I could not have ridden Wise Road as fast as I did this morning without John and Nancy in the Corvette ahead of me… the bobbing, weaving red blur was something to clue me in on what was coming, and to run deer interference.
We had breakfast in Auburn, where the last half of a 4-egg omelet suffered the same fate as the second half of a medium (I’d only ordered a small) Schlotsky’s sandwich that had gone to waste on Friday.
We said our farewells, then I had to go shopping.
My ten-year-old iPod shuffle has finally died. It quit playing abruptly on Friday afternoon, and has refused to take a charge since. So I screwed around in Auburn, hoping to find a replacement (either another Shuffle, or a Nano would have been fine, or any MP3 player that could synch with iTunes).
But all either Target or Best Buy had in stock was the iPod Touch, which is probably just as nearly obsolete, but twice as expensive and eight times bigger than what I really want. It’s basically an iPhone that can’t make calls, another large and fragile device in contrast to the miniscule, robust Shuffle.
I’ll be breaking out the soldering iron when I get home. It’s supposedly possible to replace the battery in the Shuffle. There’s a pretty good chance of destroying the device during the attempt, but at this point there’s nothing to lose.
By the time I finally bought the Touch it was nearly noon and I just wanted to get out of town, so I didn’t try to get it working. I stuck it in my briefcase and once again rode out sans tuneage.
There was a steady stream of traffic, including a couple sport bike riders a few cars ahead of me, heading out of town, back down CA-49 the way I’d come in on Friday. Sunday drivers. Blech.
Fortunately, CA-193 is one of those great roads that goes from nowhere to nowhere. The sport bikers were stopped there for some reason, I never saw them again. At that point the traffic thinned and I got to have a nice fun ride along that road I’d enjoyed so much on Friday, but in reverse.
It was a gorgeous day, cloudless and hovering around my favorite temperature, or perhaps a bit warmer. When CA-193 rejoined CA-49 in Placerville, I could have very easily hung a left on I-80 and ridden over the pass.
That was Plan A, in fact.
Plan A also would have had me riding across Nevada, Utah, and Colorado, then across the plains to home. But until today I’ve always suspected doing so would be a treacherous undertaking. Even if passing the Sierra Nevada could be done, there was no guarantee that in late October the Rockies wouldn’t prove impassable on two wheels. Hell, even getting across the plains I might be the victim of a freak early blizzard.
The way things look today, Plan A would have worked perfectly.
But I’ve already committed to Plan 2B: return to Phoenix, park Therese in Mom’s garage, fly home.
I still have quite a few choices. I could cross the Sierra, then ride across Nevada and Utah, down to Arizona. Or down the Owens Valley, maybe cross Death Valley again. Or down the western slopes of the Sierra, until I turn left and back across the desert to Phoenix.
But I haven’t been paying attention to the weather to the east. Based on the recent, current, and forecast weather in California I assume it’s all completely rideable. I assume the Owens Valley will be, as it was two weeks ago, clear but very chilly. So might everything else east of the Sierra.
On the other hand, the forecast for northern and central California, for as long as I’ll be here, is essentially “perfect”.
As much as the unexplored roads of the basin still beckon, I think I’ll go for the sure thing.
As I rode past signs pointing to Lake Tahoe I thought about detouring just to see it, but I hadn’t studied the maps, and figured it would probably be crowded on a Sunday afternoon, and I didn’t want to risk running out of daylight.
By last night I’d decided on the general course I’d take back to Phoenix, and that for the first day’s ride Yosemite appeared to be within easy reach…and that to ride past Yosemite would be just plain stupid.
So I continued south on CA-49, having a cracking good time on a bucolic fall day.
We had breakfast in Auburn, where the last half of a 4-egg omelet suffered the same fate as the second half of a medium (I’d only ordered a small) Schlotsky’s sandwich that had gone to waste on Friday.
We said our farewells, then I had to go shopping.
My ten-year-old iPod shuffle has finally died. It quit playing abruptly on Friday afternoon, and has refused to take a charge since. So I screwed around in Auburn, hoping to find a replacement (either another Shuffle, or a Nano would have been fine, or any MP3 player that could synch with iTunes).
