Point Reyes Journal

Life, the Universe and Everything

Autumn’s body glows in the moonlight as the night gives way to the deep blue light of the morning. She is sleeping peacefully but the temptation to have her again is just too great. With her body stretched out across the bed face down, I pin down her legs with mine and grasp her hips tightly in my claws to wake her from her slumber. I pry her butt cheeks apart with my thumbs and devour the remnants of last night’s sex from her labia. It is primal and animalistic. She claws at the mattress frantically seeking a handhold as she awakens gasping in orgasmic ecstasy.

I pin her shoulders to the bed and enter her from behind, dominating her body so that she feels the full weight of me crushing her hips against the mattress. I cum explosively and collapse on top of her, making sure to stay inside of her for as long as possible. The blue light of the morning is becoming the golden light of day so we bury ourselves deep under the covers and fall back asleep.

At 9am I lay my head in the small of her back and awaken her for a second time while I admire the curves of her athletic bottom. An empty pizza box and two empty bottles of Veuve Clicquot tell the story of last night. When the lights went out, we shared tender and intimate first time lovemaking. I carefully explored her body and she cautiously explored mine. It was still early in the evening when “round one” was complete and dinner was to be had. But we weren’t willing to leave the room. I lit the in-room fireplace and Autumn ordered pizza. We bribed the delivery driver with a handful of $20 bills to bring us two bottles of good Champagne. He agreed to do it only because he thought we were newlyweds.

We sat on the floor in front of the fireplace eating pizza by firelight. After a few glasses of champagne Autumn politely suggested that my first-time tenderness was great, but if I really want to win the Gold Medal, I should compete in Greco-Roman wrestling or Brazilian jiu-jitsu. I thought she might regret that comment an hour later when I had her shoulders pinned against the hard brick of the hearth, but she didn’t. And she didn’t regret it stretched painfully over the ottoman, or on the balcony under the full moon. And she certainly didn’t regret it when my teeth broke the skin on her shoulder while I had her pinned to the mattress at 5:30am.

But now the sun is high in the morning sky and it’s time for us to depart, so we pack our things and head downstairs to refill our depleted bodies with a much needed breakfast. Our table is at the window overlooking the sea and the waitress highly recommends their house speciality … buttermilk waffles. We feast and when the waitress brings the credit card receipt, Autumn asks to borrow her pen. She takes the duplicate receipt, flips it over to the blank side and fills out all of her information. First and last name, street address in Leavenworth, phone number and email address, then passes it across the table to me. I fold it carefully and put it deep into my pocket where it will never get lost.

Autumn has a plan. “I have to photograph the Tillamook cheese headquarters as part of my assignment. It’s about a hundred miles north of here. Take your time, enjoy your ride, and meet me there at about noon. Okay?” she tells me. A nod and crooked smile grin tells her yes. I love that she’s organized and considerate. With a defined meeting time and place, I can just enjoy the ride and not stress about reconnecting. Fate is no longer part of this conversation.

—

Unlike yesterday, today’s ride has been exceedingly enjoyable. The bike feels quick, light and nimble. My mind is free from distraction and I am nearly dancing on the foot pegs. And last night … wow. What a night! Motorcyclists do get laid on the road occasionally, but it’s usually a sleazy hotel barfly cheating on her husband or a girl intent on stealing your Rolex while you sleep. Autumn isn’t like that. She is special and even after just two days, I have real feelings for her. Last night wasn’t a cheap lay, it was a new beginning.

I arrive in Tillamook with no idea where the cheese factory is located, but my assumption is that it will be the biggest building in town, and my assumption proves correct. The Tillamook cheese co-op building is plainly obvious with giant glass windows facing the highway and a huge parking lot for visitors. I’m a little early so I decide to get a coffee from a little coffee shack located directly across the street. As soon as I get the bike parked I see a little white Subaru SUV go flying past and make an abrupt u-turn into the coffee shop parking lot. Autumn jumps out of the car and dashes over to me with open arms. She puts her arms inside of my unzipped jacket. I didn’t realize how cold I was from the ride, because she is really warm.

“Hard to miss the only red Ducati on the Oregon coast!” she tells me excitedly.

We kiss as I keep her wrapped up in my jacket.

“I got here a little early, so I was going to pop in for a coffee.”

