Salmonberry

Nestled through the lush western part of Oregon, beautiful grape like bushes emerge. As ample as vines during wine season in France. Big ripe bushells, longing to be picked, plucked and eaten.
Nestled, halfway between Intestate 5 and Highway 101, lay a quaint, yet accessible 13 site campground. Perched, atop a flat meadow, looking down on the quiet Alsea River. Just 50 miles from it's north fork headwaters it winds, beckoning highway 34 to follow. Playing hide-and-seek along the way, the river dodges the highway, retreating into an every once again draw, grabbing a fresh breath, before returning to flirt with it's traveling mate through to the coast.
Two and a half hours from our trailhead, we should reach our first destination before dark. Well out of the city, it will give us a nice jump start, for our first full day, following.
This site, provides a great backdrop to begin this adventure. A common river for drift boats, and fly fishing, our silent captain will be pleased.
The meadow is framed by age old alder trees. Long and slender they stand, dancing, ballarinas on the stage, a simple quiet audience.
I hear the Trueb brothers. They are playing their guitars. Seldom too they add their vocals, sweet though they may be. The captain, is already at sea, and has been since mile one. This knowledge makes me smile, and I know this is right. This time, this place, this adventure.
My brother sees the Captain, and hearing the brothers, finally finds a place to rest. His body cries, unnoticed as he finally feels the freedom. He has let go.
Officer Hillson is always at home. This ride did not satisfy. His soul beckons more. He's wondering why we stopped and what took us so damn long.
They are pleased, them all. Each one, getting used to their own skin once again as their masks, their costumes, slowly flake away in the breeze that makes the alders dance.
I look at them. Sit back. I smile.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Number Four

The Stock CB650 I mentioned yesterday needs some work. Now, I don't mean it won't ride, or even that it won't ride well. She is just crying for some love. In all this Pacific Northwest winter blunderness I think she may just want to curl up next to me and R2 (my cleverly nick-named, kerosene furnace, named for it's subtle resemblance of the Star Wars Icon), and spend a little time together.

For example; tonight I spent 3 hours sitting on my cooler.It is one of those nifty tail gating coolers with cup holders in the lid that fits a cool can of Pabst smoothly. In one cup holder sat just that; a cool can of Pabst, smoothly. In the other: roughly 50 Q-Tips. Between the two on the lid sat my Ryobi shoplight. The one with the large battery and a swivel head, provided to me almost four years ago by Eliot to a young-man in need of a hobby. On the floor in front of that was a small Tupperware with just enough mineral spirits to cover the bottom of the container.

I spent those hours taking a single Q-Tip, dipping one end in the mineral spirits and scrubing ferociously at the number 4 exhaust header opening, turning the Q-Tip around and wiping off the grease and grime. Followed by a nice smooth sip of Pabst. Repeat 50 times and you've cleaned number four fairly thoroughly and a little around the whole.

All in all, a pretty romantic evening curled up by my CB. And of course completely worth it to spend a few days on the Owyhee casting a fly after a 3 day ride with the best of friends by ones side.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]