North America: Riding a 21 year old Goldwing: 40 - The Makah Indian Nation, Manzanita & The Rogue Brewery

Before we walked into the bar, Walt introduced himself. The place was pretty empty, but he introduced me and we started swapping stories. He rode the Al-Can many years ago, "back when it was all gravel." Sure, it must have been a bit tougher then, but the several hundred miles of gravel I rode while in The Yukon and Alaska, they were rarely more technical than riding the frost-heaved pavement. Fine - it would have been cooler had I made this trip in the 70's. Partly because the road wasn't paved, and partly because I would have been riding the Al-Can at age five.

Walt wanted to talk bikes. He couldn't get over the 20,000 miles and the many gravel-miles on the Goldwing.

We stood there talking for awhile. He and friends were fishing on his buddy's 50 foot mega-boat. His buddy had a ziplock bad full of salmon and so he gave it to me to snack on. Delicious.

Walt left and I sat down to finish my beer and chat with whoever walked up. Before long, a guy walked up and ordered three beers. He had been sitting in the corner with his buddy. He gave one to me and said "I heard about your trip man. I can't ride like that, but I can buy a beer for the guy who did." And then he walked away. It seemed really weird. Nice, but not ordinary.

Later that night, there were about 30 people in the bar and I knew more than half of them. Someone asked the bartender if she had her card. She did. The bartender looked at me and said I was the only person in the place that wasn't a card-carrying member of the Indian nation. Interesting. That means Larry, the blue-eyed Californian, and the fair-skinned bartender were both of Native American heritage. Interesting.

So that night I met:

Brandon, the cocky 23 year old who was as friendly as he was cocky. He fished on a Salmon boat and was they guy in town that all the cool kids wanted to hang out with. I introduced myself, just because. I didn't have high hopes about the meeting. Boy was I wrong. He was so friendly and fascinated about my trip. He introduced me to everyone else and bought a beer for me.

Larry: About my size, but a lot stronger. He's been fishing since before he was a teenager. He was mid-thirties and was known up and down the coast as a world-class fisherman. He had captained a boat a few years earlier in CA that was built in 1944. It was solid wood, was 90x35, and had a cargo capacity of 1,000 tons. That's two million pounds. He once had over 600,000 pounds of fish from one catch.

Joe: Mid 50's maybe? Definitely respected among the Makah people and one of the best boat-builders in the region. Joes' son is a fisherman and has been clearing $10,000 a week for the last couple of months. These guys weren't everyday fisherman. I thought back to Matt, who I met on the ferry. He told me how incomes were quite varied for fishermen. Some are good, some are not. Some are lucky and good. They make a lot of money. Matt had worked for one of the best. Joe's son was quickly making a name for himself. He was good.

I was there listening as Joe and Larry finally closed a deal that had been in the works for awhile. Joe would build a boat for Larry and Larry would go to sea while Joe enjoyed retirement. Larry would make each of them a million dollars. There wasn't anyone there who doubted either man's ability. It was a matter of terms. Clearly, I was witnessing two masters of their respective crafts.

Would I ever meet and hang out with ordinary people? Not so far.

In the morning, I left around 6:30 and began riding the coast. First to Seiku (pronounced "C-Q") and then the Makah reservation. I rode a few miles of gravel to the most Northwest point in the Lower 48. It was cold, cloudy and foggy. Fantastic!

I hadn't been on many reservations. I'd ridden around several, but only through a couple. The land is nice and beautiful, but the atmosphere is dilapidated and dirty. There is junk lying around everywhere and few houses are in any condition but decrepit. It's not like poor areas in Appalachia where people don't seem to happy about the conditions. Here, I'd met people who clearly could afford different living conditions, but chose not to. I recognized a brand new truck from the bar the night before. I knew they guy made a great living, but the truck was parked in front of a shack with several old cars and appliances in the yard. Certainly I've been exposed to many different cultures on this trip. So much in only two countries.

