Oregon – The ExhaustNotes Blog

Caught in the Snow

By Joe Berk

A few weeks ago I posted a blog about riding in the rain. With all the snow blanketing parts of the US this winter, I thought it fitting that I post a blog about getting caught in the snow. I’ve ridden in the snow four times and none of them were fun.

Crater Lake

On this ride, my buddy Marty and I were on our way home from Calgary to California after completing the 2005 Three Flags Classic rally. Marty was far more worldly than me and he knew all the good spots to stop. One was Crater Lake in Oregon. We rode in from the Oregon coast where the temperatures were cool but not unbearably so. We pointed our front wheels east and rode to Crater Lake. It was a brutally cold ride, and it grew even colder the further we climbed into the mountains.

We had an interesting encounter with a herd of elk on the way to Crater Lake. We had been seeing road signs warning of elk, but we hadn’t seen any until that day. A monstrous bull stepped out in front of my Triumph Daytona from the forest on the right side of the road. He stood broadside 50 yards in front of me, and he looked directly at me as if to say, “What’s your problem?” If he was attempting to intimidate me, it worked.

I stopped and Marty stopped on his BMW K1200RS behind me. My visor started to fog from my breath. It was just the three of us on that cold, cold morning: Me, Marty, and the Big Bull Elk. After what seemed like several minutes (during which I wondered how quickly I could execute a u-turn and accelerate away from those immense antlers), the elk turned his head and lazily sauntered across the road into the forest on the other side. Yeah, you’re bad, I thought.

I started to let out the clutch and moved forward a tiny bit when two more elk stepped out of the forest onto the highway. These were female elk following the alpha male who had successfully stared me down. So I pulled the clutch in again and waited. The ladies crossed the highway and I started to let the clutch out again. Then another lady elk appeared from the right. This went on for the next several minutes. Maybe as many as another 20 elk, all female, repeated the sequence, two or three at a time. I remember thinking the first one, that big bull, probably didn’t get much sleep with that harem to take care of. I wished I had grabbed a photo, but truth be told, I was too scared and shocked to react. I can still see it vividly in my mind, though.

The Daytona 1200 along Crater Lake in Oregon. A few miles earlier, we had a magical several minutes with a herd of elk.

After the elk episode, we continued our climb up to Crater Lake. The sun was getting higher, but we were climbing and instead of warming the temperatures continued to drop. There were bits of snow on both sides of the road, but the road was dry and we were doing okay. I used a Gerber electric vest in those days. It was a godsend.

Another view of Crater Lake. Note the snow in the foreground.

Crater Lake was interesting. I took a bunch of photos and checked that destination off my bucket list. Incidentally, on that trip I was still shooting with film. I had the N70 Nikon I blogged about earlier.

After taking in Crater Lake, Marty and I started our ride down off the mountain. The ride down was on the western side of the mountain, and the road was in the late morning shade. That section of the road had not warmed up. The snow was still there in two different forms…hard pack white snow in some places, and black ice where the snow had melted and frozen over. It was the first time I had ever ridden in such conditions on a big road bike, and I quickly realized my Daytona 1200 was way different than the Honda Super 90 I rode in the snow when I was a kid in New Jersey. Piloting that Triumph down off the mountain was an extremely demanding and mentally-draining 15-mph riding experience requiring intense concentration.

Fortunately, I remember thinking, Marty and I were the only two guys out there and I didn’t have to worry about anyone else on the road. Marty was in front and we both were taking things very easy. Then in my left peripheral vision I sensed a yellow vehicle starting to pass me. I was pissed and confused. Who the hell else is out here, I thought. Can’t they see I’m on a motorcycle, I’m on ice, and why the hell are they passing me?

Then I realized who it was. What I saw in my peripheral vision wasn’t another vehicle. It was my motorcycle in the rear view mirror. The big Triumph was sliding sideways. The yellow I had picked up peripherally was my rear tail light cowling. Damn, that was exciting! (And terrifying.)

Marty and I made it down off that mountain, but it was a religious experience for both of us.

The Sweetwater Rattlesnake Roundup

This was a ride coming h0me from the Annual Rattlesnake Roundup in Sweetwater, Texas (I wrote about the Roundup before and you can read that story here). We spent a half day at the Rattlesnake Roundup, another hour or so at the gun show in the hall next to the Rattlesnake Roundup, and then had a late afternoon departure headed home. The first portion of that ride was okay, but as the sun set the temperature dropped big time and the wind across Interstate 10 kicked up dramatically. We crossed into New Mexico and the wind was blowing so hard it felt like the bikes were leaned over 30 degrees just to keep going straight.

