We were anxious about the border crossing but we needed to make it to Prince Rupert before things got to late in hopes of improving our chances of catching the ferry. Missing the Ferry meant we’d have to ride 700k’s (500 miles) back to Prince George, then either head home the way we came or ride south 500k’s to Kamloops before heading home the way we came. Either way we’d much rather catch the ferry to the north end of Vancouver Island so we could come home through Washington.
We sat in the morning sun and sipped the complimentary hotel room coffee. Heavy coastal clouds had moved into the area and were masking the sun and putting a slight chill in the air. We slowly and meticulously packed up the bikes happy to have a fresh load of clean laundry. A German tourist named Peter sauntered over with his wife and we started talking motorcycles. He told me about Ghost Rider, a German insurrectionary of sorts who videotapes his antagonizing confrontations with local police where he flamboyantly flee’s on his all-black motorcycle. I gave him a CanyonChasers sticker and he promised to email when he got home.
We rode up to the border gate and we were happy that it was the pleasant female guard from yesterday morning and not the cocky young guy from yesterday afternoon. We pulled out our Passports and answered her questions about our plans and we were uneventfully greeted back into Canada. We gassed up Kris bike and got coins for the car wash. I really wanted to clean off thick layer of dirt on the Ducati and hose off some of the grime that had collected on Kris Z1000.
Just as we pulled up to the wash, a large European van pulled in and they started pulling bicycles and crates off the back and top of the van. The husband apologetically said that it would probably be a little while, but I was content to wait. Kris scuttled off to pick up some things while I waited and watched the assertive Slavic wife continually berate and yell at her timid husband. I felt bad for the chap who was stuck with this unpleasant woman.
Kris arrived just in the nick of time and we were able to hose off the thick levels of grime and were back on the road after a quick lube of the chains. Riding back out on Highway 37A, it felt like a completely different road. Thick clouds hung overhead with smaller wisps circling the mountains and flat light changed the look and feel of the world around us. Having been through the scenery already we had no problem running a slightly faster pace. By the time we reached the Bear Glacier, the clouds had started to dissolve and when we arrived back onto highway 37 we were blessed with more clear skies.
I’m not a big fan of out and back rides especially on a trip like this, I want to see as much as I can of as many different things as possible.
~Kris
We turned south and finished the 216k leg back to the gas station at Kitwanga where we stopped for a late breakfast. We filled up with gas and parked the bikes just outside the restaurant window and then sat down for our omelets and pancakes. We needed to cover 500k’s to make it to Prince Rupert. The Trans Canadian Highway 16 follows the wide Skeena River and as a result, the road is a sweeping, gentle road and like so much of Canada, the pavement is pristine. We stopped in Terrace, just 95k’s later, for more fuel and to visit a small Yamaha Motorcycle Dealership, Ken’s Marine, for some more chain lube.
We never really knew what to expect from this area, but we certainly expected it to be a lot more remote and desolate. Instead, Terrace, BC, was a large thriving community of near 20,000 residents and plenty charm and appeal. Terrace is actually one of the oldest continuously occupied regions of the world! Before the Europeans arrived in the America’s, Terrace was the most densely populated area north of Mexico. In 1944 it was the site of the Terrace Mutiny, most serious breach of discipline in Canada military history. The mutiny was triggered by the rumor that soldiers based on the home front would be deployed overseas.
Terrace and the surrounding Skeena Valley are located in a hybrid coastal/interior rainforest on the Skeena River, approximately 115k’s (71 miles) from its mouth at the Pacific Ocean. Lush forests of cedar, hemlock and fir create a green carpet of vegetation on glacial deposits that created natural terraces or benches around much of the city.
Terrace was having their annual B.C. Days Celebration, so the town was decorated festively for an arts fair and crowds of people wandering the streets. We crossed the Old Skeena Bridge and found ourselves wandering the streets of Terrace wishing we had the time to stop and enjoy the friendly and warm atmosphere that was a perfect match for the perfect weather.
We reluctantly returned to the road and soon found ourselves following the meanderings of the Skeena River, watching as it widened with the passing k’s, opening its mouth to the Pacific Ocean. The closer we got to the ocean, more clouds began to fill the sky, blocking out the warmth of the sun. The confluence of ocean and mountains seemed to intensify winds that were racing in from the ocean. Depending on which direction we were traveling the gusts would knock us around like a cat batting at its toy. Fortunately the roads had become a winding delight of fast sweeping corners over moderate elevation changes. Occasional steel girder bridges would take us over small tributaries and would run alongside aging train bridges that were strangely different from one another.
The section of road we were thoroughly enjoying was originally built by American Troops during World War II to facilitate the movement of thousands of allied troops to fight opposing Japanese forces on the Aleutian Islands of Alaska.
When it felt as though we were going to run into the ocean the road made a sweeping turn to the north and began climbing in elevation and circling its way up through a narrow canyon passing between thick walls of foliage. We came to a crossroads where we could turn to Port Edward, a town whose purpose used to be almost exclusively for canning until the industry of the area changed to logging, forestry and fishing. We stayed our course and continued towards Prince Rupert.
Prince Rupert is known as "The City of Rainbows", as it is Canada's wettest city, with an average annual rainfall of approximately 2,500 mm (100 in). It is also regarded as the Canada City that receives the least amount of sunshine annually. Winters are relatively mild for the latitude; even January does not average below freezing. While we weren’t basking in sunshine, we were dry and very thankful.
The town was founded by Charles Hayes who had great plans for the city to become a berthing facility for large passenger ships and to evolve the area into a major tourist area. All of Hayes plans ended on April 15, 1912 when Hayes perished during the sinking of the H.M.S. Titanic. Features around town, including the High School have all been named in Hayes honor.
Road weary and wind battered, we circled through town following the signs pointing to the port. Prince Rupert is the land, air, and water transportation hub of British Columbia's north coast so a large portion of the traffic is here to go somewhere else. The city circles a mountain and the roads took us on a circular journey that had us a bit turned around and confused until we finally arrived at the port found ourselves looking at the Prince Rupert Terminal. Nobody was in the parking lot, and it looked as though it was closed.
Optimistic, we climbed off the bikes, grabbed our passports and our reservation information and hoped for the best. The waiting area was deserted and a lone worker sat behind the counter shuffling papers around her desk. We walked up to the counter and explained our situation. She checked the computer and confirmed that the ferry was indeed booked solid and that she would not be able to guarantee our passage, our hearts sank. She told us that we would need to arrive back here tomorrow morning by 5, a.m. for the best odds of getting on the standby list. Kris asked, "What are our odds of getting on the ferry in the morning." The associate smiled, "If you show up at 5, a.m.; about 99.9% percent – we can almost always find room for a couple motorcycles."
A weight lifted from our shoulders, so I asked if she knew of any good, affordable hotels in the area. She pulled a map and gave us directions to a couple of hotels, then began circling good restaurants in the area mentioning, repeatedly, a place called "Smiles" saying that Prince Rupert has the best halibut in the world and Smiles is the best place in town to get fresh Halibut.
Always ones for taking local advice we dolled out lots of gratitude and headed back into Prince Rupert proper and straight to the recommended "Ocean View" hotel. The building sat pleasantly on a hill overlooking Hecate Straight and Digby Island to the south. Weathered beige siding and neat rows of bay windows circled the second level. It looked perfect. We entered the lobby to find immaculately clean, but dated carpet and furnishings and a smattering of vintage black and white framed photos on the walls, each picture sitting slightly askew from the others. A plumb, grandmotherly woman greeted us warmly smelling of cigarette smoke. When I asked about lodging I was told that she only had the Jacuzzi room left. Fearful for what the cost may be, I asked what the cost would be. "$54.95" was the answer and I heartedly agreed, it was half of what we’d been paying everywhere else.
We were given our large brass key and told our room was located on the second floor facing the Straight. I was thrilled. The affable proprietor told us that it would be best if we parked our bikes behind the locked gates. When I told her that we needed to catch the ferry in the morning, she told us to park under the front porch and she would have the night watchman keep a close eye on them for us.
The hotel was very clean, but obviously renovated in the 1980’s and then probably on a budget. Pergo floors lined the hallways and echoed badly and we learned that our room was one of only two with its own bathroom. The rest of the hotel operated off of two communal toilets. The pink carpet in the room was a little worse for wear and the matching pink curtains and lampshades were all a little rough, but we loved it! And the view from the window was spectacular.
