South of San Francisco

CITIZEN KANE

 Two outstanding California spirits helped me explore Central California; William Randolph Hearst and John Muir. HEARST was a man of excess, who dominated coastal California. . Hearst was a man of opulence, power, and influence. The other spirit, while modest and reclusive, and equally charismatic, left  significant legacy; offering unparalleled stewardship of the natural environment that has kept California one of our national treasures.

 I entered the I-580 loop traveling, from Manteca near Tracy, southwest on I- 680 to San Hose. From Santa Hose I took Hwy. 101 headed for the Seaside, Monterey, and Pacific Groves area. It was Big Sur time. I was looking forward to this leg as 101 passes through Gilroy (Touted to be the garlic capital of the world). (I did a master plan for a site in Gilroy several years ago. It had among other retail uses, twenty three theaters. That was back when we were the local “Theater Specialists”, having designed several Branson theaters and the Hammons- Carolina Palace in Myrtle Beach. )  I was also looking forward to seeing the Embassy Suites Hotel in Seaside, as our firm had designed that facility, also for Hammons.

 The spirit of William Randolph Hearst:

 The movie; Citizen Kane. It was a must see movie for student architects in the seventies.  Citizen Kane was pre-empted only by The Fountain Head. Remember Gary Cooper blowing up his own project? Ann Rand’s battle: altruism vs. objectivism. Ah, Howard Roark. Now, there’s an architect; ravage the women and blow up your client’s life investment because your design sensitivity was offended.

 So, young Orson Wells, star, creator/director of Citizen Kane, at age twenty-four was positioned for greatness. Wells seemed to explode on the Hollywood scene with the skill and charm of  past master architect-Frank Lloyd Roark. Citizen Kane was an accepted success before the cellulose film dried.  Now touted as a cinematic giant, Citizen Kane was, and is still, considered one of the greatest film ever made. Student architects were encouraged to watch the movie and learn production skills; the staging of the scenes, though in black and white, each scene was a photo masterpiece in its composition, form and void, use of light for impact and mood development, sense of order… all those freshman principles of design. (The real lesson from Citizen Kane was in the recognition of future client personality; i.e. type and temperament. There’s a little Kane to be found in every client.)

  Wells soon imploded in Hollywood. Muzzled by William Randolph Hearst. It seems Wells had based the story of Kane around Hearst’s life and times. Hearst didn’t welcome being depicted on silver screen as a maniacal controlling media magnate. Further, it boded poorly of his mistress, Marion Davies. Hearst envisioned himself a modern Prince of all domains; he directed history and people at his pleasure. He stopped distribution of Citizen Kane. The movie was put on the shelf for some twenty years.(It would be interesting to have seen a Hearst’s response to a more recent film, 2002, “the Cat’s Meow”, by Peter Bogdanovich.)

  Monterey, Pacific Grooves, Pebble Beach, Carmel by the Sea; the Big Sur area is a place I could live; if provided with a princely income; nature’s beauty, weather’s beauty, friendly people; beautiful people. Nymphet’s in bikinis. I find art galleries, Jewelry stores, and antique shops; all dropped into rugged environment. There are people here who actually value, buy, and pay for fine art? What? Is this all a part of a Hollywood fascademy scheme? Where I come from people visit galleries, observe, criticize, but to suggest purchase would be “bourgeois” at best.  Monterey, on the other hand: as the governor would say, “I’ll be back”.

Enough of the good life.  I’m back on Pacific Hwy 1 moving south through the twisties of the Santa Lucia Range. It’s Big Sur country. Like Oregon, and northern California, the San Lucia Range lays against the sea, offering a variety of plunging cliffs and rocky coastal beaches. Oh great. I’m swooning between cliff-side vertigo and indescribable panoramic beauty. I respond to the vertigo by focusing on the yellow center stripe. The bike goes to were your looking.( One of my riding buddies once had a head on collision with another biker caused by this phenomenon.) Lock eyes, lock horns. I respond to the beauty, well, I know it is time to stop and savoir, when the signs designate “vista ahead” pull off zones.

 The beaches put me back to normalcy.( It gets to be Like the Louvre. Great!  Another Madonna and Child.) Sea lions and seals have become familiar and common.” I’m loaded for whale”. So are many others. I see cars pulled over, drivers with two foot long telephoto lens pointed out to sea. I’m soon alongside with my Sony Cybershot.

 I spend the night high in the San Lucias overlooking the Pacific at the Ragged Point Inn. It’s located about fifteen miles from San Simeon.

 San Simeon Acres is the location of the Hearst ranch, or (castle). The ranch is sited on one of the most beautiful areas of California. The rolling grass covered mountains provide undisturbed landscape viewed in any direction. Prince Hearst’s castle, “La Questa Encantada” provided a nature/culture experience that felt like the Biltmore Estate in Ashville, N.C. it is steeped in European ornamentation inspired by Spanish Baroque style. Not surprising as both architects, Hunt (Biltmore)  and Julia Morgan (Hearst castle) were schooled in the Beaux Arts Tradition. (Sondra and I visited the Academia one afternoon long ago. I looked it over pretty good. I guess you might say I, too, studied at the Academia).

 Most of the day at San Simeon was spent on site. Actually, there is very little choice. The tours are formal, structured, and rigidly scheduled. With over a million visitors a year, the crowds are systematically, but courteously managed. You are greeted at the Welcome Center located at the bottom of the hill and bussed to the castle. The docents are available for questions and provided a rich background of the castle during its prime, which would be the twenties through the mid forties. Certainly the docents answered the regular questions about Patty (was she really kidnapped?), the terrorists who blew up a part of a housing wing, the earthquake that damaged the cathedral and plaza. There were the controversial guests, Wayne, Chaplin, Detrick, and on and on. (Hearst was a bit of a Victorian. One rule was no bed hopping. Errol Flynn lasted the first night before it was suggested he leave.

But docents also described a different Hearst. A man of great vision and ambition who used his power for great causes. He was the great mentor. Those observations sent me back to the internet trying to understand the man who was so instrumental to the growth of California during the first half of the twentieth century.

