLY began to climb. Still no problem. Then the road . . . well it just kind of ended into a ridiculously steep one-lane gravel path with washboards deeper than speed bumps.

This might be a problem.

Let me pause and give you a bit of advice that will serve you well in the years to come. When you hear yourself saying, "Oh, well I'll just go a bit further, I'm sure there will be someplace to turn around." --- just turn around. NOW. No good will ever come of this situation. The road never gets wider, or better, or flatter. The only thing you can expect to encounter taking this route is madness. Madness and death. I know this now, and I knew this then. So why, in the name of all that is holy, did I push on?

It's simple really. I'm an idiot.

*** the journey continues ***

It's A Little Game Married People Play

*** continued from previous post ***


"Whoopsie!", I say, with a melodic lilt that manages to annoy even myself.

"Well great," Mom sighs.

It is now that my masculinity kicks into high gear. I need to take control. I will not stand idly by and let this cursed day get the best of me. I will solve this problem, like so many men before me have solved problems of their own creation.

I will lie.

"Look, standing here is doing us no good. Get on the back of the bike and we will push on. I know how to get to the Nordic Centre." (Lie #1)

"I'm sure Sweet Alice can get us that far, and probably a bit beyond." (Lie #2)

Really, it can't be that bad. (Lie #3)

“I told them in the note when I booked the place that we were coming in on motorcycle. (This is true.) If they thought we couldn't make it, they would have told me." (I believed this to be true.) It's going to be fine. (Lie #4)

Your mother - my wife, my companion, my friend, co-conspirator, cheer-leader and all around pal these last 30 years - knew right away I was spewing total bullshit.

"Fine," she said and without another word climbed on the back of the bike. Though silent, I could read her body language under the layers of clothing. She had not so much capitulated as she had decided, as if she were on a dare, to see how this would play out. And of course, then hold me accountable. It's a little game married people play.

I took a deep breath, fired the engine, and without further ado set off to find this Canadian / Scandinavian Cloning Facility masquerading as some sort of ski operation. I had turned the volume down on the GPS, but I could see our rough path laid out on the map to where Sweet Alice thought the PO Box might be. It was just a big arrow pointing towards the mountains on the other side of town. It did nothing to calm my nerves when the screen started flashing red and the word DANGER in all caps popped on and off the screen like a demonic jack-in-the-box. F' you Sweet Alice! I've had enough of your silliness for one day! I clicked into first and hit the gas. Right or wrong, I was at least moving and that felt good.

We wandered through the streets of Carnack for what seemed an eternity. Missing turns, pulling u-turns in parking lots, changing lanes abruptly - you know, all the stuff that makes taking a HUGE FLIPPIN' MOTORCYCLE THROUGH UNFAMILIAR TERRITORY DURING RUSH HOUR IN A MONSOON so exciting. But my perseverance paid off. At last, I spotted a sign for the Nordic Centre.

I patted your Mom's leg in what I hoped was a reassuring manner, and we took the turn into the mountains. It was probably gorgeous and breathtaking. I have no idea.


*** stay tuned - the journey continues ***

They Clone Vikings Don't They?

*** continued from previous post ***


Now I know what I wrote earlier about driving on gravel. I had driven the Vision on gravel in the past, and while it is tricky, it can be done if the gravel is packed hard and there aren't too many pot-holes or soft spots. You don't want to hit a soft patch with the front tire of a bike. It has a tendency to dig in and not want to move. Yet, our friend inertia, and the back of the bike, will have none of that. So best to avoid the situation entirely.

But if all was well you could put the baby at a constant speed of 15 to 40 miles an hour - depending on conditions, easy on the brakes and easy on the throttle, with a very light touch for steering and you should be fine. 'Should be' being the operative words. Yet it's edging towards dark, it's been raining for days, and your Mother, bless her soul, is delusional. Possibly – although I have no proof - possessed.

"What's a Nordic Centre," I ask.

"I have no idea, but it really doesn't matter."

"You think that's where they herd Scandinavians to keep an eye on them?"

"No. I think it probably has something to do with the 1988 Winter Olympics."