We pulled off the highway in Lordsburg, New Mexico, around 10:00 p.m. and stopped at the first hotel we saw. It was one of those small old Route 66 type motels (you know the type…a cheap single-story structure still advertising they had color TV). One of us (I can’t remember if it was Marty or me) decided we wanted to look for something nicer. We continued on into town and found a nicer hotel, but the desk clerk told us they had no rooms left. “With this wind, every trucker is off the run and in a hotel,” he said. The next town was 50 miles further down the road. I looked at Marty, he looked at me, and I made the case for doubling back to the Route 66 special.

We entered the lobby and two other people looking for a room followed us in. We were lucky. We nailed the last room in Lordsburg (which, I know, sounds like the title of a bad country western song). The folks behind us were out of luck. I have no idea what they did.

Most of the snow was gone after we returned from breakfast.

When we woke up the next morning, the bikes were covered in snow. There was no way we were going to ride in that, so we walked across the parking lot to a diner and had a leisurely breakfast. By 10:00 a.m. there was still snow on the ground, but the roads were slushy (not icy) and we could ride. When we were back on Interstate 10 the slush had disappeared and the road was dry. It was cold. I again enjoyed my Gerber vest. We made it back to southern California late that night. It was pouring rain (that’s the bad news), but it wasn’t nearly as cold as it had been and there was no snow (and that’s the good news).

The Angeles Crest Highway

I met my buddy Bryan at a water treatment company. Someday I’ll write a story about that company and the guy who started it. He was a crook (the company founder, not Bryan) and I’m not exaggerating just because I didn’t like the guy. He actually was a crook who was later charged with financial fraud and convicted. I know, I’m digressing again. Back to Bryan, me, motorcycles, and riding in the snow.

Good buddy Bryan and his VFR at warmer times in warmer climes.

Bryan was fascinated by my motorcycles (I owned four or five at the time), and within a few weeks he had purchased a Honda VFR. That VFR was a nice motorcycle (one I never owned but always wanted), and Bryan and I started doing a lot of rides together. We both live in southern California at an elevation of around 1700 feet above sea level, and it is rare to see snow here. I think in the 40+ years I’ve been in So Cal I’ve seen snow twice at my home, and it both cases it didn’t stick.

Bryan and I often rode the Angeles Crest Highway. We would take the 210 freeway to Glendale to pick it up, ride over the mountains on the Crest (the Angeles Crest Highway), stop for gas and sometimes a meal in Wrightwood on the other side of the San Gabriels, and then head home through the Cajon Pass on Interstate 15. It’s one of the best rides in the country.

A typical weekend parking lot scene at Newcomb’s on the ACH. Those were glorious days.

One day in the winter months, it was comfortable So Cal winter weather when Bryan and I decided to ride the ACH, but in the opposite direction. We rode up the 15 to the 138, we rolled through Wrightwood, and then we picked up the Crest heading over the mountains to Glendale. It got cold fast, and by the time we were on the Crest it was brutal. Then it started to snow. It didn’t seem that bad at first and we pushed on. I was on my Daytona 1200 again, and I could feel the bike moving around beneath me. I’d already ridden the Daytona on icy roads in Oregon (see above), so I thought I’d be okay. But this was worse. I could feel the big Daytona sashaying around like an exotic dancer in a room full of big tippers.

Bryan and I stopped. “Think we should turn around?” one or the other of us asked. “Nah, it probably won’t get worse and it’s shorter to keep going than it would be to turn around,” one or the other of us answered. We had that same conversation telepathically three or four more times. The weather was worsening and we hadn’t seen another vehicle on the road since we started. No motorcycles and no cars. It was just us.

Finally, we made it to Newcomb’s, a legendary Angeles Crest roadhouse that is no more (a pity, really…you’d see all kinds of moto exotica and sometimes Jay Leno up there on the weekends). We stopped for a cup of coffee and a bowl of chili. The parking lot was empty, but the place was open. The bartender was shocked when we entered. “How did you get up here?” he asked.

“We rode,” one or the other of us said.

“How did you do that? The road’s been closed because of the snow and ice.”

Well, what do you know? We had our coffee and chili and we warmed up. When it was time to leave, we kept going toward Glendale. No sense going back, we thought. We already knew the Crest behind us was bad. But we soon learned the road ahead wasn’t any better. It was a white knuckle, 15mph ride all the way down, and man, was it ever cold. But it made for a hell of story. I’ve ridden the ACH many, many times…but only once on snow and ice when the road was closed.

