Issue link: https://read.dmtmag.com/i/727617
54 nOctober 2016n www.thunderpress.net THUNDER PRESS him some used brake shoes for it. That driver is now mounted on my shed beside my redwood gator. This brush with death served only to further enfl ame my ardor for big highway game. The scars on my leg that I received from the fray became a source of pride that I, even today, will occasionally display at cocktail parties when the conversation fl ags and nobody can think of a good joke. When I reveal these hard-won ribbons of honor, I can see the admiration in the women's eyes even as they're tugging their boyfriends towards the door and telling me to pull my pants back up. As my thirst for variety raged and demanded quenching, I began tailing beat-up pick-up trucks precar- iously packed with entire households hoping to snare an "Okie egret," also known as a "common fl ying chair" (Ladderbackus Overboardus). It was during one of these hunting expeditions on Highway 37 west of Vallejo (the infamous "Blood Alley" of Northern California) that I fi nally fl ushed the rarest and deadliest of high- way game. Perched perilously on the gunwale of a beater Toyota truck was a large white La-Z-Boy—yes, an albino "great fl ying chair" (Reclinus Gigantus Ohshit). Highway 37 at this point is a high-speed commute corridor across the marshes of the San Pablo Bay estu- ary, without shoulders or even dry land along its fl anks. Just bog and asphalt. The beater Toyota was driving errati- cally and I smelled blood. I followed closely for a mile or two watching the load shift and getting an erection. When that big overstuffed white baby cut loose and began bouncing down the road towards me, I felt like Ahab confronting his great white nemesis. Yes, I was the best… the best highway hunter who'd ever lived. Perhaps the only highway hunter who'd ever lived. And my hubris had spawned this hur- tling white demon; a horrible hundred pounds of pure fury and corduroy. I leapt from my saddle with a soul-sear- ing scream and met my bounding des- tiny in mid-air. My bike cartwheeled off into the swamps as I thrashed and tore at the great fl ying chair trying to gain an advantage. Traffi c swerved crazily about us as we rolled about the roadway—a dervish of blood, loose change and doilies—until I felt its strength ebb beneath my efforts and it rolled into the shallow muck… spent and undone. I stood upon its dying hulk and pounded my chest, bellow- ing at the heavens until the CHP guy asked to see my license. I have not hunted since. Something burned out of me that fateful day on Highway 37. Nothing remained to prove and I felt only disdain for even the largest truck- adillo and fuzziest bark bat. Now I spend most of my time reminiscing and recording the details of my great conquests—with reverence for the vanquished and a silent prayer that the day may come when men will no lon- ger feel a need to stalk the truckadillo. The rest of my time is spent just kick- ing back in my new white La-Z-Boy. It's all right here in the diaries. 4 T he fi rst time I rode State Highway 20 from Western to Eastern Washington State was the year it opened, in mid-September, 1972. That ride, on a 380 Suzuki, was ample affi rmation (then) that Washington State is a beautiful land- scape, and the NW a great place to ride. Like a lot of riders, I didn't get off the bike and take in many scenic overlooks. It was too much fun on the road. In 1972 I never saw the view from the observation area on Washington Pass, just uphill from the biggest sweeping curl of the entire new leg. But this past week I fi nally did. Wow! Living in the remote NE corner (called the Forgotten Corner) of Washington State, a sparsely-populated region my friend Diane affectionately calls "East Egypt," I'm not inclined towards crowds. So traveling westward over SR-20, essentially the long way over to the Seattle area to catch up with family and celebrate my son's birthday, and engaging that trek on Labor Day weekend, there wasn't much of a chance I'd be stopping at the overlook or any other touristy place along the way. But after the family gathering, we decided to travel back to East Egypt the long way again, fi nding that near 90 percent of the crowds that had made stopping just days before unpalatable, were no longer under- foot. We did the full-out touristy thing from Historic Snohomish, Washington—taking Highway 9 to Arlington then Highway 530 to meet up with SR-20 at Rockport. Once on SR-20, a few miles east, Cascadia Farms has a roadside stop that's worth the gam-stretch, making their own ice cream from berries grown onsite. General Mills bought rights to use the farm's name for organic products some years ago (an offer not to be refused) but the milkshakes made there are so thick and loaded with fruit you could probably turn them upside down and they wouldn't slump. Raspberry was the fl avor of choice and take my word for it—it was exceptional—maybe the best ever. Back on the road we'd planned to stop just east of the summit of Washington Pass to stretch our legs, do a bit of watering and see the highway from above. Alert: You may never be as impressed by a scenic overlook as this one. Not just because it's one of the most dramatic visually, or because of the panoramic view above the best riding section along that stretch, but because of its artfully and imperviously constructed footpath to the ledge, allowing the site to endure an enormous volume of foot traffi c. Constructed of rustic and aboriginal materials, they nailed it. And now that the busy season is over, and before SR-20 closes for winter snows, the time is ripe for your crossing. If you haven't experienced the North Cascades Highway/ SR-20, I highly recom- mend you do so right now. Wildfi re season seems to have been kind to the Okanagan this year; the threat apparently extinguished for 2016. Fall colors will be a visual feast by mid-October, the crowds are thinner and eateries (and drinkeries) along the way will be happy to greet and treat you. The aquamarine of Ross Lake alone is worth the ride, but there's so much more history and majesty and fab- ulous roadway to enjoy. The "company" town of Newhalem, owned by Seattle City Light, is charming adjacent to the Skagit River; further east, the Methow River Valley is lush and rimmed by the Cascade Range jutting skyward, shortening the hours daylight falls on the valley fl oor. Here, the economic crown is Winthrop, a whopping tourism success with Old West frontier-in- spired appeal. A host of shops along a nice boardwalk include coffee stops and restau- rants all created by a forward-thinking con- sortium of planners, business people and donors back in 1972. Their model fi nds the children and now grandchildren of those folks making a living wage and therefore able to remain in the unspoiled region, surrounded by wilderness areas, National Forests and state game ranges. Check out the 222-foot rustic metal Sa Teekh Wa pedestrian suspension bridge over the confl uence of the Methow and Chewuch rivers. The bridge and trail are just one part of the area's abundant recreational and visual allure. Mid-size towns further east include Twisp, Okanogan, Omak, Tonasket and Republic where we had dinner at Freckles Barbecue with wonderful hostess Dawn. The Republic Brewing Company was closed but Freckles carried RBC's brew, Falligan's Red, a good complement to a satisfying and fairly-priced meal… There are many other towns, lodging and refreshment options along SR-20. And now that the peak season is ebbing, things can become even more enjoyable. Road con- ditions and closures are found at 800.695. ROAD or at www.winthropwashington.com. And for any of you who have news to share, friends to embarrass, a funny tale to tell or life celebrations to broadcast, e-mail me at susan@tohonor.org. See your plate on the cover of THUNDER PRESS Send a photo of your personalized license plate and you just might see it appear on the cover of our March 2017 issue. Send digital Photos to: tpressplates@thunderpress.net Blue Dog Diaries Continued from page 5