Leavenworth - Day One

The original idea was to take a three-day camping trip up to the Cascades of North-Central Washington, after mountain-biking on the Fourth. But a summer cold forced me to skip mountain-biking and, Friday, I still didn't feel much like riding.

I slept late on Saturday and, when I finally did rise out of bed, I stumbled around the house and made uncertain motions towards actually packing and planning a route. Being ill, for me, tends to be accompanied with a bout of hearty self-criticism and life-reckoning. The feeling of weakness underlines the notion of my mortality, of the temporal nature of things. I lay in sweat-soaked sheets, regretting all the time I've wasted and too weak to attempt to make up for it.

Anyway. I felt reasonably sound, if altogether unprepared for an overnight trip. In the event, it seemed that actually going was better than not going and so I decided to just pack my tank bag and figure out a lodging situation when I got to wherever I was going. The original destination that I had had mind was Leavenworth, a faux-Bavarian village nestled in the Washington North Cascades. I was only mildly curious about the town itself but its location promised some bracing mountain-pass riding.

In the tank bag went a fleece jacket, a camera, a change of socks and underwear, toiletries, and a three-liter Camelbak. My first stop was not a half-mile from my house, for a sausage-and-eggs breakfast.

Thus fortified, I zipped over the I-205 bridge and got off to follow WA-14 up the Columbia Gorge. A layer of cloud refused to burn off, though it was nearly noon, and it was pleasantly warm. This is a popular road with motorcyclists and there were plenty out. I've turned the Motorcycle Wave into my own personal Rock-Paper-Scissors game. I usually throw rock and I usually win.

Last September, soon after obtaining the bike and before I had done any work to it, I took a ride along Windy Ridge Road and up to St. Helens with a couple of co-workers. I was retracing the beginning of that route so it was somewhat familiar. Windy Ridge Road is popular with motorcyclists for good reason. The sweeping curves along the Wind River give way to tight twists as the road reaches the flanks of Mount St. Helens. It's a National Forest Service road at this point and, past the Helens turnoff, it is not maintained as a state road would be. The dips and gouges in the road tend to be hard to spot from a distance and my suspension was put through its paces. The front forks would compress with a audible squish and my hands tingled and I had to keep telling myself to keep a loose grip.

Sno-Creek snowpark

 I reached the town of Randle and I walked over to the bridge and took a picture and then I kept riding.

Don't we all.

White Pass goes through the Goat Rock Wilderness, an area I've been meaning to explore for some time. I got a small taste of it on this ride and I liked what I saw. The views were spectacular but I was loath to pull over at the busy viewpoints and, when moving, I was mostly concentrated on the road.

Rainer as seen from White Pass.

Descending from White Pass, the landscape makes an abrupt switch from forested mountain-pass to arid high-desert. And, suddenly, the heat was beating down on me and traffic had increased substantially and the ride became much less fun.

As I approached the city of Yakima, the road became a highway proper and the heat only seemed to increase. I fueled-up in Yakima, just short of the exit that I needed to take. Getting back on the freeway, I was swept along with fast-moving traffic, unable to switch lanes quickly enough and I failed to get back on northbound 97. Instead, I was routed into the town of Selah. From there, I figured I would just wing-it, while traveling approximately to the Northeast. I was bound to find the freeway at some point. My country roads ended up heading towards the Northwest, following a valley. Eventually, I crossed the river at the bottom of the valley and ended up doubling-back towards Selah. Later, looking at the map, I saw that I could have made it through, if I had continued. It was pleasant enough detour but my anxiety about heading in the wrong direction had kept me from enjoying it much. The landscape reminded me of Central Oregon, where I grew up. Lushly irrigated fields surrounded by arid desert. River canyons carving through an otherwise flat landscape. 

Yakima Canyon, looking south.

Back through Selah, I happily found 821 which I had earlier identified on the map as a road of tantalizing curves that parallels 97 northward. This turned out to be a road that wound up Yakima Canyon, with the river below and a railway on the other side of the river. There was a state park every few miles and plenty of people had come out to the river to beat the heat. The speed limit was 45 MPH, which seemed to me excessively strict. Anyway, it didn't seemed that people heeded it, much.

821 terminated back onto 97 and it was a few miles of Freeway Hell as 97 overlapped Interstate 90, a multi-lane, high-speed route to Seattle, before 97 turned off again northbound and I happily carved up another mountain-pass. The bike seemed to be running hot and I tried to determine whether the engine had developed a new noise or if I was just imagining it. On the descent, I used the engine to brake but otherwise pulled in the clutch and let it idle as I coasted down the pass, hoping to cool it.

I reached Leavenworth and found a hotel that was close to the downtown but didn't look too lavish. Unpresuming as the hotel was, it still ran to nearly $100, with tax. I wondered if I shouldn't have pulled off at one of the rundown motels on the way into Leavenworth. But I was tired and happy to be done with the day.

Pulling the bike over to my room, I saw the yellow oil light flicker on. I wasn't sure at first, with the turn-signal indicator also blinking but then I saw it again and I quickly shut the engine off. I put the bike on the centerstand and went to pull the dipstick, dreading and half-knowing what I would find. I had read that the oil idiot-light only comes on at fairly low oil pressures, say at a few pounds or so, when the normal operating pressure is north of 20 PSI. Sure enough, the pan was more or less empty of oil.

I had meant to check it, before I left. I had forgotten and, remembering along the way that I hadn't checked it, I shrugged it off, because it had recently been between the fill lines and I hadn't been riding much. I knew that, despite no more external leaks, the bike still burnt oil. But I failed to check it before I left and I had maybe destroyed me engine. After doing exceptional maintenance on the bike, I had failed to perform the simplest maintenance. Self-recriminations bounced through my head but, at 9 P.M., there didn't seem to be much for it. I took a shower and went out to find a drink. I would leave figuring out where to find motorcycle oil on a Sunday in a tourist town for the morning.