Tag Archives: motorcycles

A Full Fourth

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Probably the busiest Fourth of July I’ve ever had.

These days, I’ve been challenging myself to keep busy. Downtime between jobs has been damaging in the past, causing depression, frustration, and weight gain. I began fighting back last summer and remain determined not to spend time sitting on my ass when there are better, more interesting things to do. And let’s face it — almost anything is better than sitting around on your ass, letting the days of your life just tick away like a clock with an aging battery that can’t be replaced.

I try to sketch out a rough plan for each day of my life. Sometimes I tweet what I’m tentatively planning. Sometimes I don’t. Having a rough idea of what I plan to do helps keep me focused. Stating it publicly makes me responsible for doing — or trying to do — it. But I always let things take their course when I can. After all, no plan is set in stone. Spontaneity is what makes live truly interesting.

Yesterday, July 4, I set a busy schedule for myself. But I did even more than I planned. (And boy, am I feeling it today!)

Ross Rounds

As the time on that tweet hints, I wake up very early nearly every morning. Although its great to get an early start on the day, there’s a limit to what you can do that early when stores are still closed and friends are still asleep.

So while I sipped my morning coffee, I assembled my Ross Rounds.

Ross Rounds
Completed Ross Rounds. Photo from the Ross Rounds website.

Ross Rounds are a comb honey system that makes it possible for bees to produce packaged honey comb. You set up the special frames with plastic rings and pure beeswax foundation and insert the frames in their custom hive box. You then put the box on top of a honey-producing hive of bees. Eventually, the bees move into the Ross box and begin building and filling honeycomb in the special frames. When the rings are completely full of honeycomb and honey, you remove them, cover them, label them, and either sell them or present them as gifts to friends.

Ross Rounds Frame
Here’s a fully assembled Ross Rounds frame.

Assembling the frames took some doing. I had to split each frame, lay in the ring halves and snap them into place, lay in a sheet of wax foundation, and snap the frame closed. The ring halves only go in a certain way, so much of the time was spent lining them up properly. But once I got the hang of it, the process went quickly. I got all 8 frames, with 4 pairs of rings each, done in about an hour.

I’m not sure when I’ll be able to use the Ross Rounds system. I’ve been told that because I started my bees so late in the season I probably won’t be able to take any honey from them. They’ll need all that they create now for winter. But I’ll do a hive inspection on my first hive — probably today — and see how much of their top hive box is full. If it’s more than 80% full, I’ll add a queen excluder and the Ross Rounds frame and see how far I get by the end of the season.

Motorcycle Ride

Meanwhile, I was texting back and forth with another early riser, my friend Brian, who lives in Wenatchee. He’d seen my plan for the day on Facebook and was wondering if I wanted company for my motorcycle ride. After some texting back and forth and a call to my friend in Chelan — who I woke at 8 AM! — we decided to ride up to Silver Falls together and do a hike before going our separate ways for the day.

Penny on my Motorcycle
Here’s Penny in her dog kennel on the back of my motorcycle. (Yes, she fits fine in there and can move around freely.)

Penny the Tiny Dog and I were at Brian’s apartment at 9 AM. Penny rides with me on the motorcycle. I bungee-netted her hard-sided dog carrier to my motorcycle’s little luggage rack. It’s rock solid there. She rides in the dog carrier behind me. I don’t think she actually likes the ride, but I do know that she likes coming with me wherever I go. So when I lift her up onto the motorcycle’s luggage, she scrambles into her carrier without protest.

What’s weird is when we stop at a traffic light and she barks at other dogs she sees.

Brian rides a cruiser — my Seca II is more of a sport bike — and he led the way, keeping a good pace. We made the turnoff at the Entiat River about 15 minutes after leaving his place. We both thought Silver Falls was about 12 miles up the river, but a sign about a mile up the road said that it was 30 miles. I saw Brian look at his watch as we rode past the sign. He had a BBQ to go to that began in early afternoon; I had other plans, too. But we kept going. We’d make it a short hike.