  While there were certainly famous entertainers and politicians as his guests, there were also invited industrialists, financiers, entrepreneurs; those movers and shakers who were making the west coast the envy of the states. As I see it, the Hearst ranch served, during that period, as an incubator where idea people were introduced and aligned with resource people. Liaisons were formed that would generate the growth of business and industry for much of the nation for a generation. Hearst was apparently a gifted puppet master and Marion Davies was a capable and effective partner in achieving his goals. The seating arrangements at dinner, which all guests were required to attend, launched industries, partnerships, and literally, wars. It was, at times, the table of “Captains and Kings”. Hearst was a prince of the medieval tradition shaping modern California.

 Hearst was indeed- Citizen Kane.

South of San Francisco

Creatures of Big Sur

Sacramento Valley

I’m thinking of the farms and communities of southwest Iowa. I spent several summers and one very cold winter there on my Uncle Clarence’s farm. I learned a lot about how to work and how to get along. Like all communities, there is unique culture; an unwritten code of conduct for the field. It’s different from the Johns Manville Factory where I would be worked in Chicago just a few years later. (a summer job).

             Crus’in the valley, I’m thinking of the fantastic scale of the agriculture industry here. Those “field hand lessons” of my youth continue to impact my perceptions of “place; and people”. It influences places I choose to visit. It influences those I feel comfortable approaching and talking with.

As I leave Chip and Heather heading south, Moto’s inclination was to turn east not west. Sure, Zumo is screeching “wrong way” in the head set. That’s because Chip had outlined the Grand Golden Gate Triumphal Tour on Zumo for me. But we have been switch-backing in the mountains for two weeks. Moto’s plan is to jump into the Sacramento Valley and cruise. The Valley;  that land of “milk and honey” envisioned by every settler passing through Casper headed west is at hand. (Now the pioneers move up from the south.)

My expectation: to sense and interpret the “bread basket of the world”.  I wanted to see farming on a scale grander than I know in Iowa; a scale just seen in Nebraska, or the Columbia River Valley. I’ve made friends with the Methow region of Washington. I’m ready to be impressed.

So its east on I-80 toward Sacramento. At some exit along the way, we turned south into cabbage country.

The funny thing is, in lieu of enlightenment regarding the grand dynastic haciendas, that core of the mega plantation, my interest fell instead to field hands.(Its like going to Mexico planning to jet set with elite and end up living with the Indians). Had I the invitation, I would have gladly spent the day in the field, laying irrigation pipe or picking cabbage with the crews; paying for the privilege if necessary. It was the call of the hand more that the empire builder that piqued my fancy.

Hands are hidden in plants, back stooping to the task is the scene. Many have the same red skin I saw, in Mexico years ago. Im thinking roots of Omec, Toltec, Aztec. When I was in Mexico the locals dressed stylishly modern, but lived in grass huts. The barnyard is just outside the door. How do they keep their feet clean? How do they come into the market at Oaxaca and not have pig manure on their shoes? Don’t seem to smell.

I’ve had my close encounter of the Red kind: In ’73 I’m poking around at the Monte Alban Ruin in southern Mexico when columns of Zapotec Gorillas come streaming out of the jungle. They carry M-14’s,16’s, and every other make of firearm, each with their machete. Back then they were known as the Zapatista Army of National Liberation.

 Green Fatigues wearing red faces comes up to me. Green fatigues wearing red faces begin fingering around in my pack. (I consciously chose not to to take a contrary posture at this time). “Why am I there?” Red faces grunt in a tongue I struggle to understand. They parley.

 I figure I’m in trouble. Minutes pass. Seccaros, Rivera, Orosco; I conger images of those great painters and their paintings; they flashing through my mind like, I have heard, memories flashing before death. The stories they tell of not so long ago. Revolution in full color: Silent militias moving through the jungle, resisting the oppressive Diaz. Had nothing changed: “The peon playing out his role in the great drama against the “Hombre”? I’m living the dream.

 I’m being directed to the jungle’s edge. Getting uncomfortable. We’re there. So, what’s this? More talk. Finally, we communicate. “Do I want to buy some artifacts?”

By the way, in 1994 the government eventually cracked down on Zapatistas; they finally had their mini-war, and lost.

 I’m scanning a cabbage crop of many hundreds of acres.  I’m envisioning Cesar Chavez organizing the migrant labor into unions, standing tall and united against “the man”.  Has anything really changed from those days? You bet, you should see the very excellent cars parked at the end of the rows.

I’m reminded of the field hand code: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. If one person is working- everyone works. When you take a break-we all take a break. Each does his best within his capability and that’s good enough. If someone is wavering, you give them a hand-before they fail….

I spend the day zigging and zagging the valley. I see great tree groves, English walnut trees spliced onto black walnut roots. I see avocado, and pecan. I see healthy walnut trees being cut; by the acre. (Someone’s lost a contract for access to the water). Access to water is the key to this valley. I see massive wind turbines lined and emerging from the ground like they may have been planted and taken root there. It cost something to plant and water that crop!

 I smell freshly turned earth. The smell of veggies freshly picked; those soured and cast aside. I smell blossoms; I sneeze often to celebrate the pollen. I smell fertilizer, and pesticide. (Don’t wrinkle your nose. It may be bad for your health but the smell isn’t bad at all). This land is an olfactory bonanza.

How do I get access to people when they are like distant islands in these vast fields? In Florence, all I had to do was find a place to sit and paint; the people came to me. In the valley you stop at the fruit stands. The fruit stand is where the old timer migrates when the stooping hurts too much to tolerate. Tenders of the stands are not only experienced, but they are eager to talk, and in English if necessary. We talk.

Sometime in mid afternoon, gorged on fruit, nuts, and cola, I have my last lecture for the day. A fine old gentleman tells me of the great King River Valley watershed, riparian rights to water, the spillway, irrigation strategy, and the Fresno area agra-business dynasties.

It was a great day for  day-dreams, conversation, and cruising. I’m headed back west to the coast.

Where discussion can take place

Sonoma Valley and the Pacific beyond

NAPA- A DAY ON BALD MOUNTAIN

(Or-One Of Mussorgsky’s lesser known compositions)

Job Creep

There’s a common term in architecture -job creep. It refers to a situation where you make a service offering to a client for designing, say… a small addition to a church facility. You contract for a scope of work; say 200 sq.ft.of new facility add on. Estimate the cost at $40,000. Sounds simple and easy enough. You quote a fixed fee of $2400. This sounds reasonable. Right? Such a fee would allow a typical architect to spend, say 100 man hours on the work.

