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90 miles of scooter bliss. Frank, Harold and I took off this morning after meeting up for coffee. Our route took us through clear cut mountains on Wolf Creek Road to tree tunnels and water falls along Smith River Road. The entire route is good paved roads, but the recent rains brought down some tremendous rock fall. Boulders on the road at one point were as large as cows and stretched across both lanes. Even though the sun was out, we were in the dark riding through tunnels of alders, incense cedars, and Larch along racing, milk-chocolate-brown rivers. The road climbs and falls and winds. I could not imagine anyone enjoying this road in a car, but on a bike, it’s glorious. As the road opens the last 10 miles the shear rock cliffs tower 70-90 feet above the road, and at one point look like it actually hangs out above the road.

We met Hwy 101 and turned left and drove through Reedsport. We didn’t investigate Reedsport because we were looking for Chuck’s Seafood. I had read the night before that Chuck’s was a good place for Oysters. We were almost through town and Frank rode up along side me and said, “looks like we’re runnin’ out of town.” A guy crossing the street in front of us asked, “What are you looking for?” I said, “Chuck’s Seafood.” He said, “I think that’s in Winchester Bay, about 5 miles down the road.” Thanks”, we said just as the light turned green. We went into Winchester Bay: much more interesting than Reedsport, and saw a sign for Sportsman’s Seafood and Barbecue. We meandered into the marina and stopped amid derelict boats and several bait and seafood shops and restaurants. We sat outside and enjoyed chipino, barbecue and fish tacos. I looked up Chuck’s on my gps and found that it’s in Coos Bay, another 30 miles south. Maybe next time. We talked to the owner of Sportsman’s Seafood and he told me there were 4 oyster farms in the immediate area. I will have to revisit them during the months that contain ‘r’.

Returning to Eugene we took Hwy 38 through Elkton and Drain and back up Territorial. We saw a herd of 30 or so elk near Elkton and followed the Umpqua River as it serpentines east. Near Drain we found Territorial Road.

Although the clouds chased us all the way back to Eugene, we stayed dry.  A nice day for a 200 mile loop.

At 9am I knew I wouldn’t be able to ride with the motorcycle club to the coast. They chose a nice round route, but I really needed to get the garden in before the coming week’s rains. At 11 I knew they were already on their way, and I was done with what I needed to do. For some odd reason I had a craving for fresh oysters, and the best oysters in the world come from the Oregon Oyster Farm 12 miles up the river from Newport. I called to confirm that they had fresh oysters (this being a month without an R, you have to check). So I had my mission.

The quest was a bit different. For years I have been searching for a direct route from Eugene to Yachats on windy mountain roads, but away from the usual weekend traffic. I’ve never found a map with enough detail to plot the entire course. The only thing close would be a stack of topo maps. Recently Google Maps released a new service with directions for bicycles. I entered Eugene as my starting point and Yachats as my destination. A few seconds later I saw a curvy line that was almost perfectly direct, and it was only about 82 miles, 5miles shorter than the normal route to Florence and up the coast highway. I checked as much of the routes photos as I could and saw that it all seemed to be paved, mostly with center lines. Good roads.

I changed my oil, oiled my old hiking boots, checked my brakes and fluids. I figured the trip might take as long as 3 hours, so I left at 1pm to have plenty of time to reach the oyster farm by closing at 5.

I printed the route directions, and it was over 3 pages. I queried the directions using my Droid phone and came up with the same route. I velcroed the phone to my handle bars and took off. The 70 degree air felt cool and comfortable through my Kevlar jacket. I headed due west from my house. I took a wrong turned onto Territorial Road and went about 6 miles before I checked my Droid. I was way off route. I had not set up the Droid with power, so I had to stop, take off my gloves and sunglasses, start it up and open the mapping program whenever I needed to check my route. I had already made a 12 mile mistake, so I started checking more often. Also, as soon as I got into the foothills, I lost my data connection, so I no longer had any information about anything off the route. I thought about turning back and printing out a more complete map. Surely I could make the trip the next day, Sunday, but the Oyster Farm might not be open, and I had invited Eryn and Nick for fresh oysters tonight. How lost could I get?

