The Church of the Open Road Press

THE MYSTERIOUS CRACKS IN ALKALI LAKE

2013-05-25T10:13:00.000-07:00

Day one of the Cedarville, Burns, Winnemucca Tour

First in a series…

The west is vast. For those of us living in the urbanized valley, the west begins somewhere east of the Sierra. Like up on the Modoc.

Towns like Adin, Canby, Bieber and Likely harken back to the era when a trip to town was an occurrence rather than a daily deal; when one left home with an empty buckboard and came home with a full one; when folks knew the few everyones passed along the way, assured that they’d help out in the event of a swollen stream crossing or a busted wagon axle.

After a day’s journey up the Feather River Canyon, past Almanor and across the lip of the Modoc Plateau we arrived at the J n R Hotel. Located in the heart of Cedarville, California, I’d made reservations, as I figured rooms might be limited. Upon calling, the hotelier asked about my business for visiting the area. “To hike to the northeast corner of the state and find the Von Schmidt marker.” “Oh,” she replied. “I’ve never done that.”

Sure enough, upon arrival, a No Vacancy sign hung in front of the hotel. “How many other folks staying here tonight?” my travelling partner, John, asked at the counter. “Just you guys,” responded the desk clerk/house maid/bottle washer/owner. “We’re headin’ out of town day after tomorrow. Not sure we needed the stress of a full house.” She asked again about the reason for our visit and responded “Oh, yes,” when we began to explain. “I’ve contacted the area reporter for the Record. She’d like to interview you about that. I’ll give her a call and tell her you’re here. You can meet her at the Country Hearth next door. Go get some dinner.”

John and I looked at each other: the west.

Although both of us spent decades in public education, our undergraduate degrees, coincidentally, were in Geography. Twenty-some years ago, when we’d been introduced, that major created a connection. This, however, would be our first field experience together.

As we finished dinner, a slender silver-haired woman pressed through the door, identified us as not from these parts, pulled a chair from the table and sat down. John explained our mission, filling her in on the history of the Von Schmidt marker including the fact that it wasn’t located at the actual corner of the state (42 degrees north, 120 degrees west.) This error created off and on tensions between Nevada and California until being resolved by the US Supreme Court in the 1970s. Using his new-fangled iPhone’s global positioning application, we would walk from the marker to the real corner.

At this point the interview changed course. “You want to go for a walk tonight?” the reporter asked. A mile or two east of town, a playa called Middle Alkali Lake serves as a pleasant place for area types to walk for exercise: flat, quiet, views in all directions and substantial but soft footing. “About a week ago, some big cracks showed up out there, the likes of which nobody’d ever seen before. I’ve wanted the BLM Ranger to come out and take a look, maybe measure them, but he doesn’t seem to have time. You suppose you could come out and take a look. I mean, it is Geography, now isn’t it?”

The sun’s westward descent offered slanting light and shadow, nicely accentuating this weird phenomenon. A tiny canyon, consistently about four inches deep and six inches wide reached northward across the playa.

We took a GPS reading, degree, minute and second, and paced northward. It stretched for over 1000 feet. Mark.

Surveying the land, she spotted another one – one she hadn’t seen before – beginning about fifty feet further on. While John waited in order to give us a point for orientation, we paced the new find off.

“What do you suppose caused this?” she asked. “Running water?” I suggested. “Hasn’t rained in weeks.” “Shrinkage due to drying?” “That’d create smaller cracks like these little ones.” She pointed. “Maybe the aquifer is depleting and the lakebed is settling.” “Don’t know.”

Five minutes – time not distance – north, the new little canyon split into several directions. We gave up taking measurements and hiked back.

Standing in the middle of State Route 299 at dusk, she thanked us. Then she pointed to an arête on the rim of the Warners to the west. “Beautiful cirque lake right up there at the base of that crag. You should check it out.” Then focusing to the east: “Where the highway curves east there’s a road that leads to a geyser out that way.” Making a circular motion with her hand she added, “Then there’s the Barrel Springs scenic loop.” For a good spell, standing in the highway, she ticked off and pointed out points of interest we should know about in the Surprise Valley area.

The darkness gathered and the first of a billion stars began to twinkle. Parting, she took our hands and hoped we might report back what we had found on tomorrow’s adventure to the Von Schmidt marker. But, it seemed to us, the adventure had already begun.

Church of the Open Road Press

MO-GIUSEPPE

2013-05-09T15:17:00.000-07:00

That’s Italian for “mojo”

(c) PBS

Constantly on the lookout for a new-to-me riding experience, the idea of a cruiser has winded its way into my thoughts. The urge jump-started again the other night when PBS introduced a series on the US Constitution featuring Peter Sagal from NPR’s “Wait! Wait! Don’t Tell Me!” Sagal cruises the nation’s highways on a custom painted Road King. This got me to thinking that Harley Davidson, the standard against which all cruiser model bikes are judged, must make a pretty good mount. Which, of course, they do.

Over time, mine eye has been drawn to Victory’s big V-Twin Cross Roads Classic. Victory is America’s non-Harley cruiser producer. The Classic is a beautiful bike you sit in, not on, cuddling your butt in a way that invites day upon day of long-distance adventure. It’s American, so that’s cool, and it’s not a Harley making it somewhat unique which is also cool. Plus, people who have ‘em, love ‘em.

Yamaha, Kawasaki, Suzuki and Honda all make Vee style cruisers, each of which requires a discerning eye in order to distinguish it from a Milwaukee product although the true Harley guys certainly know a poser when it putters up on them. These metrics are probably less costly to maintain than the American iron.

I was disappointed when BMW discontinued their outside-the-box boxer 1200C series several years ago. BMW’s iconic horizontally opposed engine made the “C” one-of-a-kind.

I’ve always liked Triumph’s take on the cruiser format as embodied in the Rocket III. Big, powerful, much different than a Harley. It was easy to picture myself visiting far-flung corners of the country on one of these.

Recently, Honda introduced a plastic-and-weight-stripped-away version of the Goldwing. Hefty, but looking leaner, it proposes a competitive alternative to the Rocket. Perhaps less temperamental than the Brit – which, I’m told, isn’t temperamental at all – and with a more robust dealer network.

So Harley has some pretty and legitimate competition, each of which I’ve looked at, sat upon and thought about longingly. But just not longingly enough.

Today, however, I viewed, sat on and barely walked away from a cruiser with the uniqueness many a cruiser rider say he or she cherishes and a visual character – so elusive – most cruisers can only dream about.

Admittedly, my introduction to Guzzi about two years ago shifted my thinking about things Italian. Always a pleasing design, the “Fix It Again Tony” maxim distanced me from owning anything from Italy that came with wheels. Then, while waiting for a tire change on my GSA, a BMW salesperson coaxed me into test riding a used Moto Guzzi Breva that had come to them with 9500 miles on it. Now with nearly 16,000 on it, the B-1100 has become my preferred ride. Sweet. Comfortable. Musical. Eye-catching. A bit quirky: Saab-like, someone said. And most surprisingly to me: rock solid dependable.

Sitting on the Moto Guzzi California 1400 Custom, twisting the inert throttle and squeezing various hand levers, I immediately pictured myself cruising life’s many highways on this sculpted example of Italian form, function, and emotion melded into a rolling piece of art. The distances we would travel. The vistas we would explore. The admiring glances we would gather. The stories we would…

“Do you want me to crank it up?” asked the salesperson. “Maybe take it for a ride?”

“No,” I demurred. I knew what would likely be the result (including sleeping in the garage with it.) Still, I sat on the thing for a long, long time.

Eventually, I drove home on my own, paid for, example Italian art: my beloved little Breva. And I was perfectly satisfied. Almost.

Church of the Open Road Press

SLIDERS CARGO RIDING PANTS

2013-04-30T10:54:00.000-07:00

Initial Product Review

Last week, my new pair of Sliders arrived via parcel post. I ordered them with cargo pockets: a feature that would give me access to my little camera without having to hang it on my belt or fumble with a tank bag zipper. I was impressed with the soft texture of the khaki fabric. These felt like pants, rather than riding pants. Also impressive was the workmanship involved in stitching layers of cotton and Kevlar and mesh together.

One thing missing was the armor I’d grown used to. The catalog suggests that for about ten dollars more, one can purchase CE approved inserts that fit nicely into some interior pockets at the knee. I missed how to order these when I purchased on-line – a circumstance I’ve since rectified.

Upon their arrival, I put ‘em on and traipsed around the house. Right out of the box, the Sliders felt soft and broken in. I did some squats (ultimately having to use a dining room chair to get my creaky knees fully straightened back out – yikes!) and found plenty of room for leg movement.

The following day, I mounted the Guzzi and headed out for a little get acquainted tour. Temps would range between 58 and 90. I’d read that these trousers might feel a tad warm but my impression was that, rather than being too warm, they were successful in insulating my ankles from heat I sometimes feel blowing over the Breva’s heads.

I purchased this pair with an inseam two inches longer than my street clothes. The Sliders seemed to crest the tops of my riding shoes, but stayed below the tops of my more substantial boots. The cargo pockets stowed the camera quite nicely although buttoning and unbuttoning the pockets invited fumble. I found the camera quite secure with the pockets unbuttoned.

Getting on and off the bike multiple times for breaks and walks, I felt as if the belt I was wearing looped around my midsection where I wanted it to, not lower as was my niggle with the expensive, bike-labeled brand I’ve worn and liked for some time. (I also own some rather cheesy denim riding jeans that I purchased just because they were denim. They really have some fit issues.) Engaging in a little rock scramble to get a particular picture, I noted ample room in the Sliders and no binding. “Relaxed fit,” I think they call this.

After six hours in the saddle I came home and sat down to check e-mail and do a little office work. Two hours later, I realized I was still wearing the motorcycle pants. I guess that says something about their comfort.

Church of the Open Road Press

ALTERNATIVE TO INTERSTATE 80 – WESTSIDE OF THE SIERRA

2013-04-27T23:34:00.000-07:00

California’s State Route 20 to Nevada City

Sometimes traveling east or west between San Francisco/Sacramento and Reno/Truckee, we just have to get there now. So we mount up and rocket over the Sierra on Interstate 80. A freeway, I-80 is designed for people in a hurry – and big trucks.

A pleasant alternative, and a “must do” for folks who may pass this way but once involves California’s state route 20. This little gem departs I-80 about 20 minutes west of Truckee and by hooking in with CA 49 at Nevada City, thence to Auburn, adds only about an ninety minutes to the trip. That is, if you don’t stop and if you’re not enticed to explore.

A late April day in the Sacramento area felt more like summer than spring. A trip to elevation seemed in order. I mounted Aria, the Moto Guzzi Breva – what a fun bike that is! – and headed east to enjoy this favored route. After stopping at Brunswick, between Grass Valley and Nevada City for breakfast I zipped all the twenty-seven sweeping miles Highway 20 offered before it conflues with I-80. There, I U-turned, retracing the route, pausing for pictures and sojourns along the way.

West of the interchange, CA 20 slips downward into the drainage of the Bear and Yuba Rivers.

Bowman Lake Road offers a nice dalliance into the basaltic northern high Sierra. A nicely engineered Sierra Discovery Trail begs one to stop and investigate the upper reaches of the Bear.

Although here, it is more of a brook than a river.

Further up this side trip, we cross the more robust South Yuba. I turn back at this point knowing what the road will become aware that the dual-sport is resting in the garage.

The area is bisected with flumes dating back to the gold rush. Miners spared no effort in diverting the natural flow of the area’s rivers into these gradual ditches in order to serve their industry.

The flumes – modernized and upgraded, still carry water for domestic use down the hill. They also provide easy paths for a nice stroll. This is one reason why the CA 20-49 scenic route’ll take more than those 90 minutes.

Back on CA 20, the road descends and then crosses a high country valley that seems lush and green any time of the year that it is not blanketed in snow.

A few miles on, a sign advises of a Scenic Overlook. (Nice restrooms.) A paved trail loops less than a half-mile to a view to the north.

A substantial viewing platform reaches over the canyon edge.

Affixed to the railing is a panoramic photograph labeling promontories as near as a stone’s throw and as distant as the Coast Range.

Roads to places like Relief Hill, Graniteville and Bloomfield are clearly visible through the forest. In less than a moment, about six adventures are added to the bucket list.

