Back in the States

I’M CAMPED in the cedars behind the lovely home of our old friends, the Nelsons. From Little Rhody you can ride here to Puget Sound in 3,000 miles and change, as long as you stay pointed at it. I came half-again the long way, 4,534 miles.

Jan and Connie were at their camp yesterday, on Lake Cushman. That’s 55 miles west and north of here, across the Hood Canal on the Olympic Peninsula. I parked the iron piggy at a landing there and Connie zipped over on the jet boat to give me a lift out to camp.

We got here to Gig Harbor late last night and I set up my tent, declining the kind offer of a spare bedroom. There’s nothing like sleeping outdoors. I can’t get enough of it.

My last camp in British Columbia was in a town called Hope; a campground this time instead of the usual off-in-the-weeds somewhere. I had nice neighbors, a young woman named Josie, from Vancouver Island. She was on her way home after camping all over British Columbia for two weeks with her sons. I’m not good at guessing kids’ ages but I’ll say they were 8 and 6. Dad was holding down the fort, couldn’t get time off from work. I think Josie said as much, or I deduced it.

You can’t help but overhear things said in the next camp. She was so good with her kids, so calm, kind and smart in how she interacted with the boys. I walked over and told her so the next morning, that it’s so nice to see kids getting such a good start in life. No drama. It didn’t surprise me a bit when she said she’s a teacher. She clearly has the gift for showing leadership to kids and setting a positive example.

She took great pride in where she’s from and asked if I was really leaving British Columbia before riding the length of Vancouver Island. I’ve been to Vancouver city, and sailed once along the east shore of the island, on an Alaska Marine Highway vessel. But I think she put the idea of an island road trip in my head. Maybe after Gig Harbor I’ll scoot back up to Canada, if CCjon and Nestor are still wandering around somewhere up north, incommunicado.

I didn’t snap Josie’s photo. I’m always reluctant to stick a camera in someone’s face. The human moment vanishes before your eyes.

Same deal with a white-haired old gent who hobbled up to the iron piggy at a rest stop north of where I camped that night. He leaned on his cane with both hands and told me he rode a British thumper across Canada in 1954, a BSA. Birmingham Small Arms. They made rifles, motorcycles, possibly other products that can be fun and dangerous at the same time.

He said his wife-to-be dated him because he rode a motorcycle.

He looked up and down the length of the iron piggy. In that trace of a smile I saw a resigned sadness. I’ll guess he was thinking, I’ll never ride again, and, Look at this machine that’s leaving here without me.

When I crossed into the States at Sumas, WA, the Border Patrol guy wanted to know what I was doing in Canada. “Goofing off,” I said.

Somewhere there’s a rule that Stern Johnny Border Law’s not supposed to smile, but this one did, just a hint. He smiled at his computer monitor, not at me.

Piggy and I rode the backroads down to Whidbey Island and caught our first scent of coastal air where Washington Route 20 scoots under Interstate 5 and keeps going west. I stuck to Route 20 to get south and west of Seattle without riding through it. That meant a water crossing down the road, the ferry to Port Townsend.

Motorcycles go to the head of the line, no waiting. Eight or nine of us caught a fully-loaded boat just getting ready to shove off. We were directed to scoot right in front of a line of cars and trucks a few city blocks long. There was just enough room left to squeeze our rides onto the deck at the stern and we were off.

Biker trash… my people…

Iron piggy sailed next to an FJR on its way home to California. I like those bikes a lot. They’re light and fast! And trouble. Piggy goes fast enough for me.

The view from first class…

It felt so good to have cool salt air ripping through my jacket as we rode south along the wide waters of the Hood Canal. British Columbia is a marvel but I can’t say I miss the 2-pack-a-day habit of the 480-something forest fires burning there. Millionaire cable talkers backed by the donor class say certain molecules don’t trap heat in the atmosphere, nobody can say why the forest floor crunches like cornflakes underfoot, so crank up the volume on the making-America-dumber-since-1951 machine and buy our soap suds.

Leaving the second wake of the day. Piggy’s taking a break in that distant treeline.

Connie skipped across the water like a stone to bring me out to the lake and feed me lunch. She thought I needed animal protein in my diet. Am I shedding weight that fast? I usually am swimming in my clothes by the time I get home.

Yes, that’s him in the bow with the bow-wow, mighty Jimi the dog.

I hadn’t seen him in five years but I think he remembers me. It wasn’t one of those canine recognition dances where the dog wags so hard you think it’ll snap in half. But then again, he didn’t run up with that big aggressive bark of his, demanding Who are you!? Are you in our pack?

It was more like… Hmm, you stink in an oddly familiar way. Can’t quite place you, biker trash.

Tony DePaul, August 14, 2018, Gig Harbor, Washington, USA