You get started. There are Meetings with regulatory agencies. Meetings with church groups. Donors increase the budget and space, a size increase is necessary. Staff member quit in your firm and the substitute employee must be educated into the nuances of the project. Members of the congregation don’t like the looks. Redesign required. A gift of steel framing from a local sub changes your glu-lam framing to steel. Re design required. Fundraising is slow. Requires a cut back -. Funding is slow. The project waits a year. Start-up and recycle; changes to the design is required. Bids come in high but church wants to continue on faith; the money will come. Rains cause delays. Funds don’t come in as planned and quality cuts are required. Quality is questioned by the retired builder on the committee. Meetings. Meetings. Meetings. Project is complete but donated furnishings aren’t fitting the space. Building committee thinks you should share in costs for the fix. The man hours have soared to 500 hours and there is no end in sight. This is job creep.

Job creep is the consequence of bad communication. Sondra believes you can never over communicate. She works hard to prove it.

Sunday morning. We had been to an engagement party the previous night.  Life was good. Mellow. Alex was at work on his boat dashboard having acquired some new instrumentation the previous day. Heather doing laundry. Jerry just lazying around.

Heather and Alex live in a lovely neighborhood. Sondra and I, on previous visits, have taken walks through the neighborhood to the end of the street. The street ends at the Napa River. Houses along the way are beautifully detailed and landscaped. Among them the Fisher house lies along a canal/cull de sac that runs perpendicular to the river. I call it the cove.

 I thought it might be nice to walk the three or so blocks to the river, look at the landscaping, and, perhaps take my water colors and paint a bit. I had contemplated a vista on my last visit and knew just the place to set up. After all, tomorrow I would be on the road again. An easy day would be good.

I suggest to Alex and Heather, “Let’s go for a walk”.

Great idea! The household springs into action. Heather is outlining the options; Alex is on the computer looking for opportunities and routes. (I will say at this point, Alex has now sponsored several outings on our behalf, and they have always greatly exceeded our expectations. Alex would be a great tour guide should he choose to give up medicine.  He could also be a great boat builder.)

Alex focused on a hiking trail. Bald Mountain. A 10K hike. Low difficulty. Dogs are allowed on the trail. We’re off for the day in the jungle cruiser.

I will also say at this point, I expected my tour of the west to be physically demanding. I trained for months to be in respectable shape for the possibility it might become physically challenging. I did weights and cardio work. I should have trained harder.

Bald Mountain is a part of a range that separates the Sonoma Valley from the Napa Valley. The mountain is actually more like large rolling hills covered with grass and clusters of trees. There are places that may be too steep to walk up, but most areas are suited for hiking. We walked along a fire road, working our way to the summit. Mountain bikers passed occasionally. The maximum climbing angle was perhaps 25 degrees.

Back in my jogging days, I developed a breathing pattern that was unusual. I would double inhale and double exhale. I read about it in a Jim Fix book on long distance running. (Jim Fix is the one that smoked,  jogged, and wrote books on running until one day he died on the track. Heart attack. I knew my pace and breathing was a concern when Alex commented to Heather that he regretted not bringing along some Coumadin.( I was expecting him to say more water). He seemed relieved for us all to arrive at the top together.

From the top of Bald Mountain, looking to the west you can see Sonoma, clear to the Pacific. Looking east, the Napa Valley. North ; more mountains, to the south is a valley that divides Baldy and another summit. The valley alternates grassy meadows, and rugged terrain, tree filled drainage basin. The basin is around a wet weather creek.  Meadows and basin are laced with hiking trails. We chose to return downhill along one of the trails. No map for guidance. I’d brought Zumo along. One of its chief claims to fame is that you can’t get lost with a GPS.

The downhill paths were challenging at times. Varying in steepness, Rocks and slippery grass. At times we were lost in the irregular terrain, but confident that water, and waterways flowed reliably downhill, and would emerge into known territory. We also had Zumo.

As the day wore on, the water was the first thing to go. Late in the afternoon, I received a concerned call from Sondra. While I fully expected her to offer to call Chuck Foster to see if Napa was within the Washington/Skagit County rescue area,  she chose instead, to reprimand me for failing to answer the phone timely. She couldn’t understand my heavy breathing. I referenced the pant, pant, blow technique learned from Lamaze classes .

Heather says she never takes a map on a trip. She studies the routes on the computer then relies on memory or GPS reckoning. They crossed Europe that way. We had crossed several paths, and, path markers. She thought she remembered some.

  By this time I thought it was time to eliminate the guess work. I pulled Zumo out of my pack.

So, what does GPS really tell you? : Direction? We’re heading into the sun. Mid afternoon, that would be south-west. Altitude? We are somewhere half way down a mountain. Bearing? Yep, we know exactly where we are. Satellite accuracy to 3 meters. Yep, we are 16 miles from the Fisher house and 7.33 miles from the nearest Starbucks. So, where are we?  We follow Alex’s guidance and trust the drainage channel will come out in civilized territory.  It did.

We arrive back at the jungle cruiser. Tired.Thirsty. Convinced the route was twice the distance and 10k meant vertical rise. A park ranger is warning us dogs aren’t allowed on the trails.(I’m thinking, “Why didn’t she come up the trail in her jeep and escort us out four hours ago?”)  We assure her we will not take the dog on the trail. Alex had been encouraging me along by promising margaritas. It was time to take him up on the offer.

Looking back, its easy to see that communication was the issue. In my mind we were going out for a three block cruise on city sidewalks. In Alex’s mind, well look at my photos and see his vision. His was better, but my bones ached all week from job creep.

Along Bald Mountain trail

Breaking out of the trees into grassland

I harken back to civilization

The elete of the Tahoe-Truckee Ski team take a break

Moto must have taken this one as I was surely in the lead

Sonoma Valley coming into view

Trail feature

Reminds me of movie _Amber Waves of Grain

Trees and meadows

Down the path less traveled

Pathfinder says STAY THE COURSE then rescinds himself thinking he sounds too much like George Bush

Trying to assure myself this is a path

Watercolor from Fisher's Deck toward the community cove

THE ISAIAH COMPROMISE

I cruise into Napa late in the day Thursday, June 6th.  I’m looking forward to seeing Heather and Alex, although they aren’t expecting me until Friday morning.