While stopping to take this picture, I dumped my bike in the middle of the road. I had locked the handle bars to make a tight u-turn, and then turned my head to plan my next move, rather than focusing on completing the current maneuver. Mistake. A guy came around the corner and stopped. A HUGE Indian with a pony tail down past his belt. He was in his 50's and his truck was full of people. An old man with few teeth rolled down the passanger window to get a better look.

The big guy walked toward me and never said a word. He grabbed the bike and picked it up before I could even throw my weight into it. I steadied the bike and put the kickstand down and turned to thank him. He was climbing back into his truck. Wow! Surreal for a Sunday morning before breakfast.

This little kid is really cool. He was scaling the fish. I'd already talked to the grown-ups standing around him. I asked if he knew how to clean one. "I know how." He replied. "Looks to me like all you're doing is scaling the fish" I replied. He paused, grabbed the knife his uncle had just laid down and tore into a Silver Salmon. "Showoff" his uncle replied. "Good Work" I chimed in. Some women nearby started laughing. "Troublemaker" they giggled as I said goodbye and walked up the plank toward my bike. Ten minute conversations have really kept me inspired to keep riding.

I didn't so much enjoy Tok, Alaska and neither did I enjoy Tokeland, OR. It was run down and the speed limits are 15 mph. That's too slow for a 1,000 pound Goldwing.

I did have to ride 20 miles out of my way to check it out though.

There was a casino. Five minutes and $20. Just enough time to drink a glass of water and to turn twenty into thirty.

Nice. Looks like I paid for camping tonight.

During the entire trip, I avoided casinos, though there were many just tucked away in the middle of nowhere. I'm not sure why I stopped, but I was glad I did. There was a guy on a Harley who stopped to check out my bike. He didn't want to talk, but he did start taking pictures with his camera phone.

The bad thing about the dozens of State Parks along the Oregon Coast is how expensive they are. Their pricing scheme isn't suited to travellers, but rather people who vacation in the parks once or twice a year.

$25 to put up a tent? No thanks.

The good thing is that they rent cool little huts which must be really nice for people who aren't up for tent camping.

Oregon is so cool.

I'd now ridden the Lewis & Clark trail in about a dozen states. Where I grew up in Charlottesville, VA is only a couple of miles from the George Rogers Clark Birthplace. Thomas Jefferson (who commissioned the expedition while the second president of the United States) has a museum dedicated to the explorers and their findings in his home. Monticello, in Charlottesville, VA is a must-see for any history buff traveling through Virginia.

I reached Ft. Clatsop just after six and the visitors center was closed, so I just walked around and checked out the plaques. After leaving, I continued on down the Oregon coast. I rode from before 7:00 am, to after 7:00 pm before stopping in Manzanita to grab a bite and to watch the last few laps of the NASCAR race, held in California. Before finding a resteraunt, I rode through the very cool little beach town, and headed toward the water.

Bam - No warning. My bike was on the ground. Fortunately, I had a huge audience. A guy walked over and we picked it right up. What an idiot! (Me, not the Good Samaritan.)

I was at the beach and didn't even think to look for sand. I'd put my front wheel in a pile about six inches deep while making the turn. Oh well. At least I'm not shy or easily embarrassed.

Then it hit me. That's twice in one day! Now I'm embarrassed.

I strolled into the San Dune and asked the bartender to turn on the race. Turns out, he is super cool and we ended up talking for awhile.

It's Labor Day weekend and there is nowhere to camp. No where in all of Oregon. I know that because an off-duty Park Ranger was in the bar and told me so.

It seems that everyone comes to the beach for the holiday weekend. Everyone except the family that lives behind the restaurant. Next thing I know, I'm following a bartender outside and around back. There is nice vacation home with a nice backyard. "Be gone before the sun comes up" he said.

Nice - I set up camp, tried my best to look presentable, and went back inside. The bike was parked for the night and I was ready to hang out in Manzanita.

Suddenly my buddy Lee was gone! I'd just turned around for a half hour to talk to people and he took off!

