Jawbone 2001 Spanksgiving
For many of us it all began with a full day of driving/racing down the Five, starting with seven hours of heavy rain and arriving well after dark at our familiar campsite in the canyon. Of course, for Bonehead, it began five hours before that so he gets the long distance/most stubborn award. None of us would do this if it weren’t worth it and this year was no exception. I won’t bore you with the intricate details of how, where, when or why I met all of my SoCal buddies but suffice it to say that they are one of the primary reasons for this annual event. Jawbone Canyon and the people I’ve gotten to know there are the only things I miss about living in L.A. for ten years. ‘Nuff said there. This year the Kiwi, the German, the Bombardier, the Donkey and the Mouth came out for the first weekend and the rest of the wrecking crew trickled in over the long holiday week.
The first day of riding was absolute bliss. Hillclimbing with reckless abandon on open class bikes and exploring the ridges and canyons of the Sierra foothills. The days are short this time of year so an early start is essential. Well, an early start is essential if you don’t have a hangover from the two kegs of Northwestern microbrew that you brought down with you (remember, we were on vacation). Oh, while I’m on the subject of cargo, we also brought three cords of firewood with us since there isn’t any in Southern California. Ah the miracles of modern diesel trucks.
After adjusting to the terrain and temperature shock, four or five of us took off on a long loop over to Lone Tree Canyon with a quick stop at the Ditch of Doom. Pounding whoops for ten miles on my CR5 loosened up the bones a bit, and then we dropped into a slot canyon for some ‘sploring. Sure enough within a few twists and turns we found water and an eventual dead end. Such is the way of a wanderer. After goofing off for a while we found a hillclimb that took a full minute in third gear to climb. As we approached it we say some movement on the hill, it turned out to be a HUGE mule deer buck. We stopped and stared at it while he did the same, a nice four pointer, must have been lost to be this far out of the mountains. After that ride we came back to Jawbone and spent the rest of the day hillclimbing on the first part of the Squid Filter. This is a big sand hill that is the first part of a trail German and I put in a few years ago, if you don’t get to the top of the hill you’ve been filtered. Plumb Bob took a nasty tumble while coming down it and tweaked his back so hard he couldn’t ride for the rest of the week. Lucky for him he was still able to lift a beer glass and socialize for the rest of the week. He had to stay anyway because his family was there for the riding and wouldn’t have any part of leaving early.
On the second day we headed out to find new trail. Oh, let me rephrase that, new Torture Trail. Rapids and I were looking for something that would top last years’ debacle when we managed to drag nine riders through four miles of utter anguish/enraptured bliss. We decided to try and connect the Goatroper to the Squid Filter via a hellish canyon between the two. German attempted and succeeded to climb a mountain of rocks that led to a ridge over the aforementioned canyon. Repeated attempts by a few of us led us to the conclusion that the German got really lucky on his run so we took a long-cut and found the top of the ridge from a different angle. At this point a few recruits turned tail and parted ways but Cornfed, Rapids, Bonehead and I were feeling spunky. This ridge wasn’t all that steep but it was so rocky (triangle-shaped boulders) that we had to bull-dog the bikes for half an hour just to get to where we thought the German was. Sweating like sheep in Kiwi’s trailer we found no sign of the German. The rocky ground gave no sign of tracks so we figured he had gone ahead and finished out the loop. Rapids found a nice way into the valley floor, this is where we decided to change Bonehead’s flat, which he undoubtedly incurred on the way down. Cornfed was feeling antsy so he went up the other side of the dry creek bed, making it look easy even though it was mostly skill. As we finished off the tire we could hear him roaring up the far side of the canyon and up onto the higher sections of the Squid Filter. Just as we tightened the axle nut on Bonehead’s 520 we heard a distant cry from far below us. I scrambled up a small ridge and found, to my utter ecstasy, the German with his helmet off, trapped like a rodent in a lower section of the canyon. He had been there for an hour trying to figure out a way to get back up what couldn’t be gotten back up. After laughing at him for an extended period we pointed out a line that looked possible. Within fifteen minutes the German was with us and we followed Cornfed’s line out and to the top. We had accomplished our mission and dubbed the new trail with a name that can’t be repeated here.