I really enjoy riding my motorcycle in Washington State. This road, which wound along the banks of a rushing river, reminded me of the riding I’d done in New York State years before: mountains, farmland, trees, and cool, fresh air. I think one of the reasons I stopped riding motorcycles when I moved to Arizona is because it was simply not pleasant. Too much straight and flat and hot and dry. The road up to Silver Falls is full of curves and gentle hills, with orchards and hay fields forests along the way. Every twist in the road brings a new vista in the granite-studded canyon. Every mile brings a different sensation for the senses that are switched off inside a car: the feel of temperature and humidity changes, the smell of fresh-cut hay or horse manure or pine. This is part of what makes motorcycling special.

We arrived at the parking area, which had only one car. It was just after 10 AM. I got Penny out of her box and on her leash. We stripped off our riding gear and started the hike.

Silver Falls

This was my second trip to Silver Falls. My first was back in 2011, not long after I had my motorcycle shipped from Arizona to Washington. I blogged about that trip here. And, if you’re interested, you can read more about Silver Falls on the Washington Trails Association website.

Brian at the Creek
Here’s Brian alongside the creek. Penny refused to pose with him.

Penny and Maria on Bridge
Brian shot this photo of Penny and me on the bridge near the top of the falls.

The three of us — Brian, Penny, and I — headed up the trail together, stopping now and then to take photos. The stream was rushing wildly, with crystal clear water cascading over rocks and logs in the stream bed. We followed the same path I’d followed on my first trip there, taking the trail on the right up to the top of the falls and coming back the other side. The temperature was perfect — a bit cool in the shade but nice and warm on the wide switchbacks in the sun. Brian led at a fast pace and I did okay keeping up. I remembered my first trip there when I was still a fatty and how long the hike up to the top had taken. What a difference 45 pounds makes!

We ran into some other hikers on their way up the other side as we headed down. Because of time constraints, we only spent about an hour and a quarter there. It was 11:15 AM when we geared up and headed out.

Because we were going our separate ways and I was running late to meet my friends in Chelan, Brian let me lead the way with the understanding that I’d go at my own pace. I let it rip and covered the 30 miles in 30 minutes.

Blueberry Hills

It was 11:45 when I reached the junction of Entiat Road and Route 97A. I had a choice: continue with my plan to visit friends in Chelan or head back to Wenatchee Heights and take it easy for a while before heading out to the BBQ that afternoon.

I turned left toward Chelan.

There were a lot of cars on the road, but they kept at a good speed just over the speed limit. I fell into place behind them. It was a lot warmer back on the main road, but not too warm for my denim jacket. The road left the river, passed through a tunnel, and climbed into the mountains. It crested and started down, with beautiful Lake Chelan spread out before me: blue water surrounded by green orchards and vineyards capped by a perfectly clear blue sky.

I pulled over in town to get my friend Jim on the phone. He and his wife Teresa agreed to meet me at Blueberry Hills, a you-pick blueberry place and restaurant in Manson. Penny and I stopped for gas along the way. We wound up behind Jim and Teresa’s car as they pulled into the Blueberry Hills parking lot.

They had their dog, Zeus, a red heeler puppy with them. Penny and Zeus became friends months ago when we were in California on a frost contract with the helicopter. Zeus was much smaller then. He’s getting close to full grown now and is a lot bigger than Penny. They looked genuinely glad to see each other.

We climbed the stairs to the outside patio overlooking the blueberry fields. Jim and I went in to order lunch. I bought the dogs a pair of frozen beef bones, which the restaurant sells for their four-legged customers. Penny and Zeus got right down to business. When our food came, so did we. Blueberry Hills makes excellent food.

We talked about all kinds of things while waiting for our food and then eating. Teresa had just come back from a visit to their daughter’s family in Anchorage. Jim, like me, was just recovering from a hectic week of cherry drying. We had stories to swap and insights to share. It was a pleasant lunch — one I wish I could have lingered over, perhaps with a piece of pie. But it was getting late and I was supposed to be at a friend’s house in Wenatchee at 3:30. So we headed out, stopping to pick up two pounds of blueberries along the way.

I took the road on the east side of the river on the way back to avoid the traffic in Chelan, Entiat, and Wenatchee. It was a quick 50-mile ride to the south bridges between East Wenatchee and Wenatchee. Two more traffic lights and I was winding my way up Squilchuck Canyon, back to my temporary home in Wenatchee Heights.