Four or five miles further, we find the little-more-than-a-turnout vista point. The view is similar to what we’ve just seen, so I end up taking a portrait of the bike…

…but a turn-off to the old town of Washington is marked. The lusciously paved and well-maintained road sweeps and twists down the canyon to this historic site.

Cell-phone service? I doubt it. Good.

Not far beyond town, the roads improve from pavement to gravel and I think about “the Horse” stabled at home.

One stop I’d not made before was to visit a “Point of Historic Interest.” A small rectangle of white picket fence encloses the marker of a little boy who was carried across the trail west but only made it this far.

Passers-by leave mementos on the fence. I suspect someone comes through every now and again and cleans ‘em up. (Be careful exiting due to accumulations of winter road sand.)

A few miles further on and we find ourselves in the “standard metropolitan statistical area” of Grass Valley and Nevada City. There’s a bit more traffic these last few miles and folks are a bit less leisurely in their approach to the road.

Nevada City and Grass Valley ooze history. Both have inviting main streets with a nice selection of restaurants, galleries, antique stores and mercantiles. Both are quite walkable. Both will contribute to that ninety-minute detour becoming a full day.

Old heliport windsock frame

Today’s Route: Exit I-80 at CA 20. 27 miles to Nevada City. To rejoin I-80, head south on CA 49 to Auburn (a pleasant but busy stretch.) Diversion 1: Right on Bowman Road – the paved portion extends several miles through nicely forested lands, past historic power generating dams and flumes, and by several pleasant reservoirs. The road turns to gravel and head toward historic Graniteville (west) or over Henness Pass (east.) Diversion 2: Right on Washington Road; five miles into town. Great views on the sweeping descent. Two miles beyond town, the road turns to gravel with the right fork heading up to Graniteville and the left fork (poorly signed) heading through Relief Hill to North Bloomfield and the delightful state historic park.

Note: CA 20 heads west from Nevada City / Grass Valley through the rolling Sierra Foothills, into Marysville, across the Feather, into Yuba City, below the Sutter Buttes, into Colusa, across the Coast Range, past Clear Lake, joining US 101 to Willets, then on through the redwoods to the coast at Fort Bragg. One could take weeks exploring all of it. And probably should.

Church of the Open Road Press

HANDWRITTEN LETTERS

2013-04-24T08:33:00.001-07:00

About ten or twelve years ago, on Veteran’s Day, the Sacramento Bee published a letter from a gent who’d recalled the return of soldiers after the armistice. His letter indicated that he had been too young to enlist. A poignant line at the end said: “The boys who left the farm and went to war came back changed. They came back men.”

The letter ran at the top of the column that day. It impressed me enough to contact whoever was the letters editor and ask him to pass along to the writer my thanks for sharing his perspective and insights.

The editor responded that the letter had come handwritten in a hand-addressed envelope and that it clearly was from an elderly writer who probably did not have access to a typewriter or word possessor. He said that he could not give me the man’s address (rightfully so) but he would try to pass my comments back to the correspondent.

About a week later, I received an envelope, addressed clearly by an arthritic hand. Inside were two sheets of lined paper – composed in the same hand – completely filled with recollections of World War I and its impacts on the little Midwestern farm community in which the then young boy had been raised. He wrote with excitement about the increased responsibility with which he'd been saddled, having to rise early and harness the team for work in the field each day; a task formerly accomplished by older youth. He contrasted that with the community’s reaction to the few who “only made it as far as Flanders.”

I know I’ve saved that letter somewhere. Historians might call it a “primary source.” For me, it is a connection I have to a distant past that I now feel I have somehow experienced. I must find it and share it with the grandkids.

Church of the Open Road Press

THE CORRUPTED CONSCIENCES OF CONGRESS

2013-04-17T16:50:00.000-07:00

And what to do about ‘em

I expect my representative to vote his or her conscience. And sometimes, I won’t agree with the vote cast. I accept that.

Not acceptable is when my elected representative’s conscience is for sale to the highest bidder.

The test? If in explaining his or her position, I am offered a rational argument, grounded in constitutional principle, historic perspective (if we ignore history we are doomed to repeat it), scientific precept, or the plain and simple common good, I’ll believe we simply differ.

If however, the explanation is non-existent or is laced with platitudes, faulty data, sound bites from moneyed sources, false patriotism, or is based upon fear mongering and half-truths, then it’s pretty clear someone sold their conscience as a commodity. That, or they're just plain stupid.

Inarticulate, corrupted or ignorant, that individual has lost my confidence and trust and I will look elsewhere when casting my vote.

The country deserves better than what we are witnessing.

Church of the Open Road Press

THE LUPINE FIELDS OF FOLSOM LAKE

2013-04-16T13:58:00.003-07:00

Click on any picture and they'll all expand.

A Sunday in mid-Spring and the dogs deserved a walk. We headed to a nearby reservoir that had, only a week or so before, exhibited a deep and nasty bathtub ring.

Warm temps in the high country, however, had worked their magic on the snowfields and this day, the lake was brimming.

Parking at Beek’s (Joseph Beek being instrumental in development of the Folsom Lake Recreation Area) Bight ("bight" meaning a curve in the river or shoreline) we headed east. [Thanks for the historic and linguistic research, Dr. Sazima.]

Impressive though the azure sky’s reflection in the pool might have been, more stunning was the acre-upon-acre veldt of blooming Douglas Lupine – Lupinus latifolius. [Thanks former 4^th grade student Scotty Campbell for the Audubon wildflower book you gave me at the end of the 1982 school year. I still use it and think of you, pal.]

Only a short way from the parking area, the trail finds itself splitting a field of the knee-high array.

Amidst them, almost every direction was awash in purple – although the Audubon folks call ‘em “blue.”

So dense is their coverage that it is impossible to photograph a single stalk.

The dogs enjoy this with Edward, the lab mix romping through them like a dolphin breaching the ocean’s surface over and over. I can’t get a picture of him doing this, but we did settle him down for a group shot.

Jax the Dog, an aging Aussie and more conservative hiker, poses.

But that whole “sea” analogy begins to take hold. Here, a wave of Lupine seems to break upon the shore and race up the embankment.

Around the bend, they encircle a granite knob turning it into a tiny island.

Next comes a Lupine lagoon.

Then there’s the remains of a miner’s flume, once used to transport water from an untamed American River to a camp or site where its power was harnessed to separate gold from sand or sourdoughs from caked filth. Now the dissolving hull of that conveyance looks like a ship’s prow carrying eager immigrant, perhaps seas-weary Lupine to the waiting masses on the shore.

Further on, a scene contrasts permanence with delicacy.

I wade into the middle of a stand of these things to picture them from the top and imagine, for a moment, that I am looking down upon a thick forest of purple conifers…

…while a pair of Canadian geese eye my actions and perhaps wish I’d just stick to the trail.

Returning after about two-and-a-half miles of trail, I look over my shoulder and snap a parting shot knowing that in about a week and a half, this will all be gone.

o0o

Today’s Route: I-80 to Roseville, CA; exit Douglas Blvd. East – but it feels south – on Douglas to Granite Bay entrance of Folsom Lake State Park. Fee. Continue east – now feeling east – through some nice oak woodlands to Beek’s Bight. Give bicyclists the right-of-way.

Church of the Open Road Press

RETURN TO TABLE MOUNTAIN

2013-04-13T21:55:00.000-07:00

While much of the country is just shaking off the mantle of snow and ice that is a rugged winter, out here on the left coast, we are about half way through spring. An annual trek I take is to visit the display of wildflowers carpeting Table Mountain outside of Oroville in Butte County, California. I’ve done it on every motorcycle I’ve ever owned beginning with that Honda Trail 90 back in 1970. And I’m never disappointed.

This day, the road through Cherokee which “backdoors” the flat top of the mountain was dry and clear and travelled by a least a couple of motorcycle clubs as well as a group of vintage British sports car enthusiasts. While it is said that the journey is as grand as the destination, it’s tough to suggest that the destination itself wasn’t pretty damned grand.

A relatively dry spring has rendered the creeklets across the top of the basalt mesa pretty impotent. Yet they provide enough sustenance for a nice display of whatever these little white gems are that grow along the banks of the rivulet.

Exploring the area, I find myself walking on a carpet of clover – clover abloom with dainty pink blossoms. Each one I want to savor and not step upon. Each one making me glad I stopped at this popular place to stretch my legs a bit.

Cattle country, this has become, since the gold played out 150 years ago. Intrepid ranchers attempted to carve up the land by wire-fencing sections planting wooden posts into a basaltic hardpan that must have required dynamite in order to pierce. Eventually the hand-hewn posts rot and the once-taut wire lies across the top of the mesa.

Underfoot, acres of lupine stretch in all directions. Where the environment is just so, a cluster of owl clover may rear it’s beautiful head.

Poppies tend to seek the sunnier, drier locations…

…while a Monkey Flower has found a home in the middle of a seasonal stream course.

Atop the dry, chunky basalt, an alligator lizard hopes to be overlooked.

On this April Saturday, flocks of people enjoy this renowned locale. The further one ventures from the parking area on Old Cherokee Road, the less dense the number of visitors. Here a hiker and her companion explore a verdant hillside looking so much like someone you might spy in the amongst the heather in some Irish musical.

Through some sort of cooperative venture, the public is allowed to explore this rangeland. Port-a-Johns are set up at a parking area from which trails branch out in all directions. But no matter where one hikes, they are always beneath the watchful eye of a bovine sentinel or two.

Table Mountain affords a delightful display of wildflowers as well as a commanding view of the northern portion of the Sacramento Valley. The best times to visit are from mid-February to mid-April depending on the season’s rainfall. Folks traveling State Route 70 northeast out of Oroville would do well to plan on an hour’s saddle respite up this way.

o0o

Nearby Oregon City Covered Bridge

Today’s Route: State Route 70 to Oroville; exit Grand Avenue. East on Grand Avenue; left on Table Mtn. Blvd. Right on Cherokee Road (a couple of blocks.) Cherokee Road twists up through basaltic draws. Six or eight miles on, a parking area is evident. Return: Continue on Cherokee Road to the old Cherokee town site – consider taking a stroll through the historic cemetery. Continue north-northwest to State Route 70. Left takes you back to Oroville. Right leads up the incomparable Feather River Canyon to Quincy through the northern-most reaches of the Sierra.

Church of the Open Road Press

The Napa - Sonoma Marsh Ride

2013-03-23T20:48:00.000-07:00

off CA State Route 37

The principal difference between the average driver on I-80 and Michael Andretti is that Mr. Andretti knows how to drive fast. Drafting, sudden lane changes, going 20+ miles per hour over, debris, frequent abrupt slowdowns not "under yellow" and hordes of amateur Michael Andrettis and Kyle Pettys are par for the course on the section of freeway between Sacramento and San Francisco. Thus, I avoid I-80 whenever possible.

It is the case, however, that in order to get from home to one set of grandkids, that stretch of the interstate is pretty much “it.” One of the pleasures, though, is the cut off State Route 37 takes between Vallejo and Novato across the top of San Pablo Bay and the Napa Sonoma Marshes.

The road offers pleasant views across a wide and muddy flat to a distant ridge of the Coast Range. Up close, great blue herons and snowy egrets stand reflecting in the still, briny, topaz-blue waters. Normally racing to see how much the little ones have grown, we don’t stop. This day, I took the bike and braved the freeway with the sole purpose checking out this area.

My selected day and time of day, could, most certainly, have been better. A thin, gray overcast foretold of a storm approaching maybe a day and a half off. The tide was low, thus the reflective blue sky-blue water that seems so enticing so many times from the car window was muted. And those graceful shorebirds decided this day to play hard to get.

I paused at a nicely maintained vista point on I-80 west past Cordelia Junction and checked out the view toward the marshes.

State Route 37 splits from I-80 just a half mile further on, then arches over the Napa River before settling onto a raised straight stretch across the wetlands.

At select points, wildlife viewing access is indicated. Speeds along the highway range above the posted 55, and the turn-offs to these viewing kiosks can be rather exciting. Watch for gravel!

The state, in concert with a conservancy has built viewing platforms and access for kayaks and canoes. Ample parking is provided. Nicely graded trails head through the wetlands on levees constructed, perhaps, by long-ago rice farmers. All one needs to view waterfowl is a spotting glass or some good binoculars and – some waterfowl.

Out this way, Skaggs Island Road heads north, but after only about a mile, one comes to a locked gate – military reservation? – and a bunch of busted glass.