We pulled off our boots and slipped on sandals and headed out for an afternoon on the town. Prince Rupert seems like a hard town, most buildings were in some state of disrepair and we both got the feeling that things could get rowdy after dark. However, it felt great to be walking and hoofing it was a great way to explore the western most location we’d ever ridden to.
We were told that Smiles was in "Cow Bay" and we knew we were getting close because everything was painted like a black and white Holstein. We thought the whole thing was somewhat goofy until we learned Cow Bay is the oldest area of Prince Rupert, it was originally named Cameron Cove. When the first dairy herd arrived in 1906, no dock had yet been built so the cows had to jump into the water and swam ashore. The locals always dubbed the area where they landed as "Cow Bay."
We found Smiles and the food was of the very marginal deep fried fare but at least we got to wait in long lines and listen to scads of screaming kids while we waited for our warm beer and deep fried seafood.
Actually, trying to be healthy we ordered our halibut poached instead of their famous deep fried. I’m pretty sure we should have just ordered what they were famous for because although ours wasn’t bad it wasn’t worth the long walk, long lines, and screaming kids.
~Kris
We also hit up a RadioShack for an additional SD card for my Canon SD800 and learned the meaning of unreasonable taxes. A $30 card cost almost $60 bucks by the time we'd paid all the associated taxes. Government Sales Tax, Province Sales Tax, Environmental Impact Tax, Sales Tax and Packaging Disposal Tax.
We planned to return to our room early so as to improve our chances of getting to the 5, a.m. ferry, but first we had to stop off for a bottle of wine. Young kids and a smattering drunkards hanging around the front doors kept us on task. The police were called while shopping for a Chardonnay and as soon as we’d paid we slipped off to our Jacuzzi suite before it was dark outside. Still somewhat anxious about the ferry and the fear of not waking up on time, sleep came slow.
5am comes really early, particularly when you have to be awake an hour before hand. We crawled out of bed at 4am anxious about making it to the ferry on time, waking up before the alarm clock even went off. We stuffed our bags full as quietly as possible and started carrying the gear down to the bikes. I was careful to make sure I had the room key but as soon as we stepped outside and the door latched behind us I knew there was a problem.
The front door to the hotel locked behind us and the room key wasn’t going to grant us access. Half of our gear still inside the hotel and us locked outside at 4:15 in the morning. Fortunately the night watchman was roving about and quickly let us back in so we could go reclaim the last of our gear. When we had the bikes loaded up, the affable hotel owner welcomed us into the closed restaurant and made us a pot of coffee. It was a wonderfully generous thing to do and the coffee was outstanding. We sat in silence in the lounge and enjoyed the warm beverage until it was time to go. I stuffed a 20-dollar bill under our empty mugs and we snuck out the front door one last time.
We pushed the bikes out to the street before starting them up then quietly idled away. It was very cold and the chill of riding the bikes in the icy, humid air cut to our bones and chilled us deeply despite the riding gear and the hot coffee we’d just had.
We thought for sure we’d be the first to arrive at the ferry and were shocked when we rounded the last corner and found ourselves in a long queue of motorcycles and campers. We passed through the entrance gate and were directed to the standby line; already getting quite long. Anxiety started to creep back in. Expecting a lot of waiting, we grabbed our papers and passports and walked to the terminal where we sat and waited until the metal ticket windows slid open.
We got into line and waited our turn. We managed to get the new girl who was cautiously going through the checklists. She eyed both of our passports meticulously and I feared the “border running” incident was going to cause a problem, but just as she was about to print our tickets a surly shift manager looked over her shoulder and told her to cancel the transaction; they weren’t going to deal with standby’s just yet. She apologized, handed us our passports and we went back to the seating area and watched as the line started to stretch out the front doors and into the parking lot. As soon as our butt’s hit the seat the surly shift manager bellowed to the room "We are now going to process standby’s tickets for motorcycles – so if you are on a motorcycle and on standby, please get in line". Gee thanks.
We went to the back of the ever growing line and waited our turn a second time. When we reached the front, we promptly offered our credit card, charged just over $600 for the two of us, our two bikes, gas surcharges and taxes and we were handed our tickets. We were thrilled! We were told to go move our bikes from the standby queue to the boarding queue. We galloped outside and rode the bikes over before anybody could tell us any different.
We lined up behind a couple of cruisers and shut down the bikes, excited enough to not be bothered by the cold morning air or the lack of sleep any longer. A talkative boarding chief was attracted to our bikes and started asking questions. He was a delight to chat with, telling us the problems with boarding ferries, how cool he thought Ducati’s were and how he someday hoped to ride around Canada on one. He then offered to take our photo and it turned out to be one of our favorite shots from the trip.
We thought we’d be waiting for a while before we could board, but within less than five minutes of getting our tickets we were asked to fire the engines and start boarding. We followed the cruisers and the line of small sedans into the bowels of the largest ferry boat we’d ever seen. When the M/V Queen of the North sank just over a year ago, BC Ferries had to scramble to find a replacement ship. The one we were boarding, the M/V Northern Adventure was brought over from Greece. The ship originally went into service in 2001 and then underwent an 18-million refit that was finished in March 2007 when it took over the "Inner Passage" route we were taking. We were astonished by how much wear the ship was showing between May and August.
We parked the bikes where we were directed then we were handed large archers that latched into slots in the metal decking. We were told to tie the bikes at low points, but that didn’t make much sense to me. If we hit rough waters and the ship started to rock a low tie point would do very little to prevent rocking. I, instead, tied the bikes by wrapping the rope around the front brake for added stability, but later in the day when we came back down, deck-hands had tied ropes around Kris fork legs.
A little nervous about leaving the bikes while the ship was still boarding, we reluctantly left and found ourselves wandering the cavernous 117Meter long by 20 meter wide, multi-story vessel. We found the galley and ordered up a very expensive breakfast while more than 100 vehicles were loaded onto the ferry behind us. Needless to say, boarding 100+ vehicles takes quite a bit of time and we went from being rushed all morning to suddenly having all the time in the world.
Normally, its hard for us to imagine getting tired of riding, but after the frenzied pace of the last several days since leaving Banff National Park, a day of doing absolutely nothing for 14 hours was deeply appealing. Most of the ferries we’ve been on have lots of deck space, but the Queen of the North’s only outside deck was at the stern of the ship. We stood at the railing and watched in wonder as the deck hands loaded an endless stream of vehicles into the gullet of this huge ferry.
The sun was waking the day up, and a thick carpet of clouds was filling the sky with only small dapples of light punching through to illuminate fortunate clumps of tree’s or random sections of gently swelling ocean. It was gorgeous.
Once all the vehicles were on board a crowd of people came out to the deck to watch the ship depart. The engines idled up and the towering stacks started spewing foul diesel fumes. Our chosen location of the upper most deck may not have been such a great idea. But we stood our ground as the ferry pulled away from the dock and began its 520km journey to Port Hardy on the northern tip of Victoria Island.
Once the excitement of the disembarking was over, the majority of people returned to the inner cabins and we were left mostly by ourselves. Our warm motorcycle gear was great for keeping us warm while enjoying the fresh sea air while we sailed south.
By the time we reached the approximate location where the previous ferry sank, the clouds had burned off revealing another clear blue sky. The clear sky brought more people out on deck and with the toxicity of the top deck, seating space was soon in very short supply. We were unwilling to head indoors for longer than we had to and preferred to spend as much time outside. As the day waned on, it warmed up considerably and soon we were comfortably wandering around in fleece jackets and t-shirts. For lunch the crew came out on deck and served fresh seafood entrées from a stainless steel barbeque barrel. The food was amazing and a far cry better than the food available on most other ferries we’ve taken.
Fourteen hours is a long time for any trip, but the ability to sit on the deck and watch the world slip by at the sedentary pace of 20 knots was calming and much more interesting that looking out the porthole window of a jetliner. We were finding our time on the ship to be much needed rest and soaking in warm, northern summer sun was calming.
I was having a great time simply watching people. A young family with two young girls were spending time at one of the tables; the young girls would color and whenever mom saw something worthy of a photograph, dad would take over babysitting duties while she scampered to the railing with her $3000 Canon EOS 5D SLR. The wife seemed to take everything so seriously, but when a tired little bird landed on the deck, near exhaustion she was so concerned about her daughters being in everyone else way she forgot to take any photos, missing her best photo opportunity of the day.
