South to NorCal

The sun woke me up before my alarm. It tends to do that. After a long shower and potty break I ate a small bowl of generic brand cereal O's and then woke minitruck 2 from her subterreanean slumber. (She is parked in the lowest garage now because the Road runner and the chopper have claimed the upper garages. Sure it hurts her feelings, but she hides it well.) Together we ran south down 97 through the deschutes national forest. A short distance outside of bend this brings you past cinder cone volcano territory and lava flow. The largest town on this route for a good distance is La Pine, which boasts a hefty population cerca 1500 people. The road reminds me of the old rt.66 in the south, with small towns existing only by the grace of the roadway. They have changed little in decades, creating small time-capsules in the vast tract of forest. Past La Pine and Sunriver and hilarious little nooks and crannies like Gilchrist, Crescent and Chemult. Oregon roadways are unceasingly frustrating because they are well made, usually straight, and often empty yet the speed limit never exceeds 55 mph and police lurk everywhere to make sure nobody would dare travel like they have somewhere to be and want to be there relatively soon. 97 is one of the worst, since it is often 4 lanes, and when it isn't the center lane is rarely solid yet everyone still drives 50 and seems happy about it.



Therefore it was a much needed breathe of fresh air to turn off onto 138, which is arrow straight for about 20 milespassing through the mountains next to crater lake and winema national forest. There was nobody else on the road except me and towering walls of snow on each side meant that no police were hiding waiting to ensnare me as I sped. The roadway itself was clear, thanks to week of inordinantly warm and clear weather central Oregon has been enjoying, but on each side it was deep and dense. Instead of the lumpy humped piling caused by snowplows that I am accustomed to the snow was cleanly cut, as if by an enormous DOT wielded samuri sword, showing the true depth so be significantly higher than the roof of my truck. It was not until I turned off of 138 onto 230 that I saw the monster responsible for such a clean cut. Imagine homedepot variety suburban snow blower America. Now imagine it in prison working out in the yard for 10 years hocked up on steroids that have been muled in by conjugal visitors hiding syringes up their bum holes. That is what I saw. Ten feet tall and farting fire it ate into the snow bank like a jersey girl eats coke clearing the worst of natures fury swiftly and easily.



Past this snowgobbler and through the other side of the pass I entered old growth forest reminiscent of the majestic redwoods in Cali or the great Fangorn in middle earth. The venerable pines were thick and proud towering hundreds of feet into the air. The air was still and calm, resonating with the peace that can only be found when alone in the oldest forests in the middle of winter. My route took me into the Rogue river valley, and then to the river itself which was deep and swift with snowmelt. It was a mesmerizing teal color I've never seen before. All along the river the road was hilly and curvy and made me wish it was summer, I was on a motorcycle, and that plow trucks weren't dropping golf ball sized volcanic gravel for no apparent reason other than to bombard innocent passerby's windshields. The sleepy towns like Shady Cove I passed through made me smile, until a dreary fog took over and followed me all the way to Medford. I think the fog might have been apologetic in nature, as it allowed me to see the vast beauty of the mountains, rivers, and forests and then covered the "human improved" areas with their wal-mart super centers and drive through fast food restaurants. In a red lobster parking lot I met Rob and Scotty and received 3 coolers full of elk, moose and fish. Deliciousssss.

My drive home took 3 hours. It takes oregonians 5. I win.