Perhaps It Was As Bad As We Thought

*** continued from previous post ***


”Wait a second," Donny said, shaking his head, "ya rode a big-ass touring bike up here?" He glanced around at the ladies. "Pah-don my French girls."

I nod in the affirmative and turn back to Stacy. "It would have been cool any other time, but as you know it was getting dark and the darn thing just wouldn't move, and I don't think it would have been so nerve-wracking, but we'd just had the encounter with the bear . . ."

"You rode a touring bike up here in this weather from Highway 40?", Donny asked, with a bit on incredulity in his voice. "Where did ya stat out this morning?" Calgary?"

I turned back to him, and answered, "Highway 40, is that the one that comes from Carnack? Oh, and we had a pretty long day. We left this morning from Galaway's Bay."

"What bear?" asked the woman that had greeted us originally, whose name we would later discover to be Leeza - not 'Lisa', but 'Leeeeeezzaaa'.

"Well, we were coming up the hill and all of a sudden this huge, and I don't mean to exaggerate, but I do mean HUGE bear came out of the woods onto the road --- "

"Let me get this straight," Donny interrupted, "ya rode a Goldwing sized bike up the Carnack side?" As he said this his voice crept several octaves above the normal register. I took a quick glance to see if perhaps Donny had a 'boy-zone' incident of his own. He hadn't, but he was clearly impressed with our mad riding skills.

"Well . . . Yeah.", I answered.

"And you ran into one of the grizzlies?", asked Stacy, fear tinging her voice.

"Yes," Mom added, beginning to pick up on the vibe that had suddenly taken hold of our small welcoming party, "and another one that . . . kind of followed us along the tree-line for a while."

Mom smiled, looking for reassurance that this was a normal daily event in the cavalcade of fun that was Hidden Valley.

Mom’s description of the 2nd bear brought silence and quickly exchanged looks of panic from the staff.

One of the other people, I have no idea who, piped in. "You rode up from Carnack? In the dark?"

"Where the hell is Galaway's Bay?", Donny asked Stacy.

"It's in BC," I answered, "just across the US border. Above the northwest corner of Washington." I smiled reassuringly at the crowd. "Long day. I guess we did about 600 KM."

Other people, some guests, some staff, wandered in to hear what all the excitement was about. Now the small foyer was bursting with Canadians, and we were in the middle. If this were a Tootsie-Pop, we were the chewy-chocolaty center. There were hushed whispers as people brought the new arrivals up to speed on what all the fuss was about.

"And a moose blocked the road?" Leeza added, as if she were trying to make sense of our story.
"Yeah. For a bit. Which, wouldn't have been too bad, but like I said, it hadn't been that long since we'd seen the bear so I wasn't sure how far behind us . . .", I let my voice trail off. There was really nothing more to add.

Fear bathed the room like cheap perfume at the penny-slots in a failing Casino. Hasty looks were exchanged, but without a history with these people I had no idea of the subtext. I couldn't tell if they were afraid FOR us or OF us.

"Jesus," Donny said and excused himself, "I gotta take a look at this bike," and bolted out of the door into the night.

Silence. Curtains rustled on a night breeze. Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled. I could hear the steady patter of water as it dripped off our clothes onto the slate floor.

I had to break the silence, for it was beginning to creep me out. "You guys have a lot of bear up here I take it. Lot of moose. So, this is like normal. Right?"

They stared at us. We stared at them. An old man coughed.


*** the journey continues ***

Shoot Me Or Sedate Me - Don't Ask Me About The Vision

*** continued from previous post ***

A middle-aged man a bit on the chunky side with a heavy Boston accent approached us with the confidence only found on the East Coast of the USA, and thrust his hand into mine.

"I'm Donny. Anything ya need while you're at the Lodge yah just let me know. My wife's the cook and I'm her lackey," he grinned, pumping my hand up and down vigorously.

"Pleased to meet you Donny," I replied. "I'm David, and this is my wife Suzanne."

"Pleased to make yor acquaintance," Donny said, finally releasing my hand in order to greet your Mother.

Introductions with the rest of the staff followed, and once all the 'hello's and 'pleased to meet you's and 'oh so you're from THE STATES!' had been bandied about, Donny gave us one final look up and down, and said, "So, what kind ah bike ah ya ridin'?"