We kept making trips down to the lower levels to make sure the bikes were doing okay. Some sections of the “inner passage” were awful close to being out in the pacific ocean and as such the waves were larger and the rocking of the ferry more deliberate. It was weird to stand below decks, feel the boat sway side to side and watch the tour-busses and sedans rock back and forth. We were thrilled that our bikes seemed to be handing the rougher waters with ease – and we were equally thrilled we were not making this same journey in a storm. We could only imagine how severe the rocking could be.
They claimed that this was the calm time of year, to attempt the same crossing around winter time was extremely rough.
~Kris
During dinner we managed to link up with the cruiser riders who boarded right before us that morning. Lorraine and Andre were traveling from Ontario and we found ourselves sitting at the dinner table discussing moto philosophy and great motorcycle roads between here and there. It was a pleasant diversion to what we’d been doing for the past 8 hours. But the rocking boat was starting to get the best of Kris and she had to run back outside. Apparently being outside in the fresh air and being able to see the boat rocking with the horizon had kept Kris from any kind of seasickness. Moving inside had slowly given her a bit of motion sickness.
We spent the remainder of the trip standing on the deck, watching the sun set while an Orca ran chase along side the ferry jumping joyfully into the air. It made for quite the show although I was never able to capture the instant the whale was in flight.
Darkness came down around us like dropping a blanket over our heads and just like that the ferry ride was over. We clamored down to the bikes and heard the announcement about “reserving hotel rooms.” When I asked Lorraine told us that we could have reserved our hotel room when we got on board in Prince Rupert, but now it was too late so if we wanted to get a hotel we’d have to be quick about it. Information that would have been helpful 14-hours ago, thanks again BC Ferries.
After spending time with them though, they did offer to let us camp out in their hotel if we had problems getting one of our own. As we exited the boat we followed them to their turn-off, honked a good bye and headed into town to look for a place of our own.
~Kris
Thick clouds had come in as well and instead of a clear sky we were beneath a black, threatening one. As soon as the gates dropped Kris and I raced into town looking for a “vacancy” sign. It was cold and dark and we were in no mood to find and set up camp. We were falling in love with Motorcycle priority boarding, first on and we were able to get to the galley and food before the crowds and first off gave us a fighting chance of getting a hotel room. We found one that looked as though it would be affordable and passable. It was right around $100 Canadian, and the room was plain brown paneling, stained brown carpet and nappy brown and orange striped bedding. Brown veneer covered furniture adorned the corners of the room. At least it was mostly clean. As we toted our gear to the room, we watched as a steady stream of ferry passengers wandered into the lobby looking for rooms. Half as many left; we’d gotten one of the very last available rooms.
Despite not riding at all today, we were excessively tired. We sipped down half a bottle of wine and fell into a fitful sleep.
We didn't have many plans for they day beyond just riding south along Vancouver Island to catch the Comox ferry like we did in 2005. I pulled the curtains and opened the window. The outside air was heavy with mist. To catch the ferry we scrambled and stuffed our bags hastily, so this morning we took our time and meticulously repacked and carefully loaded the bikes.
When we checked in the night before, we'd spied a restaurant hotel. It was closed when we came in, but we'd figured we'd just get breakfast at the hotel. We were pretty disappointed to see that it was closed this morning as well. That is until we realized that it was a Thai restaurant, then we didn't feel so bad anymore. Something about Thai food for breakfast didn't really sit that well with us.
We rode north into town and quickly decided on a quant little joint called "Captain Hardy's." A few tables were out on the sidewalk. We walked up to the counter and short-ordered our breakfast before an audience of locals who watched us like the tourists we were. We then went outside to claim an outside table that had just cleared. The breakfast was one of the best of the entire two-week vacation and we were very content to watch Port Hardy life go by.
With our bellies quite full, we started south on Highway 19. It featured a lot more corners than any of the roads up near Prince Rupert, so we had a good time getting reacquainted with the whole "turning" thing. Port Hardy is the northern most town on Vancouver Island and as a result there is a great deal of wildlife in the area. Our only encounter was a very small deer that looked like it had escaped from the set of Bambi. Dappled white spots on the back and a cute little white tail. It was much cuter and much smaller than the big, ugly Mule Deer we have back home in Utah.
As we continued riding South, the clouds and mist dissolved, leaving us beneath a stunning, blue canopy of clear sky. We couldn't believe our great fortune.
When we reached the small town of Port McNeill, the road turned inland and we found ourselves in a narrow rock canyon, surrounded by perfect Pacific Northwest scenery. The road wasn't very technical, but was throwing a constant and steady stream of sweeping corners at us. There was very little traffic and so we pretty much had the world to ourselves.
As we drew closer to Campbell River, BC the road become much straighter and much more crowded with holiday weekend traffic. We didn't realize how far we'd have to travel and were surprised that it had taken us the better part of the afternoon to travel the 300k's needed to reach the town of Comox, where we'd be catching the Ferry to Powell River, BC. As a result, we were almost at the point where we could potentially miss the mid-afternoon Ferry Crossing.
As we arrived in Courtenay, BC I got all kinds of lost as I tried to navigate us towards the Ferry. Courtenay was where Mike's Daytona almost exploded in 2005 (earning the ride the "Great CanyonChasers Fire of 2005” title) so I'd had a false sense of familiarity with the area that was now biting me in the proverbial derriere.
Thanks to some well placed signage, we were able to find Ryan Road, that took us almost directly to the Powell River - Little River Ferry. We timed it just right and had just enough time to purchase tickets, pull off our helmet and grab a few snaps before we were given our call for Priority Boarding. One ticket gives you access to three ferry rides that would take us all the way to Horseshoe Bay on the outskirts of Vancouver.
A handful of other riders were already there and in line in front of us, so we had to wait for them to board and watch in agony as they struggled to get their bikes properly parked for the water crossing. We don't even have anything resembling ferries in Utah, so we felt like the seasoned travelers as we efficiently set our bikes to the Load Masters approval.
As soon as the bikes were parked, we raced upstairs to the galley for a snack before the hordes of auto-drivers clogged the area. A self-serve frozen mochachino machine was standing at the ready. It looked perfect, but upon filling our cups, first my plastic cup ruptured, spilling its contents all over the place. As soon as we had that taken care of, the machine kacked, spewing frozen caffeinated sugar all over. We'd already managed to overwhelm the existing napkin supply and were left calling for help. The galley workers were not so impressed. We paid and quickly retreated to the upper decks to enjoy the cool breeze and warm sunlight.
It had now been several hours since we actually ate anything so the sudden surge of sugar and caffeine to Kris blood sugar did strange things to her behavior. Se managed to empty her cup, then stole mine and finished it off without missing a beat. The resulting giddiness was unlike anything I'd seen in her in almost ten years of marriage.
The Ferry ride is only about 30k's and less than an hour, so we went down to the bikes early and got ready to ride plenty early. The last time we did this I took a wrong turn and by the time I found the main road again, we were stuck behind all the ferry traffic. I didn't want to make the same mistake twice.
Powell River represents the northern most town on the Sunshine Coast, the western facing coastal areas north of Vancouver. While Powell River is not an Island, it is surrounded by fjords and is only accessible by boat or airplane. As a result, Powell River enjoys a very remote existence despite its close proximity to the large city of Vancouver. Most of the people we'd met along the way lived in Vancouver and had come up this way to enjoy the long weekend.
The ferry lands onto a very narrow dock and as soon as you leave the platform you climb steeply up past the dock to meet the town’s downtown area. A quick right turn puts you immediately onto Highway 101, the only road that really goes anywhere.
Only 30k's separates Powell River from Earls Cove where we would catch the next ferry. We followed the lumbering cruisers in line before us in frustration. They would slow unexpectedly, then speed up. There were no appropriate places to pass so we backed off to prevent any potential conflict. I whopped with glee when they all pulled off to look at a home for sale. With no known vehicles between us and Earls Cove we got to enjoy rare riding bliss where there was absolutely no traffic on a delightfully twisty road tunneled through dense tree stands and following perfect coastline.