I stroke my chin in contemplation. Which is ridiculous, because I'm wearing a helmet so it looks as though I'm trying to get bugs off my face plate in a slow, drunken motion. Suddenly an image of countless tall, blonde people that we’ve encountered since crossing the border fills my mind.

"Could be, could be. But these Canadians are a wily bunch. They may be trying to clone Vikings. How would you like that? Herds of Vikings pouring south across the border, downloading music illegally. Sharing files. Littering."

Mom pounded her gloved fist on the side of her helmet. "They are not cloning Vikings!"

"But," I add, "at least they would be polite Vikings. I don't know about you, but if I'm going to be pillaged and raped, I want to be treated with a little respect."

It's then that I notice that your Mother had developed a nasty - and by no means attractive - eye tic. Perhaps I should leave this line of speculation for another time.

"Come on babe," I say, "let's have a look at that map she drew for you."

Mom held the sheet of paper out to me, and before I could grasp it and take a gander, the ratio of water to paper became too much. It disintegrated like a ball of toilet paper in the tree of a cranky old fart that one day pushed the neighborhood kids too far.

I heard God laugh. I kid you not.

Turns out, it wasn’t God. It was just your mother sobbing.

*** the journey continues ***

It's ALL YOUR FAULT!

*** continued from previous post ***


"What are we going to do?" she asks, but it's not really a question. What she REALLY said was, I can't believe you didn't check this out and now here we are exhausted, wet, cold, and with no place to stay and we've forfeited a bunch of money because you're an idiot and IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!

I panic. The ball is squarely in my court. I am, as our illustrious President Bush had said, the decider. I got us into this mess, and it's up to me to get us out. Silly woman trusting me. She should know better than that. I thought that I could use this line of logic to put the blame on her, and then realized there were other things in life I wanted to experience. A Canadian Hospital was not one of them. I was in the pit of despair, then - BOOM - another flash of inspiration!

"Okay, here's what we will do. We've come this far, let's give it a shot." And then, because I haven't made enough mistakes, I add, quite casually the most damning statement that I've ever uttered in my life. "Worse comes to worse, we will just turn around, find a motel, and try to get our money back tomorrow. I'm sure they'll understand if we cannot physically get to the Lodge."

I can see Mom weigh the options in her mind. On one hand, she could go along with this scheme. On the other hand, she could trick me into taking my helmet off and hit me in the head with her friend, the rock, and try to claim that I'd run away. I can see in her eyes that at this point it's a coin toss.

"Fine. You want to try it, we’ll try it. The lady inside gave me directions. She said about 5 miles out of town, beyond the Nordic Centre, is where the gravel starts. I asked her if the road was good, and she said "Well, good for a car. It's hard-packed. I don't know how it would be on a motorcycle and honestly I haven't been up there in years." Her eyes pierce me like an ice-pick in peanut butter. "That was a direct quote."

I become distracted by the ‘Nordic Center’, but shake the thought out of my head. I have more important matters to contemplate.

*** the journey continues ***

Good News Everyone! I Got Nuthin'!

*** continued from previous post ***


As I was preparing to take one for the team and go in to rescue her, she emerged from the building holding a piece of paper in her hand. Victory! Sweet, sweet accommodations here we come!

However, the hackles on my neck raise a bit because I can see that your Mother isn't exactly exuding joy. I can tell from her body language. It's those subtle motions that are visible only to someone you've spent your life with, the hidden language that the two of you have developed over the years. No one else would be able to pick up on these clues, and if they did, they would have no frame of reference from which to decipher their meaning. In this case, your Mom was banging her fists on the side of her helmet and jumping up and down. I studied her as she approached. Ah. . . I recognize this - it's her universal signal for "I have great news! I love you and I'm sorry if we've been short with each other for the past few hours but all is well now, all is well."

Mom steps to the side of the bike and says, "We're fucked."

Oh. Well dang.

"Okay, how fucked? Fucked as in 'I forgot my wallet', or as in 'Hey, look! The right wing just fell off?"

"Fucked - fucked."

"Well alrighty then. So, was this some internet scam? Is there a Hidden Valley Lodge? Wait . . . don't tell me, did it burn down yesterday?"

