Well, the euphoria of escaping from High Rock Canyon didn't last all that long. Just as the warm sun was getting us all dried off, we were faced with yet another water crossing. This was a kinder, gentler sort, however. The bottom was lined with a waffle-like plastic mat, evidently designed to keep the sediment from washing away, and perhaps to provide a little traction. I'd never seen anything like it before. Just don't let the toe of your boot get stuck in one of the holes!
After the crossing, there was a fork in the road. Both ways seemed equally well-used, and my map didn't help much. I knew we were close to Stevens Camp. We'd actually spotted a structure up on the hill, from far below, but you couldn't see if from the junction.
Jonathan took the left fork, which appeared to follow the stream, and I took the right, up a steep hill.
Within minutes, I arrived at this galvanized steel cabin. A nice-looking gentleman sat on the tailgate of his truck, as if he was waiting for me to arrive.
Turns out, he was waiting, though not for me. He'd left the ranch before breakfast, and taken the long way around, sticking to more well established roads. He was with the group in the side-by-sides that had let us go first. He'd brought their overnight gear, and had the cabin all ready for them.
When I asked about the best route to pavement, he brought out his own map, and began to thoroughly confuse me! Just then, Jonathan pulled up and snapped this photo. His fork of the road had ended quickly, at a well-used camp site.
The kind stranger had been to this area many times before, but not very recently. He said the quickest route to civilization (Cedarville, CA) was to take a fork in the trail, a mile back the way we'd come. It would lead us south to the main county road he'd come up on, and we could take that north, back to the pavement.
But, according to everything I'd read on the Internet, and a BLM guy I'd contacted via e-mail, we were very close to a well maintained BLM road, which would get us to Cedarville along a much more direct route - and we wouldn't have to backtrack down any of that rough trail!
The problem here was that GPSs and even maps are not very good at telling you what shape the roads are in - especially in wild country, where conditions can change dramatically with each passing season. Hard as it was to go against the advice of someone who'd been there before, there were just too many pieces of information that pointed the other way. And I REALLY didn't want to go backwards - not even for just one mile.
Within 100 yards of parting, but just out of sight over the hill, we found ourselves on a nicely graded gravel road! It was even signed with the BLM number on my map. We were absolutely elated! I didn't even care at that point, if it did take us longer to get to Cedarville than going the southern route. There was no more brushy, bouldery, watery, Jeep trail!
I didn't write it down, but I think it was about six or eight miles of that beautiful winding road, before we turned west onto this wider and straighter county road. The weather up here was perfect - much cooler than down in the canyon. We were averaging around 40 miles per hour, slowing for occasional sections of deep, loose gravel, and speeding up to 50 for the well-packed parts. Let me tell you, after an entire day of never getting out of first gear, 50 feels like flying!
Eventually, we came upon this very official-looking green sign. Twenty miles to Cedarville, it read. In the distance, we could see the intersection with a paved highway! As thrilling as riding gravel can be, it's always a relief for me to get back to a reliably firm surface.
We made it!
But we hadn't!
What looked like blacktop in the distance, had just been a darker shade of gravel. This called for one final rest stop. We broke out the snacks again, and refocused on 20 more miles of off-pavement riding. Cookies and granola bars are nice, but a real lunch - hours ago - would have been better.
Still, spirits were high. The confidence (and adrenaline) boost from making it out of High Rock with both bikes and bodies, properly assembled, would not wear off for quite some time. Shadows were getting long, but many hours of daylight remained. We'd get there, when we got there.
But this time, for a change, things got better even quicker than expected. The gravel ended only ten miles from that last junction - right at the California state line.
I got my camera out just in time to catch Jonathan riding onto the pavement - as a dust devil spun towards him from the north!
Moments later, the whirlwind crossed the road right in front of me, and it was my turn to exit the wilds for civilization once again!
We thought we remembered at least one place to eat in Cedarville, but when we pulled in to the gas station at the far side of town, we still hadn't spotted one. Jonathan asked a local at the pumps what he recommended we do. "Keep going to Alturas," was the answer.
About 30 minutes farther west, Alturas has five times the population of the 500 souls who reside in Cedarville - and it was right on our planned route home. We'd made it this far past lunch time, what's another half-hour?
Jonathan's good Samaritan had even given us a name - the 'Wagon Wheel Restaurant.' And that's where we finally removed our helmets to reveal our haggard countenances to the outside world.
You can just make out the front end of the KTM in the window. We'd parked around back to lubricate the chains before coming in - and add a little more oil to the smaller bike. Now, they were both ready for the long ride home. It was finally our turn for some TLC. Where are those menus?
Oh my! Meatloaf and mashed potatoes, smothered in dark gravy - with a side of chicken noodle soup. If this doesn't revive me for the last push of the day, nothing would. Jonathan's choice of spaghetti looked somewhat less satisfying, but he said the Texas toast rounded it out nicely. And I gave him some of my meatloaf.
It was Jonathan's turn to book us a hotel, and he'd done that from the Wagon Wheel. And so, 100 miles after our late lunch, we pulled up into the loading zone of the Klamath Falls, OR Shilo Inn - just as darkness was falling. A beautiful ride through northern California's Modoc National Forest had brought us, at last, to the end of an incredible day of riding - with perfect timing.
And it's always fun to park filthy, fully loaded bikes in front of a nice hotel, and tramp into the lobby with all your gear on. Don't know why exactly, it just is - something to do with the juxtaposition of rough and refined, clean and dirty, hardship and comfort. Or maybe it's the outwardly condescending, but inwardly jealous stares from men in business suits.
Good choice, Jonathan.
Once we'd lugged all our gear into the elevator and into our room, we could finally begin to peal off the layers. I immediately recognized the potential for the little sink by the coffee maker. Both my boots fit perfectly inside, and I left them there to drain all night. It's like the room was designed specifically for water-logged adventure cyclists!
Well within one day's range of home, we slept quite soundly that night. And neither one of us had even mentioned finding a place for supper.
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