The Teachers’ BBQ

By the time I got into the Mobile Mansion, it was 3:26 PM. I texted Kriss, who I was supposed to meet in 4 minutes to let her know I’d need at least an hour. That was fine; we weren’t due at the BBQ until 5 PM anyway.

I cleaned up, dressed, and threw the blueberries into a cooler bag. I still needed to get the other ingredients for what I planned to bring to the BBQ: strawberries, whipped cream, and cake. But when I got down to Safeway, there wasn’t a single strawberry in the store. I wound up with a single package — the last one! — of raspberries. And frozen whipped topping. I did get a good deal on a July 4 themed serving plate, which I’d leave behind with my hostess.

At Kriss and Jim’s house, I assembled my fruit and cream and put it in the serving dish. Kriss gave me some red sprinkles to dress it up. I was disappointed at myself for not bringing something better. (I’m really looking forward to having a full kitchen again.)

I met Kriss and Jim’s daughter and husband. I gave Jim the nuc box and frame holder I’d gotten as a little gift for him. (I met them through beekeeping; Jim has four hives and has been going out catching swarms lately. My first bee hive is in their backyard until I close on my Malaga property later this summer.) I watched at their three kittens, two of which are just staying with them temporarily. I unwound from the frantic pace I’d been keeping all morning.

We all headed out to a friend’s home about a mile away. It was an annual July 4 BBQ where Kriss’s fellow teachers — some still teaching, others retired — gathered for burgers, grilled salmon, excellent sides, and dessert. I met a lot of new people and answered a lot of questions about my cherry drying and other flying work.

The BBQ wound up after 7:30 PM. I said my thanks and goodbyes and climbed back into my truck. I was exhausted from my day out and stuffed from a good meal. I wanted to go see the fireworks but had no desire to deal with the traffic. A nice evening back home might be a good end to the day…

The Spoons Party

But I passed right by another friend’s house on my way home. Shawn and his wife were hosting the BBQ that Brian had gone to. I’d been invited but had turned it down to attend the other BBQ with Kriss and Jim. Was the party still going on?

I drove past and discovered that it was. I parked and walked around back to see what was going on. My rafting friends — as I’d begun to think of them — were playing a card came I’d heard about on my last rafting trip with them. It involved collecting four of a kind and grabbing a spoon off the table. There were five players and four spoons. The person who didn’t get a spoon lost.

A silly game, but nonetheless, I pulled up a chair and another spoon was added to the table. I didn’t play very well at first, but got slightly better. The vodka may have helped.

This party had kids — four of them — and later had fireworks out on the street. The whole area, in fact, was full of fireworks. Fireworks are legal in Washington — at least this part of Washington — and were readily available all over the place. Shawn and Brian had bought a bunch. When it got dark enough to enjoy them, they put on a show out in the street. Family fun.

When they broke up and headed back to the backyard, I took my leave. It was about 10 PM and I’d had enough for one day.

Silver Falls

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A motorcycle ride and a hike.

I had my 1992 Yamaha Seca II motorcycle shipped up to Washington State so I’d have something other than the pickup truck to ride around in while I’m here. Not only does it get about 50 mpg (compared with the trucks 15 or so mpg), but it’s a hell of a lot more fun to get around in.

When it first arrived, I discovered — without any real surprise — that my motorcycling skills were extremely rusty. I took it for a few short rides to get get the feel for it again. Then I took it to Chelan to visit a friend. And I’ve been riding it a few times a week since then.

But it was yesterday that the rust finally shook off.

Along Entiat Road

I decided that it was high time to take it out on some mildly challenging twisty roads. After consulting a map, I decided on Entiat Road (County Highway 19), which winds up the side of the Entiat River. The road is only about 38 miles long — or at least that’s what I gathered by the “Road Ends 38 miles” sign near where I picked up the road in Entiat on the Columbia River. I figured I’d ride it until either it or the pavement ended.

I left Wenatchee Heights at noon and, after winding my way through the city of Wenatchee and up route 97 toward Chelan, reached the turnoff for Entiat road at about 12:30. It was a typical two-lane road in good condition, smooth with no loose gravel. I was able to open up the bike and get some good practice leaning into the curves at speed. I drove past orchards snuggled into the valley — the apples and pears still hung, ripening, while the cherries had already been picked.