"Oh," Mom says, a tad sarcastically I thought, "there's a Hidden Valley Lodge alright."

"Okay," now my patience was running thin, "so what's the problem?"

”Did you," she asks as she pokes a finger into my arm, "think to actually look where this place was before you booked it?"

"Well if I had, then we wouldn't be asking for directions, would we?" I say through clenched teeth.

She stares at me long and hard, and for a moment I think she's reaching for her shank. Or her rock. Or any number of other things she could use as a weapon.

"When I asked directions they looked at me horrified. HORRIFIED! It was obvious I was on a motorcycle. This place isn't IN Carnack. It's OUTSIDE of Carnack. Actually OUTSIDE and ABOVE Carnack and still another 40 kilometers away!"

I do a bit of mathematical calculation on the fly. That means that we have another 157 gallons to go. Damn you Canada.

"Alright, so we still have a bit of traveling to do."

"Forty kilometers away," she says and pokes my arm again for emphasis, "up the side of a mountain. On a narrow, one-lane gravel road. While it's getting dark."

I feel my stomach knot. The Vision is a wonderful bike, but it is definitely a street bike. Not a dual sport. With all of the rain water she weighs as much as a binging hippo. Or, in the metric system, 6000 stone.

My mind frantically turns, I'm trying to salvage this day somehow. Eventually I give up. I got nuthin'.

*** the journey continues ***

A Love of all Things Croaky

*** continued from previous post ***

Mom kneels down next to the girl and motions me over with a frantic wave of her hand. "Hey! David! Look at this!"

I look to where the two kneeling women are pointing, and realize that it's not magical hopping gravel at all, but a tiny, tiny little frog. Or Toad. Whatever. These things at their biggest are about the size of a dime, and literally ALL OVER THE FRICKIN' PLACE! Really!

How could I have not seen them before? There must be thousands and thousands of these little buggers! They are all over the road, all over the grass, all over the shore of the lake. It kind of gives me the willies. I mean, just how fat was her boyfriend?

This is not a good development. I would have to tread carefully here. You know how your Mom feels about amphibians. It's a close race between frogs and squirrels and birds and raccoons and stray cats in Mom's bestiary of love. She was enthralled - nay smitten even - and began to take numerous pictures and copious amounts of video of this miracle of nature. I feared, now that Mom was held in a toady-spell, that we may never leave this parking lot.

Regrettably, another car pulls into the rest-stop at this time. I can hear the 'crunch crunch' of tiny lives coming to an abrupt end underneath tires. Now, fully engaged in the National Geographic moment, all I want to do is save the frogs. Or toads. Whatever. Your Mother has infected me with the spirit of nature. I want to wave the car off, but really - there is nothing I can do. It is the balance of natural world. If by balance you mean tiny dime-sized frogs in fierce battle with car tires for their niche in nature. Or toads. Whatever.

The girl, enthusiastically friendly now that Mom and her share a love of all things croaky, explain to us that this is an annual migration. That the frogs, (or Toads - although they look like frogs to me - and I've seen many frogs in my day. I can tell by the color and the eyes and the hoppity-hop-hop motions), come down the hillside across the road, make their way to the lake, and then party like it's 1999 in Toadville. She recounts, in graphic detail, how they had to install a 'Toad Bypass' underneath the road, and into the parking lot because in years past, and I quote, "After a few hours, the road would become very, very slick with dead toads and it was causing many, many horrible accidents."

Yeah. Hitting, what I can only visualize as a 'smear' of toads at speeds just below the sound barrier on a slight corner would be a bit tricky. In fact, it would probably be like hitting an ice-sheet in the middle of a Tokyo Drift. (See, I'm hip...I'm with it.) Oh sure, it would be all laughs for a split second, then WHAM. Who wants that in their Obit? "Henry was driving like a typical Canadian maniac and bought it on Toad Smear Curve."

Wait a minute. On second thought . . . that would be an AWESOME Obit!


*** the journey continues Monday ***

Some Enchanted Evening, You May Meet A Toadie . . .

*** continued from previous post ***


With all my heart and soul I hope to see a toad, just so I can put her at ease. Validate her reality, if you know what I mean. But nada. Zip. The big EL Zero on the toad front.