A sucker, myself for sheds and small buildings, I spot a corrugated assemblage decaying by a levee. I stop for a close-up and wonder about its original purpose. Perhaps a pump station.

A bit further on, a tiny shack sits abandoned next to a powerless power pole. I considered the effort involved in slogging through the bog to construct anything at all and understand why, along with the seasonal clouds of flying insects, there are no large structures out this way.

I made five or six stops along this seven or eight mile stretch. Absent the birds, always entertaining were the wildflowers and the changing views of the distant hills. And those little buildings.

At the Sonoma County Raceway, also known as Sears Point, State Route 121 heads north and east toward Napa. This much preferred alternative brought me round to 128, Lake Berryessa, Winters and home. I’ll do this ride again checking the weather for a more crystalline day and the tide charts for a better possibility of some birding.

o0o

Winters, CA (file photo)

Today’s Route: I-80 west to SR 37. 37 west to SR 121. 121 north through Napa toward Lake Berryessa and SR 128. 128 east to I-505 or on to Davis via Russell Road and I-80.

Church of the Open Road Press

IN PRAISE OF SMOKING II: PIT BARBECUED TRI TIP OF BEEF

2013-03-20T09:02:00.000-07:00

Here’s a little photo-treatise on how to prepare a pretty darned succulent hunk of tri-tip beef roast to impress friends and first dates.

The night before you’re going to barbecue, place the roast in a re-closeable bag. Pour in your favorite marinate. Half way through the process – this might be 2:00 AM, but if you’re like me you’re probably getting up about then anyway – flip the bag over so both sides get good contact and absorption. [I used to experiment with my own marinate concoctions. One day I stumbled across a store bought sesame teriyaki that made the time I spent steeping and rendering and spicing and boiling and reducing not quite worth the effort.]

An hour or so before you intend to cook, soak a hunk of hardwood in water. Never use a soft wood like pine, fir or cedar! For beef, think almond or oak. [While these two woods work well with beef, try fruitwoods like peach, cherry or apple (along with almond, oak or hickory) with pork. Each wood imparts a different flavor, which is particularly noticeable when smoking pork. But we’re doing beef.]

Fifteen minutes before cooking, light up a small pile of charcoal briquets in the fire chamber of the pit barbecue (or on one side of the kettle.)

Understand that the process of smoking meat is long and slow. It is not inappropriate to line up a few friends to assist you in the process. You may be wishing to visit with them throughout the afternoon.

Allow time for the smoker to heat up. Temperature in the smoke chamber should register between 200 and 220 degrees. The lower the better.

To begin cooking, spread out the coals in the fire box. Install a grill and heat it up. Place the roast on the grill for about three minutes, then flip it over for another two or three minutes. This sears the meat. Some purists will tell us that this isn’t necessary.

Transfer the roast onto a rack in the smoke chamber – or to the other side of the kettle with the top vent directly over the meat.

Carefully – use a tool! – remove the grill from the fire box and place the soaked hunk of hardwood on the charcoal.

Then wait. An aromatic plume will soon curl forth from the smoker’s chimney attracting the attention of the back fence neighbor. The slow-cooking process can take between two-and-a-half and four hours depending upon the size of the roast. Monitor the heat closely adding more air as the fuel burns down. If using a kettle, employ the bottom vents as a damper to restrict or increase the amount of oxygen available to the fire. It is critical to not let the temperature slip too much or the meat simply won’t cook. It is also critical that you appear busy during this protracted cooking time otherwise it will look as if you’re just out in the back yard with a cigar, a few beers and the radio turned up too loud.

Minimize opening and closing the smoke chamber as this impact the chamber’s temperature. As you near the end of the process, insert a meat thermometer to determine when the roast is ready to remove from the grill. I cook it to “rare” – about 140 degrees – pulling it off five or ten minutes before the dinner bell rings allowing the roast to rest and continue to cook.

Slice the roast with a sharp knife across the grain. Notice how the exterior of the meat is nearly blackened. Just inside of that, the meat is a brighter shade of pink indicating (perhaps) the degree to which the smoke penetrated during the cooking. The middle of the roast is light pink and juicy.

Arrange on the plate as shown leaving a portion of the meat whole to retain moisture and temperature.

The product will be tangy and will require a wine with a certain character to complement it. [I generally select a Bogle Old Vine Zin (Clarksburg, CA, Lodi and Amador area fruit) because its not-too-fruit-forward – not-too-tannic balance seems to stand up to the roast’s subtle intensities. But I like a Marietta Zin (Geyserville, Sonoma County) better.]

Serve with brown rice, a nice hunk of rustic French or some roasted corn on the cob, some sautéed vegetables and a crisp green salad.

Finally, act pretty worn out when you bring the thing in. After all, you’ve been out there for most of the afternoon battling a blazing sun and billows of smoke. If you play your cards right, someone else will gladly do the dishes.

All things considered, this is a pretty pleasant way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Church of the Open Road Press

“THE BEST PIECE OF TRANSPORTATION EVER”

2013-03-15T14:30:00.000-07:00

The gentleman in the red ball cap was 81. He told me so in the course of conversation. “Served five years in the military between World War II and Korea.”

I was in the waiting room at a Les Schwab cooling my heels while new brakes were installed on my wife’s Civic. I’d completed a 90-minute circumnavigation of a lovely city park in an effort to stop gnashing my teeth over the fact that I should have cared for this component – a stuck caliper – better.

“Job’ll take about an hour and a half,” said the cheerful service writer.

I figured my walk would allow me to avoid what was now happening.

“Became an engineer,” the gentleman said. “Learned to ask questions. Look for ifs and thens, causes and effects.” He went on to suggest that most people these days don’t do that. I thought about the itchy whine that had been coming from the rear portion of my wife’s Honda for the past three weeks or so and felt my nose being rubbed in it.

“Nope. That’s why we’re in the state we’re in.”

“What state is that?” I asked.

“Oh, you know. Politics. Pollution. The Middle East.”

I couldn’t disagree.

“I served in the Middle East, you know.”

I didn’t.

“Lebanon. Folks were real friendly back then.” He shook his head. “I got out of the service, completed my degree in engineering down in San Diego and found myself hired by Lockheed to design a plant out ta Riverside and then design the rocket that carried the first shuttle into space.”

Photo Credit: NASA

This pricked my curiosity.

“They got me cheap and let me hire whoever I want. So I got…” and he mentioned a name as if I knew of the guy. He went on to explain how they fueled the prototype of the big rocket a bucket at a time.

I took off the BMW motorcycle cap I was wearing and scratched my head. I considered asking something about Morton Thiokol O-rings, but didn’t.

He paused and looked at the hat.

“What’s that there?” he asked, pointing. “You got a BMW?”

Inwardly I shrugged and wondered if I should have put on the Guzzi cap this morning. “Yeah.”

“Well we got a lot in common.”

“We do?”

“Yeah. I bought me an R-50 back in ’61. Brand new. Cost me $1295.00.”

Photo Credit: Jeff Dean Collection

He stopped just long enough to grin.

“Only thing I did was take it home and cut the tips off the exhaust at an angle.” He gestured with his hands. “The thing was just too damned quiet.”

I wanted to tell him a bit about my GS, and talk about places he may have been that we might have in common but wasn’t afforded the opportunity.

“I rode that thing for ten years. Went coast to coast twice and up into Canada. Rode the thing to work most days. Even parked it inside my office when it was raining out. What could they say? I was the boss. Then I got married.”

I nodded.

“I keep wantin’ to get back on one, but the wife says I’m too old.”

I kept quiet.

“You know,” he continued. “I’m an engineer, so I know stuff.”

Yes he does.

Photo Credit: BMW PressClub

“And that R-50 is the best piece of transportation ever to see the sunny side of a sheet of paper. Car, truck or anything else. Pretty good looking. Comfortable. You could ride the thing all day. Driveshaft? Durable! Man! You couldn’t bust one if you tried. Easy to work on…”

“For an engineer…”

“For anyone.”

“Best piece of transportation ever?” I asked. “Even better than a space shuttle?”

“Yep. Far better’n a space shuttle.”

He was reminding me that he’d designed rocket engines when a chipper voice on the loudspeaker announced that my Civic was done. The old engineer’s face fell just a bit as I got up to leave.

I patted him on his shoulder as I passed by thanking him for the chat.

“You ride careful,” he said.

And I regretted that my car’s brake job was finished up quite so soon.

Church of the Open Road Press

WELCOME TO THE CHURCH OF THE OPEN ROAD

2013-03-12T17:38:00.000-07:00

Well. Well. Well. You stumbled into the Church of the Open Road Press, a blog about motorcycles and motorcycle journeys. The content is my own and, unless noted, the photographs are my own.

I am a sixty-plus-year-old Northern California motorcyclist who has been riding off and on since about age 17. I have served three-and-a-half decades as a public school educator in both teaching and administrative roles. Having majored in Geography in college, patterns on the land have always been a fascination.

Although I’ve hiked, strolled, bicycled, and paddled, I’ve found that motorcycling is one of the most engaging ways to see those patterns.

Over the course of my riding I have owned two Honda Trail 90s, a CL 360, a KLR, four BMWs: an R65, R1100R, R1150RT, and currently have an R1200GSA along with a Moto Guzzi B1100 Breva. I’ve never owned a bike I didn’t like and didn’t, sooner or later, regret getting rid of. And I’m always curious about what “scoot” might be next.

Content of the blog revolves around places I’ve discovered, the routes to them, sights along the way, history that came before and some personal memories that are rekindled while in the saddle. Often a post will include a Resource section with links to related places, attractions or literature. Also, sometimes the reader will find a note called Today’s Route. This will give a general idea about where the ride took place but it is not intended to replace a good map.

Danger, Will Robinson! Sometimes I will wax political or speak to issues related to education and literacy. Readers will forgive me my biases, which I believe are centrist and middle of the road. But, then again, everyone believes their beliefs are mainstream and that those who disagree are simply out of the mainstream. Such is life. My opinions on such things should carry no more or no less weight than just about anything else one might read in the blogosphere.

Occasionally, I’ll review a product with which I have been favorably impressed, but I’ll not blog about a product that’s a bust. If I have an issue with something I’ve purchased, I contact the retailer or the manufacturer.

Also, this blog is not about wrenching. Repairing most things mechanical is not among my proclivities. Therefore, I don’t fix my bikes. If something breaks, I take it to someone who can fix it so when I get back on the road, the thing actually works and I can focus on enjoying the ride.

The Church of the Open Road lives on the Blogger format created by Google. The current state of the cyber wars is such that Blogger format blogs are not compatible with Microsoft’s Internet Explorer, but seem to work with Apple’s Safari, Google’s Chrome and with Firefox – which is a free download.

The most recent post is always first. Clicking on a picture in the right hand column will link the reader to a specific post related to that picture. Tags at the bottom of any post will link the reader to posts of similar content topically or geographically. Further down that right hand column is a listing of all the tags. The bigger the tag-listing font, the more posts on that topic.

Click on “Church of the Open Road Press” in the banner at the top of the page to always return to the most recent post.

Some folks, with little better to do with their time, become ‘members’ of the Church of the Open Road blog-site. I think this means that they get notification when something is posted, but I’ve heard that isn’t 100% true. I, myself, am a member, and I don’t get an e-mail notification after I’ve posted something. There’s a “Google” button way down the right hand column you can click if you’d like to join.

The Church of the Open Road appreciates comments from readers and, at times will copy a comment from a forum to which the blog has been linked. That comment is then pitched into the comment section of the piece to which it is related. This provides a little conversation, adds to the overall content and enhances the post commented upon. It shares with the reader additional perspective and, sometimes, corrections.

The “Church” does not accept SPAM except when it is offered with hash browns and eggs over medium. Folks sending links in their comments may find them automatically routed to the SPAM folder. The coupled factors of "Anonymous" and an imbedded link seem to trigger the auto-SPAM response. I check that folder regularly and will sometimes rescue a legitimate link or comment from oblivion there, but there seems to be an increasing number of not-so-nice links making their way to the site as of late.

Know that the “Church” does not monetize any of its elements. Readers should find no advertisements and should not respond to any if they somehow appear.

Note: Clicking on the typewriter in that column to the right will always steer the reader to the latest political or education/literacy-based post. To avoid those, don’t click on the old Remington Standard.