I was hungry — I hadn’t eaten before leaving — and figured I’d stop for lunch at the first place I found along the road. That first place happened to be about 10 miles up the road at Ardenvoir, a place called Cooper’s Store. It was also the last place; a sign nearby said “No services past this point.” It didn’t look very appealing, but I didn’t have a choice, so I parked the bike and pulled off all my gear: helmet, gloves, denim jacket. A sign outside said “Food voted five stars by Odee.” So, of course, when I went inside I asked who Odee was. Turned out to be the owner’s dog, an aged terrier that came up to sniff my hand when he heard his name.

I had a chili burger. In Arizona, that’s a burger with a green chili on it. At Cooper’s Store, it’s a burger under a heap of chili con carne with chopped onions and shredded cheese. To put a positive spin on it — it’s always nice to stay positive, no? — I can confirm that it was edible. I grabbed a popsicle out of the freezer in the store for dessert, paid up, and went outside. I sat on a bench out front to eat my popsicle. Three vehicles went by. A Jeep stopped at the store and the driver went inside while the passenger looked at me sitting on the bench. I guess there was nothing else to look at. Finished, I geared up and continued on my way.

The road continued up the river, sometimes quite close, past farms and homes and unlikely subdivisions that had never been sold. Many of the homes were for sale. Lots of waterfront property. A beautiful log house, brand new, with a “For Sale” sign on it. A real homesteaded property. An area that had obviously suffered a forest fire only a few years before — the weathered skeletons of burned trees were all that remained with tall grass on otherwise bare hills.

I have no idea how far up the road I was — 20 miles? 30? — when the pavement became rough and a sign informed me that I was entering the Wenatchee National Forest. No more homes along the side of the road. Now it was just tall pines along steep inclines with sharp curves in the bumpy road. I slowed down after being jarred violently going over a bump. A sign mentioned a place called Silver Falls 8 miles farther up and I figured that was as good a destination as any.

The Hike

My Yamaha at Silver FallsThere were National Forest Campgrounds along the side of the river. I passed two before I reached the parking area and campground for Silver Falls. I parked and stripped off my gear, locking it up in my bike’s Givi saddlebags. Looking up, I saw the top of the falls — can you see it in the photo? It didn’t seem that far away.

I checked the information kiosk. There was no information about the hike, although I could clearly see a trail disappearing into the forest across the road. I did see that there was a $5 day use fee. Although it was midweek and I thought I’d only be there a short while, I know how much the parks are struggling. So I filled out the form on an envelope, put a $5 bill in it, and tucked it into the payment slot. Then I grabbed my camera and started the hike.

At Silver FallsI immediately found myself in a deep, somewhat dark pine forest. As my eyes adjusted to the light, my nose picked up the scent of pine and moisture and my ears heard the sound of rushing water. I came upon the creek immediately — a healthy stream of water gushing over rocks between trees. For me — a desert dweller — it was a real treat.

Rustic BridgeThe path was well-maintained, with rustic protective barriers to prevent hikers from accidentally falling into the stream. The bridges were especially rustic looking, sometimes with curved logs making attractive rails. It was surprising to find something so attractively designed on a trail. I began to wonder how much of the trail dated back to the CCC days, when National Forest trail projects were a source of employment during the Great Depression.

I followed the path as it climbed gently upstream, first on one side, then the other. The trail forked at a bridge where I stopped for a rest. A family of three was just coming down the right side of the creek. “It’s worth it,” the Dad assured me.

I continued up the way they’d come down. The trail began to climb. It moved away from the creek and then back to it, offering stunning views of the rushing water. The farther I went, the steeper the trail got. In many places, it was rock steps. I paused at another rest spot. The mist from the falls chilled the otherwise hot air. I could see the main falls above me. When another family joined me, I asked whether the trail went all the way to the top. The Dad told me it did. Remembering the other guy’s assurance, I continued the hike.

At one point, the trail came back to the creek just beneath a large fall. Although the rustic wooden logs made it clear where the trail stopped, I did as many others had likely done and slipped beneath the two rails. I was able to safely get to a spot beneath the waterfall, tucked under a rocky ledge. I experimented with my camera, trying hard to protect it from the mist, until mosquitos found me and I decided to move on.