Earls Cove is really nothing more than a terminal for the BC Ferries route we were taking. Two small docks with the required accoutrements of restroom, vending machines and a few street-side venders are separated by a 20km ferry ride. We had made good time with our unhindered ride from Powell River, so we were here before the ticket booth had even opened to start queuing the line of vehicles that had already formed.
We turned off the bikes and hung our helmets from our tankbags and simply savored the afternoon. Ever since our first trip to this area we've always referenced the Earls Cove-Saltery Bay Ferry as "the pretty ferry" because the afternoon sun and amazing scenery from the towering peaks that surround the ferry route that circles around the north of the equally impressive Nelson Island is nothing short of majestic.
Once we showed our tickets, we were efficiently directed to the front of lane A for priority boarding. Evening sunlight was draping us with harsh light. A large lorry pulled in and I asked him to pull forward far enough to shade us which he was happy to oblige and as a result we garnished him with praise.
We had about an hour before the next ferry run so we waited contently. A pair of pristine 70's era CB750's cafe'd out nicely pulled in front of us and we quickly struck up conversation with the young couple. They'd spent the weekend sailing north out of Powell River and now had to return to Vancouver for work tomorrow. The bikes were very low on fuel so that meant they'd have to stop just off the boat on the other side at Saltery Bay for gas, which meant they would be stuck behind the hordes of traffic that would be following us. I traded him two liters of fuel for position in front of them when we disembarked on the far side. He approved of the arrangement and a deal was struck. Most of the other riders who'd bee trickling in were also more than happy to accommodate our request with the exception of a dude on a tatty VFR500 with no gloves and a muscle bound dude with a super-hottie on the back seat of his Vulcan 800 Classic.
While we were standing around and waiting I noticed a thick black smudge on the fork leg. Closer examination revealed a weeping fork seal. Nothing major yet, so hopefully I'd noticed it in time. I immediately went to the restroom and procured a wad of thick paper hand towels and liberated a rag from the luggage and began meticulously cleaning. Hopefully the weep was caused by some gunk that had collected behind the dust seal and the fork seal had not been cut.
The ferry trundled into view as shadows draped over us like cool blankets. We quickly boarded, but made the mistake of not going immediately to the galley. While the ferry was underway and we were basking in the beauty, hunger began to gnaw on us, but the lines at the galley wrapped around the upper deck. By the time we got our food we had less than five minutes to eat it and get back to the bikes. As a result, we missed a lot of the beauty of the ferry ride as well as a decent meal. I did not want to lollygag getting back to the bikes because I'd been thinking about this road since we rode it the first time two years previously.
As soon as the gates dropped we were off and our ride quickly degraded into a drag race for the first corner. The VFR500 passed me on the right and I was just irritated enough that I decided to play with hero-boy. I let him lead through the first corner to see where he was, and as expected he had more will than skill. As soon as there was straight road he, of course, whacked the throttle to stops, I let him lead into the next corner, but I took the inside line and basically make the pass on the exit of the corner. Hero-boy didn't like this so he once again whacked the throttle, forcing me to carry more speed than I'd prefer into turn three. But I was also confident that once I got out of his sight he'd give up the chase. I kept my speed up and using track-techniques (something I really do not like to do on the street) trail-braked hard into turn three, a super tight left hand corner, and rallied through to the exit, then dove hard again into the next corner. He was gone.
Meanwhile, Kris had the same challenges with Vulcan-boy who tried to pass her on the inside of a corner by taking advantage of the oncoming lane. Kris was able to overtake him on the next straight and dispatch him with ease. VFR boy was a bit more of a challenge as he drag-raced her to a corner where she essentially took his line entering a corner. Within two more corners we were away from the idiots and left to slow our paces back down and enjoy the road to ourselves.
I hate the struggle of passing riders that you know have more ego than skill. I always worry about the pass and whether they will try to keep up or just let me go. I knew this would be a problem before we even got off the boat, especially since Dave was looking forward to this stretch of road.
~Kris
Highway 101 leaving Edgemon, BC all the way through to Halfmoon Bay, BC is easily one of our most favorite roads of all time! It strafes through stands of dense foliage through endless technical corners mixed in with fast sweepers. With towering rock walls to the east and the gentle lapping waves of the Straight of Georgia to the west, the road couldn't be any more different than the roads of the American west. Smooth asphalt shows evidence of "drivers" using these corners to glide their small japanese corners around the smooth tarmac corners. But what we love and appreciate most about this road is its rhythm. Seven corner series of turns seem to repeat themselves as the road makes its way south.
After only 35k's, a distance far to brief, the road opens up and begins wandering through small communities. Glorious corners still about, but are tainted by increased traffic, homes and the potential for law enforcement. The last time we made this ride, we continued onto Granthams Landing and took the ferry over to Horseshoe Bay, but the time required met that we landed back onto the mainland well after everything was closed and we spent several more hours looking for lodging. I refused to make the same mistake again, so we found a small motor inn named the Blue Sky Motel, just south of the town of Sechelt, BC, tucked between and behind a couple other buildings at 4726 Sunshine Coast Hwy.
We rolled into the small gravel parking lot, and a kindly looking Japanese man walked out to warmly greet us. In broken English he asked "where are you from?" We told him and his eyes got really wide and he asked "Where are you going?" We told him how we are heading home after visiting Alaska. His eyes grew even wider, "Alaska very dangerous? You are very brave". Naw, we said. It was fine. "Many bears" he said. To that we had to agree "Yes, many bears." He started to eye the Ducati and mustered "Made in Italy?" Yes, I said. "Japan?" he asked simply. I walked over to Kris motorcycle and peeled back the magnetic tankbag to reveal the bold silver lettering. "Kawasaki" I said "makes a very good motorcycle". His chest puffed out with pride. "Kawasaki!" he repeated. "Very good motorcycle!" And like that our friendship was sealed.
He asked us if we wanted a room, and how could we possibly say no? We checked in and he gave us the key to the room. The place was a little run down, but immaculately clean and tidy. The beds were made with the tightest nurse corners I've seen since basic training. I loved this little place, it was beautiful and priced just right plus with that kind of a welcome how could we go wrong?
~Kris
We threw off the riding gear and slipped into shorts and sandals and headed out in search of food. The hotel was near a long pier that stretched out into the straight and there was still a lone fisherman sitting out on the dock. We wandered about and tried to grab some sunset shots before we found a deli that was still open. We munched on our light dinner on the front patio while darkness fell on the area.
Before I even climbed out of bed, I could smell rain in the air. Fearful, I pulled the curtains to reveal a morning just like so many of the previous mornings; overcast skies with no sign of sunlight. However, these clouds were thicker and darker than previous mornings. I sought out several motorcycle shops before we'd left, and printed out maps to make finding them easier in the anticipation of likely needing tires.
We went directly towards the third ferry that would take us to Horseshoe bay, and then into Vancouver. The morning was much cooler than we'd been dealing with up until that point and I actually turned on my heated grips for the first time during the trip.
The last time we took this ferry it was in the dark, and I'd always regretted that decision. This year we'd hopefully be able to actually see where we were going. As soon as we'd arrived we were given our priority boarding place in the queue. It would be at least an hour before the ferry arrived, so we shut down the bikes and wandered over to the vendors area.
Dozens of small business selling everything from gourmet coffee to blown glass lined the southern edge of the parking area. Commuters and tourists wandered perused the wares while waiting for the ferry. We made our first stop at the gourmet coffee shack and then proceeded to work our way along. Nothing caught our eye (with the exception Kris and the hand-made jewelry tent).
This is simply because Dave set down a rule early on in our traveling that I could only purchase what I could carry home which often times meant I would need to wear it home. So I have purchased plenty of jackets, jewelry and t-shirts while on the road and he pretty much can’t object after all it was his rule.
~Kris
More bikes had lined up around ours. Our helmets were just sitting out, as were out tank-bags so being the cautious travelers we try to be, we went back to the bikes. Most of the riders stayed to themselves; however one burly biker dude riding a tatty and oil-stained shovel-head was in the mood to chat.
Normally riders like him don't have much to say to riders like us and an understood level of disdain is all most of us seem to have in common. This fellow was a rare exception. We had a wonderfully warm and entertaining conversation about the glories of all things motorcycles. Our discussions wound its way between engine rebuilds, great roads, bad drivers and inclement weather; things only true riders fully understand. It was a great way to spend the morning waiting for the Langdale Ferry.