The phrase “Church of the Open Road” was co-opted from a long-ago contributor to either Rider Magazine or the BMW MOA’s early publication. Since that guy’s no longer writing, I took the liberty of swiping the term. It’s catchy and it speaks to what many of us many feel when we’re out there sweeping around a curve, cresting a hill or inhaling the fragrances of a meadow, a high country forest or a far-off campfire.

The Church of the Open Road is about riding, appreciating, sharing, and enjoying the gifts and mysteries of the roads that unify us. It should be viewed as my way of giving back to the many who have offered me tips, counsel, direction and advice while on the road.

Be safe and remember: they can’t see you. Ride accordingly.

Church of the Open Road Press

GRAVEYARD SHIFT

2013-03-10T17:52:00.000-07:00

It was a graveyard of the old-fashioned Western kind. It was on a hill, about a mile and a half from the village. It had a crazy board fence around it, which leaned inward in places, and outward the rest of the time, but stood upright nowhere. Grass and weeds grew rank over the whole cemetery. All the old graves were sunken in, there was not a tombstone on the place; round-topped, worm-eaten boards staggered over the graves, leaning for support and finding none. "Sacred to the memory of" So-and-So had been painted on them once, but it could no longer have been read, on the most of them, now, even if there had been light.

- Mark Twain in Chapter 9 of Tom Sawyer

Greenwood

Samuel L. Clemens did a fine job of teaching generations of kids of a certain age that a cemetery was a sinister and scary place to frequent: haunted with spirits and specters. Graveyards were safe for the passer by only if carrying a dead cat to swing by its tail at midnight beneath a full moon accompanied by the appropriately spooky incantation.

Helltown circa 1973

It wasn’t until a day hike to a six plot site hidden up a remote reach of Butte Creek Canyon in my early twenties that my perspective changed. Call it my “graveyard shift.”

Helltown

At the (now inaccessible) Helltown Cemetery, a knocked over and cracked marble marker read “Lost on the Steamer Golden Gate.” In a virtual twinkling, that singular inscription turned Tom Sawyer’s over-arching, stay-away superstition on its head.

Perhaps, I’ve come to realize, this is why we call them “plots:” There are stories here. Histories. Tragedies. All I needed to do was walk through the gate, observe, question and reflect a bit.

Some observations and questions:

Were the lives of those with big markers more significant than those with smaller ones? Area bigwig Samuel Neal resides here, as does the namesake of the town called Durham. Sam has the bigger stone.

Durham, CA

This prospector came all the way from Sweden. My hunch is he was about 40 when he arrived in search of gold. 1869 seems like along time ago only a couple of decades removed from the Gold Rush…

Manzanita

…but this 1693 Boston plot puts things into perspective. We’re all just whippersnappers out here in California.

Boston, MA

Speaking of perspective, I looked at the 88-year lifespan of Pvt. Butterfield (originally from Illinois) resting in Placer County now for about that same length of time. I wondered what he may have wondered about the cavalcade of history that had marched through his life.

Gold Hill, near Newcastle, CA

Three years ago, I took a ride up toward Cherokee (Butte County) to console myself about the 22% drop in the value of my 401K. Then I saw this marker…

Cherokee, CA

Nearby, I wondered if this resident was cozy or lonely…

Cherokee, CA

Throughout our cities and towns, we seem to sort and separate the departed: Protestants here, Catholics there and I wonder why we don’t assume God will just sort things out on the other side…

Near Elk, CA

Historians often look for primary evidence when trying to piece together what happened way back when. Cemeteries can tell us when folks arrived in the area, where they came from either from an examination of their surname or because it’s engraved on the stone, and when the cholera epidemic hit.

Cherokee, CA

Cemeteries equalize those who died too early with those who somehow enjoyed a wonderfully long existence even without our miracle of modern medicine.

Occasionally, a marker will evoke a spirit different from sadness or loss…

Centerville (Butte Co, CA)

…and many times I ride away thinking, “That’s not a bad spot to spend forever.”

No matter what thought leaves with me after I’ve explored an historic burial ground, I always flicker back to that trek in Butte Creek Canyon so many years ago. I’m thankful friends coaxed me up there and for the resultant “graveyard shift.”

o0o

Directions (in order of photos):

Greenwood Cemetery (El Dorado County): SR 49 from Auburn or Placerville to Cool, East on SR 193.

Helltown Cemetery (Butte County): Skyway south and east out of Chico, right on Centerville Road, bear left at Covered Bridge, through Centerville, left on Helltown Road. Private Property – Restricted Access – don’t mess with ‘em.

Durham Cemetery (Butte County): Midway south from Chico, left on Durham Dayton Highway.

Manzanita Cemetery (Placer County): Old SR 65 north from Lincoln, right on Chamberlain Road, left on Manzanita Road.

Boston Cemetery: N/A

Gold Hill Cemetery (Placer County): SR 193 east from Lincoln, left on Gold Hill Road.

Cherokee Cemetery (Butte County): SR 70 north and east from Oroville, right on Cherokee Road.

Guffy’s Cove Community Cemetery (Mendocino County): SR 1 to Elk, one mile north of town.

Centerville Cemetery (Butte County): Follow direction toward Helltown, but stop in Centerville. Check out the schoolhouse museum there.

Willow Ranch Cemetery (Modoc County): US 395 north from Alturas, right on Fandango Pass Road.

Mary's Chapel

Mary’s Chapel and Cemetery (Yolo County): North from Woodland on 113, west one mile on CR 15 (but watch for sign on 113). There’s a lovely, preserved, whitewashed country church on the grounds, so typical of rural America.

Not pictured but of interest:

Mechoopda Cemetery (Butte County) on West Sacramento Avenue in Chico (Native American?) Locked gate.

Iowa Hill Cemeteries (Placer County): West on I-80 from Auburn, at Colfax circle back on frontage road on southeast side of freeway, left onto Iowa Hill Road. Challenging road: steep, twisty, scenic and steep. Real steep.

Boot Hill (Mono County): US 395 to SR 270 junction south of Bridgeport, east on 270 to Bodie. This is a great place to rest as the sun sets. Beyond dusk, the voices of the past begin to tell stories on their neighbors. Honest.

Church of the Open Road Press

WEST SIDE OF THE RIVER

2013-03-07T20:30:00.000-08:00

on California’s State Route 45

Click on any picture, if you must, to expand

State Route 45 provides a welcome alternative to I-5 when traveling the valley north of Woodland. Coursing through farm lands, orchards and tiny bergs, the two-lane carries us back in time a bit.

Along the way it tempts us with occasional views from the west side of the Sacramento River. Although many lanes lead to the leveed banks of the Sacramento, few provide an alternate to Route 45. Most of these little avenues offer access to farmers and fisher-people simply dead-ending at the river.

The run south from Hamilton City is straight and smooth. Once past the Tehema-Colusa Canal levee, undeveloped land allows for nice views of the Coast Range off to the west and riparian stands of oak and black walnut nearer the river.

Within a few miles, almond orchards present row upon row of, on this day, delicately blossomed trees. Their fragrance is high on my list of favorites: a virtual tie with my local cigar guy’s humidor.

The highway passes through bergs that, before interstates, served as mercantile hubs farmers and ranchers.

An equipment repair shop may or may not stay open along with taverns, small, whitewashed churches and tiny country stores. I stop for bottled water and an apple, not because I need the water or the apple, but because, I figure, they need the business.

Route 45 intersects 162. I cross the river here to visit Butte City and see what’s going on. Not much…

…except for this pleasant reflection of peach blossoms.

Area kids go to school in Princeton with those making it through the twelfth grade legitimately called “Princeton Grads.”

In the 50s, the Princeton High School Band made regular treks to South Bend, Indiana to perform at Notre Dame football games. No longer. No money. Heck, there may not even be a band any more. Where’s Harold Hill when you need him?

Out this way, the almond orchards have yielded more to English walnuts. These black-stumped, silver-barked trees are spaciously organized into cool groves that might invite a nap on a hot summer day. Cautiously wondering how the landowner might react, I don’t do this.

Colusa provides a respite from the saddle. Once among the largest wheat transshipment points in the country, the town nestles the west bank of the Sacramento about half way through a sojourn along state route 45. Devoid of big box stores, the main street seems to be weathering some less-than-the-best economic times.

A stroll through the neighborhood backing the business district, one finds a nice collection of Victorian and craftsman style homes on spacious lots along tree-lined streets.

125 years ago, the state powers-that-be strongly considered Colusa for the location of the northern Normal School, an institution for training teachers. Fifty miles distant and home to US Senator John Bidwell, Chico won the bid for this school. One can only imagine the flip-flop of town fortunes had the decision gone the other direction.

Beyond Colusa, the valley has become more of a sink, a low land in which water may collect for weeks at a time in winter. Rice is now king as are wintering fowl.

Heading south from a junction with SR 20, highway 45 slips through glens of standing oaks, then veers onto the tilled valley bottomland.

Soon, it curves back riverward at Grimes. Another country store and little church make this a community. From here, the highway appears to follow straight lines, making ninety-degree turns at, perhaps, historic property lines.

A nice alternative is Wilson Bend Road.

This little gem wanders through a few more fields and orchards and offers few more miles of levee top views of the river.

The pavement isn’t great, but I’m not in a hurry or I’d be over on I-5.

The final stretch is a pleasant jaunt through the Great Valley, although I always get to Knight’s Landing wishing there were a few more miles of state route 45 to enjoy.

o0o

Today’s Route: I-5 to Orland or State Route 99 to Chico; SR 32 to Hamilton City (Glenn County). From Hamilton City, south on SR 45 through Ord Bend (what’s left of it), Glenn (ditto) to Four Corners. Here, consider a side trip over to Butte City just to check things out across the river. Continue south of SR 45 through Princeton (find the old ferry pulled up on the bank in the shadow of a warehouse; but watch out for the little yip-yip dog who guards it!) to Colusa. SR 45 joins SR 20 through town splitting about five miles south of town. Bear right, through Grimes, Grand Island and on to Knight’s Landing. Alternate south of Grand Island: left on Wilson Bend for a few miles of levee riding. From Knight’s Landing SR 113 leads to Woodland or Yuba City; county road E-10 hooks up with I-5 at Zamora.

o0o

In Colusa, I pulled onto a side street, visited the nicely maintained city park and then hoofed over to a newly opened tacqueria occupying once-vacant and dusty storefront. The carnitas tacos were subtly smoked and gently spiced. They came with homemade refrieds and well-seasoned rice. The proprietor, who may or may not have been born on this side of that new fence folks seem to be so excited about, made chipper conversation with customers, asking me about what I was riding and where I might be headed. He was equally deft engaging a Hispanic gent who’d parked a working copy of a Chevy truck out front. As I departed, the young restaurateur bid me “safe travels.” I left feeling gastronomically satisfied. I couldn’t help but reflect on the opportunity this young man had sighted and seized.

Church of the Open Road Press

CALIFORNIA RANCHO DAYS

2013-03-03T19:33:00.000-08:00

…in the Great Central Valley

In grade school about a half-century ago, my classmates and I collectively read “California Rancho Days.” Part of the California State Series – before major publishing houses were ceded tacit control of the curriculum – this state sanctioned, cloth-bound volume contained text and pictures of a pastoral landscape.

Although probably printed in black and white (or maybe brown and white) my vision of the content was a full-color display of rich rolling fields, carpeted with wildflowers and gently grazed by cattle and sheep. In the distance, snow capped peaks towered over and provided sustenance to the verdant valley. Small streams formed rivers that coursed across the fertile plain. Modest hand-hewn houses dotted the valley floor and foothills, each with a well-tended garden and a tiny orchard of ever-blossoming fruit trees. Folks living in that time rode working horses, made tortillas by hand and danced, fiesta style, every evening.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, this harmonious vision still exists for the Great Central Valley of California.

Church of the Open Road Press

EAST SIDE OF THE RIVER

2013-03-02T11:01:00.000-08:00

Not on California State Route 45

The Sacramento River is a silent, strong workhorse. The river sources itself off the flanks of Mount Shasta, way up north in Siskiyou County. It collects minerals and vegetable matter and, not withstanding the recent appearance of Shasta Dam, transports its load south to deposit throughout the broad Sacramento Valley. The rich loam on the valley floor provides the best growing anywhere in the world.