The next day, I think it was Monday by then, the Bombardier took us on a really nice 80-mile loop into the Paiute Mountains. The pace was quick and the conditions were outstanding. The only detractors from this ride were the gnarly manzanitas and prickly bushes that ripped all of our jerseys and flesh. Oh yeah, At the very farthest point and highest part of the trail, oh, 7500 ft or so, I blew out the rear brake master cylinder on the 520 so I didn’t have any back binder for the rest of the day. It was still a great ride out; we all started swapping bikes and analyzing suspension. That evening a friend of mine from Portland (I’ll just call him D.S.) showed up with his trials bike and we went off into the rocks for the last hour of the day. Having just bought a trials bike two weeks before and “testing” my equilibrium in the rocks of Jawbone with a National/World class rider was really entertaining. It’s a completely different world out there on a modern trials bike.
Along with being a great trials rider and motocrosser, D.S. is also very keen on the trail. For the next day, I lent him my sadly neglected 200 for the day so he wouldn’t have to pack gas for his Montesa. Activities included the infamous Backwards Enduro Loop, the Ditch of Doom again, and other assorted goodies. We wanted to show D.S. and his buddy, Steve (another fantastic rider) all of the “points of interest”. Much to our delight these guys cleaned all obstacles and had a good sampling of the regions geological diversity. Half way through the Mine Trial, Cornfed led us off the trail to a new ridgeline. It began with a nice off-camber four-footer that intimidated quite a few riders. Once on top of this ridge we followed the backbone to a point where we couldn’t turn back. Hmmmm. Been here before, well, not HERE, but in this situation. Judging from the looks of things, NOBODY had been HERE before. As we timidly bull-dogged over the edge of the mountain, we found ourselves at the top of a crumbly cliff-line that offered little in the way of passage. After plunking around and scratching his helmet, and thinking about ropes and manpower, Rapids found a spot that looked less worse than the rest. Steve ended up on the edge of a very bad spot and almost lost the XR400. Two or three guys scrambled over to help him get it set straight after realizing that he was probably going to go over with the bike. After seeing the struggles below me I decided to take a different line and veer off toward a vertical notch in the cliff, couldn’t be any worse, could it? Hopefully some pictures will appear and all of you, my dear readers, will appreciate just how stupid we can be at times. To cap things off we soldiered on, fixing flats and finding challenging trails. We ended the day at our new trail, the one with the triangle-shaped rocks and hopeless escape. That was a good day.
Early the next morning D.S. took me out for a quick trials lesson in the big rocks. I thought I’d be cool and ride without knee guards like the pros. We came to a nice tilted slab type of thing that had all sorts of ledges and treachery. He showed me a move called a Zap that utilizes front wheel placement on vertical faces. This little four-foot thing with no approach gave me fits. One attempt sent me off to the right side sprawling on the rocks, landing on, of course, my knee. Oh, did I forget to mention that the bike landed on its throttle and revved to the moon while I writhed in pain? Nothing like a little Humble Pie. Cornfed showed up a little later and shot some bitchin video of D.S. pulling off some amazing moves in the rocks. I got back to camp and took it easy for most of the day but then went back out on the Scorpa in the afternoon to try and remember some of my “lesson”. A few more riders began arriving, including Geoff from Washington, another “enthusiast” willing to drive fifteen hours for some fun. I couldn’t help but notice, however, that there weren’t nearly as many people showing up as there normally are on Wednesday night. Maybe they knew something we didn’t…..