Yet obviously, the girl is sensing something. In a rush of metal activity I ponder many things: Are invisible Canadian Toads poisonous? Is this what the border guard was trying to warn us about? Is the girl insane? On some really, really good drugs?

Or is she the victim of some enchantment. Maybe she and her boyfriend were just sitting there, enjoying the view of the lake and the mountains, when an evil Witch pulled up in an old beat-up Chevy Nova with rust spots and a "Kill the Vegans" bumper sticker, flipped them off (presumably because they looked like they might be Vegans, or know Vegans, or just have a fondness for vegetables), and turned said boyfriend into a swarm of invisible Toads? It happens you know. Random curses like this occur far more frequently than anyone cares to mention. The Gummit just doesn't like to admit it because really, what are you gonnajavascript:void(0) do to protect yourself against something like that?

Maybe the girl is simply mistaken. Maybe later her boyfriend will show up, after a leisurely stroll around the lake and she will beat him within an inch of his life for making her worry. It's the feminine way.

"They're so tiny," the girl says to Mom, and kneels down on the pavement to point at what I think is a piece of gravel, but turns out to be a hopping piece of gravel that motates quite quickly towards the water several feet away. Funny behavior for gravel, I think, but hell - this IS Canada. Stranger things have happened. As evidenced by the girl having her boyfriend turned into an invisible swarm of toads by an evil, vegan-hating witch not more than an hour before our arrival.

Mom kneels down next to the girl and motions me over with a frantic wave of her hand. "Hey! David! Look at this!"


*** the journey continues tomorrow. Unless I get a better offer. ***

Welcome to the Tomb

*** continued from previous post ***

Right about then I spot a sign for "Krakland's Tomb".

(I don't think that was the real surname, but it will suffice for our story.) Just a small blue sign with an arrow pointing up a tiny road that spiraled up the mountain. Finally, something interesting! Who can pass up something like that? I mean, it's a TOMB! I could have ignored a sign alerting me to "Krakland's Grave", or "Krakland's Final Resting Place", or "Krakland's Remains", but a TOMB? I would have sooner passed up a road-side stand giving out free money.

Plus -and I can't emphasize this enough - your Mother had begun to nervously tap her rock against the back of my head. I knew a little diversion would do us both good.

So, I turn up my least favorite surface - a gravel road - (I KNOW what I said, so hush) and carefully wind our way up the side of said majestic mountain. After a bit the roadway widened into a packed-dirt parking lot and sure enough there's a sign pointing to "Whose-his-head's Tomb".

So. Flippin'. Bizarre. Especially at 8:00 in the morning and malnourished to boot.

Here, on the side of the mountain, nestled with boulders, and dirt, and scrub vegetation, and the primal stink of the wild - with absolutely nothing else around - is a beautiful garden ringed by a high, wrought iron fence. A garden full of flowers and benches and presumably a Tomb, but the gate is locked. Evidently you can't visit the dead until 9 AM on weekdays.

We could peer through the fence and speculate on what we weren't able to see. It looked fascinating and very Zombie-ish at the same time. I mean who hasn't seen countless movies wherein a nice couple on a huge, futuristic motorcycle accidentally wanders up the side of a mountain to an elaborate tomb only to be eaten in the next scene? Amiright? It was just so utterly cliche' it made my fillings hurt.


*** the journey continues tomorrow and remember, comments are always appreciated ***

A Love Triangle Gone Bad

*** continued from previous post ***

Our exchange went something like this:

Me:  "Okay, well here we are, in the middle of a vast, flat nowhere.  Flatter than a flapjack in winter.  Flatter than a sod-buster's foot.  I'll just clear everything out, and plug our destination into the ol' GPS again and we'll get out of this spot of trouble lickety-split.  Shucks, this here ain't nuthin' but a little by-and-by no-how."

Mom:  "Why are you talking like a pioneer crossing the prarie?"

Me:  "Pardon Ma’am?"

Mom:  "When was the last time you had a drink of water?"

Me:  "Ummm . . . reckon I had me a taste of nature's nectar last time we stopped and shod the mule."

