Thursday morning we returned to Carmel for breakfast at the cutest little cottage imaginable. The roof was made to be wavy and every corner was rounded to eccentric shapes. The atmosphere was fun enough to overshadow the marginal food.
Returning to the road, we embarked upon the infamous Big Sur; a stretch of California coast that I had always regretted not riding because of all the glamorous photographs that grace local postcards. The most famous image is of the sweeping Bixby Bridge tying two sections of dramatic road together, while clutching the craggy terrain. Built in 1931 at a cost of less than $200,000, this dramatic, 714 foot long bridge is an amazing addition to the scenery. Unlike so many American routes where the world is demolished out of the way, Highway 1 through Big Sur and the five bridges, including the Bixby Bridge , manage to become an integral part of the world they pass through.
Big Sur should not be called boring, but it did fail to meet our expectations. We had always heard of Big Sur being the piece de resistance, the crown jewel of highway 1. But it wasn't. Compared to the much more dramatic northern coastal highway, Big Sur was bland by comparison. Big Sur is also where we saw the majority of big-rig RV's and camper trailers. Which, for the most part, it just fine as the road is much better suited to their lumbering inabilities, but for a motorcycle, we were quickly missing the technical brilliance of the northern coast. 
It was still the coast, and it was still vacation, so there was little complaining despite the repeated comparisons between south-highway 1 and north-highway 1. Traffic was pretty light, even for a mid-week excursion, and despite the many stories we'd been told of bumper-to-bumper traffic, we were able to skirt along nicely. The vast majority of traffic was politely using turn-outs.
According to the map there were a number of lighthouses along the way we hoped to tour, but every one was closed for some various reasons. As we neared Sam Simeon and the Hearst Castle , the road became tragically straight. I noticed that hundreds of cars were pulled off into a dirt parking lot on the side of the road. Bored and disappointed I stopped to see what the ruckus was. We happened at the imaginatively named Sea Lion Cove, and you guessed it, sea lions crowded the beach. A few photographs later we returned to our southward journey. We thought it would be fun to stop at the Hearst Castle , until we learned that it would take the better part of the day to ride the tour bus up to the ridge-line location and even then we would only see a small portion of the facility.
Originally we had planned to ride the coast all the way to Santa Barbara before cutting inland, which in retrospect would have been better than the alternative we choose. When we reached Morro Bay , we decided to turn inland to find a few missions begin our return to Lake Tahoe . From Morro Bay we jumped onto an ultra-tight, ultra-bumpy, highway 41 that went directly inland towards Atascadero . By the time we had come 10 miles inland, the temperatures began to soar as we'd left the cool, coastal climate behind us. In Atascadero we sauntered north on the 101 to Paso Robles until we found G14, that ran north, parallel but inland, from highway 1. We turned left onto G18, then north again towards Jolon.
We were looking for another Mission for Dawn, just north of Jolon. By the time we found it, the doors had already closed for the evening. Pressing on as the day began to dwindle; we passed through Greenfield and into Soledad where another Mission was located. As we arrived they had just closed. Dawn was clearly discouraged at having missed the elements of the trip that she had dearly wanted to visit. Additionally, we were only about an hour away from where we begin that morning, Monterey Bay . And to add insult to injury, these G-roads that I had heard so much about were not much fun at all. It was hot, the scenery was boring and the roads were mostly straight and in a poor state of repair. The G-road that I was thinking of was actually G16, and it was getting too late to find and ride it. Besides, it would take us right back to Carmel . It was nearing six, but thanks to the recent summer solstice, we had several hours of daylight to take us further. The AMA motorcycle, map said there was a series of recommended roads that would take us into the infernal hot, Sacramento Valley , but at least these roads were supposed to be good motorcycle roads.
Using my GPS, we stayed off the bland highway 101 and dashed down the smaller G15 farming road that stayed closer to the natural terrain towards King City . G15 provided more cornering opportunities, even if they were mere gently arcs. Just north of King City we turned northwest on G13 and found ourselves on a series of roads that I will never wish to find again, nor will I ever wish to ride them again. Mostly following my nose, I led the group of us through the freakiest terrain I have ever been through. Completely desolate save for a few homes with particle board nailed to the window frames, preventing any unwanted observation, and late model sedans parked in the driveways, I could only speculate these to be remote meth-labs. I could imagine them to be nothing else and the mood of the area supported my paranoia.