I’ve just been through some great grass and live oak covered hills separating the Sonoma wine country from the Pacific, and traveled along the Old Napa Highway into Napa itself. Those aromatic eucalyptus groves along the road. The maps are put away and I’m traveling on strategy my friend Bill Johnson , from Carrolton , Ga. (They live on Hog Liver Road) once exclaimed, (as our map blew out the window in the German Alps back in ’72); “I’m flying on “end stink”. The evening rush hour traffic in Santa Rosa in the heat was a bit stinky also. I was ready for the day’s end.

The exit and local streets are familiar; Moto and I motor our way right up to the door. No U turns required. No stopping for directions at the gas stations. Too, bad, because I had been looking for a nature break since Santa Rosa.(I will clarify here that there is a strategy I call the “Isaiah Compromise”. It goes like this: My self delared grandson, Isaiah, at 3yrs old, would play outside when visiting our farm, and procrastinate running indoors to the bathroom until he had an accident. I’m thinking, hey, we’re on a farm in the middle of nowhere. Why does he need to find a bathroom? The cows are letting loose fifty feet from us. “Isaiah, drop trow, buddy.” Isaiah now gets in occasional trouble on the preschool yard. Mama blames Jerry.

Actually, the Isaiah Compromise has worked well before. On lonely mountain Highways you can go minutes without seeing another car. I‘m doing the math, lets see, its been 2.5 minutes since the last car came by. ..I just hop off. Let Moto stand interference. If a car comes by, I just smile and wave. Pretend I ‘m adjusting the luggage.

Apparently, State Troopers assume most bikers have radar. They will send a hello blast as you meet or even if you are stopped, say to take photos. I stop to ponder the Isaiah Compromise. A car passes by, I wave. It’s a California State Trooper. He gives a hello blast on the radar. I waive a second time. It seems  to be a workable strategy.

No one home. Door locked. Darn, I didn’t plan for this to happen. No problem. The Isaiah Compromise is the order of the day. Heather has bushy palms in the back yard. Im over the fence. Slipped and fell. Look up to an unlatched gate nearby. Guess Im more anxious to find the palms then I first thought.

It seems every neighbor on the cove chooses Thursday evenings to work on their boats. I’m waving and smiling, they’re not so eager to extend the friendly greeting to a stranger dressed in biker’s gear that has just vaulted the Fishers fence and is laid out in the flower bed.

I’m now doing the math. Explain to the neighbors; 15 min. Get on the bike and find a station; 15 min.  Act like your Heather’s father wearing biking gear and just fell out of the sky. Walk up to the back door, slide it open and go in like you own the place. 2 min. What is the probability of the door being unlocked? Say, one in a thousand. I’ve done the math. Like the odds. Door slides open. I’m in. I wave to the neighbors again.

Gleason Beach-preparing to turn inland

A favorate place-Mendocino

Old California Capitol-Benitia, Cal.

Benitia Capitol Host

A different type of historic battle ground

Drydock, Alemeda

Tahoe Truckee Ski Team-Touring old San Fran headed toward a celebration

Golden Gate from Sy's Deck

Bay view from Sy's deck

Meeting one of San Fran's Painted Ladies

Tsunami

The Pacific coast takes the threat of tsunamis seriously. They should. Since 1812, seven years after  the return of the Corps of Discovery, there have been fourteen destructive waves hit the coast. On Dec. 26, 1964, as I matriculated at Drury College, now Drury U, (where I teach part time), Crescent City, Cal. was hit by devastating series of waves that destroyed their waterfront town and killed eleven people. To date, this has been the only city in the mainland USA to have taken casualties. The twenty one foot wave, caused much of the destruction as the backwash dragged people and property into the sea. An earthquake was the cause. In 1930 there was a 20 ft. wave that hit Redondo Beach.

 That same year, one hundred people died in Anchorage, Alaska from a killer tsunami. A tidal wave 100 ft. high crossed Lituga Bay, Alaska. It was generated by a landslide. 

There are serious efforts at public education on the subject. The beachfront hotels keep evacuation instructions next to the TV Guide as well as the Gideon Bible, thinking guests will surely be reading one or the other. Apparently it upsets some guests so much, the hotel that I stayed in offered to return your room fee if you are unhappy after reading the warnings. For distant earthquakes that generate waves that can allow for time to evacuate, there is a high ground route. Travel in orderly fashion. For local earthquakes and landslides, drop everything and run. There’s no time for warning.

This is significant, because it helps explain why you cannot travel Highway one continuously. Why the interior Highway 101 was built. And why the roads are always in repair. It also helps explains the many warning signs, evacuation routes, and elevation signs that are ever-present when you drop down into beach areas.

Warning signs makes Motochicleta uncomfortable.

So, Moto and I dropped down out of the clouds nearing Pelican Beach, near Crescent City. We had been through some beasties, not twisties. It rained, it fogged.  Suddenly, a beautiful ocean opened before us. We pulled off onto a cinder paved shoulder to take some pictures and absorb the ambiance. The fog would close, then, open again. I could hear seals.

You may wonder what makes Moto so smart. It’s the Zumo 550 GPS that is direct wired to him. Together they function just like HAL in the movie, “2001”. Remember that one? HAL was the computer that thought for the space ship. Dave was his targeted victim. Good morning Dave. Dave. D  a  v  e.

Sometimes I can identify with Dave. This is what Zumo does: Serves as an onboard GPS giving direction, location, speed, time, altitude, map route. He yells at me when I get off track.”Turn around at exit XYZ!  He can find a gas station and tell how far or give the shortest route to get there. He can find retail, food services, shopping, or any Starbucks in the area. Whatever you need, Zumo knows. (I book my hotels, motels, B&B’s through Zumo. I had booked the motel at Brookings Beach near Crescent City, this way). Apparently Zumo shares all information with Moto.

 Zumo also controls communications. Call me, I take through my helmet. I get Sirius music and weather reports the same way. Zumo also warns me of speed traps, although, he needs practice in this area.