Roads in the valley are generally straight, providing no real challenge for the motorcycle rider. The exceptions are those routes that trace the river’s banks or levees. State Route 45’s seventy miles between Knight’s Landing and Hamilton City (and some neighboring secondary roads) offer a pleasing respite from I-5 or SR 99 with sweeping turns and nice views of the workhorse.

Such then, was my plan. Except that I started on those secondary roads and never actually got to 45.

The Knight’s Landing Bridge is a rather unadorned crossing of the Sacramento River. The bridge’s spray painted label looks as if it were an afterthought. Walking across the span, one is afforded a nice view up the river. Just below, a resident lives in a houseboat that rises and falls with the rhythms of the river. Not bad.

Immediately across the bridge, Cranmore Road heads west and follows the river’s winding levee.

A once-near-classic Cris-Craft, having seen far better days, serves as the landmark for the turn.

Cranmore Road is not well maintained. The pavement is rough enough to not invite spirited use of the throttle. But that’s okay. Views along the languid river are beautiful.

It is said that in Africa, toward the end of their lives, elephants find special places to greet eternity. Elephant graveyards, they’re known as.

In America, the same might be said for Studebakers. This is the second of such hollowed places I’ve run across in my travels.

Much has been done to contain and control the Sacramento River. No longer does it flood the valley in winter spreading new nutrients to the deep fertile loam. Levees can only contain so much, so at various places, weirs are constructed allowing water to flow into by-passes, thus relieving pressure down stream.

At Tisdale, excess water flows into the Sutter by-pass. When not in use, the facility serves as a launching point for folks who’d rather not work today.

State Route 20 crosses the river at Meridian – a town located where the Mount Diablo Meridian bisects the Sacramento. The bridge is an elegant little suspension span that pivots to allow channel traffic to pass.

Throughout the journey, if the paved road isn’t riding atop the levee, little gravel access roads tempt the passer-by.

In the shadows of the Sutter Buttes…

…one finds many implement graveyards scattered here and there…

…and barns of many different construction materials like this corrugated metal building just waiting for the next big wind to blow it into the river.

But, with all that old stuff, it is interesting to find modern big-scale farming deploying some land for solar power collection. I passed three of these solar farms this day.

Llano Seco is one of the few remaining properties secured during the days of the Mexican Land Grants. 170 years ago, these grants were enticements for folks to settle the California interior – perhaps to prevent an influx of Americans that might ultimately overthrow the Mexican powers-that-be. (Apparently nobody told Capt. John C. Fremont or James Marshall over in Coloma.)

Once rich wheat, then rice acreage, much of it serves as a haven along the Pacific Coast flyway.

I spent twenty-eight years growing up in Chico living along Chico Creek, but I’d never made it out to its confluence with the river. Until today.

Looking east, the creek is the placid little stream I remember wading in and building dams across.

Where it joins the river it is a mud flat thick with cattails. Once known as the “Wash Out,” it was a great place for high schoolers to enjoy some clandestine beer on a Saturday night.

Up stream of this confluence, the river appears wide and lazy, but tossing an errant stick into it, one soon becomes aware of its swift and unrelenting flow.

Crossing the river wasn't always so easy or convenient. As recently as the 1960s, cable ferries at Ord Bend and Princeton shuttled farm vehicles and residents from one side to the other. Dad used to drive us out to the river in the old '54 Ford wagon just to ride ‘em.

I stumbled across the remains of the Princeton Ferry rusting and rotting just above stream level. And atop the levee just behind the hulk? That's State Route 45: the road not taken this day.

Between Chico and Hamilton City, the narrow, steel trussed Gianella Bridge carried traffic for decades. While working for a local route delivery company in the 70s, a colleague named Mark Stoy (for the purposes of this story) had the Westside route. Daily he’d steer a big old Ford bobtail across the bridge and about twice a month, he’d return to the warehouse missing a mirror having clipped it on the side of the bridge, or worse, on some unsuspecting on-coming vehicle. All of which prompted the boss to say: “If you’re on the Gianella Bridge and you see Stoy coming from the other direction, the safest thing to do is jump off.”

The old bridge is now gone and here is the replacement:

Next trip: Looks as if I’ll need to rocket up to Hamilton City planning to take a day exploring the west side of the river on and off SR 45.

Today’s Route: Carry a good local map – don’t rely on GPS! I-5 to Woodland; north on SR 113 to Knight’s Landing; cross river: left on Cranmore Road (landmark: busted up Cris-Craft). Follow Cranmore Road through Kirkville, and Cranmore (see if you can find either of these places) always bearing west toward river. Short of Grimes, right on S Meridian Rd; cross under bridge at Meridian, continue north on N Meridian, becoming Butte Slough Road and leading to Colusa. North on River Road to Princeton area. Left on Rd XX – crummy pavement, broken glass, loop west, north and then east on Rd 69 to Afton Rd. North on Afton Rd; Cross SR 162; north, then east to Seven Mile Lane; north (left) on Seven Mile; west on Ord Ferry; North on River Road; left to continue on River Road at Chico River Road (don’t be confused); North to SR 32; cross River at Gianella.

Return: West on 32 to Hamilton City; south on 45 to Knight’s Landing; OR east on 32 to Chico; south on SR 99.

Church of the Open Road Press

“THAT USED TO BE US” – TALK AMONG YOURSELVES…

2013-02-21T20:47:00.000-08:00

…also, middle-of-the-road takes on current issues in politics and education…

- from this blog’s banner

A distant riding buddy surprised me with a copy of Thomas L. Friedman (recall his book The World is Flat) and Michael Mandelbaum’s 2011 volume called That Used To Be Us. It is subtitled: “How America fell behind in the world it invented and how we can come back.”

“Great,” I thought to myself. “350 pages of non-fiction to plow through.” But, because “Buddy” and I get on the phone each Sunday evening for an hour to recap the week’s events in both politics and the personal, I figured, plow through was what I needed to do. It would certainly provide fodder for some interesting long distance discussion over whiskey and a cigar.

My cynicism was quickly thwarted. The book is based on a review of our country’s history, a look at the world in 2010 that is far different than the one in which I was reared, and discussions with educators, politicos and business leaders from the United States, India, China and a whole bunch of other places. I found the volume to be a difficult-to-put-down portrait of America’s current reality. Friedman and Mandelbaum identify four challenges we, as a country, face. They are not gay marriage, the Second Amendment, larger-than-life sodas, or whether the President is a citizen.

The challenges Friedman and Mandelbaum identify are:

Globalization,
The revolution in information technology,
Our chronic deficits, and
Our excessive consumption of energy.

A quick look at a week’s worth of headlines from the Sacramento Bee supports their contention. Almost every article in the national news, world news or business news sections could be tied back to one or more of these challenges. Causations identified by the authors are many. Our shift from an ethic of investment and saving to one of consumption may have propelled the markets but isn’t the epitome of squirreling away nuts for the winter. The polarized nature of our two-party system gets a good whack. Even my beloved field of endeavor – public education – receives a well-deserved slap to boot.

As I read This Used To Be Us – eagerly, it turns out – I began to reflect on the differences between the focus of Dad’s generation: we want to make sure our children have it better than we did, and my own baby-boom generation: “Cash or credit?” “Why credit, of course!” and again realized those of us born between ’46 and ’64 might not have been the best stewards of the future. Then I got to thinking about my kids and – although I sound much younger than a grandpa when I type – my grandkids. I have five of ‘em. What heritage, what legacy have we left to them? I asked myself. Then, the life-long educator in me thinks: What can I do to turn this around?

Here’s what I propose to do: For my kids and my brother’s kids, I want to buy the paperback copy of the book. I will give it to them with a book of tiny Post-It® stickees, a sharp pencil and a colored highlighter. I will respectfully ask that each of them read the book with the following caveat: You must highlight no more than twelve phrases, sentences or ideas that either reinforce something you believe or compel you to see something in a new light. The pencils and stickees are provided so each can mark whatever strikes him or her in either of these veins before winnowing it down to the final dozen.

Then, in three to four months, I’ll cook the food and provide the drink with the proviso that we will engage in a 90-minute discussion of the points they each individually highlighted.

Middle of the road? Isn’t that dangerous?

- from this blog’s banner

This indeed might be dangerous – or at least, quite interesting. The group doesn’t get together all that often. And for folks who are seemingly related by blood or marriage, their backgrounds and experiences vary greatly. But isn’t that America?

One is employed with an independent insurance agency;
One has completed a business degree at a California State University;
One attends UC Berkeley;
One is underemployed as a trained diesel mechanic;
One is a pretty conservative Christian;
One is an outstanding percussionist and jazz and rock drummer;
One has recently gained a management position at a local McDonald’s;
One is an award-winning California winemaker;
One attends a community college in Oregon;
One - like his dad - can fix darn near anything mechanical;
One has attended – and may still attend – some local Tea Party confabs;
One has a fine eye and hand for drawing and art;
One is a mother of two;
Another will soon be a mother of three;
At least one owns more than one firearm;
One is attempting to establish residency out of state;
One might be classified as a bit of an anarchist – although I wouldn’t;
One works in a butcher shop;
Several might be considered conservative in the neo sense;
Not sure any are as liberal as others might perceive me;
Four are female;
Two are male;
Two are married – spouses are encouraged to participate – and yet:
All are going to have to make their way in the world we left them.

It will be interesting to see how many of the six (or eight) will be willing to partake, and how the discussion will play out over some ribs, chicken, salad and maybe some beer.

However it turns out, it seems to me that promoting middle-ground discussion about our nation’s history and how we got to where we are is the least one can do to move the country forward. From such a foundation, perhaps we can find solutions…

o0o

Resource: Friedman, Thomas L. and Michael Mandelbaum: That Used To Be Us. Farrar, Straus and Giroux. New York. 2011. Probably about 15 or 16 bucks in paper. Please contact your local bookseller.

Church of the Open Road Press

SO YOU WANT TO BE ON A SCHOOL BOARD. WHY?

2013-02-11T16:08:00.000-08:00

…Holding Fast to the Personal Agenda

Here are some common reasons for pursuing a position on a local school board:

1. The superintendent needs to be fired.

2. I want to ensure that my kid gets the best education possible.

3. The schools need fixing.

4. I want to cut waste, fraud and abuse.

5. This will be my ticket into the political arena where I can run for county supervisor, the assembly and, maybe, statewide office.

6. I want to take care of the students and the folks we pay to take care of the students.

There is a correct answer. Yet, too many candidates for Trustee positions either don’t know the correct answer or, once they assume office, forget why they’re there.

Here’s a closer look at the varied rationale for seeking a seat on the Board of Trustees:

1. The superintendent needs firing. A Board Member friend I know opines, “The most important – in fact the ONLY important – thing a Board does is the hiring and firing of superintendents. "But,” he adds immediately, “Trustees must do their homework about both the disconnect between the current administration and the needs of the students and the establish with as much surety as possible that the new supe can meet the needs better than the old guy did.” It is painstaking and time consuming. He adds, perhaps cynically, perhaps realistically: “At best it’s a crap shoot.”

So you’ve got the perfect superintendent. Now what are you going to do?

2 I want to ensure that my child is offered the best education possible. From that follows: I will get my child into the classes of the teachers with the best reputations; I will have an avenue to be in the classroom monitoring that teacher’s work with my child; I will have access to the school site’s leadership so that my complains/concerns can move to the front of the line.

A former Trustee and bicycling buddy tells me: “Once you become a member of the Board, you give up being a parent.” Sage advice. Ethical Board membership means Trustees do not throw their weight around on the school site or in the classroom.

In practice, absent a quorum of members at a calendared Board meeting, a Trustee is elevated to the position of citizen with all of the privileges and limitations that any other citizen has. Able and competent administrators will protect teachers from irrational demands of expectations of favorable treatment from parents who happen to be trustees just as they would protect staff from the unreasonable expectations of any parent. Courageous educational leaders lose their jobs all the time because of this. But it is the right stand to take.

3 The schools need fixing. Yes, they probably do. Unless “fixing” is simply replacing one unfavorable practice with one less favorable – not research based, not data driven, not practiced in buildings with similar demographics but better results, then the correct way to effect change is to engage in a collaborative process involving stakeholders with multiple points of view because of the varied experiences they bring to the table. A Trustee really can have but one point of view and one set of experiences to guide him or her: his or her own. In order to create measureable growth in a sustainable manner, a Trustee demanding a specific change or a particular program will only serve as a speed bump in the fast lane toward progress. Better that the leadership takes input from the entire public and the educators engineer the change. Trustees can scrutinize a recommendation and evaluate the information, data or process by which the recommendation is achieved – they can even participate as an individual member of the public on a specific committee – but the effective Board member will not demand some different outcome simply because he or she can.