The roads were awful. Unpredictable, bumpy and peppered with mounds of sand, forward progress was arduous. Gas started to become an issue and a breakdown or unexpected stop was the last thing I wanted to face. We had not seen a single other moving vehicle or living mammal since leaving King City. A handpainted sheed of plywood, nailed to a tree advertised "Rodeo's -- by appointment only". The highlight was passing through some, who-knows-where town that consisted of seven homes and a dappled yellow dingo sleeping lazily on the faded and flaking yellow line. The young dog awoke from his nap to quizzically watch us ride past and into the distance. Never once barking or getting up, I have never seen any animal look more confused. It was enough comic relief to make the rest of the road, at least endurable.
The day was nearing its end as we finally arrived in Coalinga and began looking for a place to stay. We were all cooked and stopped at a small hotel on the north side of town. Eric went in to ask about rates while I went looking for a restroom. I had to pass a small educational seminar taking place in the conference room. An older woman was giving fashion advice to a room full of attentive ladies, many of whom taking copious notes. Disinterested I only heard a smattering of the advice being dolled out. “Remember ladies, we don't want to wear pink with red. And if we do wear more than one item of pink, the shades should match. However, it is best to wear pink with shades such as gray or white.” The audience nodded in agreement. (I'm not making this up).
Based on Eric's observations of the font desk and the aroma permeating from the restroom we decided to press on, just a bit further. We were near I-5 and we should have some more options. The sun nestled down stretching the long, forlorn shadows into dusk. We found the freeway, and turned south for one exit to find an enormous feed lot and a nearby desert oasis. Harris Ranch and Restaurant featured the nicest amenities we would experience for the duration of our trip. An enormous swimming pool (the first of the trip) and an amazing Rib-Eye steak were about the only things that could have relieved the stress of the last few hours of riding.
We awoke to a delightfully cool, clear Friday morning; contrast to the morning before where we awoke to soothing coastal fog and mist. With still two days between us and our starting point, we decided to head south, towards Bakersfield to hit a few Sierra-Nevada mountain routes, recommended by the AMA map. Blurring down I-5 we tried to go as fast as we could without drawing too much attention from California Highway Patrol. Bakersfield was oppressively hot and I couldn't imagine it in August. We stopped at Target for a few necessities before finding highway 178 to Isabella Lake . We were crossing the southern tip of the Sequoia National Forest and the southern most portion of the enormous Sierra-Nevada range.
The road was fantastic, but crowded as we followed the Kern River along steep, rocky walls towards the lake. Weekend traffic heading to cooler temperatures forced us to a sloth-like pace. When most of the traffic peeled off to their weekend getaway parking spots, our forward process increased. We stopped briefly in the speck of a town, Weldon, at a dilapidated Chevron. A large sign hung over the gas pumps, boldly ordering in all caps “No Motorbikes”. Unexpectedly, the sign was no reflection of the proprietors of the little gas station. Salt of the earth they were; Kris had to pry me away from the talkative couple behind the counter who told many stories about forest fires, local motorcyclists and pretty scenery. The sign, by the way, was intended for local kids on either dirt bikes or pocket bikes, who have caused a few accidents through their erratic driving and excessive speeds.
We continued east through high desert cactus. The road crested the ridge and began its descent and we were afforded a spectacular view of China Lake , the Naval Weapons Center and Death Valley in the background, which is nothing more than empty, hot, featureless desert. Elevation plummeted down to the valley floor, and within a few minutes we were suffering triple digit temperatures. We turned north on highway 395; an engineers-ruler-straight section of road that continues all the way to Lake Tahoe . We, however, would turn west again in only a few miles.
Riding through the heat, we could see the next road in the distance and to the left. It was a narrow band of black running straight up the face of the mountain. Despite the absence of a road number or name, it was there. The AMA map said it was (and claimed it was paved the entire way). We turned left onto the nameless and started to climb and climb fast. The road was amazingly steep. It was also brand new. No lines, white or yellow, just fresh black asphalt, the sun not yet fading it to gray. Out of place, white concrete curbs marked the border between road and mountain. We reached the crest, some 2000 feet above the valley floor and the road degraded to porous tarmac. Still mostly smooth, we were able to ride a
t a brisk pace through the fire scorched, skeletal remains of trees. Off into the distance an enormous plume of smoke from a distant wildfire, stabbed straight up into the sky. Fire season had already begun.