The “Build Character” Ride

In my opinion (and I’m the guy writing this blog, so it’s the one that counts) riding in the snow and ice is dumb raised to an exponent. If you’re already on a trip and you get caught in it, it’s sort of understandable. Making a decision to intentionally ride into the snow, though (at least to me), is a really dumb move. But yeah, I did it. Once. Peer pressure is a bitch, let me tell you.

The story goes like this: A bunch of us guys used to meet every Saturday morning at the local BMW dealer to listen to and tell tall tales (said tall tales usually involving motorcycles, women, or both). We did a lot of rides together, this group did. Baja. The American Southwest. The Three Flags Classic. Weekend rides up the Pacific Coast Highway to Pismo Beach for a barbeque dinner in nearby Nipomo at Jocko’s. And more. We were not spring chickens, either. I was in my late 50s and I was the youngest guy in the group. Most of the other guys were real deal geezers in their 70s. One guy was in his 80s.

Geezer riding buddies in the Jocko’s parking lot after coming down out of the mountains. Trust me on this: None of these guys needed to build any more character.

One day at one of our Saturday gatherings one of the guys had this brilliant idea that instead of simply getting caught in the rain, it would be a grand idea to start a two-or-three day ride in the rain when rain would be forecast for the entire ride. You know, a tough guy ride into bad weather. We would do the two-day run up to Pismo, through the mountains and along the coast, and do it on a weekend when it would rain all weekend. “It will build character,” said the geezer whose idea this was. Mom had warned me about guys like that. I should have listened.

Everybody was in. Like I said, peer pressure is a bitch. I had ridden plenty in the rain, and if you are properly attired, it’s not that bad. But snow and ice? Nope, that’s positively not for me. That’s what happened on this ride. Remember I said along the coast and in the mountains? Well, it was that mountain part that did us in. It was in the winter, we were at higher elevations, and sonuvabitch, all of a sudden that rain wasn’t rain any more. It was snow. The roads never froze over, but it was plenty slushy.

Somewhere along our descent, the snow reverted to plain old rain again, and we made it to Pismo without anyone dropping their bike. I noticed on the way home, though, we rode the coast (where it was modestly warmer) all the way back. I guess each of us felt we had built enough character to have banked a sufficient amount.

There you have it…my thoughts on riding in the snow. The bottom line from my perspective is that motorcycles and snow don’t mix. Your mileage may vary. If you think otherwise, let us know.

Never miss an ExNotes blog:

Don’t forget: Visit our advertisers!

My Solo Motorcycle Journey from Sedona to Canada: Part IV

By Bobbie Surber

A quick recap: In Part One, I kicked off this solo motorcycle journey on my trusty Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro, lovingly christened Tippi. As I bid farewell to Sedona, the road promised a majestic odyssey. From the winding bends of the Colorado River to the breathtaking grandeur of Lees Ferry, Marble Canyon, Jacobs Lake, North Grand Canyon National Park, and Zion National Park, each mile etched indelible memories on my soul. Part Two unveiled the treasures of Bryce Canyon, Capitol Reef, and Great Basin National Parks, along with the legendary Loneliest Highway in America, Highway 50. The roads led me to Lake Tahoe, where I encountered unique wonders and overcame challenges that enriched my adventure. In Part Three, I entered the landscapes of Yosemite, Kings Canyon, Sequoia, and Lassen Volcanic National Parks. I visited the town of Bigfoot and the Lost Coast. Amidst these joys, there was a bittersweet encounter with my boyfriend, Mike, marking the end of a significant chapter in my life. Now, let’s continue the ride through northern California and the Oregon coast.

In the embrace of an early summer morning, I stood alone, a solitary figure beside my trusted motorcycle, Tippi. The sun painted the horizon in hues of gold and pink, casting a spell of serenity. This was the moment of bidding farewell to Greg, a friend whose hospitality touched my soul. The road stretched before me, an endless promise. As I eased Tippi out of Greg’s driveway, it felt as if the entire world held its breath, echoing the emotions that propelled me into this adventure. This journey, forged from the ashes of heartbreak and kindled by an insatiable wanderlust, was poised to unfold a voyage of self-discovery and emotional renewal.