Usually priority boarding for motorcycles is on the lower most level of the ferry, however, on this day we would all be lining up on the upper most level of the ferry, The Queen of Oak Bay, and this was a very large ferry. The largest of all the ferries we've ever taken.
In 2005, The Queen of Oak Bay due to a missing cotter pin, lost power and was unable to stop at Horseshoe Bay and plowed through almost 30 other vessels before running aground.
As soon as our bikes were secured, we worked our way to the highest deck and all the way towards the front of the ship. The Queen of Oak Bay has a great observation deck immediately below the bridge. We camped out here and could see the bikes just below us and we had the best views as we crossed the scenic Howe Sound.
Strong winds blasted us on our elevated, perched position, but our riding jackets were doing their job of staving off the wind and cold and while other passengers came and went, we happily enjoyed the entire journey from our position at the bow. We refused to do any "Titanic" "King of the world" impressions.
As we neared Sewells Marina, we returned to our bikes to prepare for departure. The wind forces increased dramatically as we readied ourselves and many of the other riders clung to their bikes to prevent them from being blown over by the winds. Looking past the marina and into Vancouver I could see dark clouds looming, but still saw no evidence of any rain falling.
Right off the ferry, we found ourselves on the freeway heading into Vancouver. I had a map of the city in my tankbag, but I could already tell that it was going to be inadequate for the task. We took the first exit towards the city center and we were instantly basked in heavy traffic. After several stoplights we accessed the Lions Gate Bridge. Half-lost we diced with the quick moving traffic as we raced up and over the bridge. As we reached the bridges zenith it started to sprinkle, and by the time we reached the far side is was raining on us.
Strangely, although we had left our Northern most point and were already on our way home, it was now when we were hit with a good hard rain. All our former fears of the cold weather and rain/snow were put aside although moving through the somewhat confusing new territory in the weather with traffic (something we hadn’t experienced in while) wasn’t the most comforting feeling.
~Kris
Vancouver is the fourth densest city in the western hemisphere, trailing New York, San Francisco and Mexico City but is ranked as one of the most livable cities in the world, alongside Zürich and Geneva, Switzerland. Vancouver is one of the largest film producers and is home to some of our all-time favorite television show Battlestar Galactica.
Vancouver has a wonderfully diverse populous with Chinese making up the largest ethnic group in the city. Additionally, many immigrated to Vancouver in anticipation of Hong Kong transferring sovereignty from the United Kingdom to China earning the city the nickname of Hong-Couver. The high concentration of bi-lingual Chinese speaking has resulted in some neighborhoods having more signs in Chinese than English (as we were soon to find out).
I was unprepared for the vast enormity of Vancouver thinking that I'd be able to get us pretty close to John Valk Ducati, because it was rather close to the Lions Gate Bridge and just off 2nd Avenue. How hard could it be? Following my nose and my pathetic Vancouver Road map quickly had me lost worse than I've ever been in my life.
Getting lost does help you see the city, especially when you’re the one without the map…
~Kris
Intense levels of traffic, a sea of foul traffic lights and a constant wet drizzle (that had managed to smear my map and blur my printed out maps of the city) had left me with no idea as to where I was or how to get where I wanted to go.
Unbeknownst to us at the time, we passed within less than two blocks of our destination. Unaware we continued ignorantly forward into the heart of Hong-Couver where we were no longer able to read the Chinese road-signs.
Seeing a road sign for 10th Avenue, I turned. Little did I know that 10th avenue is on the far side of the city, a very long ways away from 2nd Avenue. We were forced to cross the Patullo Bridge, but as I was so lost, had no working map and no clue as to where I was in relationship to map anyway, we were forced to ask for help. Finding a delivery person making a drop at a small convenience store, we were given very precise directions to get us back to where we wanted to go. We crossed the Alex Frasier Bridge as we headed north and were doing great until we crossed the Oak Street Bridge and we were suddenly on the wrong street again. Soaked, confused, tired, sick of waiting at stop-lights and getting hungry I was nearing the end of my rope.
We stopped again under the awning of a gas station and I went in and purchased a city map of Vancouver. Returning to Kris, who was waiting with the bikes, suddenly everything made perfect sense. The value of a good map! With a sigh of relief we set out again, only this time I took us directly to the Ducati shop without a single missed turn.
We arrived at the BMW/Ducati dealership and now I got to worry if they'd have a tire and if they'd even be willing to help us out. We were immediately put to ease when a fresh tire was pulled out and our bike was pushed to the top of the maintenance schedule and immediately put onto the table.
The shop recommended "Cameo Cafe" on the corner of W 2nd Ave and Crowe Street, less than a block away, where we could get some hot coffee and a good burger while they took care of the tire. A huge weight off our shoulders we walked to the cafe and, true to the advice, we enjoyed the best hamburger either of us had ever had!
This was a great place with a N’Orleans jazzy sort of feel. I’m sure if we had caught it in the evening we would be in for a band and an overall good time but considering the circumstances we were pretty happy with a warm, dry place to rest and food.
~Kris
With our blood sugar levels back in line, we returned to the bike to find the fresh tire on the bike. We paid the tab, and the subsequent taxes (Government Sales Tax, Provincial Sales Tax, Environmental Tax, Tire Disposal Tax, Road Tax, Rubber replacement tax and tread wear tax) the new rear tire was one of the most expensive I've ever bought, turning a $140 tire (in America) into a $320 Canadian tire. Oh well.
We were back on the road, negotiating the confusing quagmire of Vancouver traffic just in time for the afternoon commute, and once again, just getting to the freeway became a test of my navigational abilities.
Originally we were going to cross back into Washington from Vancouver, but what with our border running incident haunting us, we thought it would be wiser to find a much smaller border to get us back into America. We rode west into Abbotsford then turned south towards the border town of Sumas.
A long line preceded us, so we pulled our helmets, retrieved our passports and waited contently for out turn. The American border guard deserves a huge raise. He was outstanding. We were both waved up together, something that we've never seen, and he spoke with us both. He saw our license plates and immediately asked if we knew about the coal miners who were trapped near Huntington, Utah. We did and we told him we go past the area all the time.
After the regular array of questions where we revealed that we were not importing bananas or bootlegging whiskey, we were given the warmest "welcome home" we'd ever received. While we love traveling in Canada, it felt great to return to America!
We'd purposely held off on gassing up until returning to America because of the cost, so we fueled up, bought a bottle of wine in preparation for the evening, and headed south. Rather than just heading south along the main route we turned west onto highway 547 and almost immediately, the road turned into a glorious, technical gyration of asphalt bliss!
It was the perfect way to be welcomed home, a friendly border guard and fantastic riding. We turned onto highway 542 and passing through dense stands of trees and past humble homes tucked back, barely in sight behind dense vegetation.
With few options left and daylight waning as fast as our energy we returned to highway 9 and rode straight south into Sedro Woolley where we checked into the first hotel we found. We unloaded the bikes and I sent off a quick email back home by taking advantage of the lobby computer, convincing the girl behind the counter to waive the associate fees.
We collapsed on the bed, ordered a pizza to be delivered to our room and drank our wine. It wasn't even dark outside by the time we'd collapsed comatose into a deep, deep sleep.
For more than a few years we've gotten a constant stream of email and comments about riding the North Cascade Highway, WA-20, over the Cascade Mountains. More than once we've put it on the agenda, but today would be our first opportunity to give it a run.
Yesterdays rain had gone away and a dappled sky of fluffy clouds drifted overhead and we were happy that the roads were mostly dry. Being so close to Seattle we expected the area just East of Sedro Wolley would be somewhat swanky. Quite the opposite was true. Tattered clapboard and cinder block buildings with peeling paint pimpled the side of the road and detracted from the beautiful vegetation.
For the first 30 miles the road was nothing special, but after we passed through the town of Rockport, things started looking up. The road started climbing and more corners came our way. Passing through the town of Marblemount things got a lot better. The road carried itself along the northern slope of steep mountain slope. Constantly sweeping corners gently carried us up towards the roads eventual top elevation of 5,000 feet; a significant climb from sea level in just 50-some miles.
The North Cascade Highway crosses into the North Cascades National Park, which makes up one of three park units, including Ross Lake and Lake Chelan and the Stephen Mather Wilderness Area. Entering in to this much public land usually means the scenery is going to get pretty good. The western slope wasn't so significant and we were wondering what all the fuss was about, but as we continued East, not only did the road become nothing short of spectacular, the scenery became absolutely epic!