Behind the Waterfall

After that point, the trail swung far from the stream — so far that I could no longer hear the water’s flow. It also leveled out. Perhaps I’d misunderstood the other hiker? Perhaps that spot under the falls was as high up as the trail would go? Perhaps it would continue back along the mountainside, away from the falls?

Purple FlowersBut I stuck with it and was rewarded with a switchback and another climb. A while later, I was back alongside the stream at yet another streamside bench, photographing some beautiful purple flowers just past the peak of bloom.

It was then that I noticed a similar rest area on the other side of the creek. The trail had split and, apparently, the other trail climbed up the other side. Would they meet again at the top, forming a loop? Could there possibly be another bridge? It was too much to hope for. I’d assumed I’d be returning the way I’d come. Now I was starting to wonder.

I continued on my way, up more stairs and another turn away from the creek. After another switchback, I returned to the creek and saw the bridge over a smaller falls. I spent a lot of time up there, relaxing in the shade, snapping photos of the water falling over the rocks. Again and again I wished I’d had a tripod or at least my monopod along with me — the shade was dark in the dense forest.

Bridge at the Top of the Falls

Stairs on the TrailThen I started down the other side of the creek. At first, it was one long flight of stairs after another. Then the trail moved away from the falls in a series of relatively level paths with switchbacks. In some places, the trail emerged from the forest into the sun; not only could I feel the heat on my skin, but I could smell it. Then back into the trees for cooling shade and pine aromas.

Waterfall with RainbowAt one point, the trail came back to the falls just below where I’d walked along the ledge on the other side. The mist and sun worked together to produce a small rainbow. I did the best I could to capture the scene with my camera; I really do need to learn how to photograph waterfalls properly.

A while later, I was back near place where the trail had split. I took my time following the trail back out to the main road. The parking lot was empty except for my motorcycle.

It was 4:30 PM. I’d been there for nearly 2 hours.

I’d gotten my $5 worth of nature — and more.

The Ride Back

Although the road continued farther up the river, I was tired and thirsty. I figured I’d save it for another day — perhaps a day when I could share it with someone. So I geared up and pulled out.

I did take time to check out the three campgrounds I passed on the way back. The first and third were partially occupied and had nice sites looking out over the Entiat River. I’m not sure, but I think I could get the mobile mansion into at least some of the spots if I wanted to. It would be tough, though. The second campground was deserted and I could understand why; the sites were small and unappealing. None of the campgrounds had utilities, although they all had centralized water spigots and outhouses. The single campground host was not around.

I rode more aggressively on the way back. I felt as if I’d regained a lot of the motorcycling skill I’d had back in the 90s when we rode all the time. It felt good to lean deeply into the curves and accelerate through them, especially when I was out of the National Forest and the road conditions were a little better.

I passed Cooper’s Store with only a momentary thought of stopping in. I do wish I’d taken a photo, though. The Odee sign was pretty funny.

The motorcycle started losing power about 5 miles from the end of the road. I was able to switch to the Reserve setting while moving and before the engine quit.

At the junction of Route 97, I turned left toward the town of Entiat. My first concern was fuel; I took 3.6 gallons. Then I pulled up to 97 Brew, one of Washington State’s ubiquitous drive-through coffee stands. I rode up on the shady side and after getting my smoothie, asked if it was okay to stay parked there in the shade until someone else pulled up. No problem. I sucked my smoothie down while reading an article on the Web on my phone.

Then I geared up again and headed south on 97. About 40 minutes later, after winding my way through Wenatchee traffic, I was back in my RV. It was 6 PM.

How the Hacking of My Brother’s Twitter Account Saved Me an Hour-Long Wait in the Hot Sun

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A tale of poor memory, computer hacking, and kitchen renovation.

The other day, I wrote a typically long and drawn out blog post that was eventually about riding my motorcycle for the first time in years. Somewhere near the end, I bragged:

But what really surprised me is the way my hands and feet seemed to go into auto-pilot mode. My right hand and foot automatically moved to the brake lever and pedal to apply just the right amount of pressure for braking. My left hand and foot automatically moved to the clutch lever and gearshift to change gears smoothly. Balance comes naturally, even in the gravel parking lot at the RV park.