Just the night before, I had embraced a decision steeped in emotional turbulence — a poignant farewell to my boyfriend, Mike. It was a decision marinated in profound sadness and the weight of loss. Despite the heaviness in my heart, I clung to the belief that the open road cradled an undiscovered trove of experiences, encounters, and life lessons. Each mile seemed to hold the promise of a fresh beginning, and as I departed McKinleyville, California on that Sunday morning, the marine mist hung in the air like a wispy veil. It created a backdrop to my reflections on the past and the enigma of the future. The chill in the air mirrored the swirling mix of emotions within me, signifying the dawn of a new chapter in my solitary adventure.

Surrounded by towering redwoods and glimpsing fleeting vistas of the boundless Pacific Ocean as the last remnants of marine fog dissipated, the morning unfurled in all the splendor I yearned for. We journeyed up the coast, passing through the awe-inspiring realm of Redwood National Park. This marked my tenth rendezvous with a national park in just a month of travel. Each park visit hammered home the vital importance of preserving our public lands, and standing amidst these colossal arboreal titans served as a perpetual reminder of their awe-inspiring grandeur.

Reluctantly, I bid adieu to the towering redwoods as Highway 101 gently steered me slightly inland, ushering me towards Elk Meadow. Here, nature unfolded a spectacle that stole my breath — an assembly of elk, the largest gathering I had ever witnessed. I yielded to the irresistible urge to halt and pay homage to their beauty, immortalizing the moment through the lens of my camera.

After our parting with the majestic elk, I made a brief sojourn in Crescent City, a pause to refuel Tippi and replenish my spirits with a cup of coffee. It was in this picturesque spot that I stumbled upon kindred spirits — two gentlemen on Ducati motorcycles. We shared a common destiny: Canada. While a twinge of envy for their sleek machines grazed my heart, I cherished the chance to engage in a brief yet warm-hearted conversation with fellow travelers.

With renewed zeal, Tippi and I resumed our journey on Highway 101, eager to cross into Oregon, the fifth state to embrace our adventure. We traversed familiar terrain, including the enchanting Harris Beach State Park and Whaleshead Beach in Brookings. While my original goal was Bandon, the unyielding coastal winds encouraged me to pursue the unknown paths that Oregon had hidden.

Coos Bay welcomed us with an uproarious windstorm, a tempestuous force of nature that consistently left me feeling exposed and vulnerable. After a hasty search on Rec.gov, I secured a campsite on the north side of Coos Bay. However, our path to the campground presented a challenge—an encounter with a bridge at the northern edge. Anxiety surged within me as a flashing warning sign taunted me with its “High Wind Alert” and “Overturned Vehicle” messages.

I wish I could recount the crossing of that bridge with calm and composure, but the truth was far from it. My grip on the handlebars was vice-like, my white knuckles bearing testimony to my sheer terror. My aversion to fierce winds reached its zenith, and adrenaline coursed through my veins as I navigated to the other side. Upon reaching the campground, my heart sank as I discovered an RV occupying the very spot I had reserved. The encounter with the RV owner left me frustrated and disheartened, an unfortunate epilogue to the nerve-wracking bridge escapade.

Thankfully, a benevolent camp host emerged as my savior, guiding me to an alternative sanctuary shielded from the relentless wind. After a modest dinner, I indulged in a generous pour of Irish whiskey, surrendering to the soothing embrace of slumber, grateful for the tranquility of the night.

As the sun greeted me with a gentle caress, I found myself back in the saddle on Tippi. An early morning ride past Florence unfolded, each curve of the road a thrilling waltz with the remnants of marine fog. This was my sanctuary — a joyful communion with the open road and splendid vistas without a hint of traffic. All too soon, Tippi beckoned me onwards, leading to Yachats, Oregon, a captivating seaside village promising both coffee and a well-deserved breakfast.

On a whim, I reached out to an old friend from Sedona, Elaine, her presence a comforting tether to the past. Hoping she and her gracious husband could join me for an impromptu cup of coffee, I was delighted when they not only accepted my invitation but also extended a generous offer for me to spend the night. It was the 4th of July, and their cottage, adorned with breathtaking views of the bay, surpassed all expectations.

I soon found myself immersed in the heartwarming tapestry of small-town America, a 4th of July parade, and savoring dinner with their friends by the bay (a diverse ensemble of souls who graciously embraced me). The day culminated in a spectacular sunset and an awe-inspiring fireworks extravaganza over the ocean (as you can see in the photo at the top of this blog).

Early the following morning, as I reassured my friends of my competence on a substantial bike, I negotiated their lengthy gravel driveway. But I inadvertently tipped Tippi over. My pride was slightly bruised, but with concerted effort, we righted Tippi, and my journey continued. The weather was perfect as the road led me along the rest of the Oregon coast, passing through my beloved coastal havens like Cannon Beach and Surf Pines before culminating in Astoria.

