Montana Ride 2006, Day 7 - Bad Medicine to Haag Cove to Home
One of the things I discovered on the trip (well, "discovered") is that if you can spare the water and fuel, deft application of a hot washcloth to face, neck and arms feels really good. I was away from anything resembling a shower for 4 days, so anything to cut the grimy feeling was very civilizing. So I'd just heat up some extra water when preparing my cocoa in the morning. Very nice.
Farewell, Excellent CampgroundI was rolling out by 9:28, silently bidding farewell to Bad Medicine campground. I even briefly thought about staying there another night, but the prospect of facing a 500 mile day to get home was pretty daunting. I had noted when I rolled out that my trip odometer was at 162 miles, and I'd need gas soon. Of course, what I hadn't thought about was that I hadn't spied any gas along 56, nor did I recall any being close on 200. Of course, that was my route. Fortunately, 45 minutes later, in Clark Fork, I found gas. It was even a good price -- 3.090 dollars per gallon. Check out that trailing digit. The sign said 3.09 9/10 just like every gas sign does, but someone had dropped the final digit in the computer or something. Oops! I saved almost 3 cents from that mistake! Sucks to be you, Clark Fork gas station!
As I rolled through Washington, I found that both my butt and my belly were grumbling at me. Definitely time for a lunch stop. The GPS had routed me through Deer Park, which looked like an ideal stopping point. It Must Be Lunch TimeI passed through town, with my eye peeled for a "Cafe" sign, but I never found one. I just wanted a simple little eatery where I could get a sandwich or something. I got all the way through town, and had a little crisis moment, wondering if I should just press on, or stop. Fortunately, common sense won out, and I turned around to go through town again. I noticed a restaurant on the left, but it didn't look like what I wanted. I turned up a different street to see if I could find anything, but if there were cafes in Deer Park, they were carefully concealed. Finally I spied someone coming out of the post office, and pulled over to ask for some local knowledge.
Aside from the name, Shagnasty's turned out to be a cross between a hard-core greasy spoon and Denny's. It appeared that half the building was dedicated to serving alcohol, with the other half set up as a restaurant. The menu told the story of Shagnasty's, which I only just now read (I wish I'd read the whole thing when I was there; I would have taken a picture of the tortoise shell). I ordered a grilled cheese and clam chowder, which arrived quickly, since I was the only person in the place. Of course I'd forgotten that when you pass out of Montana, you also pass out of Mountain time. I thought I'd arrived at 12:30 pm, but I'd actually arrived at 11:30.
An hour later, I'd arrived at Chewelah, WA, and decided to stop to pick up dinner food for the campsite. The GPS said I was less than an hour away from Haag Cove. I grabbed some hummous and pita bread, an apple, and some juice. No cooking involved, and it would be quite tasty.
The Dissappointment of Haag CoveI found the turnoff road, and was at Haag Cove 10 minutes later. I rode through the camping loop, and discovered that there was one site left. There was even less privacy than I'd had at Big Creek, since the sites were spaced fairly close together, and there was no underbrush at all. The wind, despite blowing off the water, was hot and dry. Grasshoppers scattered as I pulled into the remaining site's parking spot and shut off the bike. I didn't even dismount, just sitting there, glancing at what passed for a camping site.
I turned back onto the access road just as a group of BMW motorcycles passed by. I briefly tried to keep up with them, but they were evidently on a high-speed tour, which suited neither my motorcycle nor my mood. I probably could have done it, in the sense that it was technically within the capability of myself and my bike, but I would have been miserable. Ah well, they can have their fun, this had always been a solo trip. And now, to
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D'oh!
On the way down the hill into Tonkaset, I made my one and only serious mistake of the trip. I really wanted to pull off to the side of the road and take a few pictures. It took me almost half a mile to find a suitable-looking spot, so I grabbed it when I found it. I thought to myself as I was slowing down and pulling off, "hmm, that gravel looks kind of deep." Sure enough, as soon as I hit it, the bike slewed hard to the left, and I found myself standing over the bike on its side. Damn!
I picked it up on the second attempt, once I took a moment to throw down my gloves unhappily and grab the bike properly. Someone had stopped, and made sure I was ok. I assured him that I was, and thanked him for stopping.