But all either Target or Best Buy had in stock was the iPod Touch, which is probably just as nearly obsolete, but twice as expensive and eight times bigger than what I really want. It’s basically an iPhone that can’t make calls, another large and fragile device in contrast to the miniscule, robust Shuffle.
I’ll be breaking out the soldering iron when I get home. It’s supposedly possible to replace the battery in the Shuffle. There’s a pretty good chance of destroying the device during the attempt, but at this point there’s nothing to lose.
By the time I finally bought the Touch it was nearly noon and I just wanted to get out of town, so I didn’t try to get it working. I stuck it in my briefcase and once again rode out sans tuneage.
There was a steady stream of traffic, including a couple sport bike riders a few cars ahead of me, heading out of town, back down CA-49 the way I’d come in on Friday. Sunday drivers. Blech.
Fortunately, CA-193 is one of those great roads that goes from nowhere to nowhere. The sport bikers were stopped there for some reason, I never saw them again. At that point the traffic thinned and I got to have a nice fun ride along that road I’d enjoyed so much on Friday, but in reverse.
It was a gorgeous day, cloudless and hovering around my favorite temperature, or perhaps a bit warmer. When CA-193 rejoined CA-49 in Placerville, I could have very easily hung a left on I-80 and ridden over the pass.
That was Plan A, in fact.
Plan A also would have had me riding across Nevada, Utah, and Colorado, then across the plains to home. But until today I’ve always suspected doing so would be a treacherous undertaking. Even if passing the Sierra Nevada could be done, there was no guarantee that in late October the Rockies wouldn’t prove impassable on two wheels. Hell, even getting across the plains I might be the victim of a freak early blizzard.
The way things look today, Plan A would have worked perfectly.
But I’ve already committed to Plan 2B: return to Phoenix, park Therese in Mom’s garage, fly home.
I still have quite a few choices. I could cross the Sierra, then ride across Nevada and Utah, down to Arizona. Or down the Owens Valley, maybe cross Death Valley again. Or down the western slopes of the Sierra, until I turn left and back across the desert to Phoenix.
But I haven’t been paying attention to the weather to the east. Based on the recent, current, and forecast weather in California I assume it’s all completely rideable. I assume the Owens Valley will be, as it was two weeks ago, clear but very chilly. So might everything else east of the Sierra.
On the other hand, the forecast for northern and central California, for as long as I’ll be here, is essentially “perfect”.
As much as the unexplored roads of the basin still beckon, I think I’ll go for the sure thing.
As I rode past signs pointing to Lake Tahoe I thought about detouring just to see it, but I hadn’t studied the maps, and figured it would probably be crowded on a Sunday afternoon, and I didn’t want to risk running out of daylight.
By last night I’d decided on the general course I’d take back to Phoenix, and that for the first day’s ride Yosemite appeared to be within easy reach…and that to ride past Yosemite would be just plain stupid.
So I continued south on CA-49, having a cracking good time on a bucolic fall day.
I stopped at a vista overlooking a reservoir where the historic ferry has been replaced by a graceful bridge, thinking it would be a good place to linger while getting my new iPod hooked up. But there was no shade and it was almost impossible to read all the damned screens on the iPod and my iPhone and my laptop, which I had all strung together in what turned into a vain and frustrating attempt to connect the various IOS instances to whatever damned mothership functionality they think they need to turn themselves on and synch to the files on my laptop.
Giving up I turned my attention to finding a room for the night. I started by calling The Majestic Yosemite Hotel, which for me will always be known as the Ahwahnee. I figured there was just a chance of a vacancy on Sunday night, off-season.
Indeed, there was a vacancy. Just one. But while I was prepared for a “steep” rate, the Presidential Suite at $1200 was well past any line I might have considered drawing.
“There’s a room at Yosemite Valley Lodge for $288”, she continued.
I was lukewarm to that idea, figuring I could probably find cheaper digs outside the park.