I kick down the kickstand and wonder off to find the barking seals. The terrain is steep but manageable. Can’t shoot from the saddle. The fog rolls in. I’m destined to get some washed beach wood in the lens in lieu of that be a seal barking in the fog. Its hard to tell for sure. Maby a sea lion. I’ll wait for the fog to clear. Mind wonders.

I’m thinking about some of the advice columns for touring, rules of cycling on the road. “You keep the motorcycle in gear on the side stand; neutral, on the center stand.” Or is it the other way around? What was that crash? It sounded terrible. I hope Moto hasn’t been hit by an errant truck in the fog. I’m high tailing it back to the proud steed.

Here is the scene. Moto, laid out, handlebars downhill, rear view mirror laying some fifteen feet away. Zumo, screaming in my helmet; where’s the damn radar, anyway? It’s like the soundtrack in the movie Jaws. Da-dum, da-dum. I get closer, Moto’s kick stand is pointed awkwardly, straight up, like he’s trying to call my attention to something. A sign… a tsunami zone. Da-dum, Da-dum.

Now, I’m not saying Moto took a dive. And Im not too proud to say I’ve taken a fall on Moto.(I was once on my way to Pittsburg, Kansas. We were having the grand opening of the Tau Sigma Delta Fraternity House our firm had designed. I pulled up to a gas station and flagged a farmer down to ask directions. Opening my face mask so he could hear me my foot, slipped and ka-boom, me and Moto are laid out horizontally on the ground, me still in the saddle like I was riding sideways. The farmer’s eyes were as big as saucers. Really, what do you say at a time like that? Which way to Pittsburg? )

So, here I am, needing to pick up a 600 lb. bike, loaded with 150 lbs of luggage and 50 lbs. of fuel. I knew I could get it up, I’ve done it before. (I saw a 120 lb. model lift a 800 Lb. Victory Cruiser back on its wheels one time); legs and leverage, Legs, and leverage.

Moto’s not cooperating. Almost like, he’s resisting. Zumo screaming, “Da-dum, da-dum”. The sign says were in a tsunami zone.

It’s times like these that build character. I would have a cigarette, but I don’t smoke. Never, have. But I still get those cravings. I could wait for help. Then, again, no one needs to know that a man of adventure spills his bike in the middle of the parking lot. I know the feeling of trying to explain.

One more try. Legs and leverage. Eventually, Moto stands proud.

I’m exhausted. I look for Zumo. Sometime during the struggle, I guess maybe I tossed him across the road to shut him up.

 Maybe its time to get off the bike and do a watercolor for a while.

Finally, California

Hyw 101 in the fog

Along Hwy 1

Along Avenue of the Giants

Changing Trees types

Eucalyptus grove-smells great!

Feeling good after muting GPS

Nearing tsunami zone

Check out the wheels-3000 miles across the US; peddling down Hwy 1

Above is friend Bo Zoeller  from the Netherlands. He travels by this unusual bicycle. He is also traveling the Coastal Highway.

BEAUTY AND THE BEASTIES
Astoria is the first town south of  Cape Dissappointment along Highway 101. It’s in Oregon. Astoria is a beautiful town laid out on a mountainside overlooking the Mouth of the Columbia and Pacific. You may remember Governor Arnold’s  movie; “Kindergarten Cop”? Many of the scenes were filmed in Astoria.

Astoria was also hometown of a friend and neighbor of ours, when we lived in Atlanta, Peggy Oaks. Peggy was a beauty. Peggy was a modern woman. (Remember the song Woman: W-O-M-A-N?)  That’s Peggy; attractive, capable, home remodeler and home maker, nurse, Vietnam vet.

The last time Sondra and I saw Peggy was at an AIA Convention in San Francisco; in the mid nineties. We were taking a taxi together, deep in conversation when the Driver, looking back in the mirror to Peggy, interrupts with “That’s Giorgio you have on isn’t it? All the high class hookers are wearing it”.

Wham!

Peggy once told me the Oregon coast is fog, rain, and trees. Believe it.

I traveled south on the Pacific Coast Highway; Hwy 1 when possible. At times I had to route slightly inland to Hwy 101. Highway 1 has the historic views. But it was originally a logging road. Tsunamis and erosion has interrupted the continuity of the road. To travel south requires accessing both routes at times.

The Pacific coast features alternating mountains plunging into the sea, beaches, parks, and small towns in the low areas between the mountains. When the fog breaks, it is truly beautiful and mysterious. The mountains hold evergreen rain forests. ((Oregon is still the heart of the logging industry.)(If you don’t think they’re still taking trees, look at the photos of deforested areas.))

The mountain highway is characterized by switchbacks in the mountain coulees, sheer cliffs at the ocean edge. To see the grand vistas, you must pull off the road. There is little or no shoulder. It’s still a logging road. Trucks are as frequent as other cars.

The bikers challenge is to assemble moments of intense concentration with glimpses of astonishing beauty; stringing them together into enjoyable moments. I’ll set the stage:

Certainly there is the fog; especially in the highlands. There’s rain. Hey, it rain forests. There’s the twisties , at times, more single lane that double. There are the logging trucks. There are groves in the pavement worn by the trucks. There are the trenches filled with asphalt patch creating 30” wide paved strips on each worn trench. (The patches stand, at times, an inch above the pavement). The patch strips form a trench between the strips. The effect of trenches is to throw the front tire, and bike, from side to side.

The weight of the trucks put a tremendous load on the shoulder of the road along the cliffs. Engineers call this a surcharge load. Combine with the natural actions of erosion, the road and shoulders occasionally fall away. Maintenance crews are quick to patch the crevices. They are extremely hazardous. Patches are done quickly and often.  The consequent is a rough and slick oily road condition. There are not always guardrails at the edge of the cliffs. There are signs to caution motorcyclists to proceed with caution. Thanks. I call the twisties in the mountain areas “beasties”. The experience is beauty and the beasties.

The scene I’ve presented isn’t totally true. Out of the mountains are the towns, the people, the beaches with their own grand beauty (when you can see) and, at times, glimpses of the sea life; sea lions, seals, whales, turtles, and such. You can hear them a lot more often than you can see them. The public accessible parks are located in the lowlands. Most hotels are located in the lowlands. There is a downside to this Shangri-La’s. They are in tsunami zones.

