California, here we come

The B&B where we had stayed had a big elk head that I had admired.  The husband had gotten it and it was a big one.  But Dee, the owner, said it was Bambi compared to one down at the art gallery.  When we got up and were heading out on Wednesday, July 22, I had to stop to take a photo of the big one. 

It was big, a 6x6.  While it might not be huge that way, the mass was impressive.  The guy got it in Nevada in 1999, and it scored a 384 that was the sixth largest at that time.  It was beautiful.
 

What a gorgeous elk.  He's hard to photograph, but you get the idea of how big he is.

As we were later chatting with a fellow rider after we had stopped for lunch, he told us of the old Highway 50, that is now Highway 722.  We decided to take it, skirting and avoiding more showers.  This road is even lonelier than the loneliest road.  I don’t believe we saw a single vehicle on this one.  It was great.

We got back up into the mountains again, going around the corners and twisties.  We saw a rancher, and as I looked at him, and then back, saw his dog, a white with some black, come out from behind a bush on the right.  Oh no.  I swerved.  I made a noise, “noooooo,” that I believe the dog heard, making him hesitate a moment.  Both my action and his saved him from being hit in the head with my engine guard.  It was mere inches, and I was so grateful.  I don’t want to hit anything, and especially not someone’s dog.

We were on a ride path to meet a friend, Kirk, in Silver Springs, Nevada, for lunch.  We’d been going to spend the night but decided to go on. 

Jaz and Kirk.  Kirk has a little Boston Bull that rides in the sidecar, but he got left home on this day.  Eloise didn't make it s she had some volunteer work she was doing.  Next time.

After a large meal, and a lot of catching up, we got back on the road.  We didn’t get very far.  Only to Markleeville.  Jaz wanted to take me to Angels Camp, but the road to get there is not a good one to ride in the late afternoon or evening.  I did not know that at the time, but the next day would certainly show me why we didn’t continue on that late afternoon.

The hot springs pool was nice and warm.  This is a beautiful place and doesn't seem to be well-frequented.

We got up on Thursday morning, July 23, after a pleasant evening in a very small town, that included a dip in the hot springs, a walk through a pasture and near a small creek.  It was very relaxing, and as it turned out, a great way to end a great vacation spent mostly riding on back or secondary roads

Jaz walked me through the woods.

But there were some great pine cones, some quite large.

We found a stream.  I didn't mind my feet getting wet.  The water wasn't cold.

We left Markleeville and got into some twisted, curvy road, with many hairpin turns, some gentle curves, and a lot of others that were sharp and hard.  It was a great ride that went on for miles. 

The downside to this road, Highway 89, that runs through the Toiyabe and Stanislaus National forests is that there was a lightning-caused wild fire that started about six weeks ago.  You could still smell the smoke in the air and see the heavily-burned trees.  It’s a devastated area with blackened trees, yellowed leaves on some trees, blackened rocks and ash.

Blackened trees, devastation.  That's what wild fires do.

The fire came down next to the road, and appeared to have jumped it.

 

Remnants of the fire.

Many of the side roads inside the parks are closed until it’s totally under control.  As of July 16 there were still people working to suppress the estimated $12.3 million fire.  It’s burned 17,790 acres, and they are hoping to have it totally contained by July 31.

But the highway was open for business, for bikes and for bikes -- both kinds of us.

There are big trees in this area, beautiful, old trees, and to some so destroyed hurts your heart.  I know it’s good so that new vegetation grows, but still, the bleak, barren land is hard to stomach. 

We had a Kamikaze squirrel attack as it came into the road at Jaz, ran off, ran out at me and stared, trying to make me flinch.  I swerved as I didn’t want to hit him.  He ran off.  Was he one of the ones they’re talking about that are infected by the plague.  Good thing he didn’t hop on the bike to try to bite me.  He lived to fight another day.

There was still some beauty to be had on this day of riding.

There's nothing quite like a yellow pond lily.

We found this cairn, and I thought she looked like an angel.

So we built one of our own so the angel would have some company in her lovely location overlooking the lake.

We made it to Angels Camp and spent some time wandering around.  We found this great little coffee shop and had a coffee to keep us awake on the next part of our journey which would be the most trying of the trip.  Angels Camp is best known for the short story written by (Samuel Clemens) AKA Mark Twain, "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County."  His story was based on a story he claimed to have heard. 

There are a lot of frog things in this town.

This is one very fancy frog.

The event is commemorated with a Jumping Frog Jubilee each May at the Calaveras County Fairgrounds.  Because of this, sometimes Angels Camp is known as "Frogtown."

There were all kinds of plaques embedded in the concrete sidewalks, "The Frog Hop of Fame," dedicated to the frogs who have won the record that particular year.  They date back to the 1930s, at least, and you can see how the jumping has improved as in the early years they didn't jump far.  In later years, frogs have jumped more than 20 feet.  That's quite an accomplishment for the lowly frog.  Gribbet.  Ribbit.  Croak. 

There was a big difference in just these couple of years.

Only 3' 9" -- must have been a small frog.

Before we hit the mad rush we photographed a reservoir.  It's way down.  California has no
water and many are on water rations.

Then all too soon it was time to make the mad dash to the city.  Combat riding at its worst – 3, 4, 5, 6 lanes of rush hour traffic going one-way into the city.  Just as much, if not more, was going out of the city.  Some guy came into my lane and cut me off.  I swerved, glad for my good reaction time.  I believe a car came into his lane and his first reaction was to swerve.  He apologized, but it wouldn’t make a difference if I was dead, would it?

Hoodlum riding to stay alive.  I’m sure the guys that we’re passing in their anchovy-can cars are thinking they wish they’d never given women the vote.  That’s what led to us riding motorcycles.

But we made it home safely to Jaz’s place, and her mom welcomed us with hugs.  I was ready to be off the road for a few days.  I had things I needed to do.