There is a plaque on the wall of the San Dune commemorating Lee's dog Zeba. RIP

Before the end of the night, I'd met some guys who were having a party and invited me to come along, but alas, my camp was already in place. Once I've set up camp and parked my bike, I don't leave. Ever. Bad karma. Plus, it was dark. I don't ride in the dark.

The good thing about breaking camp before dawn is that the scenery at dawn is spectacular.

I love Tillamook Cheddar. Now I know where it comes from.

I hopped off the 101 to follow signs along county roads to a Spit. I still don't know what a Spit is, but I do know that the Homer Spit is really cool. So I figured I'd check out a Spit in Oregon. Nothing like gravel before breakfast. The ride across the spit was great with the water on both sides and the sun at my back.

I rode the 101 for awhile, before heading inland to go to Salem and Corvallis. I stopped in the morning along the coast to cook salmon and drink coffee, but by late afternoon, I was hungry again and stopped in Corvallis at I bar I'd visited a decade earlier with my friend Don. I haven't seen Don in years, but the place was the same. Great food and interesting people. Check out the surfer. Oddly enough, his bike was also manufactured in 1986. The uncanny coincidences are never few, nor far between.

I left and headed toward the Coast and made Newport about 6:30. Two hours before dark. I stopped into the brewery for a few beers. A few three ounce beers. They were all delicious!

When I walked upstairs and found a spot at the bar, I looked around the place. It was packed. Behind me was a table of three. All three had tattoos from their ears to their ankles. There were two guys and a girl. The girl walked up to the bar and stood next to me and I noticed that the only portion visible on her body that wasn't covered with tattoos, was her left forearm. There, she had but one tattoo. A hummingbird.

She returned to her table and sat down. I grabbed my camera and found a picture I'd taken on Bainbridge Island and then walked over to the table.

"Hello. That's a hummingbird on you arm isn't it.? She nodded. "I've been riding a 21 year-old motorcycle around the continent for the last four months. I ride around and take pictures. For a month, I rode around The Yukon and Alaska and saw many wonderful and beautiful things. When I got back to the Lower 48, I took a picture of the the first beautiful thing that I saw."

I then handed her my camera.

She stared for awhile and then passed the camera around. She never said anything and looked as if she might cry. The guys said, "wow.....wow......thanks."

I walked back and sat down. Later as they got up to leave, one of the guys came over. "Thanks so much. Thanks. That's.... Thanks." ...and they left.

I don't know what the picture meant to her, but I do know that it meant a lot. Never before had I felt compelled to share a picture with someone and certainly never without introducing myself and having conversation.

It reminded me so much of Elsa and when she approached me in Chicken. This time, I got to do something nice.

The view from the tasting room at the Rogue Brewery.

The bartender had just arrived in town for the annual surfing contest. He'd spent his summer fighting forest fires.

"I wanted to know if I'd like it" he said. "I love it. It's hard work, but it's good work. I'll do my twenty and then retire at 43 and then spend my weekdays catching waves on a long-board."

He told me of a dozen breweries he'd visited while spending his summer backpacking around Northern California and Oregon. I took good notes.

He then told me of a place where I could guerilla camp. I left. No luck.

Back on the road and looking for a place to camp, I decided to resort to an Alaska-style approach. It was dusk and nearly dark. I rolled into a Glass Blowing business. The artist was there making art, though they'd been closed for two hours. I told him my story and asked him if I could put up my tent and he pointed about 25 yards away to a construction site.

Just as I finished setting up my tent, it started to pour. No time to make dinner. I was famished and far from sleepy. While in the Yukon six weeks earlier, I'd bought a pint of Canadian whiskey. I called it my "broken down and spending the night on the side of the road" stash. Fortunately, it was untouched. Since breaking down in the Yukon was no longer a worry, I poured a whiskey and water and then went to sleep.

It was raining when I woke up so I laid there and thought about how miserable it was going to be to break camp in the rain.

Suddenly the rain stopped. I jumped up, packed up, geared up, started the bike up, and waited for it to warm up.

... and it started raining. What perfect timing! On the bike and off I went, down the 101 along the Oregon Coast.