No. Please God, I can't talk about the bike one more time today. Shoot me or sedate me, but don't ask me about the Vision.

"Ummm . . .," I stammer, trying to figure a way to make this as short a conversation as possible, "we are riding a Victory Vision." I looked to the group surrounding us for a flicker of recognition. Nothing but friendly smiles and blank stares and an implied "And . . . ?"

"It's a new model from Victory. Kind of a space-agey looking design."

"Oh," Donny said. Silently the group had appointed him the point-man for all inquiries regarding motorcycles, "dual-sport?"

"No," I say, and shake my head. "No, it's more along the lines of a Honda Goldwing. Only more Jetsons-like. And we've learned already," I give a quick wink to your mom, "that it doesn't impress the moose around here." I grin like a loon. If that loon were bald, and horribly, horribly chafed.

"You saw one of our moose, huh?", Stacy said, and began walking / herding us towards the door.
"Yeah," I smiled. "One of the reasons we're so late. Darn moose was blocking the road and we couldn't get around."

"They do that sometimes," Stacy agreed with a gentle smile.

*** the journey continues ***

A One-Eyed Meth-Addled Monkey

*** continued from previous post ***


Before I describe what happened after we entered the Lodge, it would be best to step back and take an objective examination of how we must have appeared to the outside world.

They say that people's opinions are formed in the first 2 seconds of meeting. If so, we were screwed. Mom was a soggy, muddy, bulbous, pale version of her regular self with the added attraction of dark circles and eyes that were open wayyyyyyy too wide.

I looked way better than she did. I was a soggy, muddy, bald-headed and goateed man on a cane, wearing leather chaps and bulky upper garments.

Protip: A guy that is fairly large and muscular, in his late forties, bald, wearing leather, riding a motorcycle, and walking with a cane garners mad props. Mad props I say! I highly recommend the look. It might be tough for you to pull off, being 22, blond, and a girl, but I think you could manage. No one ever comes up to me and asks what happened, but you can tell they assume it to be a motorcycle-related injury. As I walk past, or pogo-cane-hobble to be more accurate, they cast furtive glances, and try not to make eye contact. I can read their faces. Their expressions say, "How hard-core do you have to be to crawl back on one of those murder-machines once it's crippled you?"

Ha! Works for me. Think they would have the same attitude were they to discover that whomever writes the sorry scripts for this thing we call life had decided I didn't need cartilage in my spine? Arthritis is not a party story. Well, not a fun one at least. Fleeing police at crazy speeds on your bike with a bottle of Rum in one hand, a saber clamped twixt your teeth and a one-eyed mangy meth-addled monkey riding on the sissy-bar flinging poo and flipping off everyone we pass - that is a party story. Discussing the nuances of arthritis is - well, just so damn pedestrian.

*** the journey continues ***

Home Sweet Lodge

*** continued from previous post ***



Not a hundred yards past the sign was the turn-off to the Lodge itself. Here the road was extremely muddy - just mud, no gravel - so we had to take special precautions as we bounced up the small hill into the parking area opposite the building.

The place looked gorgeous - the part we could see in the dusk anyway - and now that safety was but a few steps away the day caught up to us - in a hurry. Every muscle, every square inch of my skin was tender and achy. All I wanted was a hot shower, something to eat, and a clean bed. Your mother wanted the same thing, but also to be more than 6 inches away from me for an extended period of time. She didn't tell me this, but later when I tried to hug her she hit me with her rock. Not hard enough to do damage, but more than enough to get her message across.

Oh your mother - ever so coy and demure.

There were 7 or 8 cars in the parking lot. Well, not cars really, but SUVs and trucks. All 4-wheel drive. No other motorcycles. Fancy that.

I collapsed into a quivering heap over the front console of the bike.

"No giving up now. Let's get someplace warm, shall we?" Mom said with false cheer, framing her sentence not so much as a question but a demand.

"Good idea," I replied from my prone position between the handlebars, "do you want to unpack now?"

"No," Mom said as she pried off her helmet, "let's go check-in first."

"Capital idea, my dear."

*** the journey continues ***

No . . . You're done.

