Sabbatical 1998 - Day 2

I'm on the road again (at last).  There remain a number of logistical things I need to iron out before I begin my long road trip later this month.  The only way to find out what they are, in my opinion, is to make a small trip and see what breaks or doesn't work.  Well I tripped, stuff broke and I now know what to do differently next time.  I'll spare you those details and, instead, tell you about my trip through lower central Washington.

My destination wasn't chosen so much out of a desire to see the place (although I'd never been there before), rather it was chosen because of it's relative distance from my home.  The place?  It's like, Kennewick, man!

I started my journey, like so many others: at the beginning.  It was another one of those overcast days that the weather people promised would be hot and sunny.  It did eventually get that way, but only after working up to it.  But... hey, I'm getting ahead of myself.  The Plan called for a journey of about 300 miles one-way out of town.  I needed something scenic and a destination  that could support a half-way decent hotel room (remember my revulsion of camping.)  

The path I worked out took me north along I-5 to a small town just south of Chehalis called Winlock.  When I was a young boy of about nine years, my family and I lived there for about a year.  This was my second least-favorite place to live (as I recall it from a child's perspective) and, from every recollection, it was a good place to be from.  On the plus side, my family established friendships with a few people there and we remain good friends to this day.  Some of them have had the good fortune to move away.

I rode past the house where I lived and the little Baptist church where my dad worked.  Couldn't bring myself to stop and snap a picture though -- too many bad memories came back at the sight.  I'm glad I did take the time to glance at it though. Perhaps next time I'll linger a bit longer.  My problem.  I have to fix it.

Next I rode into "town."  I use the word carefully here.   First Street is about ten blocks long and, being as it was a Sunday morning, nothing at ALL was moving.  I could have sat down in the middle of the road without being disturbed.  Rode down by the railroad tracks, parked and snapped a picture of Winlock's one enduring edifice: the "world's largest egg."  Now, my memory tells me that the sign once read, "Winlock-- Egg capitol of the world."  I suppose the title is going to move around from country to country now and again -- for political reasons, if nothing else.

I snapped a few more pics and then mounted up again.  This time, headed east on Highway 12.   Much of this leg of my trip was quite scenic.  My local, friendly Honda salesman, Kevin, suggested it.  Thanks, Kevin!  The views were breathtaking -- which is a problem if you're operating something as inherently dangerous as a motorcycle.   It is best to keep one's eyes on the path ahead rather than to gasp at the unyielding splendor of snow-capped mountain peaks.  The blue of Riffe Lake melted my brain.  It was so perfect that it looked fake.  Only in paintings are things so splendid... I half expected to see someone burst through the canvas.  The roads were curvaceous and sometimes down-right twisty.  The NightHawk and I were in perfect sync.  It was like flying.  For those of you who do not ride motorcycles (and you all really should), you probably won't know what I'm talking about.  For those of you who do ride, you're probably getting misty.

I rode underneath a non-functioning ski lift at 4,500 foot White Pass on dry pavement.  Skiers won't use the lift when there's no snow.  Wonder why?   The air was finally beginning to feel warm so I made corresponding adjustments to my throttle-regulated cooling system and had, shall we say, a "spirited" ride down into the valley.  As a courtesy I always slowed for law enforcement officers and I avoided donut shops to reduce the possibility of being observed.

Three Harley riders waved at me!  Me!  On a Honda!  Maybe the GiVi bags confused them. If they only knew about the Italian bags on the Japanese motorcycle.  I'm a gyroscopic trade deficit. 

The remaining 100 or so miles between Yakima and Kennewick were unremarkable.  I found myself on I-82 and experiencing no joy at all.  Sure, I was whipping by everything on four wheels, but there's something just horribly monotonous about the Interstate system.  They're great roads for moving huge numbers of vehicles at relatively high speed from one place to another, but can be just plain boring to use.  If I have it to do over again (and I guess I always do), I'll cut over to a side road next time.

I'll cover my return trip to Portland in the Day 3 installment.   Meanwhile, I, like, haven't seen much of, like, Kennewick, man.

Day 3 >>