Muscle memory, pure and simple. Unfortunately, today proved that my other memory isn’t nearly as good.

My friend Pete picked me up at my temporary home in Wenatchee Heights and drove me to Quincy where my motorcycle was still parked. I needed to get it up to the orchard near where I’m living.

I’d ridden the bike from Quincy to Wenatchee and Chelan on Sunday, putting about 155 miles on it after filling the fuel tank. I honestly couldn’t remember how many miles I could go on a tank of gas, but had vague memories of a low fuel light and figured that would warn me when it was time to fill up.

Those vague memories were not quite right. Maybe the low fuel light is on my Ducati, but it certainly isn’t on my Yamaha. I’d just come through Wenatchee and was on my way up Squilchuck Road when the engine started running rough. I was almost to a stop sign when the engine died. I coasted to the curb and popped the fuel tank. I rocked the bike back and forth. I didn’t see a drop of fuel in there.

The trip odometer read 191 miles.

Crap.

I called AAA. I’m a member, primarily for the hotel discounts, which definitely pay for the membership each year. I connected with the Arizona office; they transferred me to the Washington office. I admitted my stupidity to the guy who took my call. I spent five minutes helping him figure out where I was — evidently, the names of the two streets on the street sign right over my head wasn’t enough for him. Then I answered multiple questions about my motorcycle: did it have a windscreen, saddlebags, sidecar; what color was it; what was its engine size? (All this info just to bring me a gallon of gas?) After all that, he promised that someone would come within an hour. If someone didn’t come by then, I should call back.

I thanked him and hung up. The last time I’d requested service, it had taken 90 minutes.

It was sunny and hot. I was in a brand new subdivision and there were no mature trees. There was a telephone pole, though, and I stood in its shade — or at least tried to. I had, of course, already stripped off my denim jacket and helmet.

To pass the time, I fired up the Twitter app on my phone and tweeted:

Duh. My motorcycle only goes 190 miles on a tank of gas. Waiting for AAA.

Hey, if you can’t laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?

I scrolled through the tweets in my timeline and was shocked to see one from my brother, @chefnorb, who never tweets:

Im tooo laaaaazy to go to work today!! I WANT TO BE LIKE HER: http://tinyurl.com/[redacted]

I didn’t have to click the link to realize what had happened. I tweeted:

@chefnorb I suspect you’ve been hacked.

Of course, if he had been hacked, he’d never see the tweet. He really never uses Twitter. So since I had all that time on my hands, I shifted position to stay in the ever-shifting shade of the telephone pole and called his cell phone.

“I think your Twitter account was hacked,” I told him.

“Yeah?” he replied.

“Did you tweet something today?” I asked.

“No.”

“It’s definitely hacked.” I read him the tweet.

“Sounds like something I might say. I am feeling pretty lazy today.” He went on to tell me about the kitchen renovation at his house that was almost done after two months of hard work. He told me his wife was out of town on business and that he had to dust drywall remains out of the whole house and clean all the sawdust out of the backyard.

I told him I was still in Washington and that I’d just moved for my last contract. I told him about picking up my motorcycle and how I’d run out of gas. I told him I was waiting for AAA.

“How about the reserve tank?” he asked.

Crap. I’d forgotten all about that.

Motorcycles usually have a reserve tank setting. You twist the fuel control knob and it pulls fuel from lower down in the tank. It’s designed for situations just like mine — riding until out of gas. There’s always a quart or so left in reserve. At 50 mpg, that quart can get you pretty far.

Sure, I remembered how to ride the damn bike. I’d just forgotten everything else about it.

I was anxious to try it and didn’t want to waste any time (or gas) once I’d started the engine. So I thanked him, hung up, stowed my jacket (it was really hot), and put on my helmet. I twisted the fuel setting knob and started up. It ran like a charm. I made a U-turn and headed back into town.

It wasn’t until after I topped off the tank that I called AAA to cancel the call.

And it wasn’t until I got back to my RV that I tweeted:

Double-duh. My motorcycle has a reserve tank. Cancelled that AAA call.