The road was fast and smooth but without too much in the way of technical. We were totally enjoying the ride. By the time we reached Diablo Lake we understood why this road gets so much attention. We were thrilled that we'd timed this road to hit it on a quiet Wednesday morning. The camera stayed in the tankbag and we simply took advantage of the wonderful riding.
Once past the Diablo Lake Overlook, the road straightened out and gradualy and gently climbed towards the south. The road was in a little worse for wear, but the towering pine trees looking down on us kept us content with the scenery. As we neared Rainy Pass, just a few feet shy of 5,000 feet, we were freezing our tails off and I was considering pulling off to put on the heated vests.
Notice he only thinks about, this is common and I’ve found if I at all think it will be chilly its best to put it on before I leave otherwise he won’t stop again for at least 100 miles. So needless to say I was toasty warm while Dave was “considering” pulling over.
~Kris
Immediately to the Eastern side of Rainy Pass the world changed. Liberty Bell Mountain and Early Winter Spires towered up over 8,000 feet of oddly orange and grey rock scraping clouds briskly flying inland. U-shaped glacial paths were clearly evident as the road swept down through 270-degree corners turning the road back towards the east dropping dramatically towards the towns of Wintrhrop and Twisp. Vegetation disappeared almost immediately and we were no longer surrounded by the lush green coastal foliage and instead were left with traditional cured western grasses, scrubby brush and widely strewn pine trees.
The lower we dropped, the higher the temperatures climbed. Looking like a very charming touristy place, we stopped for an early lunch in Winthrop. Local motorcyclists were milling about and parking spaces were scarce. We lucked out and found a spot near the main drag. We sauntered about and wandered into a very western looking lunch joint. The service was very much not good and the food was even worse. With the mood totally dampened we were ready to get out of Winthrop and see what else eastern Washington had to offer.
This town was in the midst of a music festival and so the streets were packed with tourists. As we walked around the town to get a good feel for what it held, we found this dog taking a break on the roof, on the outside of the railing. I found it rather odd but the dog did look content.
~Kris
Staying on WA-20, we made our way towards Okanogan and Omak Washington. The road was pleasantly twisty and with very little traffic so we were able to enjoy ourselves. We stopped in Okanogan, Washington for a quick fill of fuel some water and some time to peruse the maps. Scads of small and very good looking road made a spider web of choices, but with only a few days left of vacation we deferred to sticking to the more direct highway 20.
Arriving in the town of Omak we were stuck in upcoming county fair traffic. Sweltering in the first real heat we'd dealt with in a long time and I was frustrated with the inability to get out of town. He jumped onto highway 97 and blasted our way north towards the town of Tonasket, where we reconnected with highway 20.
The difference in the terrain from coastal Washington to inland Washington was far more dramatic than I ever could have imagined. Desolate, windblown plains that featured only ugly, grey scrub brush and baked grasses. If I were to be dropped out of an airplane I would have guessed us to be somewhere in northern Montana, not the state of Washington.
Tonasket was, however, a very cute little down and as we made our way through town, small, white-tailed deer would cross the road looking like scared puppies, hiding behind bushes and fences at our passing.
Yet again, such a surprise as we don’t get such cute little critters back home, our deer are hunted and eaten and its not too hard to feel sorry for the ugly things.
~Kris
The roads were getting more and more enjoyable the road became A constant of canyoning and was keeping us happy, even though we would still describe the canyons as rather gently sweeping road. As we passed through the town of Republic the road became much better, tighter corners kept us highly entertained. Ominous orange signs were warning of impeding road construction, but for almost 40 miles the only evidence of construction were the signs and fresh, perfectly smooth, pure black asphalt free from even lane-marking paint. Sweeping past abandoned buildings, small meadows and crumpled terrain, we were having a very good time and were gleeful with the simple joy of riding.
As we crested a small mountain pass and began heading down through a series of fast corners, we rounded a blind corner and found ourselves in the middle of the foreshadowed construction. Half-way through a corner and a fairly brisk pace we were rolling over two-inches of freshly poured pea-gravel and virtually no traction.
With our trajectories heading directly for the side of the road and a dense thicket of trees, we needed quick thinking. MSF saved the day once again and we didn't do anything abrupt and gently rolled off the throttle while maintaining a very gentle turn to stay away from the side of the road.
Both bikes tracked impressively and we were able to get the bike straight up and down and decrease our speed significantly. The fear began while we continued to ride into thick gravel that causing the bikes to sway and wallow, unable to track straight. We continued to degrease our speeds until were traveling below 20mph and all the vehicles we'd passed over the last 15 minutes rapidly caught up with us.
Thick white clouds of dust hovered in the air from the passing traffic and clung to the leaves and needles on the adjacent vegetation. A massive RV was barreling down on our six's and I was anxious to get out of the thick gravel.
Fortunately, the road was a series of long, empty straight sections dropping towards Franklin D Roosevelt Lake. As the RV was about to make a pass, the pea-gravel came to an abrupt end and we were once again on predictable asphalt. We were able to pick up the speeds and quickly put the traffic behind us.
The road turned north and we followed the shoreline before making a quick right turn onto another wonderful steel girder bridge. Expecting another wonderful mountain pass, we found ourselves in a desolate valley that housed the charming communities of Kettle Falls and Colville.
Sturgis bikers were beginning their pilgrimage and Coors Light and Budweiser white plastic banners were tied across the front of every bar welcoming "bikers." We considered stopping in Colville for the evening, but the raucous biker exhaust noise prompted us to go just a little bit further.
Into another mountain pass we entered, Old Dominion Mountain looming above us to the north, we were almost immediately back among the trees. The evening was fast approaching and the occasional cute white-tailed deer could be seen peering out at us from the side of the road. We passed the entrance to Crystal Falls State Park and what little traffic there was disappeared and we were left feeling quite alone.
Heavy shadows blanketed the road and it was feeling like the time to stop was getting eminent. A family of three white-tailed deer crossed the road just past a small family run campground. The quick braking maneuver was the final bit of encouragement, and Kris and I made a quick U-turn back to the simply named "Trading Post Store - Cafe."
Faded brown wood protected by a red-steel and corrugated steel roof fronted a very small operation. A string tied under an awning held a constant garage-sale selection of used clothing, piles of orange life-preservers over flowing from cardboard boxes. Inside it got even better. Shelves crammed with dusty merchandise purchased while parachute pants well all the rage filled almost every square inch of floor space. A kitchen in the back was busy cooking dinner for some other patrons that looked a whole lot like family. A doorway to the side accessed the restaurant, but the lights inside were turned off.
Without looking around, and throwing caution to the wind, we paid or $29.95 for the evenings lodging. We rode the bikes over to our cabin and parked the bikes, unloading our luggage into the cabin before rushing off to dinner before the restaurant closed.
From the outside, the cabins were very cute. Marked walkways wandered between about a dozen small cabins. Only a handful of cabins were occupied. To the east there was a small lake where one could rent paddle boats for fishing or playing. Inside, however, the cabins were less nice. Filthy would be a better word. Stained blankets lay in a pile between two beds, and mismatched furniture sat around the room. There was an old cast-iron wood burning stove, a manky hot plate with equally nasty coffee pot and refrigerator that we never actually opened.
Dave can exaggerate some on detail like those above, but needless to say we did spend the night in our sleeping bags as we were pretty sure the sheets and blankets in the room were not freshly cleaned.
~Kris
Without spending too much time, we went off to dinner, only to discover that the "restaurant" was actually the owners’ living room. A couple folding tables sat in the center of an open area between their kitchen and television nook. And we were surrounded by family portraits, nick-knacks and trinkets. We ordered hamburgers thinking they would probably be the safest options and sat in quite discomfort while the family dined in the far corner discussing the days events.
After they finished dinner they wandered into the TV nook (complete with concrete pig - because what TV nook is complete without a concrete quadrupeds?) and started watching "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader" with loud laugher frequent. We slyly snuck a handful of snaps when we thought nobody would be watching.
As requested we paid with cash and quickly fled to spend the last little bit of evening out on the docks, however, the peace of the evening was broken by a very drunk fisherman struggling to row his boat back to shore. Bellowing and laughing intermixed with moments of near vomiting, we tried to ignore the scene, but by the time he made it to shore, we thought it best to leave.
