Two Outta Three

Aside from the race, the mission had a pair of additional directives. One was to visit an old friend (center pic) and the other to view a piece of property (at right) that seemed perfectly suited for the purpose of serving as a base-camp for cycling tours and trips. I will attempt to use about a thousand words less than yesterdays race debrief (an oxymoron if ever there was).

By our unanimous agreement it had been thirty-eight years since the last time we sat and chatted. It became quickly apparent that Stan had made a rather large tactical error when, ten minutes into our exchange, he innocently asked what I had been doing (for the past four decades). Two hours, and some of my favorite stories later, he had only heard about half of it. But I had to drive back to the event for the race meeting, sparing he and his wife of fifty years, Darlene, what Paul Harvey was fond of calling, ‘the rest of the story’. 

I was glad that I had initiated the meeting and very much  

enjoyed our conversation. Stan was instrumental in my career as a musician, teaching me everything, to that point, I knew about country music, a fact that I shared with this morning's class adding ‘and I know a lot about country music.’ Stan and I yakked about the old days, the good old days and the characters that we used to ride with. We played some outrageously mediocre music, but every once in a while we’d let loose with a keeper or two. It was a rare Saturday night that ended much before Monday morning. I never really considered that Stan was almost twenty years my senior back then when I was not even thirty. We played hard and we drank hard. Many an occasion I would wonder aloud if, as Waylon used to say, ‘are you sure ol’ Hank done it this way?’ I seem to recall that the answer was always yes. An emphatic yes. I had a rifle rack in my pickup and a dog in the back, lip full of chew and a sixer on ice. Stan laughed about my trying to fit all my hair under the brown Stetson that I decided was needed as a stage prop.

After the race Saturday I headed up the valley. As many times as I had traveled up and down it this trip seemed virginal. I was going to explore back roads previously unknown to me. Almost immediately, the road turned from bumpy, to rocky, and then to dusty, emphatically removing any lingering doubts as to its project viability. Twenty minutes of twisting, climbing, hot and dusty in the summer and icy and dangerous in the winter was not in the initial vision. I managed to get to the cabin with every inch of the van and both bikes covered in dust. The DIY, off-grid cabin was, by my measurement, very cool. Solar powered, independent well and septic and hard wired high-speed DSL on eight raw acres. Lots of charred pine trees from the Carlton Complex fire of 2014 reminded anyone caring to consider the catastrophic reality of an out of control forest fire meeting dry fuel, stored oil, gas and propane. 

I stayed about an hour, walked the perimeter and hiked to the highest point to gawk at the valley’s natural majesty. Outside of it not being what I wanted or needed for this project, it still sits in a spectacular bit of wilderness. I am simply not ready to end this chapter as an anti-social hermit on the mountaintop. 

Driving back down I stopped several times to admire the vistas and stretch my tired legs and back. By the time I hit the highway and pointed it West towards the Methow’s more popular locals, Twisp, Winthrop and Mazama I was ready to eat. 

But couldn’t find the perfect spot. Both Methow and Carlton’s infamous General Store deli counter’s were boarded up, closed and for sale. Sad, hungry and tired I pressed on, zooming through the North Cascade’s spectacular passes. I finally stopped for chow in Marblemount where I was thoroughly ripped off for a sixteen dollar halibut burger and a five dollar beer. I won’t even dignify the establishment by naming it. 

By nightfall I was in the holding pen to catch the 2100 ferry home. It was a long, almost 500 mile, weekend. We defended the age-group crown, dialed-up and old and dear friend, and scouted the property. 

As I just mentioned to my pal upon her inquiry of the trip, ’two outta three ain’t bad.’