“And you parked next to the highway thinking I would see the bike?”

“Bingo my darling! Care to join me?”

“My God, that would make my day. How was your ride? Better than yesterday?”

“Better than ever” I tell her as I hold her face in my hands and look deeply into her eyes.

“My drive was great too” she tells me demurely. “I thought about you the whole way.”

“Last night was …”

“Savage!” she says interrupting me. “You definitely took home the gold medal!”

“I was going to say magical!”

“Well it was magical … magical and savage! Mmmm-Mmmm by the fireplace.”

“The fireplace was fun, but he bricks cutting into your shoulder blades looked painful.”

“They were” she whispers in my ear.

—

The coffee shack is tiny like a frontier school house with a wooden floor and a couple of wine barrels in the middle of the room acting as makeshift hightop tables where guests can congregate and enjoy coffee. The barista is a gorgeous young native American girl with jet black hair and perfect chocolate skin. She’s looks like a sexy Sacagawea.

Autumn is absolutely enamored with the barista. “My God, you’re beautiful!” Autumn tells her. “May I take your picture? I’m doing a travel piece for Westways magazine.” The barista is flattered and delighted. “Of course! Please, take all the photos you want. What are you drinking today?”

“Cappuccino” Autumn tells her.

“I’ll have a quad shot, whole milk latte please.”

“My boss says anyone ordering a quad shot has to sign a liability waiver, just in case your heart stops. We can’t be held responsible” the barista tells me.

“Are you serious?”

“No silly! I’m just kidding. But if you’re heart does stop, your friend will have to do the CPR.”

“Are you okay giving me a little mouth to mouth honey?”

Autumn’s face is hidden behind the Leica as she’s making portraits of the gorgeous barista, but she still manages to fire off a zinger. “I’ll put my mouth on whatever you want babe.”

Our naughty banter makes the barista blush and Autumn snaps the perfect photo of her assembling the drinks with a relaxed and mirthful countenance. We collect our coffees and gather around the wine barrels. Autumn takes a sip then pitches me on the idea that she has been thinking about during her morning drive.

“Hey David, I have an idea.”

“Okay, do tell.”

“I need to finish this photo assignment in Tillamook and then tend to some business in Portland tomorrow morning. Why don’t you continue north and complete your tour of the coast then tomorrow night we’ll reconnect at my place in Leavenworth. You can spend the night with me, and the next morning we’ll drive up to my favorite place in the whole world, Skagit Valley for the Tulip Festival.”

“Sounds amazing to me. Do you want to drive to Skagit Valley in the Subaru or ride up on the Ducati?”

“Wait a minute … I could ride with you??”

“Sure. Of course!”

“That sounds amazing!! That literally would be a dream come true.”

Her plan is perfect. It allows me to finish my journey up the coast as intended, and then we’ll reconvene on her turf, where I can get to know the real Autumn. We reach finish our coffees and set the plan in motion. I’ve got about 30 hours to travel 350 miles, and somewhere along the way I’ll need to find a small motorcycle helmet. We thank the barista for the delicious coffee and as we’re walking out the door Autumn asks her if the Tillamook factory tour is worth doing. “Absolutely!” she tells her.

—

After an espresso flavored French kiss, our paths diverge. Autumn parks directly across the street at the cheese factory while I secure my helmet and pull on my gloves. She waves goodbye and I pull a big wheelie as I accelerate northbound up the highway. I continue along the coast to Astoria and stay at a Motel 6 that is located directly underneath the southern terminus of the iconic Astoria-Megler Bridge. The next morning my route takes me directly to the Ducati shop in Seattle where I buy a small helmet and some cheap luggage for the motorcycle.

Late in the afternoon I find myself riding into Leavenworth, mouth agape, looking on in wonder at this quaint Bavarian village nestled in the Northern Cascades. Autumn lives downtown in the touristy business district, in an apartment on the second floor, not unlike my own situation in Pacific Grove.

Similar again to my situation, I climb the stairs to her door from the alley in the rear. I zing the buzzer and am greeted with open arms. Her loft is so much like my own. Hidden in plain site above the bustling downtown businesses with large north facing windows filling the room with beautiful diffuse light. I hand her a brand new motorcycle helmet and encourage her to try it on. She is thrilled when it fits perfectly and along with a sunny weather forecast for the next few days, there’s nothing stopping us from heading north to Skagit Valley in the morning.