Back in our room, we decided it would be best to prevent any contact with skin, so we pulled out or sleeping bags and laid them across the bed, casting the blankets underneath the television set. When I threw the blankets "The Game" with Michael Dougless clattered across the floor. Cool, we put the tape into the VCR and curled up to watch the show. We also had a good half bottle of wine left over from the other night that helped take the edge off the evening.
While sipping our wine and watching our movie (over the repetitive squeak of the VCR) a crowd of patrons gathered around our motorcycles, just outside the window of the cabin and had a very long and involved discussion about the heinous dangers of motorcycles. Many tales of gory motorcycle death and dismemberment were our bedtime stories.
After an restless nite's sleep we woke up early, hoping to forego another meal in the living room of the proprietors, we quickly loaded up our bikes and headed off thinking we'd surely find a cute cafe somewhere along the way.
We love riding early in the morning, quiet roads and still, calm air greeted us as we continued east along WA-20 into the tiny down of Tiger. With nothing there serving breakfast, we turned right and headed south with a small creek to keep us company. The roads were engineer-ruler inspired, cutting linear swaths through cured fields and sparse stands of sickly looking pine trees. But the world was still and calm [except for my grumbling tummy! -Kris]
We were regularly passing through more small towns but almost all of them were devoid of any kind of eatery. We were getting hungry and almost stopped for a gas-station breakfast, out of desperation mostly. I checked the map before committing to a egg and cheese breakfast burrito from the frozen section and discovered that Newport, Washington was only a few more miles down the road.
The day was quickly starting to warm up and the road had become a gently twisty route that was moderately entertaining. Before we knew it we were within Newport town limits. We rode up and down every commercial looking street we could find, only to discover that every eatery in town pulled double duty as a bar. With residual cigarette smoke still wafting from the swinging doors from the night before, we passed them by, thinking surely there must be at least one decent restaurant in town.
All we could find was a McDonalds. Punchy with low blood sugar I threw out every McFood McTitle joke I could come up with as we ordered just about everything on the breakfast menu. Our tab came to $23.96 and we carried our two heaping trays of food to the outdoor picnic table where we sampled the cornucopia of deep-fried, saturated fat goodness while perusing maps and discussing the route of the day
Our bellies bulging and the taste of McCoffee still on our breaths, we filled the tanks and headed into Idaho following ID-41 south. A terribly bland and direct route, ID-41 punched its way towards Coeur d'Alene.
Traffic increased as we neared the largest city in the Idaho panhandle. Surprisingly, the root of the towns difficult to spell name is unclear. Some believe that French traders allegedly named the local Indian tribe the Coeur d'Alene (literally translated it means "heart of the awl") out of respect for their tough trading practices. But it might also mean "sharp-hearted" or "shrewd." Another possibility is that it is a corruption of Coeur de Leon, or Lion Heart. Others interpret "Heart of the Awl" to translate to "Eye of the Needle", referring to the narrow passage through which the lake empties into the Spokane River.
In any case, the town has not changed all that much over the years, and we found the community to be just as appealing as it's ever been. We hopped onto I-90 heading east to discover that the roads were being resurfaced. Bouncing our way along through mid-morning traffic we navigated towards exit 22 where we would link up with Coeur d'Alene Lake Road. A serpentine road that navigates the 30-mile long lake. There are a number of model T's sitting on the bottom of the lake, due to people in the early 1900s who would drive across it during the winter in order to save half the distance in getting around the lake. When the ice broke, so did the chances for getting across. Also, there are some steamboats on the bottom that had been burned when they were no longer used to ferry people around on the lake. Divers frequently visit these ruins on the bottom of the lake.
A plethora of homes dot the gyrating and technical route that works its way south increasing the technical character of the route. You never can tell when someone is going to pull out of a blind driveway, and there were plenty of domed mirrors hung from tree's and light-posts to warn drivers of potential intersecting traffic.
We were enjoying the ride on a Friday morning, there wasn't much traffic, but it was easy to tell that this road should most definitely be avoided during warm weekends. Once the lake was behind us, we continued south on ID-3 and the road maintained its moderately twisty form. Nothing technical, but plenty of corners to keep us entertained while we rode into progressively hotter temperatures with every mile we traveled south.
We stopped briefly in St Maries for gas and cold water. It was definitely a blue-collar community with a real rough-edge to it. Facial hair, leather gloves and heavy-equipment ball-caps were the basic uniform. We sat in the shade and watched the world pass by until we felt we'd best be gettin' our big-city selves on outta' there.
Traipsing along desolate agricultural areas and crossing occasional small mountain ranges turned this unassuming road into a pleasant jaunt. Small farming homes dotted the route and aging, faded fence posts segregated green fields from the gold ones with rusted strands of barbed wire.
But it was getting hot and we were having a hard time staying cool. Our goal for the day was to arrive at and tackle ID-12, Lolo Pass, that would take us out of Idaho and into Montana, but the heat was taking its toll. Slowing for each of the small communities along the way eliminated air-flow through our jackets and caused body temperatures and thirst to rise.
Finally, just a few miles shy of Lewiston, Idaho we connected with ID-12 and I took a celebratory photo of Kris parked beneath the highway sign. The first time we took this road it was an epic experience filled with glorious cornering and no people for miles and miles and miles. We couldn't wait!
Upon arrival onto the what we thought would be the hallowed asphalt of ID-12 we found ourselves on a heavily traveled two-lane route where we were dicing with RV's campers and logging trucks. The intense heat took a lot of the fun out of the ride and we soon found ourselves droning along hoping to get to the other end.
We pulled off in Orofino, Idaho and rode through town looking for an ice-cream shope, but found none and resolved to fill up our tanks and grab whatever ice-cream the quik-e-mart offered. We also went looking for some sort of park and instead found ourselves huddling in the shade of a sad looking lot of trees placed around a bronze statue of a logger. Long gone were the cool temperatures of the great white north and we longed for more mellow temperatures.
Back onto Lolo Pass, the road got a little bit better and we were soon sweeping our way towards Montana with pleasant smiles on our faces. The road was paralleling the railway on the other side of the river and once we crossed to the north side of the river, the road got even better! Spying a small and cute touristy place, I thought now would be a good a time as any for an early and light dinner. We pulled into the gravel drive in the tiny town of Syringia and I noticed that Kris rear tire looked a little plump.
I touched the tire and it was scaling hot and I immediately withdrew my hand. Kris mentioned that the bike had been feeling a bit funny the last little while. Even though the tire was supremely hot, I pulled out the tire gauge and it measured a mere 12psi of pressure. Very much not good.
We spun the tire looking for the source of the damage, and could only find a tiny, pin-size blemish in the center of the tire. A bit of properly placed saliva confirmed that this tiny pin-hole was indeed leaking air. Bugger!
We carry a kit for just such emergencies, but in all our years of riding, we've never gotten the chance to use it. Needless to say, I was wishing the kit would go its entire life without being used, but here we were.
We asked about where the closest service station was and learned that there was one a few miles down the road or several miles bike the way we just came. Rather than ream out the pin-hole, I squirted in a couple cartridges of compressed air and got the tire up to a less frightful 20psi (I didn't go all the way full because we only had a limited supply of air cartridges). We then trundled along at 30mph to the next town.
Arriving in Lowell, Idaho we found our gas station and a coin operated air pump. Fishing through our pockets we found only canadian dollars and cents. Nothing American. So we went inside the small family operated gas station to hear the owner actually discussion how excited she was about their brand new coin operated air pump. "No more giving away air for free!" she said just in time for us to ask if we could make a purchase and have them charge more and give us a handful of quarters. They happily, if not greedily, agreed.
We pulled a couple of bottles of water off the shelf and went out to air up the tire. It had lost 5psi in the few miles it took to get us here, and once aired up properly the pinhole was spewing air at an alarming rate. We had two options. The first was to ream the hole out and shove a plug into it and hope my reaming and plugging worked (and that I wouldn't damage the carcass/belts in the process) and drive to town and pay through the nose for a nine year old D207. Or we could try a can of fix-a-flat hope it holds and get a fresh tire in town, still paying "market-value" for a nine-year old D207. We decided to start with the least invasive measure and see where that got us, so back into the quick-e-mart for a can of fix-a-flat and another roll of quarters.
