Avery, Idaho, is not what it used to be. From the 19-aughts through the 1970s, it was a railroad town, believe it or not. Now, the focus is tourism and summer homes, but there's not too much of either. It's a delightfully laid-back place. There is also a seasonal Forest Service office. Perhaps these larger old buildings now serve as staff housing. They're just up the street from the store I parked in front of.
Walking back to the trike, I noticed the gas pump there on the right. But I'd filled up the previous evening in St. Regis, MT, and still had a gallon in each of my jerrycans. I'd have no trouble making it to St. Maries - about 50 more miles.
But I did have trouble - of a different sort. By the time I took this stunning photo near the Washington border, though, all seemed well again. And I was very thankful for that!
Now back to the "trouble." Just ten miles before entering St. Maries, I rounded a moderately tight corner. There was some moisture on the pavement, but nothing too unusual for that particular morning. The rear tire may have slid a tad, but it was barely noticeable. What was immediately noticeable was the reduction in power from the motor. Then a message began flashing on the dash, "VSS FAULT." I knew that stood for Vehicle Stability System, and that it had something to do with the "nanny" that's supposed to keep you from flipping over. I was beginning to wonder what that would mean for the rest of my trip, when an even more ominous message began alternating with the first one, "LIMP HOME MODE."
As you know, by this point, I was a long way from home. I'd read about Limp Home Mode in the manual - and it was not good. My maximum speed and acceleration would be electronically limited until an authorized mechanic could rectify the issue. There was a Can-Am dealer, I knew, in Portland, Oregon, but it was Monday, and they'd be closed. I could spend the night with my buddy Dan and take it in the next morning - hoping they'd look at it ASAP. Or I could continue to Tillamook, as planned, and come back Tuesday or Wednesday. Neither option sounded great. They'd both significantly alter my pre-arranged appointments.
I made it to St. Maries with severely restricted power but a higher top speed than anticipated - 59 mph. It just took a long time to get up to that - and couldn't maintain it on any kind of hill. It was a lot like riding my Ural sidecar rig, actually. After filling up with gas, I hoped that maybe when I started Ryker up again, the fault would be cleared. No such luck.
A few miles down the road, however (on a similarly tight curve), the flashing warnings disappeared. I slowly increased the throttle on the next straight and was immensely relieved to realize that full horsepower had been restored! Maybe with all the rain the last two days, moisture had seeped into a wire connection somewhere, tripped the fault, then dried up - since the sun had finally appeared. Good an explanation as any - when computers and electronics are involved.
Now we can get back to those brilliant yellow fields! They're canola flowers, aka rapeseed - though there are slight differences. In this Palouse region, canola is used as a rotation crop between plantings of wheat. The farmers get healthier soils (and another economic crop), and the tourists get dazzling displays in early summer.
At the Washington line, I really began to feel like I was heading home. Kim and I had lived in the Pacific Northwest for 15 years, after all. And many of my long motorcycle trips had neared their conclusion with a crossing of the Evergreen State.
There's a rest area at the junction of 127 and 12 that I always stop at when I come through. Nowhere near as developed as an interstate facility, it's got only one pit toilet and a garbage can. But the giant shade tree is a welcome oasis of cool in an otherwise sunbaked land. And the farther I'd ridden from the forests of Idaho, the hotter it had become.
That's Highway 127 on the left. I'd come down that hill from Colfax, a charming agricultural town. I would join the more trafficked US 12 from this point and continue southwest to Walla Walla and beyond. But first, a short break.
I first saw the Columbia near the Oregon border, on Highway 730. All that cool water doesn't change the ambient temperature as much as you'd hope, but it does have a positive psychological effect.
I could have taken 14 West on the Washington side of the river. It's a gorgeous route with lots of tunnels, but it's also much slower. I opted for I-84 in Oregon. Exiting at the town of Cascade Locks, I refueled at my favorite spot, then parked under the shade of the Bridge of the Gods to report my progress to my soon-to-be overnight hosts near the coast. I was running a little late but not terribly so. Much would depend on the traffic in Portland.
And it was horrible. Granted, it was rush hour. But it was the worst I could remember - bumper-to-bumper, stop-and-go from well east of the 205 all the way through the Vista Ridge Tunnel. I was more than a little concerned that the transmission would overheat, as it is air cooled. But it continued to operate normally. As for the engine, the radiator fan was on most of the time, but the temperature reading only climbed slightly. In the western suburbs, traffic was still very dense but much higher paced. And Ryker had no trouble keeping up! So glad we weren't still in Limp Home Mode.
Upon my entry into the Tillamook State Forest, I pulled over at Gales Creek Overlook. I wore the Oregon Department of Forestry Logo on my work shirts and hats for many years, but it had been over three since I'd seen it mounted on a sign. And come to think of it, this one looks brand new!
Every forest has a unique smell, to a career forester, anyway. And I breathed deeply of all that comprises the Tillamook - Douglas fir and red alder, salmon streams and salmonberry. Compared to higher elevation inland forests, the Tillamook has a noticeably moist odor - like rotting vegetation, critics would say. But I hadn't realized how much I missed it! It had been a primary facet of life for fifteen years.
And this street had been another. In fact, were it not for the couple living near the top of this hill, Kim and I would likely have never moved to Oregon. Good friends from our early days as an item back in Oklahoma, they owned a rental house here that would become available - just as our stint in South America was ending. With no other plans yet solidified, we'd agreed to move in until they were able to wrap up things on the plains and retire to the town they'd loved and missed since the 70s. Then, if we'd found good jobs and wanted to stay, we'd find our own place.
And that's exactly what happened. And many holidays and birthdays and just average days were shared together - with them and other new friends - behind these very walls. The porch swing you see there on the right was also a focal point - especially for Dave and me. In fact, one of my primary goals for this trip was to sit there with him, gazing at my bike parked out front - and talk about life and motorcycles. I'd probably missed that even more than the smell of the forest.
I pulled up at 7:00 - about an hour later than I'd hoped. It had been a 14-hour, nearly 600-mile day in the saddle. Vicki showed me around her yard, garden, and greenhouse (which she calls the Oklahoma room because of how hot and humid it always is) and then we settled down to supper. A feast of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and toasted bread with Tillamook brand cheese was concluded with bowls of Tillamook ice cream! The culinary skills of my hostess, paired with the bounty of the region, is hard to match.
Afterwards, Dave showed me his new truck while we began to catch up. He'd cleared a spot in the garage that was just perfect for backing Ryker into, so I did just that, while pointing out its finer features.
We all talked more, back inside, before finally getting to bed around 11:00. Ryker had made it to Tillamook, updating the list of five of my bikes now that have been parked in front of the red and white house on the hill. I'd sleep well.
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