Thanksgiving began as a normal day in the desert. Slight gusts of wind woke me at 6:00 as they buffeted my trailer. As the sun warmed the sleepy canyon, our happy-dappy little camp began to stir and the familiar swirling non-directional wind increased. One out of ten days are usually pretty windy this time of year and, this being Thanksgiving and all, none of us thought much of it. By 9:00 the gusts had increased to 50mph, however, and sand was beginning to get airborne. There were some people out riding, climbing the Wall, and getting blown over. By 10:00 we were in the midst of a full-blown (a pun!)sand storm. Huge clouds of dust and grit came roaring at us from all directions. Many of us put on helmets and goggles. Then, during a very intense 100+ gust, the Bombardier’s three ton, tandem axle trailer gingerly flipped over in a thunderous crash. Luckily, three of us were standing on the windward side and didn’t get crushed. It was pretty amazing. At that point everyone else got out of their trailers and spent the next four hours trying to keep their trailers from flipping. There were still a couple of doorknobs trying the Wall. Half way up they would disappear in a cloud of sand wrapping itself around the mountain at 80mph. Five minutes later we would see them huddled behind their bike in the deepest rut they could find. In Ridgecrest, a town forty miles away, roofs were blown off houses and 118mph winds were recorded! Highway 14 was closed and other people in the canyon, in less protected areas, had their truck and trailer windows blown out. All of our vehicles now have pitted glass and paint damage but not as bad as it could have been. By 3:00 the wind had backed off to a slight breeze so I decided to make a few attempts at Butterball. Butterball is the nastiest hillclimb in Jawbone; exposed rock ledges, extreme steepness, diabolical ruts, terrifying heights, all are combined in one big snuggly package. The German, the Worm and I tried for forty minutes, many times getting oh so close to the top only to be driven off by an errant bump or misguided wheel. Finally the German made a clean run and reached the top, on the gas and on the pegs. I, on the other hand, kept trying and trying only to be foiled again and again. I knew I could do it but something would always happen and I would have to experience the terror of getting down. Once you’re up in the rocky section, getting down is very scary. It’s so steep that locking up the rear tire is out of the question, you have to coast/float through the rocks and then scrub off speed once you hit the lower sandy/loose rock section. My last and fateful attempt put me high up in the rocks. I began my descent through the rocks and had a good 30-40mph clip going when I hit the lower section. Like many times before I aimed for a wide rut that hadn’t been a problem before. This time was different and my angle on the dangle wasn’t quite up to snuff. My front end plowed out and tried to ride out of the rut but I was leaning the wrong way, over the bars I went and tumbled a few times, flew a ways (like a flightless bird!, i.e. Kiwi!), and landed without breaking any bones. Luckily the bike didn’t follow me too closely and I walked away with a lovely scar, a bruised knee (yep, same one) and smashed fingertip. Butterball and I now have a mutual understanding. Having had such an exciting Thanksgiving Day, we all went back to camp and had an awesome dinner. Bonehead cooked two turkeys in the deep fryer, if you haven’t done this yet you’re missing out.
Friday ended up being a half day because of the slow recovery rate. The Thanksgiving party was really fun but many of us paid the price. By ten or so a few of us went off on a little project that involved trail maintenance and some very exhausting riding. We managed to get ourselves trapped in a canyon with no way out but the way we came, it turned out to be a quite challenging. Gee, where have I heard that story before? Ever wear out a brand new tire in less than a mile? When we returned the canyon was swarming with dirt bikes and there was a large crowd at the Wall. It was 3:00 and Bonehead, Cornfed, Rapids and I had one more project on the books. We went back to camp and donned the previously-planned Team W.H.O. (Well Hung Over) attire. Imagine, if you will, four riders approaching the Wall with thirty-year old bubble-visored helmets (with Team W.H.O. painted on the back) and long black capes. Rapids’ cape was very special; it had an 8-inch collar that made him look like Dracula. We stopped at the bottom of the hill for a few minutes and then assaulted the Wall in pairs. Cornfed had a nice set of those horse teeth so whenever he got close to someone he would smile or try to carry on a conversation. The kids were at the bottom of the Wall with a set of score cards, looking for the best crashes and offering line selections. By the onset of darkness we had fulfilled many of our goals for this year’s trip and rumors of another storm coming to the west coast had us thinking about a Saturday departure. Of course, it took us a long time to decide what we were going to do since the second keg was still going and we had no lack of food and gas and wood. Later that evening, however, we blew the keg, ran out of wood and didn’t want to eat anymore so we decided to hit the Oregon Trail in the morning.