“Or there’s canvas tents --”
“Tell me more.”
I ended up splurging for one with a space heater for $133.
Back on the road, south on CA-49 and then east on CA-120.
Perfect weather, incredible views, silky smooth pavement, roads to myself, yadda yadda.
I dropped into Yosemite Valley finding it illuminated by the setting sun. In this light the cliffs of the monoliths were etched by dramatic, extended shadows; it was a far better view than Larry and Jana and I had enjoyed when we came here a couple weeks ago, at midday.
Giving up I turned my attention to finding a room for the night. I started by calling The Majestic Yosemite Hotel, which for me will always be known as the Ahwahnee. I figured there was just a chance of a vacancy on Sunday night, off-season.
Indeed, there was a vacancy. Just one. But while I was prepared for a “steep” rate, the Presidential Suite at $1200 was well past any line I might have considered drawing.
“There’s a room at Yosemite Valley Lodge for $288”, she continued.
I was lukewarm to that idea, figuring I could probably find cheaper digs outside the park.
“Or there’s canvas tents --”
“Tell me more.”
I ended up splurging for one with a space heater for $133.
Back on the road, south on CA-49 and then east on CA-120.
Perfect weather, incredible views, silky smooth pavement, roads to myself, yadda yadda.
I dropped into Yosemite Valley finding it illuminated by the setting sun. In this light the cliffs of the monoliths were etched by dramatic, extended shadows; it was a far better view than Larry and Jana and I had enjoyed when we came here a couple weeks ago, at midday.
My “tent cabin” is…very rustic:
But that's fine. It’s not where I plan to spend time doing anything but sleeping.
I immediately got into walking clothes and headed across the valley, first on the boardwalk across the meadow, then by an unmarked trail through the forest until I came to the river, where a clearing among the redwoods revealed the whole face of Half Dome. I stood there listening to the babbling brook, watching as the color of the giant rock changed from a shade of bland peach to salmon and then a pale ruddy orange. Abruptly, all color seeped away leaving a gray wall rising against the sky.
I needed to start moving then, to get out of the riverbed and on to an established trail; it was getting dark fast and I didn’t even have a flashlight. My iPhone had expired in the act of trying to send a text to Laurel letting her know I’d arrived for the night, which meant I didn’t have a compass.
Or, for that matter, a cell phone. I didn’t have one of those either.
I started inventory of my What’s For Safety list, my “15 essentials” for hiking; basically I had almost none of it.
Some Boy Scout.
I walked west down the valley until I spotted a couple small glimmers of light among the trees to my right. Somewhere beyond those trees was civilization.
Stepping down off the paved trail onto an unmarked forest path, I strode through the deepening gloom until from the gloaming emerged the welcoming glow of my destination: the Ahwahnee.
I found my way to the bar, and later to the great room where I pretended to be a legitimate guest writing his travel blog.
I immediately got into walking clothes and headed across the valley, first on the boardwalk across the meadow, then by an unmarked trail through the forest until I came to the river, where a clearing among the redwoods revealed the whole face of Half Dome. I stood there listening to the babbling brook, watching as the color of the giant rock changed from a shade of bland peach to salmon and then a pale ruddy orange. Abruptly, all color seeped away leaving a gray wall rising against the sky.
I needed to start moving then, to get out of the riverbed and on to an established trail; it was getting dark fast and I didn’t even have a flashlight. My iPhone had expired in the act of trying to send a text to Laurel letting her know I’d arrived for the night, which meant I didn’t have a compass.
Or, for that matter, a cell phone. I didn’t have one of those either.
I started inventory of my What’s For Safety list, my “15 essentials” for hiking; basically I had almost none of it.
Some Boy Scout.
I walked west down the valley until I spotted a couple small glimmers of light among the trees to my right. Somewhere beyond those trees was civilization.
Stepping down off the paved trail onto an unmarked forest path, I strode through the deepening gloom until from the gloaming emerged the welcoming glow of my destination: the Ahwahnee.
I found my way to the bar, and later to the great room where I pretended to be a legitimate guest writing his travel blog.
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