4. Waste, fraud and abuse: if we repeat it often enough, it becomes a false truth that can drive policy. Are there instances of these three mismanagement stooges? Certainly. Are they the prevalent way of doing business? Probably not. If they are, the Board should taken action. If the Board does not, the voters should by firing the Board.

The truth of the matter is that school districts are highly legislated, adjudicated and regulated institutions. Budget requirements are clearly defined. Audits are frequent and rigorous. Personnel actions are governed by labor law and education code provision, not Board action. Curriculum material decisions are seriously limited – for better or for worse – by a state screening process. There is little opportunity for local malfeasance. And when malfeasance rears its unprofessional head, savvy boards take care of bid’ness by holding Superintendents accountable.

“But you read about malpractice all the time in the paper!” Remember the adage “If it bleeds, it leads.” Along those lines: Schools following the rules do not make news. In the scope of the decisions made in 1,000 different California school districts and many times that may California school sites, the percentage of bad-apple decisions is remarkably low. Run for a Board on a platform of eliminating waste fraud and abuse and you’ll likely find yourself twiddling your thumbs quite a bit. Or ill-advisedly meddling in items one, two or three, above.

5. This is the ticket to my political future. Because you what? Twiddled your thumbs on a school board for four or eight or twelve years? Sorry, if you’re not dedicated to the following, please find another avenue…

6. I want to (1) take care of the students and (2) take care of the people we employ to take care of the students.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

Through a maze of procedural, budgetary, experiential and, yes, political considerations, this is what educational leaders do and this is what School Board members need to ensure happens.

Church of the Open Road Press

“YOU DON’T SEE THAT EVERYDAY”

2013-02-08T09:00:00.000-08:00

Every day, if you’re paying attention,

you’ll see something you don’t see every day.

Me
– demonstrating the depth of my wisdom –

to Mom.

Years ago, I hiked with a group of friends along the north rim of Chico’s (CA) Upper Bidwell Park. Among that group was a biology professor, Rayburn we called him, from the local state college. About 10:00 AM this middle-of-March morning, someone spied a small dot, high in the sky, a mile or two away, traveling west to east, over the creek that had formed the canyon. As the thing got closer, it revealed itself as a large raptor.

“Well lookee there, boys,” Rayburn said, pointing. “That’s a golden eagle.”

He quickly explained about how the wing shape and the tail differed from a hawk. As we watched, the bird abruptly dived straight toward the canyon bottom spreading its wings like a parachute as it neared the grassy veldt. Touching down with a tiny hop, the thing churned its great, feathered limbs and rose. A wriggling little something was snared in its clutches.

“Wow by golly!” Rayburn exclaimed. “You just don’t see that every day.”

This, I figured, is why we hike, bicycle, paddle, sail or simply hang out outdoors.

The other day, out on some numbered county road in rural Yolo County, I followed a farmer’s white Chevy pickup at a reasonable distance and at a reasonable speed. The greening hills of the Coast Range captured a series of my westward glances. The old barns and derelict farm equipment also interested me and there were plenty out this way.

At a particular moment, at the end of one of those glances, a movement caught my eye. A low-flying doglike creature was racing toward the roadway ahead of the truck. He shot onto the pavement not seconds before the Chevy would cross its path. Clearing the highway at breakneck speed, he continued about 100 yards into a freshly plowed field. There, he stopped, as if coming to some mark visible only to him. Craning his head he eyed both the truck and me on the BMW as we headed north on the paved route.

I’ve never seen a road-kill coyote and I wouldn’t today. But, then again, in my neck of the ‘burbs, I don’t see coyote that often.

The very next time out on a bike, while waiting at a stoplight on the fringe of suburban El Dorado County, a Norton Commando 850(?), black, restored to near showroom, pulled past in the adjacent lane. The rider wore all the Norton logo apparel: jacket and helmet emblazoned with the classic script. A neighbor kid, serving in the navy during Vietnam had purchased one of these babies, only yellow. I remember distinctly his inability to kick the damned thing over using every ounce of his 148-pound frame.

The light changed and I was expecting the Brit to roar away, but instead, I heard a mellow purr from the vintage conical pipes. I followed on the Breva, hoping to catch up and engage in a little bike talk. But up the road a short distance, our routes diverged. He waited in a turn pocket to explore Salmon Falls Road and I was seeking Rescue (the town) up Green Valley. I slipped by offering a wave to the rider and his rare and beautiful bird.

I wish I had the skills to restore and maintain such a thing.

Living on the shoals of Sacramento’s urban sprawl, I don’t often see bald eagles, so spotting three of them on consecutive fence posts along a Sierra County route outside of Loyalton was a thrill. The words I retrieved when I arrived home fell short of impressing folks.

Likewise the deer in our valley stream courses tend to be scrawny little beasts teetering on spindly legs. Thus, my breath halted when, upon rounding a corner outside of Pope Valley (Napa County), a massive buck with about two dozen points stood in the middle of the narrow lane checking his GPS.

The Austin Healy 3000 occupies a spot on the long list of things I covet but shall never possess. Skills to maintain, again? Growing up, a high school peer, the son of the county sheriff, raced about town in a souped up model with a Ford 289 that would have earned him no end of traffic citations had he not been the son of the county sheriff.

On route 70, just south of Marysville, an early 60s example, pristine white, appeared in my mirrors, having just entered the highway at Olivehurst. I slowed in order to take in the rarity. (I used to engage in this clandestine spying upon spotting a pretty young maid. But no more.) The driver was older than I. To fend off the 52-degree temps with its resultant wind-chill and yet still enjoy the top-down experience, he had a hoody tied tightly over a snap-brim cap and under his gray chin. He sat on oxblood leather seats. His right hand rested on the shifter. A grin told me he was living a charmed life.

My jet black Guzzi, an ’07, is a bit of a rare machine and I keep it really clean. I wondered if, in passing, the Austin pilot gave any thought to the rider of it.

Nah. He was drivin’ his Healy. What could be better?

My ninety-one year-old mother often expresses her displeasure with the fact that I drive motorcycles. “Why do you do such a thing?” she asks using other, more direct and disdainful motherly terms and has since I was about aged 15.

“Every day,” I say to her, “if you’re paying attention, you see something you don’t see every day.”

This statement always only earns a dismissive sweep of her hand.

Church of the Open Road Press

OLD STUFF BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

2013-02-01T17:23:00.000-08:00

A retired plough horse we all called Cricket used to stand behind a fence on a rise beside highway 108/120 monitoring traffic on the road to Yosemite. One day she wasn’t standing there. It didn’t take long for word to get out that she’d passed. Within hours, a memorial of sorts sprung up on the fence. The local paper ran a feature. Even today – ten, maybe twenty years later – frequent passers-by wonder about the stories the old horse might have told.

Riding country roads one often spots old stuff looking back at you as you rocket by. Sometimes, I suppose, the farmer may have retired an implement by the side of the road because its placement there would be out of the way of ranch operation. Sometimes, I reckon, that’s just where the old thing died.

A warm pre-spring day invited some saddle time. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d visited the lowlands of Yolo County. Not long into the little circuit I’d devised, I began to see a pattern of derelict equipment in the rural farmlands north and west of Sacramento. With no agenda set for the day, I decided to photograph a few.

First was a land plane. A primitive sample rested in a thicket of choking willows. After the area shifted from wheat production to rice, these blades were dragged behind a team or an old tractor. The objective was to level the land, encircle it with small levees, flood it with river water and set the acreage to seed in rice. Today’s models are bigger and more refined, able to smooth larger swaths in less time. Loyal though this implement was, today it sits like a jilted lover – in no way past his or her prime – waiting for the rust to spirit it away.

Further down the road a piece, a heavy implement like this might have been used to tackle weeds, but more than likely it set tiny furrows for planting some sort of seed crop. Cloaked in winter grass, it too, rusts.

Both of these prompt me to think of the days before we recycled things; when we employed iron and steel instead of plastic. Certainly, these could be lifted to the salvage yard, melted down and sent overseas to be reincarnated as a Hyundai, but I was rather glad to see them parked along side the road. I wondered what stories they might tell.

The old farm truck replaced the horse drawn buckboard. North of State Route 20 in the Bear Creek drainage, this example awaits the inevitable, its board bed checked, cracking and becoming dust while its sheet steel cab puts up a better fight.

Just off State Route 16, these three amigos – an International, a Ford and, I think, a Diamond Reo – discuss the state of things as only wizened retirees can do. I suspect each one has more than a few tales of the glory days, hauling silage in the winter or produce in the fall or fording a swollen Cache Creek in the spring.

Almost any side road is an interesting thing. This one is behind a locked gate, but its gentle curve invites me to wonder what might be around the bend. And how many times did one of those three trucks drive it?

Barns, too, have stories they won’t tell. Across the field from Yolo’s Cottonwood Cemetery, this old barn has weathered decades of blazing sun and stud chilling fog. But the real stories may have something to do with that glorious hayloft, and what, after a Saturday dance and a bit of purloined moonshine, some strapling young hand may have coaxed from the farmer’s maiden. Better still would be the story about what the farmer did with the boy once he caught up with him.

The catch of the day has to be this classic old 40s era Ford Ferguson tractor. Whatever color it used to be, it is now just rust. The sun has worked its way on the huge tires melting them to where a finger swipe will return with a helping of black, oxidized dust. No telling how long this has been sitting next to the I-80 frontage road east of Davis. No telling how it feels about the circumstance.

Seeing these derelicts reminds me of when we built things to last and we expected them to do so. If it busted you could fix it with a monkey wrench and a ball peen hammer. Strong as an elephant and loyal as a bird dog, these were the implements that tamed the land creating California’s unparalleled agricultural heritage. I enjoyed my look back.

I “learned” to drive on a late 40s vintage Ford Ferguson tractor. Dad had purchased it cheap, responding to an ad in the local paper. He needed the thing to tend four-and-a-half acres of almonds he’d bought after his escape from LA. Dad taught me how to shift gears using a clutch, accelerate and slow down using the hand throttle and how to avoid obstacles with the steering wheel. The thing had no brakes. Countless times I plowed through a fence or ran over a tree or crashed into something. Dad never knew. The old Ford wasn’t talking.

Once, after watching the Indy 500 on TV, I decided a red racing stripe across the old tractor’s gray hood would look good. Dad did find out about that one.

The property sold about 40 years ago and along with it the tractor. I drive by my growing-up home occasionally to see if the thing’s been retired to the fence line along the avenue. As of yet, it hasn’t. Once it is, however, I’ll stop by and ask what stories it might remember from my youth.

o0o

Today’s Route: I-5 to Woodland; north on E8 (county designation) to Knight’s Ferry; north further on SR 45 to Colusa. Stop for an omelet at Tommy’s Market Street Café. West on SR 20 through Williams to SR 16; south on 16 through the fabulous Cache Creek drainage to Rumsey, Guinda – stop in at the country store if only to say hello - then on to Brooks, Esparto and Madison. South on old 99W to Winters; east on 128 and Russell Road to Davis; I-80 west to the bay or east to home.

Church of the Open Road Press

HELPING OUR CHILDREN TO A RICH PUBLIC EDUCATION

2013-01-31T15:43:00.000-08:00

Every kid is an oddball kid.

As the United States progresses toward the middle of the twenty-first century, we are finding ourselves more and more immersed in global-scale realities. Many of my memoiric tales tell of growing up in a small town that no longer exists. The local department store no longer anchors downtown. The corner grocer is now a 7-ll with no fresh meats or produce but lots of big, fizzy drinks. The independent hardware store is a dying breed. We shop Trader Joe’s for that local feel, but purchase foodstuffs from as far away as one can be and still be on the planet. A trip to the men’s department at Penney’s finds us buying Levi’s manufactured in Mexico. I did this yesterday. The computer I type this on was manufactured in China. Likewise, the market for the area’s almonds or rice or navel oranges is no longer limited to the roadside stand or the Hershey factory down in Oakdale. It is global.

There is good and bad associated with this evolution. On the plus side, consumers can purchase product at favorable prices. On the negative side, locally based industries face competition from across the globe. On the plus side, we are afforded more and more selection of – on the negative side – things we don’t really need. No longer is there a US economy. The economy is worldwide. We are all in this together.