She gives me the full apartment tour including kitchen and bedroom. She wasn’t kidding about loving tulips. She has a tulip print duvet and when Autumn lays on it, it looks like she’s laying in a field of tulips. I grab her iPhone and snap a photo. It is exactly the image that I sketched in chalk.

Leavenworth is first and foremost a tourist trap, but Autumn takes me to a “locals only” bar that serves real Kölsch beer with authentic German delicacies like schnitzel and currywurst. We drink heavily and dance all night to country music under the light of a neon moon on a wooden floor covered in sawdust. The band plays a slow dance tune and we hold each other close in the middle of the dance floor. I run my hand up her neck to her sweaty hair and kiss her salty neck. It is the cue that she needs to take me home. We stumble a few blocks across town and go crashing through her front door. Fueled by heavy doses of alcohol and adrenaline we pounce each other in the bedroom. I strip naked and lay on top of the tulip duvet while Autumn stumbles around the room drunkenly lighting a few candles before peeling off her jeans and sweater to reveal that she’s been wearing sexy lingerie all evening in anticipation of this moment. We are very intoxicated, so the sex is wild, rough and sloppy. We soak the duvet in sweat and she rides me like a barrel racing cowgirl until I cum inside of her, then she hovers over me and pushes the semen out onto my belly before collapsing on the bed next to me. I am a gooey and sweaty mess.

She passes out instantly from her drunkenness as I lay flat on my back gasping to catch my breath. I vacillate between consciousness and unconsciousness in my own post-coital inebriation, but in a moment of clarity I decide to get cleaned up before falling asleep on her nice tulip duvet. So I stumble through the waning candlelight toward the bathroom. In the darkness of an unfamiliar shower I slip on a bottle of shampoo and slam my head violently against the tile floor.

This is the moment my amnesia begins. I regain consciousness terrified and not recognizing any of my surroundings, having no idea where I am, how I got here, and who is here with me. I stumble around in the darkness to gather my clothing and then race off into the night on my Ducati drunk and concussed. The headlight of the Ducati attracts every flying insect in the Northern Cascades, and they explode in technicolor on the windscreen of my helmet. I race through the night like the pilot of a spaceship lost in the cosmos, and 18 hours later, without a clue how I arrived there or where I had been for the past month, I wake up in my own apartment in Pacific Grove.

But when I open my eyes, I’m not in my apartment, I’m standing in an art gallery in Leavenworth Washington, at an art show dedicated to me and a fleeting romance I had with the woman standing right in front of me. And standing next to her, tears of sorrow stream from River’s eyes as she realizes that there is no cosmic connection between us. I was all just a series of heartbreaking coincidences, and that the universe is a cruel and unforgiving place sometimes … but it never lies.

Yachats - Several Weeks Ago

One could argue that the “freedom of the road” is not the ability to go “where” you want, it’s the ability to go “when” you want. The modus operandi of the lone motorcyclist is to wake, dress, eat, fuel and go without dilly dallying or lollygagging. Any activity delaying departure is anathema to the cause. The freedom of the road is the freedom from outside influence and the ability to depart, explore and arrive on one’s own timetable.

Autumn is anathema to all of this.

I delay my departure as long as excruciatingly possible hoping I will make up time en route and catch Autumn before day’s end. I think it’s a genius plan until I reach the first little town and realize that there are an infinite number of side streets, gas stations, cafes and coffee shops, curio stores and tourist traps and that I could easily pass her without noticing. Even on a route as insular as Highway 1, the number of opportunities to pass each other unnoticed is essentially unlimited. It’s maddening and short of combing every street in every city, my only reasonable course of action is to just carry on, be aware of my surroundings, keep an eye on the parking lots and overlooks, and hope that Autumn’s right about fate intervening. If it happens it happens, but there’s nothing I can do to alter the outcome.

Fate will decide, so I continue northbound.