Before dawn we began the packing and by 7:30 we were on the road. Considering a fifteen hour drive, we would be home by 10:30pm, not bad. You know how it goes, don’t you? As soon as we passed through Bakersfield and hit the Five, an obnoxious headwind dropped our progress a few mph and more than a few mpg. The storm that we had heard about was already here. High winds, rain, blowing dust, traffic, state troopers, what a hassle! Somewhere north of Sacramento we saw rows of telephone poles snapped like toothpicks. Hmmmm. By the time we got to Redding it was dark and reports from the truckers on CB said that chains were required and troopers were escorting vehicles over the Shasta Pass. We opted for a Motel 6 and some Margaritas. Seven people in two motel rooms, one word……SNORE. At one point I thought Rapids had actually sucked his nose through his face and had begun to fart in a constant, repetitive rhythm! No kidding!
Late to bed, early to rise! After that thoroughly restful evening we set off on our final leg. The Shasta Pass had cleared out well and we made it all the way to Yreka before having to put on chains. This was kind of interesting; we were getting the full pallet from Mom Nature on this trip. The heavy snow stopped in Ashland and we cruised home from there. Except for Bonehead, of course, who drove an additional five hours and got a trailer flat 30-miles from home.
You know how some vacations are not what they should be? You know, you end up wanting to get home just as bad as you wanted to leave? Going to Jawbone, for me, is just the opposite. It’s the perfect vacation. I really wanted to stay for another week and ride my dirt bikes with my best friends. While I was there I didn’t think once about work, money, health, or terrorism. It was a great vacation.
For many of us it all began with a full day of driving/racing down the Five, starting with seven hours of heavy rain and arriving well after dark at our familiar campsite in the canyon. Of course, for Bonehead, it began five hours before that so he gets the long distance/most stubborn award. None of us would do this if it weren’t worth it and this year was no exception. I won’t bore you with the intricate details of how, where, when or why I met all of my SoCal buddies but suffice it to say that they are one of the primary reasons for this annual event. Jawbone Canyon and the people I’ve gotten to know there are the only things I miss about living in L.A. for ten years. ‘Nuff said there. This year the Kiwi, the German, the Bombardier, the Donkey and the Mouth came out for the first weekend and the rest of the wrecking crew trickled in over the long holiday week.
The first day of riding was absolute bliss. Hillclimbing with reckless abandon on open class bikes and exploring the ridges and canyons of the Sierra foothills. The days are short this time of year so an early start is essential. Well, an early start is essential if you don’t have a hangover from the two kegs of Northwestern microbrew that you brought down with you (remember, we were on vacation). Oh, while I’m on the subject of cargo, we also brought three cords of firewood with us since there isn’t any in Southern California. Ah the miracles of modern diesel trucks.
After adjusting to the terrain and temperature shock, four or five of us took off on a long loop over to Lone Tree Canyon with a quick stop at the Ditch of Doom. Pounding whoops for ten miles on my CR5 loosened up the bones a bit, and then we dropped into a slot canyon for some ‘sploring. Sure enough within a few twists and turns we found water and an eventual dead end. Such is the way of a wanderer. After goofing off for a while we found a hillclimb that took a full minute in third gear to climb. As we approached it we say some movement on the hill, it turned out to be a HUGE mule deer buck. We stopped and stared at it while he did the same, a nice four pointer, must have been lost to be this far out of the mountains. After that ride we came back to Jawbone and spent the rest of the day hillclimbing on the first part of the Squid Filter. This is a big sand hill that is the first part of a trail German and I put in a few years ago, if you don’t get to the top of the hill you’ve been filtered. Plumb Bob took a nasty tumble while coming down it and tweaked his back so hard he couldn’t ride for the rest of the week. Lucky for him he was still able to lift a beer glass and socialize for the rest of the week. He had to stay anyway because his family was there for the riding and wouldn’t have any part of leaving early.