My journey reached a momentous juncture as I approached the Astoria-Megler Bridge, an imposing truss bridge spanning an astonishing 4.6 miles, suspended 192 feet above the majestic Columbia River. This crossing marked my entry into Washington State, and contrary to the daunting tales of ferocious winds, I was pleasantly greeted by a smooth and rewarding journey. I took a moment to document my arrival in my sixth state in just over five weeks on the road. With newfound enthusiasm, I revved up Tippi and continued my pilgrimage to the charming village of Westport, Washington, where my family eagerly awaited my arrival.

What an extraordinary adventure it has been, with the promise of even more to come. Along the way, I have cast aside heartache, embraced the highs and lows of the road, and found solace in the arms of independence, the kind of independence that comes from conquering challenges that nudge us beyond our comfort zones. I wholeheartedly embrace my addiction to solo motorcycle travel, cherishing the serendipitous encounters with strangers who become cherished friends, and savoring the freedom of the open road.

Stay tuned for the forthcoming chapter, where I will unveil my family adventures in Washington and the epic odyssey through Canada. I extend my heartfelt gratitude to you for joining me on this narrative journey. Your comments, suggestions, and unwavering support are a source of immense inspiration. Until then, whether you embark on a bike, in a car, on a bicycle, or simply with your own two feet, I implore you to heed the call of your own epic adventure. Safe travels, fellow adventurers!

Please visit our advertisers!

My Solo Motorcycle Journey from Sedona to Canada: Part III

By Bobbie Surber

My solo motorcycle journey of joy from Sedona, Arizona, to Canada continues. This is an epic journey and it holds a special place in my heart. I can revisit fleeting moments of pure joy, rekindle the emotions, and extract lessons learned along the way. As a woman riding solo, I am part of a remarkable and tight-knit sisterhood that inspires me, challenges me, and provides me with extraordinary kinship. With their spirit in mind, I’m excited to dive into the next chapter of my unforgettable summer ride.

In Part I, I embarked on my trusty Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro, affectionately named Tippi, leaving Sedona behind. Our journey took us through landscapes of the Colorado River, Lees Ferry, Marble Canyon, Jacobs Lake, North Grand Canyon National Park, and Zion National Park. It was a breathtaking start to an indelible adventure.

Part II chronicled our exploration of Bryce Canyon, Capitol Reef, and Great Basin as well as Highway 50 (the Loneliest Highway in America) and our arrival in Lake Tahoe. Each destination brought its own magic and challenges, enriching the tapestry of this incredible journey. Leaving Lake Tahoe after a full week of exploration was bittersweet. I savored every moment but the open road called, promising new horizons and cherished old favorites. This part of my journey led me to Roseville, California, where I had to part ways with Tippi temporarily for a well-deserved tune-up and a new chain. Joining forces with a fellow rider and friend Mike (whose BMW was waiting for a harness from Germany), we hatched a plan over drinks and a shared meal. Our first destination: Majestic Yosemite National Park.

We took a brief detour to pick up another adventurous soul, Dan, who would follow us as we made our way to a campsite outside the park. While the campsite may not have been the most scenic, the camaraderie more than compensated for it. We enjoyed a hearty campfire dinner, and Dan and Mike one-upped each other with travel tales of daring escapades. It was a night filled with laughter.

The following morning marked our entry into Yosemite National Park. For me, it held a special significance. It was here that I had embarked on my solo hike along the John Muir Trail, starting from this very valley floor. The memories flooded back, stirring emotions and a sense of longing that I can’t put into words.

We secured a campsite within the park and spent two days immersing ourselves in Yosemite. We hiked amidst the awe-inspiring vistas, capturing the record-breaking snow melt that transformed the waterfalls into powerful cascades painted by breathtaking sunsets. As if retracing my steps, I followed a small section of the John Muir Trail, a nostalgic journey that filled me with joy. Those two magical days, spent with my riding buddies, nourished my soul and dispelled the occasional loneliness that accompanies solo motorcycle adventures. The camaraderie and shared experiences reminded me of the beauty of both solitary and shared journeys.

With a fond farewell to our friend Dan, we resumed our journey, eager to immerse ourselves in the natural wonders of Kings Canyon and Sequoia National Parks. Nestled within the Sierra Nevada, this region is a testament to Mother Nature’s diversity—flaunting thickly forested mountains in the north and the awe-inspiring austerity of the south, adorned with numerous 12-thousand-plus-foot granite passes. Each pass unveiled mesmerizing views of ancient tarns and the vast valley floor, a breathtaking vista to behold.