Just when we thought we could go no higher, the road climbed into a grove of Giant Sequoias. Their enormity is humbling. Scale is confused by tree trunks that challenge the size of small homes. This was an unexpected delight, to find such a remote place of beauty. 
Aside from a few Forest Service vehicles, we'd seen no one. The farther we went, the worse the road got. Tree roots and frost swells had done years of damage, eroding the road to a crackled series of sharp wrinkles and potholes. We had returned to riding in first and second gear as we navigated all the irregularities, pine cones, dirt, tree-bark and pine needles. When we neared the ridge line, the world to the west opened up below us. We had entered into another section of forest that had recently been burned, probably less than a year previous. The road was a long series of repeating switchbacks down the mountain and several miles could be seen at once. The condition was beginning to improve, but the lack of vegetation from the recent fire had caused increased runoff, piling dirt and debris onto large portions of the road, seemingly preferring tight, blind corners. Our forward progress continued to be relatively sedate.
According to the map, the next town would be the remote Johnsondale. Battered from the rigors of riding the bumpy roads, we anxiously looked forward to a break. We pulled into a sea of parked RV's and a couple of log-cabin style buildings, painted a nasty brown, housed a restaurant and store. Thinking this would be a decent place to stop for the evening, joy leapt to our hearts only to be dashed again as we learned that everything had closed at 6pm . A mere 15 minutes ago. Were it not for the owner approaching and informing us of this, and his clear reluctance to admit three motorcycles, we would have persisted. But based on the situation, we thought it best to continue.
Eventually we found ourselves on M56 which is an amazing piece of road. Maybe just because it was such a marvelous improvement from the road we had left behind. Much wider with actual paint on the road to differentiate lanes, the tarmac was wicked-smooth. The road gently descended into endless groves of sequoia trees. Late afternoon light sparkled across our facesheilds as we rode through shafts of light, combing through the trees. I was in the lead, Kris a little way behind me and Eric just behind Kris. We were in thick shadows when I noticed flickering in my rear view mirror – something obstructing the headlights behind me. I looked back and saw a deer rush across the road, between Kris and myself.
What I'd witnessed was worse than I had realized. According to Kris, a deer ran across the road immediately after I'd passed. Knowing that where there's one, there's usually another, she started braking. She was proved right when a second deer ran halfway into her lane, saw her and stopped. The deer looked back from where it came, then onwards towards the first deer as Kris implemented years of MSF instructor training, stopping in the shortest distance possible. At the last second, as she came upon the deer she heard a high pitched wail and the bike jolted. She barked at herself for locking the front tire, but the deer was nowhere to be found, so she eased off the brakes and accelerated away from the moment. Eric and Dawn saw the whole thing. At the moment when Kris thought she'd locked the front tire, she'd actually came into contact with the deer's rear quarter spinning the deer off the road with a broken leg or hip; the high-pitched wail was actually the deer.
Kris was, understandably, very shaken. Her speeds dropped off almost immediately. We slowed the pace down quite a bit until we all got our composure back. Kris, to her credit, performed amazingly well. So many riders, in the same situation, panic and lock the brakes, typically crashing before they come into contact with the deer. It was also a really good reminder to the value of continual practice. As instructors we perform hundreds of “panic stops” every summer for students so the muscles know what to do even without instruction from our brain.
The next 100 miles of riding was the highlight for me. The road, M56, became uniformly smooth and extremely predictable. Continually downhill, the road had three variations of the same technical turn, repeated hundreds of times, switch-backing down the mountain towards Porterville. The day was nearing its end and the light was warm and golden with shafts of light punching through the thick trees creating horizontal golden bars crossing the road. I soon fell into an amusing rhythm, playing with the predictability of the road by trying new techniques to make each corner as efficient and flawless as I could. I was in utopia. 