Along hwy 1-Highway in the sky

Along the beach

could hear seals or sea lions

Dunes beyond

Shoreline beauty

Experiencing the moments

View from the cockpit

Shoreline color

Pacific near Seaside OR

on the edge

oregon coastline

Along hwy 1-fog in the highlands

South penninsula at mouth of Columbia

 CORPS OF DISCOVERY-CAPE DISSAPPOINTMENT

The south bank of Columbia River is essentially the state line between Washington and Oregon.. Near the mouth of the river on the Oregon side is a small peninsula with lighthouse; Cape Disappointment.

 My erroneous assumption has  been that Cape Disappointment was named by Lewis or Clark to express some frustration over having failed to establish a water route from east to west. It was in fact named in 1788 by a ship’s Captain John Meares who gave it the title after he failed to find shelter in the bay during a storm.

Further,I have always thought that once Lewis and Clark managed their way into the Columbia River Basin, life got easier. Put canoes into the Columbia and let its powerful currents do the work. Arriving at the mouth of the Columbia, Lewis hoped to link up with British fur trading ships, whose captains would welcome the great adventurers and carry some, and their collected bounty back to the east coast by ship.

Visiting the Lewis and Clark Interpretive Center was my last stop on a series of visits to the Lewis and Clark Route that began (for me) several years ago in Hannibal, Mo. I’ve visited several historic points heading up river including St. Genevieve, Saint Louis Arch Museum, Kansas City, Cedar Rapids, Ia., and Sioux City, Ia., and, Sioux City, South Dakota. I regret missing the South Dakota experience as the Yellowstone, another great River, intersects the Missouri there. I picked up the Missouri River trek in Great Falls, Montana, on this tour, and have passed on and off the trail to the Pacific.

Once on the Columbia life improved for the boys. However, it was a rag tag corps of 32 souls that launched hollowed log canoes; first into the Clearwater, then the Snake, and finally the Columbia River, before rapid passage availed itself.

They left the Missouri Breaks in mid June, 1805. By August they found themselves slogging up the Jefferson, exhausting themselves  dragging the canoes over shoals. (A great disappointment was the iron frame boat they had carried from its foundry in Harpers Ferry, Va.; designed especially for this shallow stream portage; when finally wrapped in hides and stitches caulked with tallow it had been launched and had failed.) They did find the Shoshone, had acquired the horses, and set out to conquer the mountains.

They met heavy September snows.

The corps had again exhausted itself and its supplies crossing the Bitterroots, the Rockies, and the Cascades. (These mountain ranges  frame the Columbia basin). Although they had followed a well known Indian trace, early snow and storms obliterated the trails. They had worn, or traded the shirts off their backs to tribes as they progressed on foot. When they came out of the Cascades, they were starving and exhausted.

They found a Nez Perce village at Weippe Paririe, a summer camp ground. This very likely saved the expedition. They traded for and ate dogs, deer; salmon, dried roots, and berries.

On Nov. 11, 1805 the corps arrived at the five mile wide mouth of the Columbia. They arrived at the height of a storm that lasted for days. With winter approaching, they allowed themselves ten days to survey, explore, gather samples, and find signs of trade, or ships. They found no ships. Returning home required passage over the trek they had so painfully achieved. Until the return, they had to set up and survive winter quartering at the cape. The Interpretative Center outlines the time spent at Cape Disappointment.

  They had achieved much of their mission. They had failed on two goals: the overland route by water, and fence-mending with the Sioux.

This expedition was the great catalyst for Jefferson’s vision of expansion committed through the Louisiana Purchase.

1805-1905-2005; Our Nation is so young.

Cape shrouded in Mystery;As Lewisand Clark must have seen it.

Tidal area

View from the Highway

Old Fort behind Interpertive Center

This is a view of the Olympic National Forest where Moto claims to have seen a PAtroll.

THROUGH THE OLYMPIC MOUNTAINS

Remember trolls? You know, the Grimm Tales? Three Billy Goats Gruff type trolls? Like the ogres that hide under the bridge then jump out and demand ransom before allowing passage?  Well, Moto insists he saw one as we turned south on Hwy 101. In fact, he insists he took a photo of one as we cruised along. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I left the Fosters, returning down that beautiful Chuckanut Drive, merging with Hwy 11, passing oyster beds and marshlands on an inland route looking across the bay toward the Anacortes Islands. I then caught Hwy 20, crossing through Deception Pass headed for the Ferry to Port Townsend. The landing is near Fort Casey on Oak Harbor Island.

 I stopped by the National Park on Rosario Beach. I’ve included a couple of pictures, one is of the terrific wood sculpture there. This sculpture in memory of development of the bay. There is an old Indian story with every historic plaque. Another sign says the bay was “over loved” by the traffic of visitors wanting to experience its views. The consequence was the permanent loss of the starfish for which the area is known.

Crossing the Bay was an adventure in itself. It took nearly a day. Passage takes about thirty minutes. Getting on the Ferry that runs every ninety minutes was the hold up. It goes like this: Arriving at the landing I am confronted with an, oh, maybe two mile queue of cars waiting to load.( I’ve been seeing all these signs that say call ahead for a ticket.) Hello. No way. I look for a land route. The Olympics are on a peninsula; right? I follow Hwy 20 on. Twenty leads me on a fifteen mile loop. I end up back where I started.

I wise up. Stop at the local tourist information office. Maybe they can call ahead for me a ticket.(Nice elder lady. Volunteers on Sundays.) Yep, it could be tomorrow before you get on. The excessive traffic is people returning to Port Townsend from the mainland after church. Could go to Edmonds, 32 miles on south. That ferry is less busy.

 I go back to the landing.

Amazing. Coming from the opposite direction I’m through the ticketing queue and second motorcycle in line for the next ferry. I talk to a couple of other bikers who come up behind me. They are headed for Prot Townsend for a day’s outing. The man, from Great Britain, works at Boeing. In computer programming. The woman is an engineer at Boeing. We stay together on the crossing and have a good travel chat.