I made a few more wrong turns, and started to check the Droid more often. I figured I still had plenty of time. The houses became sparse and the roads narrow and curvy: ideal riding conditions. On the Droid map, the lines got thinner and fainter. I found my way to Horton. I had not heard of Horton. By the looks of it, nothing noteworthy had ever happened there. There was a rustic but neat market, with a gas pump. A woman had driven her garden tractor to the pump from who knows where. Past the market the road teed into what looked like driveways in both directions. I went left and up, climbing onto a paved logging road. No lines, and a recently clear cut forest on the uphill side. Past a few houses and then deep into a darkening forest I rode.

I checked the Droid again, and it showed that i was on route. The road was clear, but had the feeling that it hadn’t been used in a long time. Moss grew in the shadows. This would not be a good road if wet. I continued on, crossing concrete bridges and climbing. The woods were thick with moss and every once in a while I saw huge trunks or roots from old-growth trees logged many years ago. I imagine how this forest looked then. The forest floor void of sunlight. Ferns and detritus, but no underbrush could survive in such darkness. I wondered if it smelled differently now. After a few miles, the road turned to gravel. Scooters are not made for gravel. The tires are small and have little tread. You can’t stand on the pegs like on a dirt bike. But they are stable and have a low center of gravity. Since I was alone, I could go comfortably slow, so I continued.  Rock slides littered the road with large yellow boulders, and fallen branches often blocked more than half the road. I kept climbing and picking my way around the obstacles. It was very slow going. I came out into the open into an area that had been clear cut within the past few years. The view across the valley to the Cascades was shocking. The drop from the road was terrifying: more than 500 feet. I imagined tumbling after my scooter all the way to the bottom of the ravine. I would die there with a broken back long before anyone found me. I let the thought scare me just long enough to redouble my diligence. I stopped and checked the Droid. I was off route by about a mile, but what a great mistake, well worth the view. I carefully turned around on the steep road. A branch about the size of a pool cue, stabbed into my front fork and wrenched me almost out of control. I stopped, backed the bike onto its center stand and removed the stick. It has dislodged my speedometer cable, but I was able to snap it back into place.

I got back on and found my way back to my wrong turn. I continued on this road for a long time. Very deep potholes and sink holes were marked with ribbon wound sticks in the center of the road. Most of the route followed streams. I lost track of time  riding on the gravel, and finally the road turned back into pavement. I looked at my watch, it was 4 :00. I had only an hour to get to beyond Newport. I started to see houses and the road got wider. I was racing now, as fast as I could go. I knew I had to be close to the coast, because the temperature dropped at least 30 degrees. I was cold but didn’t have the time to stop and put on more gear.

Ahead of me were two motorcycles following a truck pulling a horse trailer. The road was too windy to pass. So we all followed. We came to an intersection: the sign said Walport was 17 miles. Where was I. I checked the Droid and found that I was way off course, but in a better direction than the original route. I looked again at my watch. I had about 30 minutes. The road followed along the Alsea River and eventually popped out into Walport right next to one of the most beautiful bridges on the coast. I took off up the coast as fast as the traffic allowed. I crossed the bridge into Newport, drove through town and checked my watch. Only five minutes to go 12 miles. I stopped and called the oyster farm. They said they wouldn’t wait for me, but they would take my order over the phone and leave my oysters on the back porch. I could finally relax a little. Still in a hurry though, I raced up the windy river road. When I got to the oyster farm I could barely walk. I must have been tensing my legs so much because of the cold that I felt like I had no knees or hip joints. I hobbled around to the back porch and found my oysters in a bag packed between two bags of ice. I put the package in my trunk and started back.

I probably should have stopped there to put on more clothes, but I didn’t. And I still didn’t by the time I got back to Waldport and bought gas. Finally, in Yachats, I did stop. I pulled behind the community building and pulled out my sweater, rain pants and jacket. I struggled to get my pants over my boots. I was so stiff, I could barely bend. I put on my warm gloves and took off for home. I didn’t start to warm up until I got to Veneta, 12 miles from home. I pulled into my driveway at 7:30.

Eryn, Nick and Elizabeth were enjoying appetizers and wine under our gazebo. I set Eryn to work scrubbing the oysters and went to warm up in the shower. I thawed out, got dressed and started shucking. There’s nothing like really fresh oysters, especially ones that have shared the bliss of  a scooter ride on the Oregon Coast.