Day 9 Goldendale to Home

We got up early in the morning and got packed up in record time.  We had the scent of home in our nostrils, so to speak, and didn't want to waste any time in getting there.  We let ourselves have coffee, but mostly, our morning consisted of waking up, packing our bags and breaking camp.  There was a mention of showers, but neither of us felt particularly compelled.

Our last campsite, I'd only remembered to take a pic as we were packing up.

In original plans, we wanted to hit a well known motorcycling road called Windy Ridge, which was back down by where we saw the wildfire the day before, and while we were at it, to hit a cool little stretch of road on the other side of the river, outside of The Dalles, OR.  As it was though, we wanted to get a move on, so saved those roads for another time, and instead just went on the 142, a road that Chuck had ridden on a previous trip and recommended.

Chuck guaranteed that I would like it, and had actually shown me footage of it before, but with all the road discussions we'd had, and my mind distracted by other things, I forgot exactly what this road was supposed to be.  It started out OK, but nothing particularly noteworthy--it was a farm road that was mostly straight, with a few turns thrown in every now and then.  Not bad, but pretty similar to what we'd seen the past couple days.

That soon changed though as we found ourselves winding down through a canyon, back towards the Gorge.  It not only was a scenic and twisty canyon road, but it also became sort of a one lane road.  The center line disappeared and a rider could easily imagine that he was on a fun one way road winding down through a canyon.  We had a car come the other way to remind us that it was indeed a two way road, and a damn narrow one at that.

It was a nice little ride, with a couple fun surprises, like a sharp turn that was so crowned it was basically a dome, with a person's front lawn directly on the other side.  We wondered how many errant drivers/riders have ended up in that yard.  

The only picture I took of the Columbia, doesn't come close to justice.

Soon enough, we were back on the 14, riding along the banks of the Columbia.  We were hungry and our bikes were thirsty, so we stopped in White Salmon for breakfast and gas.  White Salmon didn't have a whole lot to offer, but we did find a cafe that looked nice enough, and had breakfast out on the sidewalk.  Our server was mighty pleasant and the food was good.

I look lost in thought. Probably thinking about a shower.

In looking at the map, there were really only two options for us if we wanted to head north and west, either go over towards Portland and head north from there, or head north earlier to take us up past Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Rainier.  I'd done the road by the mountains on my trip last year, and while I remembered a few good views along most of the road I recalled as being not so remarkable in terms of scenery and horribly damaged in places.  I told Chuck about my recollection, and he said he'd rather brave those roads than be stuck on I-5 or other major highways.  Fair enough.  So we took the mountain route.

At first, I thought I may have been thinking of the wrong road, or that the WA DOT had actually been on the ball and done some serious work in the span of a year.  The road was in great condition and we got to have some fun in some well sculpted turns.  But as we went farther north, the road conditions deteriorated, especially on the northbound lane.  The asphalt was filled with all sorts of ruts, holes, dips, lumps, ridges, whathaveyou, from all the snow and ice that's in the area in the winter months.  Going fast on this road was not an option, it was more of a mental exercise in finding the path that would be the least jarring.  

That aspect of the ride was fairly taxing.  You had to keep your wits about you, because it felt like an obstacle course.  And on top of that, you had to keep standing and sitting to help the suspension with all the bouncing that was going on.  At least, that's what I was doing.  I have no idea if Chuck was doing the same--I was too busy wrestling with my bike to see what Chuck was up to.

Eventually, we got to the end of that road and after a little rest break in Randle, we were due to be on somewhat major roads for the rest of the day.  This was Labor Day weekend, and it was Saturday, so we soon felt the congestion of civilization making its presence known.  We would be stuck behind cars, and there was no sense in trying to pass them, because there would just be more cars ahead of them.

I guess I'd been expecting that and had resigned myself to it.  I knew it wouldn't be fast paced, but so long as we were moving at a steady speed, I wasn't too worried about it.  Chuck, on the other hand, felt differently.

He got increasingly more irritable as we were stuck in traffic.  We weren't talking a whole lot on the intercom, but I could tell by his riding that he was getting pissy.  We stopped for one more gas up in Eatonville where Chuck confessed his agitation.  He said that he needed to get something to eat, but I wasn't really hungry myself.  I was more in a mood to just get home.  Chuck agreed that he pretty much felt the same and that we should just push on.

In retrospect, we should have planned our route a little better at that point.  The road we took north was the worst stretch of the trip, in my opinion.  It was like any semi-urban road in America--straight with a stoplight at least every quarter mile, with an array of run down businesses and newer big box stores.  We were probably on that stretch for half an hour or so, but it felt like an eon of monotony.

We'd meant to get on I-5 from there, just so we could make time, but instead ended up on 167, another boring, straight road.  At least 167 is a highway though, no stoplights to deal with, only holiday traffic.  We rode in the HOV lane and made decent time and before too long, were in spitting distance of Seattle.  

167 connects with 405, and once we hit 405, Chuck was out of there.  All the pent up aggression manifested itself in his right wrist and he was zipping along, weaving in between cars, pulling maneuvers that would leave Vanilla Ice chagrined.  I did my best to keep up with him while not further pissing off the drivers he left in his wake.

We had to cross Lake Washington to get to my place, so took I-90 to cross over.  Chuck had been going pretty fast on 405, but once we hit I-90, which had the express lanes open in our direction, Chuck let loose and opened up the throttle.  I followed suit, if I didn't, Chuck would have disappeared into the distance.  We flew by cars like they were standing still and my SV was definitely working hard with the weight and drag of the luggage and long days of riding in its recent history--I felt a bit like Rooster Cogburn pushing Li'l Blackie for all he was worth.  I was also apprehensive of any police, my first speeding ticket in many years still fresh in my memory.  

But, fortunately for us, no police were patrolling that stretch of I-90 that day, and we made it into Seattle proper where there was some expected traffic.  It was nothing major though, and 15 minutes later, we pulled into my driveway.  

Road weary, and in a bit of a daze, we relaxed with a couple ceremonial tumblers of Knob Creek and reflected on the past 9 days.  We had had a few hiccups on the way, but no major breakdowns or disasters.  We'd managed to stay in good spirits most of the time, and had managed to not get sick of each other over the span.  The prospect of hot showers, plumbing, refrigeration, electricity, relaxation, video games, and soft beds were beckoning to us, but there was no denying it:  this had been a fantastic trip.