Had the day not been so close to an end, I would have very much liked to have filled up with gas, rode back up to the top, just so I could ride down again. Hopefully, we'll return someday to enjoy the road again. I can only imagine how much better it would be when familiarity would improve my competence.
We stumbled into Cedar Slope. A hotel was just off the road with a hand-written “vacancy” sign in the window that separated battered folding chairs and tables covered with plastic, red and white gingham tablecloths from the outside world. Rooms were a mere $120 a night. The place was a dive and the help very unfriendly. We asked for a substantial discount and were promptly turned down. We discussed it for a moment, but decided it best to continue on. A few miles later we found ourselves in Camp Nelson claiming to have a campground and restaurant. A quick left turn and a long driveway lead us to a small diner/bar swelling with locals. The menu consisted of popcorn and beer. We did that once in Jackson Hole and decided to continue. We found the campground occupied with more freaky characters and big, mangy dogs than we cared to meet in a remote campground in Southern California . 
We circled the small lot, passed the garbage strewn across the well maintained grass while gaunt, ill-kept characters intently watched us through campfire smoke, then left.
We dropped into Springville to find ourselves in the midst of the annual town celebration. Hippies, hemp and patchouli oil overwhelmed the small community with a local band playing 70's rock on the tennis courts in the town park. All the local accommodations were full. Our riding was beginning to show the raggedness of fatigue. Stopping was becoming increasingly urgent. We continued to Porterville through blindingly thick clouds of bugs and found an Economy Inn with reasonable rates. A quick trip to the nearby “Denny's” style family dive/restaurant eased our grumbling stomachs before we found our pillows for the evening.
Saturday would be our last day of the vacation and our moods were a bit lower. We also had a lot of miles to cover. But today would reveal the best riding of the vacation as we planned to skirt through a few national parks. In order to find a place to stay the night before we had to pass up, what looked to be a delightfully twisty J37, but rather than backtrack to catch it, we rode north towards Lindsay and Exeter on small agricultural roads clogged with 2-ton trucks hauling produce.
In Lemoncove, where lemon trees fill the scenery, we started east into the mountains again, using highway 198. On the map, the road looked great, but in reality it's a major route to Sequoia and Kings Peak National Park and consequently, pretty wide and mostly straight. Just passed Three Rivers we reached the entrance gate where, much to my surprise, the pretty girl in the Park Service campaign hat charged us the bicycle rate (rather than the automobile rate) for each motorcycle, cutting the cost of entering in half. Thanks!
The road was fun, but the scenery anticlimactic as we climbed into the mountains again. I found myself behind a white Toyota Camry piloted by a skilled driver. I was doing everything I could to keep up with him. It was refreshing to follow a capable car driver who traveled extremely fast, but never once crossed the yellow center-line. The biggest benefit of chasing him up the technical roads was that other vehicles would immediately pull off for him, 
allowing us to all travel at a very fun pace. He pulled off near the top, just as we entered into the giant trees.
At this point, we had no interest in riding fast anymore as our surroundings were ethereal. Towering to the sky and reaching back into history, we were twinkling guests, here for an immeasurably short time. I found, what I thought to be, an exceptionally large tree near a pullout and stopped for a photo and a moment to ponder. Within a mile, however, the trees were near-double the size of the one we'd just visited, but time was our enemy today, and we could not afford another stop. As we exited the park, a prescribed fire was taking place. Small flames crawled along through the underbrush, filling the air with light smoke, adding to the spiritual atmosphere. I hope to return to this place again, when I can spend the proper amount of time. But such is the evil paradox of motorcycle vacations, balancing distances traveled with time spent to enjoy treasures found.
Westward again, we returned to the heat of the Sacramento Valley , just passed Dunlap we veered north onto more nameless county roads recommended by the AMA map. Denuded of traffic and people, we moved unimpeded over amazing roads that undulated through the golden hills that lean up against the larger Sierra Nevada Mountains . We circumnavigated a small lake, that I believe to have been Pine Flat Reservoir, before going north on what I assumed was highway 168. 
More fantastic, serpentine roads coiled through thickets of trees and circumnavigated rounded knolls as we passed the towns of Tollhouse, Auberry and culminating in North Fork where we stopped to wax the chains and stretch our legs for a bit at a huge pullout on the side of the road.