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I finally figured out that because of the way I'd strapped the bags on the back, they could rotate off to either side. It wasn't a big deal while I was riding, because a motorcycle is never subject to side-loads -- any loading from going over bumps or around corners is always straight up-and-down. When the front wheel had plowed into the deep gravel, the bike had gotten a quick loading to the left before hitting the ground, and the bags had swivelled over, where they'd provided a cushion on which the bike rested once it was over. Well, that was lucky!
After the requisite cursing at my stupidity for plowing the bike into deep gravel, I snapped my picture and got back on. Getting out of the gravel was a wobbly, squidgy affair, but I did it without tossing the bike over again, so I was happy. I paused on a (paved) shoulder a few miles later, and confirmed that the worst damage the bike had received was very very light scratches in the paint. Amazing.
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I kept up my 55 mph pace, hugging the white line at the outside of the lane to let people pass. Despite only having a 60 mph speed limit, people were driving 97 like it was a Montana interstate. Some had clearly forgotten (or never knew) how to pass on a 2-lane highway, and I found myself signaling right and pulling onto the shoulder just to give them a big enough hint that it was ok to pass me. I suspect a lot of people were thrown by seeing a "sportbike" riding slowly.
97 continued on and on. I found myself getting a bit punchy, and ranting in a heavy German accent inside my helmet. I was ranting at other drivers, ranting at myself, ranting at the GPS, whatever presented itself. It was enjoyable in a way, and provided a bit of relief from the boredom of 97.
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A Little Pause
When I hit Omak, I decided I could do with a bathroom break. I located a likely looking gas station and pulled into one of their parking spots. Oh, it felt good to get off the bike and walk around a little bit.
I ended up chatting with a fellow who was riding a BMW R1200GS Adventure, which is a horrendously expensive but very nice motorcycle. He had ridden the bike "just to get it off the list" while searching for his next bike. He was pretty sure he'd get a V-Strom (Suzuki's version of the same thing, sort of), but it only made sense to check in with the BMW, just in case. He rode it, and got back to the dealership and said, "I have a problem; I need to buy this bike now." This is why I don't go test-riding $18,000 motorcycles.
He said he had 125 miles to go to get to somewhere I'd never heard of before in Canada. I envied him his close destination -- I still had 250 miles to go, and it was already 4:30 in the afternoon. I bade him fare well and safe riding, and we parted ways, headed in opposite directions. He was probably worse-off than me, though. He'd woken up at 3 am that day, in California, and had already made a two hour flight up and was riding from Yakima.
I also took a moment to check my phone, and return some text messages and a phone call. My Mom had called while I was in Bad Medicine, where there was no cell service for many miles. We had a pleasant conversation, and I signed off citing the need to get back on the road.
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The Leavenworth Option
I stopped in Leavenworth around 7:30, to rest for a bit and eat my hummous and apple (not at the same time, though). Leavenworth really is beautiful, until you let your gaze drift down to sidewalk level, at which point you're assaulted by the sheer American-ness of the crowd. Mullets and muscle shirts simply don't belong in a high-Alpine Bavarian village, yet there they were. Not even by defocusing my eyes and pretending all the babbling voices were speaking German could I forget that I was in the bastion of all me-first countries.
So, half an hour later, I was back on the bike after a brief fruitless search for some Bavarian chocolate. Onwards, ever onwards, into the Wenatchee National Forest at dusk. It felt like a bad idea: I was headed straight into deer country at twilight, which I'd determined at the start of the trip to avoid if at all possible.
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Riding Through the Woods, in the Dark
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Highway 2 is amazingly dark at night. The Ninja's high beam was good enough to keep me comfortable, but I could only use it when there were no cars coming in the other direction. Highway two is a well-travelled road, so I wasn't using my high beams all that often, leaving me to rely on low speed to feel safe.
Finally, I was riding familiar freeways, down 405 to 520, up I-5, and I was turning off at my exit. I filled up the tank at the station by the freeway, and trundled the final mile and a half to home.
I parked the bike, and tried somewhat successfully to get a couple of "I made it!" photos after I'd peeled off the riding suit. After that, it was a lengthy hot shower to get all the camping and riding grunge off. I fell gratefully into my own bed around midnight. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.
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Created by Ian Johnston. Questions? Please mail me at reaper at obairlann dot net.