On the second day we headed out to find new trail. Oh, let me rephrase that, new Torture Trail. Rapids and I were looking for something that would top last years’ debacle when we managed to drag nine riders through four miles of utter anguish/enraptured bliss. We decided to try and connect the Goatroper to the Squid Filter via a hellish canyon between the two. German attempted and succeeded to climb a mountain of rocks that led to a ridge over the aforementioned canyon. Repeated attempts by a few of us led us to the conclusion that the German got really lucky on his run so we took a long-cut and found the top of the ridge from a different angle. At this point a few recruits turned tail and parted ways but Cornfed, Rapids, Bonehead and I were feeling spunky. This ridge wasn’t all that steep but it was so rocky (triangle-shaped boulders) that we had to bull-dog the bikes for half an hour just to get to where we thought the German was. Sweating like sheep in Kiwi’s trailer we found no sign of the German. The rocky ground gave no sign of tracks so we figured he had gone ahead and finished out the loop. Rapids found a nice way into the valley floor, this is where we decided to change Bonehead’s flat, which he undoubtedly incurred on the way down. Cornfed was feeling antsy so he went up the other side of the dry creek bed, making it look easy even though it was mostly skill. As we finished off the tire we could hear him roaring up the far side of the canyon and up onto the higher sections of the Squid Filter. Just as we tightened the axle nut on Bonehead’s 520 we heard a distant cry from far below us. I scrambled up a small ridge and found, to my utter ecstasy, the German with his helmet off, trapped like a rodent in a lower section of the canyon. He had been there for an hour trying to figure out a way to get back up what couldn’t be gotten back up. After laughing at him for an extended period we pointed out a line that looked possible. Within fifteen minutes the German was with us and we followed Cornfed’s line out and to the top. We had accomplished our mission and dubbed the new trail with a name that can’t be repeated here.
The next day, I think it was Monday by then, the Bombardier took us on a really nice 80-mile loop into the Paiute Mountains. The pace was quick and the conditions were outstanding. The only detractors from this ride were the gnarly manzanitas and prickly bushes that ripped all of our jerseys and flesh. Oh yeah, At the very farthest point and highest part of the trail, oh, 7500 ft or so, I blew out the rear brake master cylinder on the 520 so I didn’t have any back binder for the rest of the day. It was still a great ride out; we all started swapping bikes and analyzing suspension. That evening a friend of mine from Portland (I’ll just call him D.S.) showed up with his trials bike and we went off into the rocks for the last hour of the day. Having just bought a trials bike two weeks before and “testing” my equilibrium in the rocks of Jawbone with a National/World class rider was really entertaining. It’s a completely different world out there on a modern trials bike.
Along with being a great trials rider and motocrosser, D.S. is also very keen on the trail. For the next day, I lent him my sadly neglected 200 for the day so he wouldn’t have to pack gas for his Montesa. Activities included the infamous Backwards Enduro Loop, the Ditch of Doom again, and other assorted goodies. We wanted to show D.S. and his buddy, Steve (another fantastic rider) all of the “points of interest”. Much to our delight these guys cleaned all obstacles and had a good sampling of the regions geological diversity. Half way through the Mine Trial, Cornfed led us off the trail to a new ridgeline. It began with a nice off-camber four-footer that intimidated quite a few riders. Once on top of this ridge we followed the backbone to a point where we couldn’t turn back. Hmmmm. Been here before, well, not HERE, but in this situation. Judging from the looks of things, NOBODY had been HERE before. As we timidly bull-dogged over the edge of the mountain, we found ourselves at the top of a crumbly cliff-line that offered little in the way of passage. After plunking around and scratching his helmet, and thinking about ropes and manpower, Rapids found a spot that looked less worse than the rest. Steve ended up on the edge of a very bad spot and almost lost the XR400. Two or three guys scrambled over to help him get it set straight after realizing that he was probably going to go over with the bike. After seeing the struggles below me I decided to take a different line and veer off toward a vertical notch in the cliff, couldn’t be any worse, could it? Hopefully some pictures will appear and all of you, my dear readers, will appreciate just how stupid we can be at times. To cap things off we soldiered on, fixing flats and finding challenging trails. We ended the day at our new trail, the one with the triangle-shaped rocks and hopeless escape. That was a good day.