Moto is testy along the way. Wakes make him fear falling over. Im concerned about it too, as he rocks back and forth on the kick-stand. Even worse, he’s paranoid about piracy. Reminds me of the pirates boarding ships off Somalia. Senses piracy. He thinks crewmen may be a party to a raid. Said he saw a sign when boarding. The sign said “take everything. Including their combs” or something like that.

 I go back to my new found friends.

We make the crossing uneventful. (The captain did have to do a five blast warning, and then cuss a small boat pilot, over a loud speaker.) Moto’s senses turn out to be good. Just wrong place, wrong time.

I leave Port Townsend on Highway 101. (This is a milestone as I will either be on 101 or Highway one, for the next 1500 miles:  Highway One is the Pacific Coast Highway. A tsunami wiped part of it out in the 80’s. Hwy 101 was built more inland. I move in and out along the coast as the reconstruction permits.) (This represents the second leg of my Great Adventure: Traveling the Pacific coast from Canada to Mexico.)

 I spend the night in Port Angeles and enter the Olympic Mountain Range the following day. Near the settlement of Forks, I turn south. It is significant because this is where I am at my furthest point west. (Bellingham was my furthest point North).I have a king sized breakfast there and celebrate the milestone with the locals.

The Olympics are forested mountains. I cruise through tree covered mountains then break out into great vistas of the Sound, then the Pacific. While there are twistys to negotiate, they tend not to be so sharp and vertical. That’s good because it allows more time for enjoying the scenery. Except, the scenery is lost in the fog and rainforests of the northland. Did you ever see the movie “The Thirteenth Warrior”?  From the Michael Creighton book “Eaters of the Dead”. Or Stephen King’s “The fog”? Both movies are located in the fog. So was I.

 I was noting the condition of the deforested area after the trees are removed. I expected there would be some level of clearing and grubbing after the removal of the trees. It looked like a junkyard for celluloid parts.

Suddenly, out of the fog, he was there. I had no choice but to heed the finger that pointed me to pull over to the shoulder. Moto’s senses had been right. Highway piracy. A PA  (Public Appointed) troll.  “Highway Patrol” for short. Those trolls hide in remote, concealed locations, they seize the unsuspecting motorist. Demand ransom.  In my view,It’s a way of gathering additional revenue for the state. Arkansas wrote the book on it.

Here is the scene. Twisties for the last hour. 25 mph curve. 45 mph curve. 30 mph curve. 60 mph straight of way. Curves, straights, some straights 60 mph, some 55. There has been 15 minutes of continuous curves, I come to a straight, and the last speed limit I remember was 60, I’m accelerating up to 68. The only opportunity to speed up for miles. Most people would. That’s where the trolls come in. Human nature is the weakness. Profit for the state is the consequent. (There is literally no one else on the highway for miles. I go 30-40 minutes without seeing a car. This is not a safety risk).

He U turns and comes up from behind. I have to pull over on a steep incline. Too steep to get a kickstand down;  on a gravel shoulder. I have to hold motto up with leg strength. The PAtroll. Comes up and begins to say something about thirteen miles an hour over the speed limit; I have a serious infraction that my license plate is partially covered by the plate cover….I can barely make out what is being said. The radar is finally going off, I have ear plugs on to block out road noise. I signal “cant hear. Take off my helmet. The PAtroll steps back in shock. Grey hair was not what he expected.

He’s changed position and attitude. Safety is now the primary issue. A 40% increase in motorcycle accidents, many older men reintroducing themselves to cycling…. Bottom line: citation for infraction, 10 mph over speed limit; ( a gust of  wind at you back on the highway can push you  ten miles an hour over the speed limit before you can decelerate); judge will decide whether points accessed based on driving record.

Thank you officer. Have a nice day.

 Welcome to Washington Temporary Road Operators Largess Licensing system. Troll system for short. Arkansas is much worse.

Waiting for the Port Townsend Ferry

Ready to get onboard

Moto misreads a sign

Moto watches the suspicious vessel beyond

Leaving the port for the mountains

Straits into twisties

Rossarrio Bay

Wood sculpture at Rossarrio Park

Olympic Range in sight

Breaking out of the forest

Limited visibility of Puget Sound

More fog and rain

Diet failing

Turning south at the most westerrn point on the tour

Celluloid junkyard

Washington beauty

End of Document

Meet the Fosters

 

And then, theres Chuck

About friendship:

I once told Sondra the trouble with having friends is that you have to talk to them.

That pattern of behavior drives Sondra crazy. My base nature, when it comes to love ones, appears to be “Out of sight, out of mind”. I didn’t choose this. Sondra thinks is part of an introverted personality. It’s who I am. It allows me to take adventures away from home and love ones.

I have lifelong friends, like my friend Vickers. I last saw him, what, five years ago? He called at Christmas a few years ago. After our conversation, Sondra asked why I didn’t communicate with him more often. I responded that he knew if I needed him, I would call, and if he needed me, he would call me. I guess I see one of my roles in relationships as being there for the other, when needed. That seems to be my role position with family and friends. We communicate to monitor whether everything is OK.

We also communicate to share experience. We learn or gain motivation or encouragement in sharing. Like, my son-in-law Alex works to enlighten me on the virtues of thinking like a democrat. If Alex had known my Grandma Hagerman, he would see the futility. Somewhere in the dialog, love gets exchanged.

It’s hard for introverts to communicate and express love. My dad’s method was to express love by doing things for others. That seems my inclination also. But, there are times when asking your friend to leave a message on the cell so you can hear their voice just isn’t enough.

I’ve had my friend Chuck Foster on my mind for some time. It had been several years since I had talked with him. We worked together at our old firm PPH. Chuck was a partner there as well as a friend. We had worked together as team members on many projects; our families had celebrated good times, and cried during the bad times together. And there were bad times. It’s nice to have friends you not only love but respect. It was past time for me to see an old friend.

The Fosters live in Bellingham, Washington. Looking across the bay from their home you can see Limmi Island, a part of the San Juan Island group. There is also whale, submarines, gulls, eagles, and other ocean creatures and features.

When I arrived, Ginger, Shane (The younger), and Shaun, were the welcoming committee. Chuck was biking, hiking, climbing, and skiing Mount Baker. Ginger showed me the house and grounds, helped me with my laundry, oriented me to Skagit County, and shared what had been happening the last few years. Interestingly, she remains well informed about and has strong ties into Springfield activities.