And so goes probably the worst day of motorcycling I’ve ever had. I feel like a hound coursing an invisible hare. Mile after mile of gorgeous tarmac passes beneath my wheels, but I don’t enjoy a minute of it. I am singularly focused on finding Autumn, meaning that my eyes are blind to everything else. Brookings, Pistol River, Gold Beach, Port Oxford, Bandon, Coos Bay, charming I’m sure. I’m looking, but not actually seeing them. They merely serve as the backdrop in a futile quest to find a white SUV.

Fuck fate. This sucks.

200 miles into the ride and my nerves are frayed. I set my sights on the next town, Yachats, Oregon as today’s final destination. 15 miles to go and Autumn is nowhere to be found, so I’ll probably just check into a cheap motel and find a brick wall somewhere that I can kick in frustration until my toes either bleed or break.

A few miles south of Yachats there are a couple of dozen cars parked at a scenic overlook. I decide to drive though the parking area once in a last ditch effort to find Autumn before giving up for the day. As expected, she’s not here. Dejected, I decide to make lemons from lemonade, park the Ducati and walk down the path to see why everyone is parked here. Maybe I’ll have at least one good experience today.

Turns out it’s a spot called Thor’s Well. It’s an overly dramatic name for a seemingly bottomless sinkhole in the rocks of the Oregon coastline. The hole fills and drains (quite dramatically) as the waves wash over it. It’s a scene that’s familiar to anyone with a computer screensaver, as it has been photographed a million times by a million people. I decide to try my hand at photography too and pull my iPhone from my pocket. I hold it high overhead aimed right at The Well. The waves wash in and drain away and at the exact moment I’m pressing the shutter button I feel a sharp poke in my ribs and someone yells “BO!!” from behind me. I’m startled like a cat seeing a cucumber, and my iPhone goes flying through the air and to the bottom of the ocean. I turn around to see Autumn gasping with laughter at my being startled, but also mortified for having sent my iPhone down to Davey Jones’ Locker. But I’m so thrilled to see her that I’m not at all upset about the phone. Hours of stress evaporate in an instant and we collapse into each other’s arms with laughter and I bury my nose in her hair so I can breathe deeply in her essence.

“I guess your phone number isn’t going to do me any good now.”

“I knew I’d see you again David” she tells me with bright and reassuring eyes.

“Do you always cast your fate to the wind Autumn?”

“Only when I need to be absolutely certain of something.”

“The universe never lies, does it?” I ask rhetorically.

“The universe is a cruel and unforgiving place sometimes … but it never lies.”

I have faith in her faith, and find truth in her truth. I feel like we’re two atoms in a molecule that have fallen into each other’s orbit. We’ve only just met, but our attraction is so strong it would take a nuclear chain reaction to tear us apart.

“What are you doing here?” she asks me.

“Just passing by. What are you doing here?”

“I’m going to photograph The Well at sunset” she tells me. I spy a little rucksack with her Leica and a tripod on the ground a few feet behind her.

“Well do you want some company, or should I go into town and find a cheap motel for the night?”

“Neither” she tells me, then she reaches into her pocket and hands me a hotel room key. “I don’t want you on the road at dusk on account of me. This stretch of highway is crawling with mule deer. Great Horned Rats we call them. Go to the Adobe Resort in Yachats, Room 21 and wait for me there. I’m 30 minutes behind you. Freshen up so we can have a nice dinner. Remember, tonight is my treat.”

I love her confidence. There’s nothing sexier than a woman with a plan.

I stuff the hotel key into my pocket and we share a brief but passionate kiss goodbye. I turn to walk up the trail and she smacks me on the butt. “Go on big boy! By the time you get freshened up, I’ll be there.”

The Ducati roars to life and 15 minutes later I’m arriving at the Adobe Resort in Yachats. It’s the finest hotel in town. Each room has a panoramic view of the sea. The key card beeps me into Room 21 on the first try and I find that Autumn has already been here to unpack and freshen up. Her suitcase is wide open, and the bathroom mirror is still foggy from her shower. There is a pair of panties on the floor. I’m not sure if they’re strategically placed or accidentally left behind, but it really doesn’t matter. I ball them up in my hands and smell them like a chef smelling a handful of freshly picked herbs. That aroma, my God she’s delicious! Women don’t perspire, they just ooze sensuality.