*** continued from previous post ***


Mom doesn't say anything, but I know she doesn't want to stay sitting any longer than I do. I turn the bars on the bike, brace my feet, and with all of my might push backwards. The gravel slips under my boots and I lose traction but I quickly recover and the bike, the giant that she is, begins to slowly roll backwards an inch at a time. Or a deca-mile. Whatever. Mom usually offers to get off the bike when I'm trying to wheel this baby backwards, but she doesn't offer this time. She knows that no matter what, she's safer on the back seat than standing alone. I strain and grunt, begging the bike to turn far enough that I can straighten the front tire to ease the push. All I have to do is get it backed crossways in the road, then I can ease on the clutch and finish pulling the bike around, pointing it in the opposite direction, and head down the mountain. It all sounded so easy in my head.

Unfortunately, pushing a hella-big bike, loaded with gear, backwards with the front wheel turned on soft gravel during a rainstorm while you are sure that you will be eaten at any moment is not as easy-peesy as it sounds. Before I got the forks straightened out, my thigh muscles were cramping into what looked like lumpy oatmeal. I kept looking at the moose, but she wasn't moving. So, finally I get the bike back far enough that I can give it a little gas and before you know it we are pointed in the direction of Bear Mountain death.

As I sit there, the full realization of what we have to do - to drive back down that treacherous slope in what will be in a few minutes pitch darkness - hits me like a blue-haired lady backing 1980 Lincoln Continental out of a parking stall as the Mall.

We are screwed.

I stop the bike, grip the brake and the clutch, trying to get my nerve up to move when your Mother says - - -

"Hey! The moose is gone!"

Well of course. Of course it is.

"Now we can go!" She says with a voice full of hope that somehow hit me wrong.

‘"Okay. Good. Go we shall. Well, I'll just whip this baby right around and we will continue on our way because it's SO FRICKIN' EASY TO MANEUVER THIS THING!"

Damn you Victory engineers! What the hell about skipping a reverse gear on the Vision sounded like a good idea?

"WHAT A JOY! I WOULDN'T MIND DOING THIS ALL DAY. IT'S A PIECE OF CAKE, IT IS! ISN'T THAT RIGHT MISTER LEGS? YOU DON'T MIND TEARING THE REST OF THE TENDONS FROM THE BONE, DO YOU?"

Mom lets a few beats pass and says, "Are you finished?"

I grind my teeth. "Maybe I am and maybe I'm not. Let's take a wait and see attitude."

"Okay," she says, "well let me help. You're finished."

And then, and I swear this is true, I heard the soft snuffle and grunt of something in the trees.

*** the journey continues ***

Maybe The Nice Moosey Will Move

*** continued from previous post ***


"I'll rev the engine a bit. That should get her moving."

You know that I'm not a fan of loud exhaust. The whole "loud pipes save lives" argument never held water with me. Supposedly, a loud exhaust will make drivers in their cars hear you better, and, the reasoning goes, will help them to be alerted to your presence. Which is good because people in cars don't pay much attention to anything smaller than they are. What the loud pipe crowd fails to acknowledge is that the sound coming out of the exhaust is directed BEHIND you. Sure, you have a bit of a rumble zone, but the blast goes out the back, alerting THOSE YOU'VE ALREADY PASSED that you're there.

I know guys that aren't happy until they can rap the throttle and set off a car alarm. And it may piss off those that might ever read this, but I'm calling you out - the reason you have loud pipes is to be cool and scare the straights. To each their own. That’s what America is all about. Me? Well I never saw a reason. I'm confident in the size of my . . . um . . . maleness. However, should one of the many fine manufacturers of after-market exhaust advertise that their products would scare the hell out of a moose or a bear, I'd have my money on the counter so quick you'd think I was a congressman on a fact-finding tour of a house of ill repute five minutes before closing.

So, I give the throttle a good crack. Nothing. The exhaust on the Vision isn't nearly as quiet as a lot of bikes I've ridden, but I might as well be miming my actions for all the response I'm getting from the moose.

I rev again and again. Nada.

"She's not going to move, is she?", Mom says with utter despair.

"It's okay. I'll honk the horn, that will get her moving."

All the while I expect THE BEAR to pounce on us at any moment. I honk the horn. I honk the horn again. I honk the horn one more time, and I can't be sure, but I believe the moose raised her front hoof and flipped us off.