Alice:  "Recalculating. . . ."

Mom:  "How many fingers am I holding up."

Alice:  "Recalculating. . . "

Me:  "Six."

Alice:  "Drive 4.6 miles and take a right on Western Australia X-15."

Mom:  "Did she just say 'Western Australia'?"

Me:  "I think that Sweet Alice is a bit bamboozled with the abbreviation for Washington, (WA), and is recitin' our fair state as 'Western Australia."

Alice:  "Turn right on Western Australia X-15, watch out for Roos."

Mom:  "You named the GPS's voice 'Sweet Alice'?"

Me:  "Seemed appropriate at the time."

Alice:  "We don't have all day Mate!  Get yer arse goin'."

To which I obediently did as she commanded.  Alice is a harsh task-master, or task-mistress, but up to this point a fair one.  So, I follow her directions.  Surprise!  The road she has taken us to is gravel.  And 15 miles of it.  I am not taking the Vision across 15 miles of gravel in the middle of nowhere.  No how, no way.  That will simply never, ever, never-ever-never happen.  So instead of taking the suggested road I ignore Alice and continue straight.  I know this road will EVENTUALLY connect with another paved road that will take us where we want to go, I just don't know how far.  With a plan in place we thundered into the hinterlands of wheat and dust and heat and lives long, long lost.

 Alice:  "Recalculating. . ."

Mom:  "Well, that was less than helpful."

Me:  "What in tarnation has gotten into that filly?"

Mom:  "If you don't stop talking like that, I'll. . .I'll . . ."

Me:  "You'll what there little Missy?"

Mom:  "I'll poke you in the eye."

Now that takes me back a bit.  She may be serious.

Alice:  Recalculating. . ."

Me:  "Fine.  But at the next stop as soon as you go to sleep I'm burning your mother's furniture for a campfire."

Alice:  "Turn around and go back to Western Australia X-15.  Proceed 17.2 miles to Us 86, (Which she pronounced as 'us', not YOU-ESS), then take a right at the first junction."

Me:  "Um no."  I keep the bike going straight down the road.

Alice:  "Turn around."

Me:  "No."

Alice:  "Turn around ya wanker."

Me: "NO!"

Alice:  "Recalculating. . ."

Mom:  "We could just turn it off. . ."

Me:  "No.  We did not spend our hard-earned money for a dash ornament.  Had I wanted that I would have bought one of them there little Jesus figures with the bobbly head.  No, I have faith that Sweet Alice will chart us a course straight and true."

Alice:  "Drive 87 miles back to Ritzville and try again."

Me: "What the f ---?"

Alice:  "Recalculating. . ."

Mom:  "Please don't tell me we're going back to Ritzville."

Me:  "No.  No flippin' way."

Alice:  "Yer fucked mate.  Yer off the map."

Me:  "Jumpin' Jehoshaphat!  You're a dad-burned GPS for criminy sakes!  You can't be lost!"

Alice:  "Oh, I'm not lost, you are.  If you don't want to follow my directions it's not my problem."

Mom:  "Are you trying to strangle the GPS?"

Me:  "Shut up and help me circle the wagons."

After some time we stumbled on a road that was paved and headed in a general northerly direction towards the golden land of Canada.  I took it without hesitation.  After a few miles we realized we were on the wrong side, (the SOUTH side), of I-90.

Mom:  "I don't remember crossing I-90.  How the heck did we get here?"

Me:  "I have no idea, but there's the exit to Ritzville."

Alice:  "Ha Ha.  Recalculating. . ."

Eventually we found our way.  I don't know how.  It doesn't matter.  If you have an explanation of how we headed north yet wound up on the south side of I-90 with no memory of crossing a 6-lane freeway I'm all ears.  It may have been aliens, or the past hour could have been a joint hallucination in the parking lot of "EATS".  I probably shouldn't have had the 'home grown' mushroom soup.  The point is we persevered and pushed on, blindly cheerful as ever.  Why this was nothing more than a minor setback.  A blip in our schedule.  Little things like this were bound to crop up every once in a while.  Best just to take a deep breath and push on.

Then we hit the wind.

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***