What does this have to do with schools? Education leaders are discovering that the market for their product – the 18-year-old high school graduate – is no longer limited to the community. The market is global. If a high school student from India is more prepared to maintain the machine that solders together solid-state componentry or uni-body automobiles than the graduate from Happy Valley High, guess who’s likely to get the job? Or, worse, guess where the job is going to go?

Schools of late have been charged with ramping up curricular offerings to produce world-class graduates able to complete on a skills-available basis with any other kid of his or her age anywhere. Thus, in California, students are pushed into higher levels of mathematical application, technical comprehension, and scientific reasoning. Coupled with these new-basic skills are the ability to think critically, problem solve and get along with others. These are the tools with which students must be equipped in order to win bread in 2050.

Parents cannot protect their children from the rigors that will be demanded of them – rigors the parents, as kids, were never asked to achieve. Teachers, for that matter cannot rely upon that which has always worked, because, in essence, the goal posts have just been moved, and they aren’t going to stand still. Therefore, parents and teachers may need to adopt a credo of the life-long learner if only to keep one step ahead of their kids.

How does the global view manifest itself in schools? In the education industry’s most recent past – and I am a huge proponent of the public schools, one who served in a site-level or curriculum leadership position for nearly 25 years – efforts have been made to feed students more content and test it out the other end. (Yes, I know what that sounds like.) Higher levels of mathematics instruction are being addressed at younger ages. Reading more complex works is occurring at earlier grades. More time has been devoted to these old basics as success is measured by objective, easy-to-score tests – while those new basics (mathematical application, technical comprehension, and scientific reasoning, the ability to think critically, problem solve and get along with others) have gone unaddressed. Also unaddressed have been the arts: literary, visual, performing and vocational.

Teachers have had to demand compliance of students because there is too much on the agenda to screw around with the oddball child who learns differently or requires more attention. Besides, the No Child Left Behind Act mandated, yes mandated, that 100% of all students be performing at or above grade level by 2014 – this includes the kid who arrives from the Ukraine the week before annual testing began – or the school will be labeled underperforming. Teachers, administrators, and local realtors hoping to jack up the price of homes, don’t want this. Meanwhile, parents grow frustrated because the child comes home frustrated because the frustrated teacher didn’t take time to meet the frustrated kid’s needs. The whole thing is, well, frustrating.

How should the global view manifest itself in schools? With the advancement of nationally based common core standards, we can expect some of the nit-picky factoid regurgitation to go away. Still for schools to move kids to higher levels of competency, they will need to build curriculum not around facts and algorithms and technical comprehension, but the application of facts and algorithms those things comprehended to solve problems through critical thinking. Checking for understanding (and parents can do this as well as teachers) will need to evolve asking such things as:

How did you arrive at that solution?
What other solutions did you evaluate?
Can this solution be used to advance new knowledge or applied to solve another problem?
How might his idea have helped (name an historic figure) in (name an historic circumstance)?

Public schools will deliver the goods in terms of creating viable, competitive citizens when they depart from the teach and test cycle and embrace instruction that demands application of knowledge in new and different ways. And they won’t be able to test this type of learning with fill-in-the-bubble assessments. Sure, critics will toss up the straw man argument that Joe-High-School-Graduate didn’t even know that Lincoln was president when the south seceded. That’s because Joe had more important levels of learning to accomplish and, besides, Joe probably knows how to look up the Lincoln answer on his Smart Phone.

What options exist for today’s frustrated parent? Having served 19 years as a site principal, I have heard from parents that the school is not meeting the needs of the student. I have also heard from teachers that they have 32 children who’s needs they feel they must address. As budgets tighten there is less resource available for anyone’s kid.

So, what about private school? Choose carefully. Private schools are not required to adhere to content or curriculum standards. Private schools may not necessarily employ teachers who hold valid teaching credentials or certificates. This doesn’t mean the teacher can’t be successful, but just as there are qualification standards for those who drive semi-trucks on the highway, standards for those to whom we entrust our children’s education are probably a good thing. Private schools are under no obligation to serve students with learning disabilities or who present behavioral issues. Many students who return to public schools after years in private schools find they are behind the curve when compared to their grade level peers.

What about Charter Schools? Charter schools are publicly funded. They may not have to employ credentialed teachers. They get to try different things. (So do traditional public schools, but there are some statutory limits under which traditional schools must operate, particularly when it comes to curriculum adoptions.) Some charters are sponsored by school districts. Foundations or corporations sponsor others. Charter schools may have a focus like basic skills, science and engineering or the arts. Charter schools may not deny admittance to students who apply but they may “be full” and place the interested student on a waiting list or they may suggest that, after review the student’s record that the student would be “more successful” elsewhere. For some reason – hmmm – many charter schools serve fewer students who are educationally disadvantaged or come with an IEP. Thus, some charter schools are able to mine for the cream of the crop students in an area. Oddly, as recently as 2009, assessment results for charter schools in California lagged slightly behind those scores for their traditional counterparts.

How about Home Schooling? Home schooling is a viable option for some but it is not without restriction. School districts or county offices of education are the gatekeepers for those wishing to educate their kids at home. A credentialed teacher meets with the provider-parent for a minimum of an hour per week to set out the curriculum that must be covered. Kids are assessed using traditional public school assessments annually. Scores for these home-schooled kids are figured in with the scores of the student’s home district for some reason. The district or county may revoke the home school privilege if the parent refuses to address the curriculum or the student fails to make progress. There are many sound reasons for wanting to school off-spring at home, but some parents choose home schooling simply if their child demonstrates difficulty with school-peer relationships. This is shortsighted. The way to deal with a problem like, say, a hangnail, is not to ignore it. Parents of home-schooled children often form associations so that their "students" may interact with others. Good solution! Often, home-schooled kids reenter the public arena behind their grade level associates, however, just as often, home-schooled kids knock the socks off of their peer group. Some even enter the university one, two or three years ahead of their contemporaries.

What about another public school? Districts in urban or suburban areas often times have more than one school serving the same set of grades. A shift from one school in the district to another (or a shift to a school in a nearby district) will mean educating the student outside his or her neighborhood. If a child needs a fresh start, this is a good option. If the child is running away from a problem it is not. A child moving to a public school outside his or her attendance area or to a school in a neighboring district may be kept on a short leash in terms of behavior. Some school administrators will dismiss a “visiting” student who fails to perform (because it impacts the school’s scores) or exhibits behavioral problems (because it impacts the teacher/principal’s time) without due process.

My recommendation? The local public school is the best option unless something completely unforeseen happens. Parents working with teachers can generally move the child forward. Ensuring that the child knows that the teacher and the parent are on the same path often presents a mountain just high enough that the kid won’t want to peek and see what’s on the other side.

Schools are under both political and economic pressure to demand excellent performance from their students. And parents need to back ‘em up. If questions arise about how “excellence” is defined, those questions should be asked privately, understood thoroughly and followed through upon religiously. Beyond what the schools can currently offer, outlets for extra-curricular activities in the arts or athletics can give a kid a reason to go forth as well as a valuable means of self-expression. Back in the day, we could depend on the school to provide these. As we progress toward that mid-twenty-first century mark, hopefully we, like the Chinese and many European countries, will embrace the value of returning these elements to a full and well-rounded education. But that doesn’t help the current mom or dad or the current student with the current “right now.”

Bottom line? Even with the sharpest or most mild mannered child, it isn’t going to always be easy. Some children require more malleating than others. (Malleating is a word I just made up. It is based on the word malleable, and it may involve use of a mallet.) But insulating children from the consequences of non-performance, lack of compliance, or inability to be a good friend, in the end will not serve the kid in adulthood. And, collectively, preparing the next generation for success is the most important thing, we as a society, can do.

Finally, consider this: Public education is a little like service from PG&E. The utility company gets the power to the house, but it is our job to flip the switch and turn on the light. No fair cursing the darkness.

Church of the Open Road Press

“THE CHRISTIAN CENTURY” AND MY TWO BROTHERS

2013-01-24T19:43:00.000-08:00

I have two brothers. The biological one is a hard working man. A college educated veteran, his life’s work has been independent, both skillfully moving pianos and carefully digging foundation footings for new construction. He is often frustrated by swings in the economy that can’t help but impact his bottom line. Approaching his mid-60s, his angst is often expressed with the thought that “I’ll be out of here soon and I can’t wait. I know something better is coming for me.” He believes fervently what he believes about politics, relationships and the state of the world. He attends an all-men’s church regularly and heeds counsel of the pastor. He uses the term liberal as a pejorative, believes the local police are afraid of the blacks in town, and shakes his head disdainfully at the gay rights movement. Eagerly declaring himself a Christian, it could be said that he thumps Bible.

My other brother comes from another mother. Raised in a series of Church of Christ congregations, his upbringing involved strict adherence to the Word. Many Sundays were consumed with a storefront church service followed by a meal at the home of a fellow congregant. Right was right and the Bible outlined it all. As his life progressed through a stint in the military, a university degree, business success and failure, childrearing and aging, the absolutism preached in his youth became peppered with doubt borne of experience. Now, he decries the corruption of our political system by Christians, believing that the church’s narrow focus is wielded as a tool to subjugate the poor, justify military adventurism throughout non-Christian areas of the world, and generally bully the electorate. He’s been known to use the word Christian as a pejorative and disdains those who wrap themselves in a hollow, unpracticed belief system as phonies.

I love ‘em both.

With the recent decline and passing of my father-in-law, we assumed the collection of his mail. A retired Methodist minister, he must have been generous to a fault as his mail was thick with periodicals and coin club come-ons and requests and thank yous from any charitable organization one might imagine – many working at cross-purposes to one another. Cancelling so many of those relationships is a chore.

One of the few pieces of mail “Papa” received that we will not cancel is a magazine called The Christian Century. Early on, I’d set a few of them aside, but I’m not sure why. Perhaps the word “Christian” put me off. One day while nursing a sore throat or a bum knee, I began to thumb through a copy. I did not get past the “Letters” section before I started reading. Then came the editorial. Then a couple of pages of short-takes from other sources. Then a feature section on the social responsibility and upcoming election from a couple of religious backgrounds. It took me ninety minutes to “thumb through” this 48-page periodical. With the turn of each page, my perspective tweaked just a bit. Articles were researched, well written, and reasonable. Some questioned adherence to the Scripture, some spoke to how the Bible informs us today. Some explored the current human condition (Flea Market Individualists, January 23, 2013) and raised questions about ministering to every population. Some compared and/or linked popular culture to presumed foundations in faith (Remembering Brubeck, same issue.) In the few months I’ve been receiving the Century, pieces have been published from Catholics, Protestants, Evangelicals, Rabbis, Imams, and Atheists; from those with divinity degrees and those who simply attend.

When the manuscripts that became the Bible were assimilated, their content was intended to fill two spaces. One was to explain those phenomena we could not yet explain such as the origins of the universe or the reason for drought or plague. The other was to set forth a moral code that would both keep us from killing one another and establish a governmental hierarchy sometimes assumed by the church. As scientific research expands, the former of these two spaces recedes. We know how the earth evolved; we have proof that thunder and lightning are atmospheric conditions, not conditions of God’s anger toward us. However, that science has resolved some of the mythological issues does not mean the moral code of the Scripture is any less relevant. The Bible, the Torah, the Koran and many other ancient works still offer a viable blueprint for our personal behavior. Intrinsically, people want to do good. For some, reference to the early texts helps light the way.

The church I attend is that of the Open Road. A few twists of the BMW’s or the Guzzi’s throttle coupled with a few twists in the road and much that I mull or fret or wonder about comes into a more precise focus. Perhaps it is meditation over a motor. Still, I know there is a place for religion in our society.

From my casual reading of The Christian Century, it is clear that the editorial policy surrounds inclusive, centrist ideas of creativity and faith. Published bi-weekly, I look forward to its arrival and set aside whatever I’m doing for the ninety minutes it takes for me to be refreshed by its content. Interestingly, the faith it restores in me is not in a deity, but rather one in mankind’s inherent goodness.

I’ve passed copies along to both of my brothers in hope that they, too, will see the middle ground occupied by most people of faith.

o0o

Resource: For more information on The Christian Century, check out their web presence at: http://www.christiancentury.org/

Church of the Open Road Press

CIGAR, ANYONE?