"Umm . . . ", Mom says, "did the moose just flip us off?"

"I believe it did sweetie. I believe it did."

"What are we going to do?"

Good question that. Amazing question. I vote for wetting our pants and crying like three-year olds.

"Well, let's give it a minute. Maybe the nice moosey will move on her own."


*** the journey continues ***

Where The Hell Are Those Vikings When You Need Them?

*** continued from previous post ***

I hit the brakes on the bike and immediately your mother leans forward. At first I'm alarmed because I can smell the fear coming off her in waves. Then I realize it's just the smell of damp, musty, sweaty, human. And it's coming from me.

Mom chooses to conserve her energy lest she have to shiv someone, or something, and speaks one word. "BEAR????"

"No." Although In my mind I can see the bear closing the gap behind us, and after the kill, slipping a couple of bucks to the moose for the assist.

"No, this would be a moose. Big moose. Really big moose. Standing - well, make that blocking, the road ahead. See?" I say, and quickly take a hand off of the handlebars to point at what now looks like a tank on stilts a few yards ahead.

"Oh," your mom says, as if this were the most rational thing in the world. I could have probably told her that we were approaching a band of Mongols playing chess in pajamas and she would have just shrugged.

"Hopefully," I say, "it will not like the bike and move."

"Hopefully," Mom agrees.

I think you can see where this is going. As we crawled closer, but keeping a safe distance, the moose didn't so much as raise its head nor glance in our direction. It just stood there, licking the road. Seriously. Licking the fricking road. As if wet gravel and mud were the Cherry Garcia of the wilderness. It may be for all I know. Next rainstorm, I'm going to find a country lane and give it a try. You never know. Someone has to be the first to try something new. Think of the idiot that ate oysters for the first time. "Hey Thag . . . how oyster?" "Not bad. Like snot. Only fishy. Here. You try." "Screw you Thag. Me still recovering from licking live mountain lion you tell me taste like cotton-candy."
I stopped the bike. Moose in front. Bear in back. Cranky, wet woman sitting behind me. Full on dusk. Happy vacation!

Mom raised her shield. "What do we do now?"

"Cry?"

"Too late," Mom says.

Where in the hell were seven identical Svens and a Hagar when you needed them?



*** the journey continues ***

The Story Takes A Funny Turn

*** continued from previous post ***


We traveled about a half mile up the road and I am not ashamed to tell you that I was a smidgen paranoid. I'm scanning for bears. I'm looking in my mirror. The Pucker Factor came on full. Once again, don't play me like you don't know that a tightening sphincter is rated on a sliding scale. Dear God, you're in Naval Officer Candidate School. I would think your eyes would pop open every morning at about a 5. ‘The Factor’ is usually graded on a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being a pleasant cup of tea with Aunt Marge, and a 10 narrowly missing being incinerated by a falling comet, was pushing upwards and establishing new territory around 15 or so.

It's difficult to balance looking back and keeping my mind on the road ahead. I think for a moment of asking your mother to monitor the situation behind us. ‘Say sweetie, if you feel hot breath, a soft grunting, and spittle on the back of your neck, would you be a dear and tell me?’ I decided against it. Your mom, champ that she is, was near the breaking point. So, I pushed the throttle when I could and hoped for the best.

Fortunately, the road began to level and smooth. It had also become a bit wider, and the wash-boards were less severe. I could actually pick a hard-packed line and get the bike up to a good cruising speed of 25 mph or so. I dared to think, just briefly, that we may get out of this yet. I began to offer supplication, deals, and bargains to whatever higher power may be glancing our way.

Here. Write this down. The problem with most higher powers is that, (now brace yourself for this is the truth), most are ass-hats. Complete knee-biters. Snickering into eternity, comparing stories. Picking out a pair of middle-aged mortals trying to enjoy themselves on a motorcycle, poking each other in the ribs and saying, "Here, hold my beer. Watch this!"

Remember that for the rest of your life. It will serve you well when you get too cocky.

This is where the story takes a funny turn. As we climbed a small hill, and curved round a small bend, I looked ahead to a straight stretch to see --- a moose. Yep, a frickin' moose.

