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A Ride Of The Motley Crew


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It was a dream. A ride of The Motley Crew. Bullett and I set out from The Bat House, down the lane, wet with mist, winding through the dripping old spruce and bright fern, the mossy red alder, in bright sun, steam rising from the macadam. Within minutes we had reached the sea. The mist lay softly in the basin, with sea stack islands, the smallest no more than vague darkenings, others, larger, rising to crisp form above the billows. We, riding on headlands, Cape Ferrelo, in bright white cloud tops, blue sky above, as if floating through the surreal landscape.


We found the crew waiting for us as the land transitioned into sloping bench lands. These were brilliant green pastures, wet with mist, shining in the sun. Distant patches of forest or glimpses of the surreal sea form a backdrop. The cattle graze in the richness. A hawk perched on a snag watches hungerly. We cross the Winchuck River, water uncharacteristically for this time of year, clear, low, and calm. Although the mists have kept the forests wet, we need rain. We cross Rowdy Creek, and reach to the Smith River.


We follow the Smith inland, passing through deeply furrowed gray forest giants standing amidst white sun rays in the mist. The Smith is sparse, vast gravel beds exposed, water lying calm in narrow channels. The road winds amongst the giants, these Coast Redwood, as if through an obstacle course, ever climbing. We ride the turns smooth as silk, running fast. In ten miles we have left the giants behind, as we seek our conquest.


We pass a confluence, and follow the north fork. We ride a narrow ledge of glistening black rock through a dripping primeval moss and fern covered defile, the river glimpsed crashing through the rocks below us as we pass the winding way. We break free into an open run of ten miles. Then another canyon, the road wet, the balmy coastalness now far behind, the verges icy, salty gravel on the center line and on the oil stripe. Trees line the way. Madrone punctuate the spruce and fir backdrop, Farmsteads lie here and there, their orchards bare, and ghostly, under crisp blue skies.


We reach our destination. There be bacon and sausages here. We eat. Then return. The ice recedes, and balmy coastal weather returns. A Roosevelt Elk buck paces along side of us as we race through the turns.


No pictures were made. No evidence remains, bedsides the bacon, which we brought home, and the grins. It was a dream. Or was it? I'll have see what's in the fridge.

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