We continued north towards Bass Lake where the road, I think was Malum Ridge Road , corkscrewed and twined down in elevation. Pavement was pristine and barren. We rode at our own pace, slowing only for one rare California Highway Patrol car. We stopped in Bass Lake for fuel, snacks and fluid. Smatterings of motorcycles were already there, gassing and munching while we took our break. 
Heavy-set men in stained tank-tops, driving ratty four-wheel-drives popped in while filling their tanks and gianormous gulp's of soda. The station featured a small, private back patio where we found ourselves invited to sip coffee and eat our pre-packaged, trans-fatty pastries while we chatted with the owners. The warm air blew into the shade of the trees, cooling our skin while we savored the last day of riding.
Our next stop was Yosemite National Park . We would cross the park along highway 120 on our way east, returning to highway 395 that would take us north to Lake Tahoe . Begrudgingly, we left the shaded patio and continued on our way. As we neared Yosemite , traffic increased and it became clear that the best riding of the day was now behind us. 
We were left with 35mph speeds and distracted drivers trying to take in the grandeur of the most visited National Park in the country while piloting two-tons (or more) of metal along twisty roads. We stopped briefly for the few final photos snapped during the last hours of our holiday; El Capitan was the backdrop.
Once onto Highway 120, traffic thinned and we amplified our pace, chasing the final rays of sunlight as their reach shrunk from to the east. A park ranger emerged over the horizon while we were more than 20mph over the posted limit. We got on the brakes hard, and I watched the rangers brake lights come on after he passed us. His left turn signal flashed orange once, and then canceled as the brake lights went blank and he continued along. One time when we openly deserved a speeding ticket and we were, fortunately passed over, we firmly believe should be attributed to the naked bikes we were riding. Had we been on the flashy red and yellow twins, we feel certain, we would have been ticketed. Naked bikes rule!
Dawn took a few last photographs as we left the park behind us, descending towards Moon Lake and the tiny, gas-station based town of Lee Vining . We stopped to remove our dark lenses and add a few more layers to combat the distinct chill that came from our increased elevation and onset darkness. We rode north into the waning light as the cold amplified and the world grew dark.
By the time we arrived at the KOA, where we began our adventure eight days earlier, it was pitch black. Almost two hours of riding in near darkness, endlessly scanning for wildlife after riding all day long had taken its toll. We were all near exhaustion. We had a reserved site at the KOA; unfortunately, it was a different site than our first one. Riding exhausted, on the extremely steep and slippery campground roads was a challenge. I was riding with a flashlight in my hand, desperately trying to see the number placards that identified our site. I found it and turned down a sharply angled hill towards it. By the time I arrived at the site I heard a commotion behind me. I left the site and rode back around to see Kris and her Monster lying on the ground with an enormous F-350 glaring lights over the scene.
Apparently the pickup had come nose to nose with Kris and refused to move, forcing Kris and Eric to retreat on funky, angled, slippery, crumbly asphalt. Had I known the situation when I arrived, I fear my reaction towards the ignorant pick-up driver may have become inappropriate. By the time I'd learned what happened he had long since gone. Fortunately, the luggage had averted any substantial damage. The bike was no worse for the wear save a minor scratch on the exhaust pipe and the ball breaking off the brake lever. We set up tent and collapsed into lethargy.
Sunday morning, all that remained was a quick trip back to North Lake Tahoe to collect the truck and trailer then head back to Salt Lake . We haphazardly crammed everything into our luggage, as they would not have to travel far. We rode to a nearby Starbucks Coffee and, sitting on the sidewalk that doubled as the patio, savored our Latte's and scones while recapping the events of the past week. Despite the disappointments and problems with the trip, me dealing with sickness for the better part, Eric forgetting his keys, Dawn missing the missions, Kris hitting a deer and getting knocked over, getting separated in San Francisco, finding as many terrible roads as good ones, it was still hard to end a vacation. But we were baked and had little energy left anyway. A day spent driving the 600 miles home was almost appealing. Well, not really. Can't we stay just a few more days?
NOTE: It needs to be stated that the quality and grandeur of these photos is due, almost entirely to Dawn. Diligently photographing virtually every step of the journey. More photos of the trip are available in the photo gallery under Travel Photos and Dawn's Road Photos.
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