And this was no friendly looking Bullwinkely animal. This moose, which was standing full in the road, looked about 38 feet tall. Seriously. I've never seen taller legs on an animal in my life. It looked like one of the pictures that a child would draw where they get the legs all out of proportion. ("Ah, that is a marvelous drawing sweetie. Nice giraffe. Wha . . .? Not a giraffe? A dog? Well . . . a fine dog it is sweetie. A fine, skinny and extremely tall dog with a loooooong neck.") As with the bear this moose was huge. What the hell, I thought, are there ANY small animals in Canada? Is Alberta the Costco of fauna? Couldn't I encounter an animal with a glandular disorder, so that, you know. . . I could feel superior for even a second?

The moose was completely blocking the road. Crosswise. Just standing there doing moosey things. Possibly calculating next year’s taxes. I have no idea. I am not learned in the ways of moose. I know they like squirrels, have their own University, (Whatsamata U), and can, when plied with applause do simple magic tricks with hats but that's as far as my knowledge extends.

Oh! One more thing. Sometimes if you say the right word ping-pong balls will drop from the ceiling.


*** the journey continues ***

Snacks!!!

*** continued from previous post ***


Now that the initial rush is over, my mind shifts into high-gear 'what if?' mode. I search the corners of my memory, dragging up every piece of knowledge I have about bears. What concrete knowledge do I possess?

Well, bears like picnic baskets, and are pretty friendly with Park Rangers. That eases my apprehension a tad. They also like honey, and have a wide array of animal friends such as donkeys and rabbits and tiggers, (which we all know are wonderful things). They like porridge.

Okay. This isn't so bad. I'm calming down and feeling better by the moment. Plus, there's only one day a year when you have to be especially careful. That would be the infamous Teddy Bear Picnic. It's sort of like Burning Man. Only in the woods not the desert. And there are far fewer hippies. And generally it smells better.

But the more I ponder, the more I'm unsure of my intel. Curse you public school education!! Curse you Saturday morning cartoons!

Okay. What do I really know about bears. And especially, Grizzlies?

Well, I remember that a Grizzly can run. Fast. They can run up to 35 miles per hour for short distances. Oh fudge. I glance down at the speedometer, and see that we are currently cruising at about 20 mph, and I can't safely move the bike any faster.

I remember that female Grizzlies, or 'Sows' - although you wouldn't want to call her that to her face – unless you were looking to get your lips chewed off - and they give birth to their young in the spring. By late summer, the cubs are old enough to follow their mom on hunting trips. During this phase, the Sows are EXTREMELY protective, and aggressive, especially when they think their cubs are threatened.

Damn. Maybe that's why she kept looking back. A big honkin' futuristic looking motorcycle between a Grizzly and her cubs.

Or, to put it another way - snacks!

So, to summarize: Cranky and fast. Really fast. Large teeth. Large claws. Guess that's all I really need to know.


*** the journey continues. Unless this is my ghost typing. It's possible. ***

Big Bear. Huge Bear. Grizzly!

*** continued from previous post ***


Your Mom leans forward, "What? I was wiping the fog from the inside of my shield."

"Bear."

"What?"

I want to point out the massive reddish-brown mountain that is now two thirds of the way across the road, but taking my hands off of the steering seems like a bad idea. I try to motion in the direction of THE BEAR with my helmet, but it's useless. It just looks like I've developed a tic. Mom is leaning forward on my left side, and THE BEAR is on the right. I'm effectively blocking her view with my head. It's probably for the best.

For whatever reason, and I assume it is pure pity, THE BEAR steps off the road and ambles to the edge of the trees. Here she stops, and turns to watch us roll by. I hit the throttle and Mom is rocked back into her seat. I pick up speed, trying to put as much distance between us and THE BEAR as possible.

Mom grabs my shoulder and leans forward again. "What's going on?"

I try to unclench my jaw. "Bear."

"Really? You think this is the time for a beer?" she asks with disgust.

I shake my head in the negative.

Mom pauses for a second. "Did you say 'Bear'?"

I shake my head, a bit too vigorously, in the affirmative. Stars explode inside my skull.
"Yes. Bear. BIG Bear. REALLY BIG BEAR."

