The road snaked its way up the hills into mountain passes, a steady incline of roughly eight degrees. Cactus gave way to oak trees, and we re-entered Inyo National Forest. The temperature lowered as the altitude increased, but I had no regrets this time about not putting on my cold weather gloves. It was still warm enough.
Eventually we left the 395 for California State Road 120, a.k.a., Tioga Pass Road. Fortunately, the road was open, or we'd have had to sweat our way through Death Valley - and today would prove to be hot enough without that.
The 120 is brilliantly serpentine in its design. Which is good, because the scenery, breathtaking as it was, lacked the strangeness that we'd experienced over the past several days in New Mexico, Colorado and Utah. Anyone who has traveled much in the Rockies won't find the Sierras strange.
Tall oak and pine trees, high rocky peaks of grey stone, waterfalls descending in a rush over cliff edges from pent up lakes. If it weren't for all the curves in the road, what would have held our attention for the hundred-odd kilometres traveling through the park?
Aside from a quick stop at the visitors centre, where I purchased yet another sticker for my bags while Colin adjusted his video camera, now affixed to the top of his helmet, we rode more or less non-stop through the park, occasionally frustrated by the timorous four-wheeled travelers impeding our progress.
Eventually we left the park, and continued on the 120 to Groveland, a small town in the Western Sierras, where I once waited for close to two hours for a tow truck, which was stationed about a mile away, to carry me and my old bike to a dealer in Modesto. Today's visit was less stressful. We stopped for lunch at the Iron Door Saloon, both of us, apparently, craving grilled cheese sandwiches.
The Iron Door is a fantastic place, with wadded up dollar bills stuck to the ceiling throughout. It is an old-style saloon - it's not just a bar - that has been there for more than 150 years. A stuffed bear cub and coyote cavort above the bar, and a buffalo head is mounted above the entrance. I remembered it having been recommended on my previous visit to the town, but then I didn't feel like eating.
After refueling ourselves, we did the same for the bikes, then continued our descent from the high point of the Sierras, some 9,800 ft, down to the small plain that leads from the mountains to the sea. All the while, it got progressively hotter. By the time we reached Oakdale, it was well over 40 C (that's 'freakin' hot!' in Harenfeit).
We slogged our way between date and almond farms, wilting in our gear, until we reached Manteca. There we turned off of the 120 onto Interstate 580, bound for San Francisco.
We had already decided, though, that we were going to bypass San Fran, since we a) wouldn't really have time to see much of it, arriving only at around six p.m., and b) wanted to avoid paying any tolls. In the past, the Bay Area Transit Authority exempted motorcycles from bridge tolls, but, alas, no longer.
We soon discovered, however, that you can run but can't hide from BATA. After bouncing from one interstate to the next, we finally did have to pay $5 for the pleasure of entering Vallejo, a working class suburb of San Francisco. We stopped there just long enough to agree not to stop there, and then were on our way to San Rafael, speeding past San Quentin Prison on the way. I began to sing 'Folsom Prison Blues' to myself in my helmet.
We arrived in San Rafael at about half past six, checked into a hotel, and settled in for the night. Time now to rest up for tomorrow's ride, along the brilliantly and insanely twisty Hwy 1.
*****
Thanks to everyone who's visited this blog. We've had people sign in from Canada and the United States, Greece, Germany and Peru. I hope you've been enjoying this so far.
*****
Here is the link to Colin's video of our visits to Bryce and Zion. As always, please enjoy responsibly.
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