 Shaun took off for an overnight lock -in at church. Shawn is a high school sophomore. The following night Shane (fifth grade) left us to go fish with friend. These boys are delightful, intelligent, and well grounded.

I wanted to understand what would pull this special family away from the Ozarks to relocate to one of the most distant locations one could travel from there and still be in the U.S.  Certainly quality of life is one. Access to a mature, upscale, downtown community that has already done the “New Urbanism” identity is an asset. The home with a grand view of the ocean is another. Diversity of commerce is stimulating and creates a series of unique environments; Presence of dot.com industries, naval, submarine, and coast guard operation centers, the piers, the wharfs, the marinas. Plants and foliage grow and thrive at a much more massive and lush scale that the Midwest. As an importing site, the fresh fruit and vegetables from the Washington interior finds its way there and is readily accessible.(I politely deferred the fresh fruit binge the second time).  Climate is moderate. The mountain and their related outdoor activities: skiing, hiking, canoeing, kayaking; all are less than an hour away. The activity level of the community and the great place to raise the boys is great for an active outdoor oriented family. Friends like Troy Beck, relocated at about the same time the Fosters did, and are nearby.

But I think the fundamental attraction is that Chuck finds challenges appropriate to his capabilities in living there. Chuck is a man of many dimensions. An architect, accomplished mountain climber, an outdoors man that continues (As does Ginger) to compete as a tri-athlete. He manages an emergency mountain response rescue service for Skagit County. Chuck is certified as an EMT and practices in that role as an integral part of mountain rescue. He has access to County and Coast  Guard emergency helicopter facilities and is often dropped into a rescue site.

 He works as mountain rescue and ski patrol at a local ski resort during the winter. The work is hazardous and difficult, requiring expert ski, medical, communications, and transport capabilities.It requires endurance and skill.  I’ve seen his type in firemen.

Both Chuck and Ginger have in-depth knowledge of the bible. They study the bible and other sources of religious thought. They teach it. They live it. Chuck has participated in archaeological digs on several occasions in Israel. He is working on his masters in archeology by internet.

So, what did I do while there? Talked shop with Chuck. A lot. We visited the ski resort where he works, saw the mountains, and reviewed the environments he works, plays, and , when necessary, takes calculated risks to help others.

Certainly, the highlight of the visit was to hear Shaun play the piano. He has a terrific repertoire and plays beautifully. After playing several pieces by request, Shaun played a medley that concluded in some pieces he had composed. One piece he composed was very special. Ginger had written lyrics as accompaniment “Why did you leave?”  Ginger and I read it aloud while Shaun played. Yes, it’s in memory of little man, Connor.

I still cry without tears.

View near the Foster home

Chuck's Office

Canada beyond

Lunch with the crowd

Why I get vertigo-no shoulder

Falls along the way down the mountain

Sean plays

Proud mom

Proud dad

The road was closed with snow two weeks prior

THE CASCADES

I left the Methow region after an indulgent breakfast of the valleys finest: peaches, grapes, almonds, and if course an apple. I took Hwy 153 to Twisp, where I picked up my primary track through the Cascades National Park.  Highway 20 runs roughly parallel to and 20-30 miles south of the Canadian Boarder. The route is closed in winter and, as you see by the photos, only recently opened. It’s still cold on the passes at 6,000 ft.+-

As I read the MOTORCYCLE TOURING advice articles on the web, preparing for the tour, some things stuck, others didn’t. One thing the writers observe is that some riders tend to be there for the views and vistas, others for the ride. While my goal was on the Lewis and Clark experience, the switchbacks and precipice based curves demanded the focus stay on the yellow line ahead.

Another advice topic is appropriate apparel. I carry two sets:  a textile BMW name brand, (I’ll wear when I cruise down Chuckanut Drive and pull up to the Foster Residence), and my real jacket; a mesh Joe Rocket jacket and First Gear pants. With a middle weight insulated shirt for the cold, this seems to suit me best. For really cold or the rain, I add a reinforced rain jacket.

It’s strange, I don’t get vertigo while flying or skiing. Standing at the edge is the challenge. Riding along the edge, less so.  I manage the fear by redirecting my concentration into technical areas. In the curves, (bikers refer to curves as “twisties”). I concentrate on things like road angle where I lose sight of the curve, road condition and texture; animals along the highway. Basically, my focus is on the yellow line ahead. I listen to Moto working; I try to keep a uniform pattern of gentle acceleration, deceleration, gearing, and limited breaking. It’s a rhythm issue like dancing; one, two, three clutch, one, decelerate, two hold, three hold (or break slightly). Into the curve;  gently accelerate, one, two, three, shift weight to opposite grip, start the pattern again. In this case it’s a waltz.( A unique condition of the Hwy 20 corridor is that the turns are so uniform and predictable you can find a pattern).

If this is well done, the engine just sounds right. The feeling is like skiing, you regulate adrenalin according to your risk tolerance. (Don’t worry, those that ski with me can assure you I have a very low risk tolerance; blues over blacks).  (Biking is also like boating,  I have safety standards I don’t exceed.). (I’m telling this story to try to explain how you can negotiate a mountain range and not remember much about what you just went through.) This qualifies as touring for the ride.

None of the articles I read cautioned me about eating fresh fruit before starting on a day’s outing on the remote Highway. Thank heaven and the state for small favors’ like the Rest Area. Ross Lake has one. As an architect, I can’t help inspecting a man made facility, given the opportunity.

Facility approved. ‘Elvis just left the building” .( Smith-Fourth of July), A young man, about Bo’s age, comes up to me. “ Man, I’ve been following you for an hour through those curves, that’s gotta be fun”. We chat.

 I’m thinking, If he’s been through what I’ve been through, at the same pace, his head has been on the yellow line too. I offer him my spare pack of handy wipes and I’m on my way.

Falls near rest area

Typical waters of the Cascades

Time to add the Northface Midweight

From the valley adjacent the river

A land enriched by the Columbia Basin Project-growing fruit bigtime(Its hard to turn away from a fruitstand

Following the river

Wine is big in Washington too

Headed toward Bellingham

This is how I avoid getting lost

Night at the Lodge -Methow Valley

End of the Cascades-on to the Fosters