I keep looking in the mirrors to see if we are being followed and then decide that I would rather an attack from behind be a 'surprise'. There's nothing I can do. I can't go any faster, so anticipating massive jaws wrapping around my head is an exercise in futility. Although, I must admit thinking that if that were to happen, at least this cursed day would be at an end.

I feel your Mom tense. "Where?"

"Just walked across the road in front of us."

"How close?", she asks in a whisper.

Despite my best efforts, I giggle. "Close. Really close."

"Close as in 'Boy, that mountain looks close', or 'The store is only a couple of blocks away, so it's close'?"

"Close as in, 'Hey. Don’t sit so close to the TV or you’ll go blind."

She contemplates this for a minute. I know what she's doing. She's trying to get enough information to decide what level of panic is appropriate. "25 yards?"

"No. More like 15 feet. 10 right before we passed. Maybe. I saw puffs of steam coming out of her nose. The hair on her rump was flattened and wet on one spot. She may have been wearing blue eye-shadow."

Mom makes a slight 'Urk' sound in her throat.

"A black bear?"

I giggle again. The hysterical tone and quality of the laugh frightens even me. "Nope. Big Bear. HUGE bear. Grizzly."

“You sure?"

"Oh, pretty sure!"

I can feel her shift her weight as she swivels her head from side to side, scanning the brush around us.

"Grizzly?"

"Yep."

"Crap."

"Yes. Crap. That about says it all."

"But it's gone?", she asks, looking for reassurance.

"Um," I say, stalling. "umm . . . . . . . . . . Sure."

I feel both of her hands tighten their grip on my sides. Were her hands to get a good hold I would have several cracked ribs with which to contend.

*** the journey continues ***

Jaques Costeau Is No Friend Of Mine

*** continued from previous post ***


THE BEAR swings her massive head to look at us. It's not a particularly friendly gesture. She is obviously not frightened - curious would be a more apt description. Annoyed would be another. I jump on the brakes as hard as I can without skidding. The only thing worse than running INTO the bear, would be to tip over and SLIDE INTO the bear. I've seen enough cartoons in my day to understand this would be, according to animated mythology, 'bad'.

It was then that I realize that I should probably inform your mother, for the umpteenth time on this journey, of our impending death.

I reach back and pat her on the leg to get her attention. "Suz, I don't know how to tell you this, but after all we've been through today it looks like we are going to be eaten by a bear. A Grizzly Bear. And a huge one at that. With a big butt. But that's beside the point. I'm so sorry sweetie, I didn't want it to end like this. I will offer myself first. I'm twice your size, and perhaps she will fill up on me, giving you at least a fighting chance for an escape. I love you."

But what came out was a high-pitched girly-girl EEEeeeiiiiiieeeee!!!"

Frantically, I fumble for the horn button. It's somewhere on the handle bars, but damned if I can find it. I do manage to change the headlight from bright to dim to bright again. I think THE BEAR may have interpreted this as an attention getting device for she slowed a bit and turned her massive shoulders towards us with a calculating eye. I'm hoping that the bike is enough to distract her. That she will appreciate the flowing lines that are the Vision. Marvel at its unique design, the subtle engineering, and the beau coup enhancements that escape the casual glance.

No luck, THE BEAR could care less. Evidently, she's more into sport bikes.

I attempt, once again, to warn your Mother.

"Bear. Bear! BEAR!!!", I shout, with each word spoken more distinctly, louder, and in a slightly higher pitch than the one preceding.

The 'boys' - and once again, don't feign ignorance - have not only left the building, but taken a cab back to Seattle and forgot to close the door and turn off the lights. A part of me, the detached observing bastard inside, marvels as the words escape my mouth. Evidently certain death adheres to the rule of three. As in, the Three Musketeers, the Three Stooges, and the three things you shout right before you die. Usually, and this is documented on Wikipedia, (Wait just a second . . . okay . . . it's documented now), the three things most often said right before you die an untimely death is, "Shit. Shit! SHITTTTT!!!" Or, if it is really untimely, just "Shi-. . . "

THE BEAR kind of sways her head back and forth, as if she may be singing to Sir-Mix-A-Lot as well. Or possibly the Foo Fighters. I make no judgment as to her musical taste. The important thing is that I've seen this behavior on the Discovery Channel. To put it politely, we are screwed. This is what's commonly referred to in the animal kingdom as 'Le Dance d'appetite'. Or, in the vulgar, 'I'm gonna boogie me up a hunger'.