Now, at this point it is important to mention that fix-a-flat is NOT intended for motorcycle tires, although we've used it a couple of times with mixed results. Once it worked, and once it didn't. Fix-a-Flat is filled with a liquid that, when propelled by the compressed air inside of the tire, is forced towards the puncture and will block the hole created by the puncture. Tire sealant is typically only useful on punctures of 5mm diameter or less. Our puncture was sub 1mm.
During our plight at the gas station, several folks offered us help, with one lorry driver who claimed to have a compressor on his truck who said he'd be willing to follow us and air up the tire as we needed it along the way. While very thoughtful and considerate we politely declined. The fix-a-flat appeared to be holding air. But the willingness to help was greatly appreciated and we expressed our gratitude.
Kris ran the bike up and down the road to put some heat back into the tire and spread the brown sludge around the inside of the tire and things appeared to be holding. Stressed and tired we opted to call it a day instead of pushing on into the waning daylight with a questionable tire. The morning would be a better time to deal with this issue.
We crossed the street and pulled into the hotel/campground that is popular with river folk who find fishing and rafting to be their cup of tea. We were sweaty and grimy from the day and wanted nothing more than a long hot shower. We checked into the quaint place and took the keys to the hotel room only to discover the hot-water heater was broken so while we could shower, we'd be showering in icy cold fresh spring water.
Once in our room I turned on the water to full hot and waited, waited, and waited some more. Then assuming the hot and cold were mixed up I turned the water to full cold to check it out.
~Kris
So we donned our suits and swam the grime off in the heated swimming pool. It was wonderfully relaxing. Afterwards we headed back to the main building for a very delicious dinner on the deck overlooking the river below. Despite the dreariness of the day, it was a wonderful evening, even though we were fighting off carnivorous bees for our evening's meal, the relentless bugs ensured we were enjoying the evening in privacy as most guests retreated inside. We were reluctant to be too hard on the pollinating insects because increasing insecticides sprayed in agricultural areas have dramatically decreased bee populations in north america and many fear the decreased population and decreased pollination could eventually be catastrophic to the west.
So although it is quite possible that Dave thought the above about the bees, I wasn't as pleased and just moved some leftover food out of our reach to attract the bees. After dinner we quickly headed back to the cabin to quickly hit the sack. If only our room wasn't just outside the pool where families were still out having a grand time!
~Kris
Starting out the next day, we were nervous about the tire. Overnight, it had lost five pounds of pressure. Acceptable; we felt. Because I'd overfilled the tire last night, it was now running at 38psi, which was tolerable, so we loaded the bikes and headed off. It was early enough that, once again, we were the only ones on the road and consequently we got to enjoy the road at whatever pace we chose. As soon as we started rolling we arrived at "the sign." Threads on motorcycle forums have been started over signs like this and a photo adorns our living room from our first visit to "the sign." It reads simply and gleefully "Winding Road Next 77 Miles."
We stopped and took the required photos before heading off again. Even though ID-12 wasn't as epic as we remembered it, it was still a very worthy motorcycle road. Not very technical, but gloriously scenic! The scenery was magnified by the rain from the night before that had managed to saturate all the colors. We tried our hardest to keep our speeds down for the sake of the tire, but the glory of the morning got the best of us and soon we were clipping along at a very pleasant pace.
The first time we'd ridden this road I had to stop and catch my breath, this time it seemed that it was over as soon as it began. Seventy-seven miles just ain't what it used to be. Darn world keeps on shrinking. We were soon in Montana and we pulled in to check the tire. It'd only lost a pound in the last 80 miles or so. Linking up with Highway-89 that runs from Canada to Mexico and through the center of our home town, we stopped and started looking at the map ever more closely.
We had two choices: go into town and hunt down a tire, which would take the better part of the day and likely cost us near $300, ride as far as we could, then ride back into Yellowstone National Park by Saturday and back home again by Sunday; or take a chance and b-line it home today, checking the tire as we went, using the tire-plug kit if we needed it.
For various reasons, one of which was getting calls from my new employer about paperwork that needed to be filed as soon as possible, we chose to head for home giving up on two-days of riding. Turning away from the mountain we rode South down long, lonely and empty stretches with very few corners.
About 500 miles separated us from our destination. We stopped quickly for gas and water. We aired up the tire just before we rolled out towards Salmon, Idaho. Small towns entertained us as we worked our way south, but there was little to look at once the small towns were behind us and we were left with empty roads.
I had been in Salmon, Idaho during a horrible wildfire that claimed two young firefighters who had been clearing a landing pad for a helicopter. Now we rode through the evidence of that fire and I was struck by just how much fire-ravaged forests we'd seen on this trip. As a kid, my parents took us into these mountains all the time and I don't ever remember dead, blackened trees at all, let alone how they are now. Stands of dead-tree's and smoky air made the forest feel like a graveyard of scraggly tombstones. It was eerie. The Forest Service says this is all part of returning fire to the ecosystem and I'll be the first to say these areas recover faster than most people realize, but it still felt bleak.
We arrived in Salmon Idaho and made another choice. The road between Salmon and Challis is a wonderful road, but slightly longer and slightly less direct. Had we realized at the time that it would be less than nine-miles further to go through Challis, we most certainly would have taken that route. Hindsight is 20/20, and we kept to the more direct path towards Idaho Falls.
Many of us have had recurring nightmares in our lives. Mine has always involved this next bit of road, ID-28 between Leadore, Idaho and Mud Lake (they sound like such nice places). Long desolate stretches of road with mountains gradually sloping towards craggy peaks, funneling intense wind. Does this road suck or does it blow? I'll never know. We stopped in Leadore for fuel and to check Kris' tire, down a few more pounds so we pumped it up again. This is also the last place we saw Kris favorite three-season-fleece. The intense wind liberated it from underneath two bungee nets. Kris still mourns the loss of this jacket.
The day was quickly slipping away as we battled the merciless crosswinds, but when we turned into Mud Lake, the wind was no at our back and relief was never so pleasant. We hopped onto I-15 and quickly made our way into Idaho Falls where we stopped once again for fuel and to put some more air in Kris' rear tire. It was consistently loosing a few pounds between fill-ups. We grabbed a fast-food dinner at Arby's and stuck to I-15.
My parents live in a small community in the northern portion of Utah, so we felt it would be best if Kris pulled off early and rode to my parents house, shortening her ride by a good 150 miles, while I continued on to Salt Lake. It wouldn't be a wasted trip because my parents had been watching the dog, so we'd have to drive up to fetch him anyway.
Right before Kris planned to turn off, we stopped at a rest area to say our farewells. So that I wouldn't have to stop for gas, we pulled out the four liters of fuel we'd carried with us and poured them into the Ducati. It was an oddly sad goodbye. We hadn't been apart for more than a few moments in two weeks and now we'd be parting ways.
A few miles after starting out, Kris took her exit, waving as she slowed down, I continued my pace, heading south into the approaching evening daylight. I hoped that her tire would get her the last few miles to my parent’s home without anything exciting happening.
All I had left was a couple more hours of freeway droning. We'd been gone longer than we'd ever been gone before on vacation and now it felt as though it was wrapping up so quickly. One day we were in the middle of nowhere and the next we would be home.
I managed to time it so that I'd just missed the Friday evening commute and as such I was able to continue through the construction zones in Ogden without having to slow my pace. It was an average summer evening back home on the Wasatch-Front and folks were heading out for their evening and weekend plans. Everything felt so normal, yet somehow so different.
I arrived at the house and quickly pulled off my riding gear in exchange for a clean pair of shorts and flip-flops. Tossed a set of tie-downs into the back of the truck along with the loading ramp and got right back onto the freeway, returning the way I'd just come with no time to spare.
Four hours after leaving Kris behind I arrived at my parent’s house to find Kris showered and rested with a freshly cleaned dog by her side. Warmly greeted by the dog, we loaded up the bike well after midnight, and for the third time that day, headed back down I-15 towards home.
We didn't make it back to the house until 1am, and Jake was being a very good dog, because he knew he was getting a present. He sat patiently in the living room until I revealed the small black bear that had traveled so far. He joyfully leap and circled until I tossed him the bear and he ran off prancing. Placed the bear in the center of the floor and danced around it some more. He was very happy and we were finally home.
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