Walking among the giant Sequoias shrouded in mist left an indelible mark on our souls. It was a humbling and awe-inspiring, a stark reminder of the profound importance of our National Parks. They are not merely places of natural beauty; they are sacred sanctuaries that merit steadfast dedication and protection.

Leaving the majestic Sierras behind, we set our course for Roseville, where I was joyfully reunited with my beloved Tippi. After proper cleaning and the installation of a new chain, I mounted Tippi and instantly felt the familiar embrace of returning home as we navigated through the city. Our next destination was my ninth National Park on this epic journey: Lassen Volcanic National Park, a place I had never explored before. It’s the photo you see at the top of this blog.

Battling the sweltering heat, I was eager to escape the valley floor and ascend once more into the cool embrace of the mountains. Not even the looming threat of rain could diminish my excitement. Mike, still patiently traveling by car and awaiting his parts from Germany, made the most of vehicle camping. We embarked on an exploration of this new park, from leisurely walks around the serene lakes to gazing upon the painted desert from the viewpoint of an 800-foot-high cinder mountain. Two days sped by, leaving us reluctantly parting ways as we set our course for Bigfoot Country!

After a long day’s ride, we arrived in Redding, California, and were greeted by the majestic sight of Shasta Lake, with Mount Shasta occasionally revealing her beauty through the clouds. Continuing our journey, we soon reached our night’s destination, Willow Creek. This quaint town is adorned with numerous signs and wood carvings of Bigfoot, famously known for a rare sighting of the mythical creature. Adding to the allure, Highway 299 proved to be an underrated gem, offering exhilarating stretches of mountains and tight, winding roads, although the return of record-breaking temperatures reminded us of the heat.

Despite a warm night of camping, the anticipation of exploration tugged at our hearts, leading us to visit our friend Greg in McKinleyville, California. Leaving the majestic mountains behind for the refreshing embrace of the Pacific Ocean, I was up early and invigorated, eager to hit the beach!

Our long-awaited visit to the Lost Coast was the next thrilling chapter in our journey. Traveling through the towering giants of the redwoods and then navigating the winding, narrow roads flanked by quaint ranches and farms we finally arrived at our destination. Securing one of the thirteen coveted camp spots nestled against the picturesque sand dunes felt like a small victory. The beach, with its wild and rugged beauty, was a sight to behold. Our joy was multiplied when we invited an adventure rider from Croatia who had no place to camp to join us. We met two hikers planning to embark on the famous Lost Coast Trail the following day. With our newfound temporary traveling family, we combined our meager food supplies, beer, and the last of my Irish whiskey to set the mood for another unforgettable night of sharing grand tales beneath the starlit sky.

The following morning, we returned to visit Greg and his girlfriend K, soaking in his warm hospitality and exploring a delightful local wine-tasting room. The lazy Sunday was bathed in the glow of friendship as I leisurely embraced the day. That evening, I bid a heartfelt farewell to Mike for the last time. Our 4.5 years of shared adventures had gifted us with countless stories and unforgettable moments. With a heavy heart I knew I would miss our adventures together. The next morning found me back on Tippi’s saddle; after a fond goodbye to a casual friend who I knew would become a lifelong friend, I pulled out of Greg’s driveway and embarked on the northern coast journey along the famous Hwy 101.

I knew the days ahead would be filled with breathtaking views of the Pacific Ocean as I ventured into Oregon easing the bittersweetness of a wounded heart, but also an opportunity for reflection, healing, and embracing the boundless possibilities that lie ahead. I was on my bike heading wherever my heart desired and I planned on embracing each moment of my onward solo journey north.

Solo traveling is where my heart finds its purest joy, and venturing forth with my steadfast companion Tippi elevates this experience to unparalleled heights. While the presence of a cherished companion adds a unique dimension to our journey, the profound beauty of solo exploration lies in its ability to unveil the depths of our own capabilities. It’s about embracing the allure of the unknown and relishing the boundless possibilities of tomorrow.

As I eagerly dive into the upcoming chapters of my journey in Part IV, I promise to infuse these tales with the rich tapestry of emotions that solo travel and the open road have given me. I’ll unveil more stories of Oregon and Washington, and who knows, I might even tantalize your sense of adventure with a glimpse of enchanting Canada. The adventure continues, the road beckons, and the world awaits with open arms, ready to share its secrets and wonders with a wandering soul.