Early the next morning D.S. took me out for a quick trials lesson in the big rocks. I thought I’d be cool and ride without knee guards like the pros. We came to a nice tilted slab type of thing that had all sorts of ledges and treachery. He showed me a move called a Zap that utilizes front wheel placement on vertical faces. This little four-foot thing with no approach gave me fits. One attempt sent me off to the right side sprawling on the rocks, landing on, of course, my knee. Oh, did I forget to mention that the bike landed on its throttle and revved to the moon while I writhed in pain? Nothing like a little Humble Pie. Cornfed showed up a little later and shot some bitchin video of D.S. pulling off some amazing moves in the rocks. I got back to camp and took it easy for most of the day but then went back out on the Scorpa in the afternoon to try and remember some of my “lesson”. A few more riders began arriving, including Geoff from Washington, another “enthusiast” willing to drive fifteen hours for some fun. I couldn’t help but notice, however, that there weren’t nearly as many people showing up as there normally are on Wednesday night. Maybe they knew something we didn’t…..
Thanksgiving began as a normal day in the desert. Slight gusts of wind woke me at 6:00 as they buffeted my trailer. As the sun warmed the sleepy canyon, our happy-dappy little camp began to stir and the familiar swirling non-directional wind increased. One out of ten days are usually pretty windy this time of year and, this being Thanksgiving and all, none of us thought much of it. By 9:00 the gusts had increased to 50mph, however, and sand was beginning to get airborne. There were some people out riding, climbing the Wall, and getting blown over. By 10:00 we were in the midst of a full-blown (a pun!)sand storm. Huge clouds of dust and grit came roaring at us from all directions. Many of us put on helmets and goggles. Then, during a very intense 100+ gust, the Bombardier’s three ton, tandem axle trailer gingerly flipped over in a thunderous crash. Luckily, three of us were standing on the windward side and didn’t get crushed. It was pretty amazing. At that point everyone else got out of their trailers and spent the next four hours trying to keep their trailers from flipping. There were still a couple of doorknobs trying the Wall. Half way up they would disappear in a cloud of sand wrapping itself around the mountain at 80mph. Five minutes later we would see them huddled behind their bike in the deepest rut they could find. In Ridgecrest, a town forty miles away, roofs were blown off houses and 118mph winds were recorded! Highway 14 was closed and other people in the canyon, in less protected areas, had their truck and trailer windows blown out. All of our vehicles now have pitted glass and paint damage but not as bad as it could have been. By 3:00 the wind had backed off to a slight breeze so I decided to make a few attempts at Butterball. Butterball is the nastiest hillclimb in Jawbone; exposed rock ledges, extreme steepness, diabolical ruts, terrifying heights, all are combined in one big snuggly package. The German, the Worm and I tried for forty minutes, many times getting oh so close to the top only to be driven off by an errant bump or misguided wheel. Finally the German made a clean run and reached the top, on the gas and on the pegs. I, on the other hand, kept trying and trying only to be foiled again and again. I knew I could do it but something would always happen and I would have to experience the terror of getting down. Once you’re up in the rocky section, getting down is very scary. It’s so steep that locking up the rear tire is out of the question, you have to coast/float through the rocks and then scrub off speed once you hit the lower sandy/loose rock section. My last and fateful attempt put me high up in the rocks. I began my descent through the rocks and had a good 30-40mph clip going when I hit the lower section. Like many times before I aimed for a wide rut that hadn’t been a problem before. This time was different and my angle on the dangle wasn’t quite up to snuff. My front end plowed out and tried to ride out of the rut but I was leaning the wrong way, over the bars I went and tumbled a few times, flew a ways (like a flightless bird!, i.e. Kiwi!), and landed without breaking any bones. Luckily the bike didn’t follow me too closely and I walked away with a lovely scar, a bruised knee (yep, same one) and smashed fingertip. Butterball and I now have a mutual understanding. Having had such an exciting Thanksgiving Day, we all went back to camp and had an awesome dinner. Bonehead cooked two turkeys in the deep fryer, if you haven’t done this yet you’re missing out.