Somewhere deep inside a memory bubbles to the surface. I hear Jaques Costeau intone. . .

"But de intrepid motorscooterists are no match for de bare. We shed ze zmall teer as nate-chur, in all her splendor, keeps da balance. Eef it were not for de bares, the landscape wood be over run with motorscooterists. Once again we are reminded dat de miracle dat ez life ez harsh as well bee-yootefull. Now, let's sit back and watch as she mak ze keel."

Frickin' Jaques Costeau.


*** the journey continues. maybe ***

I Like Big Butts And I Cannot Lie

*** continued from previous post ***


The boulder approached the road. We approached the boulder. I slowed down so as to not run into said boulder.

The boulder stepped off the slight bank onto the gravel in front of us and promptly resolved itself into a bear. A huge bear. And by huge bear I mean a HUGE HUGE HUGE FRICKIN' BEAR.

I have seen a few bears in my time, mostly through the mesh of a zoo enclosure or painted comically on a coffee mug. Plus, I've watched many, many programs on the nature channels, so I'm pretty much an expert on all things Ursa. Despite my encyclopedic knowledge, and possibly due to the stress of the moment, there are only two things I could remember off hand that pertained to our present situation.

One, this is a species known as 'Grizzly'.

Two, we are going to be eaten.

THE BEAR started to saunter - yes . . . saunter. There was no rush - or if you prefer, 'lumber' across the road in front of us. Did I mention this thing was HUGE. Not like the smaller black bears we will on occasion spot in the Cascades. This was a proper bear. A mighty bear. A top-of-the-food-chain, rip-your-head-off-for-fun bear. And it was female. Probably, if the journey so far was any indicator, PMSing. And more than likely just broke up with her boyfriend that used to ride a motorcycle and was bald and breathed oxygen.

Just - like - me.

Time, which anyone that deals with intense situations will confirm, is not a constant. The flow of time varies with the situation. Here the seconds slowed to a crawl. I stared through the drizzle and realized that the haunches of this beast towered over the height of the Vision by a good degree. If we were sitting side-by-side, and we almost were, I would have had to look up to see her jaws of death.

Lord but this bundle of muscle and ill temper was HUGE.

And I was on a ridiculous motorcycle on a ridiculous day on a ridiculous collision path with this behemoth. She hadn't begun putting on weight for the winter yet, so I could see the muscles ripple beneath her fur with every step. I could see the size of her paws, larger than my head, slap on the wet gravel. I stared, slack-jawed, as her rear haunches rolled and shuddered, slightly swaying from side to side. You should know that in times of extreme stress the mind will grasp at any straw to comfort itself. I am not ashamed to admit, that for the briefest of moments the lilting strains of a song rushed through my head. Sir-Mix-A-Lot streamed like a beacon into my skull, crooning his epic regarding the size and likability of a healthy-sized posterior.

I have just enough time to ponder that I may look into all of those kind suggestions for therapy should I make it out of this alive.

*** the journey continues ***

Do Canadian Boulders Have Legs?

*** continued from previous post ***


We settled back, each in our own silence, the bike humming beneath us. The drone of the engine was rhythmic - melodic. A soft purring lullaby that, were I not running on adrenaline, would have made me sleepy.

We continued on for about 10 minutes, both of us relaxing by the yard, and finally able to appreciate the beauty that surrounded us as we broke from trees to meadow and back to forest again. There was a small creek running through the valley, and a series of postcard like lakes nestled in the low spots. I had hope. So did your Mom, I could feel it in the way she held onto my sides.

We came around a particularly tight corner, the bike slipping sideways a bit as we rounded the apex, and something caught my eye. The stands of trees on my left were sparse with lots of brush and grass in between. The stand on my right was much thicker and denser, almost shutting out what little light was left. I noticed something on my left, and about 20 feet, (Yes FEET! Screw metrics!), off the road.

"Hmmmmm. . . .", I said to myself, "Why would someone park a rusted '57 Buick up here? That seems odd."

I got a little closer and chuckled to myself. Oh my silly, tired, eyes were playing tricks on me. That wasn't a '57 Buick, it was a van abandoned in the woods.

