Some people prefer to wander haphazardly, riding where ever
the wind sends them.
Me, I always have a plan. It
may be vague and subject to change, but I keep one hand on the rudder.
So, on Saturday morning, I set out for Sequoia
National Park. This
was Plan Three. Plan One
involved my buddy JK riding another rented mule alongside me for this trip.
Unfortunately, he could not get away from work to join me, so I had to fly
solo. From there, Plan Two evolved.
I’d ride from the coast to
Death Valley, camp there
for a couple of nights, move on to Sequoia and
finish it up at Yosemite. Having
been to
Yosemite
twice, it was placed low on the priority
list. I really wanted to see
Death Valley
and such was my intent when my plane landed
in San Francisco. But,
as I lounged in the room in Paso Robles, studying the map, a more logical
flowpath revealed itself; a circle passing first thru Sequoia, then to Death
Valley and finally Yosemite,
by way of Nevada. That
would be more efficient, no backtracking required.
Plan Three was born. As I said, my hand
was firmly on the rudder, but I tack frequently.
There were nice twisties on way to the
Sequoia, getting better as I drew nearer the park.
I enjoyed the pack mule’s light steering and torquey motor and I tried
to flow smoothly thru the curves. It
was a very mellow, relaxing ride and I wasn’t even bothered when the cager1
density picked up and slowed me down. The
heat was extremely bothersome. There
was a short line at the entrance and I was baking in my suit.
I pulled off, parked in the shade, yanked off the helmet and jacket and
approached the entry booth on foot, between cages.
The guy behind me didn’t mind. Unfortunately,
this is where the trip began to turn sour. All
of the campgrounds in the park were filled and there were no others nearby; at
least I didn’t recall passing anything noteworthy on the way.
Instead of turning around to seek lodging outside the park, decided to go
in and get a ticket for the cave tour.
My first instinct was to continue to
Death Valley. No
way would that place be filled, only the foolhardy and the clueless would go
there in July. I asked around and
all of the rangers told me it would take 7-8 hours to get there.
I studied the map and there was nothing else near DV except for a navy
base,
China
Lake
. Considering my options, I
did not want to ride boring, hot valley roads to get to that furnace at sunset
and find no lodging. I’d had enough of
that the day before. I thought the
naval station would be a nice backup, but the map didn’t show any roads into
or on the base. China
Lake
is a weapons testing range, a place one hundred miles from everyplace
where flyboys can drop live bombs for training.
No bunks there, I thought. Things
were dim. I was gonna have to stay
in a hotel again and I was not happy about it.
After much deliberation and many u-turns, I ended up in Three Rivers, a
few miles from the park entrance, at a place claiming to have one room left.
It was a barely air-conditioned suite that set me back an arm and a leg.
I’d never paid so much for a room… except for the night before.
The three nights combined would cost me four hundred dollars,
enough to pay for my entire six day trip had I been able to camp.
This leads me to Plan Four, the one that
would actually go the distance.
When I picked up the bike from Moturis, Siggie had me sign a document
promising to stay out of
Death Valley. Their
concern was that the bike would overheat. By
my response, she knew I was up to no good. She
added that they can’t stop me from going, but that the insurance would not
cover me for anything that happened there. Well,
no worries, Siggie! After enduring
the surprising, oppressive, triple-digit heat of the Kaweah
Valley, there was no way I could point the bike at
Death Valley
. I
was near death already, thankyouverymuch. I
handed the man more money than I could bear, went to my overpriced room - sorry,
suite - and sulked while surfing thru
all ten channels of cable.
I really hate it when I’m stupid, but I
decided that I would somehow have to enjoy this trip in spite of myself.
I leafed thru the park info handed out at the entrance and tried to
figure out what I should do. Since
Death Valley
dropped form the schedule of events, I had
more time to devote to Sequoia, which was a Good Thing, as it would allow me to
get more than a quick, cursory visit. Aside
from seeing some Big Trees, I wanted to hike to
Peak, the highest point in the park, and to tour of Crystal
Cave. Beyond that, I would make
it up as I went along.
Alta
Peak
is a serious hike, nearly 14 miles round trip, and I’d need to pack
some snacks and sandwiches in the backpack. So, when hunger pangs drove me to forage, I rode to a nearby grocery
store. I bought enough for a couple
of brekkies, lunches and dinners. It
all crammed nicely into the pack mule’s saddlebags.
Fed and cooled, though still a bit hot,
I headed to the park. At the visitor
center, I asked about the trail to
Peak and was told that the mountain wore a white cap.
The trail was covered in snow quite a long way from the summit.
Scratch that, then: I’m not
an ice axe kind of guy. The only
cave tour available was the basic tour; not what I wanted but I went with it.
Finally, I asked where one might go to watch a sunrise and a sunset.
I was given three good options for the former and one for the latter.
From there, I rode into the park.
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[1] cager: n,
one who drives a cage2; “That cager
must be from
Florida, he
rode his brakes all the way down the mountain.”
[2] cage: n,
any form of conveyance provided with one or more doors for entry, or that
which resembles such; “When
you smell that acrid stench, you know there's a cage up ahead with smoke pouring
off of it's brakes.”
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