2013-01-23T09:50:00.000-08:00

The best cigar merchants are those staffed by folks older that I. At sixty, that number is dwindling. I don’t want the proprietor to appear hip or suave or cooler than me. I want him to be professorial, or, if not professorial, maybe just of a different ilk than myself. But more than that, I want him to teach me something about cigars.

Placer County Historical Society

My local guy fits all the requirements and calls his store “the Tobacco Republic.” Located in an out-of-the-way berg called Loomis, California – 25 miles east of Sacramento, yet off I-80 – the Republic has a humidor the size of many folks’ dining rooms adjacent to a seating area where locals come to taste product and discuss the issues of the day, week or whatever’s buggin’ ‘em at the moment.

I like to browse the humidor but generally walk out with a couple of Rocky Patel “vintage” 1990 Maduros knowing that they will complement whatever my pallet yearns for on the spirit side of the cigar/whiskey equation.

Occasionally, owner Ron will gently probe: “What are you drinkin’ this evening?” and I’ll reply with some type of Scotch, bourbon or, lately, rye. He knows I’m a mild-to-medium twice-a-month kind of guy. “Then try this,” he’ll say and he’ll trot out something I’ve not heard of before. He talks about the wrapper, the binder and the various leaves that make the filler. He tells me about the history of the group that produces the stick and throws in a little knowledge of Caribbean and Central American politics.

I’m a sucker. I love the smell of the humidor and rarely, if ever, am I disappointed with the resultant stick.

My beloved old-time doctor retired due to health issues. Her replacement was not too many year my junior. In getting to know me, his new client, he asked about my lifestyle choices. “Drink any alcohol?”

“Yes.”

“Frequency?”

“Only when I’m alone or with somebody.”

“Smoker?”

“Cigars.”

“How often?”

“Maybe twice a month depending upon the stresses associated with retirement.”

“Other vices?”

Somehow mention was made of my enjoyment of two-wheeled travel. He asked me where I’d been and I shared a link to my on-line presence. Then he laughed and said he’d always dreamed of touring the west on a Harley. I questioned him on brand of choice and he admitted, “That’s what I thought everyone rode.”

The examination followed including blood pressure, pulse and a bunch of unmentionables.

Upon conclusion, I asked him, “So, whadaya think, Doc?”

“Worst thing you do,” he said, “is riding that bike.”

Rightly or wrongly, I took that as approval of the occasional cigar and whiskey.

My computer crapped out today: Wouldn’t print and couldn’t access some on-line links I needed for a contract I was supposed to complete. My patience for technology is thin.

I headed over to “the Republic” to pick up a couple of Rocky Patels. A little mid-winter quality time in the back yard with my lab-mix, some Elijah Craig and a Rocky, seated in front of a blazing chiminea would probably put all things in good order.

The “try this” amounted to something from Cuba Rica. The Cuban economy has virtually fallen apart, Ron said. Many of the folks who roll cigars have left the island and work through out Central America. This particular group of cigars uses Cuban filler – he mentioned a couple of different leaves that I nodded about but completely forgot – Ecuadorian wrappers and yada, yada, yada. “Try these,” he said. “Only a couple of bucks more a stick. Let me know what you think.”

In America, we do many things well. We invent things like washers, dryers and Z-28s. We get highway systems. We practice agriculture to the point where we can feed much of the rest of the world. We do democracy – whether or not we’re all that enamored with the results of the latest election. (I happen to be okay with the outcome, but no matter.)

But we don’t do cigars.

In the gathering dusk, I am rubbing the little lab’s ears, nursing some Kentucky Bourbon and savoring the fruits of those Cuban ex-patriots, handsomely hand-rolled for my personal pleasure. It’s a good thing I got permission from the Doc.

Today’s Route: I-80, exit Horseshoe Bar Road. North ½ mile to Loomis. Right on Taylor. One block: Tobacco Republic, Ugly Mug Coffee Shop. Across street: Loomis Packing Sheds with great fresh fruit and local products year round. West on Taylor: a classic burger drive-in, an old-fashioned drug store and one of the finer nurseries in the area. Loomis is small town America and is worth a visit.

Resources:

Tobacco Republic, the local cigar store: www.trcigar.com They do on-line sales. Today’s toke: www.viahavana.com Oh me, oh my: the Corojo is good!

Loomis Basin Chamber of Commerce: www.loomischamber.com

Local Produce at the packing shed: http://bluegooseproduce.com/

High Hand Nursery: www.highhand.com

Church of the Open Road Press

CIRCUMNAVIGATING CALIFORNIA’S SUTTER BUTTES

2013-01-19T10:51:00.000-08:00

It was my night to cook. But it had been two-and-a-half years since my last “annual winter” motorcycle sojourn around the scenic and mystical Sutter Buttes and today’s weather was better than fair.

The route around the this eons-old formation is a combination of flat, straight nicely surfaced roadways punctuated with a few sweeping curves. The life-blood of the Sacramento Valley is farming. This little tour offers great glimpses into that agrarian roots. At points along the loop, gentle rises offer views of either the Coast Range to the west or the Sierra to the east. This day I would clearly see Mount Lassen, the next volcano in the string, as well as the snow glazed Trinity Alps peeking over the northern horizon.

The Sutter Buttes provide a touchstone viewable from almost anywhere in the Sacramento Valley. As one travels from Red Bluff to Sacramento or Stockton, the position of the Buttes tells you how close (or far) you are from your destination. Back when California was being wrested from the Mexican government, prior to the Gold Rush, John C. Fremont and his band used these highlands as a wintering spot during a wet and boggy trip down the valley.

To the west and south, rice is king. Known as the Butte Sink, the basin here holds water that is leveed into curvaceous tracts.

Not sure if the paddies have yet been seeded, but all manner of waterfowl have chosen these stretches to gambol or float or dive for bugs or aquatic food.

To the north and east, almond orchards lay in wait of the spring warmth that will festoon branches with fragrant white blossoms.

The mantles of the mountain are greening. On the formation’s flanks, sheep graze, some climbing into and out of tiny ravines flush with runoff. They eye me as I ride by and some bolt away. Cattle reside in the area but they simply stand there, more or less aloof on the hoof, knowing I’m not going to hop the fence and take out a weak one.

Here and there, Pacific Gas and Electric has sunk wells to suck natural gas from beneath the surface. Yet again, I don’t stop for enough pictures.

The town of Sutter sits in the foreground of the Buttes. It isn’t particularly picturesque, but it lives an honest existence where residents tend the pasturelands, grow almonds, fruit or rice, provide wintering habitat for migrating birds and care for the ancient and reverence-provoking “Middle Mountain.” The Buttes Grocery and Meats is on a thoroughfare that beelines over to State Route 20. Inside I approach the meat counter and request a whole chicken. The butcher comes out with one that weighs in at well under three pounds.

“You got another just like that?”

“Yep.”

Skinny bird two looks as if it came from the same brood. He packages both and after waiting while the young clerk toys with a neighbor gent’s change, I make my purchase, saddle up and head the 45 miles home. Along the way, I contemplate the joys of small-town banter and rural living and my personal need to return to such areas now and then for some grounding in a different reality.

Five o’clock comes early this day. I am watching the sun set over ridge upon ridge of concrete tile roofs contrasting that with what sunset must look like from a farmhouse on the edge of the Butte Sink. I monitor the progress on the two skinny chickens in the smoker, enjoying a Romeo y Julieta Reserva Real with a dram of Knob Creek over ice. Ahhhh.

I decide that there are at least three elements to a really good day. They include: Great weather, a pleasant motorcycle ride, and a little time next to the barbecue with, perhaps, a dram of hooch and a nice cigar reflecting on the how lucky one can be.

Today’s Route:

SR 20 west from Yuba City; north on Township; east on Pennington which becomes North Butte Road; south on West Butte Road (the verdant Butte Sink will be on our right, the mountain on your left); east on Pass Road to Sutter – stopping by the Thompson Seedless Grape marker before arriving in town; follow your nose east on Butte House Road or south back to SR 20.

Notes:

The Middle Mountain Foundation protects the delicate Buttes and offers guided adventures into the heart of this little-known area. Their website invites us to visit http://www.middlemountain.org/index.html and is worth a look.

Church of the Open Road Press

SCHUBERTH C-3 HELMET – NICE LID!

2013-01-08T18:07:00.000-08:00

Annually, we visit Seattle if for no other reason than to say things will improve in the coming year – specifically if we focus on the weather. Up that way, my riding partner, Randall Guzziboy, and I check in with the bike shops eyeballing new hardware from BMW, then Guzzi and Aprilia, then Triumph, then Yamaha and Victory. We are both quite satisfied with our current mounts, but as with many things, just because one is on a diet, doesn’t mean one can’t look at the menu.

While my buddy was salivating over a big Triumph, my eye was grabbed by a bright yellow Schuberth flip face helmet (the C-3), the likes I’d read about but knew I could never afford. I’d heard they were really quiet, lightest in their category and that if you damaged it in an accident, Schuberth would replace the thing for 1/3 of current retail. Beneath this hi-viz wonder was a SALE! sign.

I’d been toying with replacing my old Nolan 102 flip face helmet for some time, now. I’d made the mistake of not wearing the thing around the showroom for the requisite 30 minutes prior to purchase so, through no fault of the good folks at Nolan, the thing never really seemed to fit just right. Santa was aware of this, I think, but then again, I haven’t been all that good a boy this past year.

Turns out, the Cycle Barn was closing out their representation of Schuberths because of lackluster sales (perhaps due to price point?) I tried the unit on. Understand that when I enter a shoe store and there’s a sale rack there, I’ve long ago given up looking because nothing’s ever gonna fit. Not so this time with this helmet. I wore it throughout the showroom sitting on everything from Triumph Tigers and Bonnevilles to a Vespa 150s.

The kinds folks at Lynnwood Cycle Barn willingly shipped the helmet and the day after it arrived, the weather gods smiled on me: mid-fifties and clear.

I fired up the Breva intent on enjoying my head-clearing 40-mile loop through the foothills of Placer County. Out this way, the roads sweep and twist through vineyards and orchards, past derelict barns and rusting implements. Cows low. Sheep graze. Horses do whatever horses do in the winter.

First thing I noticed about the C-3 was the quiet. Wind noise was discernibly less than with my other lids. The exception being that when I approached 70 mph, the laminar lip on my stock Guzzi screen funneled a river of air right at the helmet. Noisy. Yet, (and here’s the second thing) under these circumstances, I noted no buffeting. I turned my head left and right and still none.

The initial part of my loop headed east, the return portion, directly into the sun. The C-3 has an interior sun visor that conveniently drops down in side the face shield with the slide of a tab on the side of the helmet. The low January sunrays immediately were quelled, but so was my view of the data on the Guzzi’s readout.

I stopped for a picture of one of those narrow bridges where you always wait for the other guy to cross first. A gentle pull on the tab on the chin bar released the front. It swiveled up, completely out of the way. I figured a cup of coffee could easily be enjoyed without removing ones head from the Schuberth’s cozy confines. The same might be said for filling up the tank or talking to a partner while pulled over.

One of the things I’ve yet to master is keeping my face shield clear of condensation. I figured most of what a manufacturer professes in this regard is hokum. But, the night before this first ride, I installed the Pinlock insert touted as a means to keep fogging at bay. Rimmed in silicon this insert offers a fraction of an inch of air space trapped between the outer screen and itself. Shazam! Not so much as a molecule of moisture showed up whether when I tried it on the previous night in sub freezing temps, or when riding through the 50-degree hills of the gold country.


Thank God for full face helmets*...

Although I’ve only ridden with the Schuberth C-3 for about 90 minutes and I have yet to use it on the GSA, which has a different wind pattern at speed, I think this thing will become my go-to lid. It is light, quiet, solid, comfy and, in the case of the one I purchased, extremely visible.

It has been said that the cheapest thing on a BMW is the rider (perhaps this is said of the Moto Guzzi brethren, also) and I’ll plead guilty. Still I like quality gear and will usually wait until I can pay the price for it. I think I learned this from the Michelin Man back in the late 60s. The fact that this one came to me at a discounted price, perhaps, was Santa’s way of winking at me and telling maybe I was an all right boy this past year after all.

Resources:

Schuberth Helmets etc: www.schuberth.com

Lynwood Cycle Barn: http://www.cyclebarn.co/

_____
* if only to cover up that face.

Church of the Open Road Press