A little closer and I realized that it wasn't an auto at all, but a large, reddish-brown boulder. Which made much more sense except for one thing - the boulder was moving. Rather quickly. And towards us.

And another odd thing . . . this boulder had legs.

Now, I know that things are a tad different up in Canada, but not so different that rocks walk about all by themselves. The only time I saw that was once in the '70s. And I may have been - well, let's just leave that story for another day.

So what fresh madness was this?

*** the journey continues ***

It Can't Be Far Now

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As we progressed the road curved to the right, and I thought for a moment that we were going to skirt the back side of the cliff and escape the water all together but . . . no. It swung back on itself and headed straight for where the water met the cliff. Fine. Drowning seemed like a fairly quick death of which I was sure your Mother would agree, so I pushed on.

Fortunately, the road didn't end! HA! Our luck was improving! I hadn't been able to see, but the road actually skirted between the cliff and the lake! Now here is what made it so weird - the level of the lake was possibly an inch below the road level. Lake on one side, cliff on the other, it looked like we were driving on water. It may have been exhaustion or hypothermia, but it was one of the most bizarre optical illusions I've ever encountered. It actually made my stomach flutter.

Mom leaned forward and said, "Well, this is just unreal. It feels like we're driving on the lake."

Yes. Yes it does.

We drove on and on around the lake for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably more like 4 minutes. Or 17.6 Kiloseconds. Whatever. The point being it was long enough. Up ahead I saw that the lake ended, as well as the cliff, and the road, (Yay!), continued on through an extraordinarily beautiful meadow. I breathed a sigh of relief. Which immediately fogged my glasses and I didn't tell your Mom but for the last quarter mile or so I was driving purely on instinct. I don't think she would have appreciated, nor been amused by my mad riding skills.
As we traveled further from the lake the road improved a bit. Now there were brief sections where there were no washboards and the gravel was packed down firmly. I bumped the speed up a few notches. The Lodge couldn't be far now.

We began to climb a little, and the road deteriorated once again. The path became narrower, and instead of lush meadow we were heading into a stand of forest. Big trees on each side with the road cutting a swath between them.

I leaned back, "You doing okay Babe?"

"Yeah. Fine. Funny, 2 hours ago riding on this part of the road would have scared me to death. After coming through what we just did, it seems like a well maintained freeway."
I nodded in agreement. "I'm exhausted, but the place can't be too far now."

Yes. The place can't be far now. That became my mantra.

*** the journey continues ***

Never Waste a Good Emotion

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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 ***

Hello? Certain Death? It's David Calling

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I'm sure I've been in worse situations on a bike, but honestly, I couldn't remember when.

I've been in places where the path was no more than a goat track, and walked the bike as best I could until I fell off the trail and had bike tip over the edge and land on top of me. That was fun. Also while riding trail, I've hit slimy, moss covered logs at the wrong angle and been shot off the road into the brush and trees faster than you could say 'howdy-doody'.

I've hit patches of oil and diesel in a blind curve at 60 mph. I've been caught in freak storms in the Cascades. Played 'run for your life' with a funnel cloud east of Yakima one notable spring day - where no tornado should ever be - and with a queasy stomach prayed that we would make it to shelter before the thing caught up with us.

We blasted around corners on Chinook, making our way down from Paradise on Mt. Rainier and had to thread my way between a herd of Roosevelt Elk – close enough I could have reached out and touched their hindquarters - hoping beyond hope that they wouldn’t spook and crush us while we were in the middle of the pack.

One time, in a moment of sheer stupidity in my youth, I took a turn WAY to fast on a motorcycle, and with shorts and a tank top, (but I was wearing a helmet!), rode the bugger straight into a patch of nettles and blackberry vines with enough time to contemplate how much it was going to hurt.

I've crashed, wrecked, ate the asphalt, and sported lovely, lovely road-rash more times than I care to remember.

I will not hesitate to admit that I was never more nervous . . . oh hell . . . I was never more scared than I was right then. It wasn't just me this time. I had your Mom to think about.

And I will admit something else. I say this next part with all sincerity because I know you'll understand completely: It was a most excellent rush!

*** the journey continues ***

Hold On . . .

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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

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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

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"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 ***

Good News Everyone! I Got Nuthin'!

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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 ***