Friday ended up being a half day because of the slow recovery rate. The Thanksgiving party was really fun but many of us paid the price. By ten or so a few of us went off on a little project that involved trail maintenance and some very exhausting riding. We managed to get ourselves trapped in a canyon with no way out but the way we came, it turned out to be a quite challenging. Gee, where have I heard that story before? Ever wear out a brand new tire in less than a mile? When we returned the canyon was swarming with dirt bikes and there was a large crowd at the Wall. It was 3:00 and Bonehead, Cornfed, Rapids and I had one more project on the books. We went back to camp and donned the previously-planned Team W.H.O. (Well Hung Over) attire. Imagine, if you will, four riders approaching the Wall with thirty-year old bubble-visored helmets (with Team W.H.O. painted on the back) and long black capes. Rapids’ cape was very special; it had an 8-inch collar that made him look like Dracula. We stopped at the bottom of the hill for a few minutes and then assaulted the Wall in pairs. Cornfed had a nice set of those horse teeth so whenever he got close to someone he would smile or try to carry on a conversation. The kids were at the bottom of the Wall with a set of score cards, looking for the best crashes and offering line selections. By the onset of darkness we had fulfilled many of our goals for this year’s trip and rumors of another storm coming to the west coast had us thinking about a Saturday departure. Of course, it took us a long time to decide what we were going to do since the second keg was still going and we had no lack of food and gas and wood. Later that evening, however, we blew the keg, ran out of wood and didn’t want to eat anymore so we decided to hit the Oregon Trail in the morning.
Before dawn we began the packing and by 7:30 we were on the road. Considering a fifteen hour drive, we would be home by 10:30pm, not bad. You know how it goes, don’t you? As soon as we passed through Bakersfield and hit the Five, an obnoxious headwind dropped our progress a few mph and more than a few mpg. The storm that we had heard about was already here. High winds, rain, blowing dust, traffic, state troopers, what a hassle! Somewhere north of Sacramento we saw rows of telephone poles snapped like toothpicks. Hmmmm. By the time we got to Redding it was dark and reports from the truckers on CB said that chains were required and troopers were escorting vehicles over the Shasta Pass. We opted for a Motel 6 and some Margaritas. Seven people in two motel rooms, one word……SNORE. At one point I thought Rapids had actually sucked his nose through his face and had begun to fart in a constant, repetitive rhythm! No kidding!
Late to bed, early to rise! After that thoroughly restful evening we set off on our final leg. The Shasta Pass had cleared out well and we made it all the way to Yreka before having to put on chains. This was kind of interesting; we were getting the full pallet from Mom Nature on this trip. The heavy snow stopped in Ashland and we cruised home from there. Except for Bonehead, of course, who drove an additional five hours and got a trailer flat 30-miles from home.
You know how some vacations are not what they should be? You know, you end up wanting to get home just as bad as you wanted to leave? Going to Jawbone, for me, is just the opposite. It’s the perfect vacation. I really wanted to stay for another week and ride my dirt bikes with my best friends. While I was there I didn’t think once about work, money, health, or terrorism. It was a great vacation.
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