I deviate from my normal check-in routine and instead take a nice long shower. Then I towel off and just as I’m affixing the last button on the fly of my Levi 501 jeans, I hear the card key beep at the door. Autumn looks startled to see me, like she spent the entire afternoon rehearsing for this moment, but never anticipated that I would be standing there half naked when she came through the door. She looks me over carefully but is mindful not to say anything silly to ruin the moment as she places her camera rucksack down near her luggage. I pull a clean t-shirt over my head and work it down my torso past my ribcage. Her eyes are on my bare belly like a lioness on a hunt.

“Hungry?” I ask.

“Very” she tells me.

“Have you decided on what you want for dinner?”

I see her hand sweep across the light switch and the room goes pitch black, and from out of the darkness I hear a single word whispered delicately across nervous Scandinavian lips.

Crescent City - One Month Ago

The thirty minute ride from Trees of Mystery to Crescent City gives me plenty of time to think about Autumn. She is a fascinating creature. She insisted that I accompany her as she documented the Trees of Mystery tourist trap, so I did. The conversation was light and casual, and mostly I just listened and let her work, watching her take photographs around the park. I like the way she moves. She finds photographs the way a predator finds prey, stalking and strafing, repurposing the world for her composition. But my intrigue is equalled only by my frustration. At the end of our tour, we had a quick hug and she thanked me for keeping her company. But when I suggested we exchange numbers she declined, insisting with zen-like confidence that if we’re meant to cross paths again, we will.

She has a point. We’re both heading north on the only route that traverses this coastline. If I really want to see her again, I’ll spend the night in Crescent City, leave late tomorrow morning, and look for the white Subaru SUV in every scenic overlook between here and the Washington border.

There’s a light smattering of civilization at the south end of Crescent City, but the town really begins where the highway splits into separate northbound and southbound boulevards with the business district in the middle. As if placed there by the hand of God himself, there’s a Motel 6 sitting exactly where the highway splits. Northbound or southbound, you couldn’t miss it if you tried. The Sikh innkeeper could not be nicer. He’s a well dressed fellow with tweed slacks and an argyle sweater-vest. He graciously gives me a ground floor room without my even asking. Apparently I’m not the first motorcyclist who has ever stayed here.

I ask for a food recommendation and he recommends the Thai food restaurant directly next door. “It’s really authentic” he tells me. My initial reaction is that of incredulity. How can a Thai food restaurant be authentic in such a small town this far north along the Pacific coast? But, Thailand is just across the Bay of Bengal from India, so I weigh his opinion accordingly and decide to give it a try.

After this many days on the road, my hotel check-in routine is bordering on ritualistic. Boots, jacket and shirt off. Face into a warm wash cloth. Flannel button-up shirt and flip-flops on. Double check pockets for wallet and hotel key, then depart.

The restaurant is located directly behind Motel 6. I am more than a little excited when I see a little white Subaru SUV parked directly in front of the Kin Khao Thai Eatery. Autumn is seated at a little two-top table near the window, but with her back to the door so she doesn’t see me walk in. She’s got her nose buried in the menu and is complete startled when I sit down across from her.

“Quelle belle surprise” in exclaim in my poorest French.

She gasps and giggles.

“Très bon surprise!” she replies in pretty decent French.

“Nice feet.”

She glances over the side of the table to the floor to see that we’re wearing nearly matching flip-flops. Autumn’s feet are, in fact, gorgeous. They look fifty years younger now that the sogginess has gone. Her skin is flawless and Scandinavian white. Those beautiful feet are connected to long athletic legs dangling from a pair of short khaki shorts. Without being too obvious, I’m imagining all of the things those legs can do that don’t involve walking or standing.

“Did you follow me here?” she asks suspiciously.

“Pure coincidence my darling. I’m staying next door and the innkeeper recommended this place.”

“Next door, like … Motel 6 next door?”

“Yes.”

“Ewww. Motel 6? Really?”

“Really really. Allow me to explain.”

“I’m not sure I want to hear this.”

“Trust me, this is good.”

“Okay, let’s hear it.”

“Motel 6 was founded in Santa Barbara in the early 1960s, and they grew really quickly, acquiring great locations all up and down the coast.”

“But they’re gross …”

“No, they’re not gross. They’re actually really clean. They’re just have no frills.”

“Like … zero frills.”

“Exactly, like ZERO frills. It’s a safe place to sleep, nothing more. I check in, swap my boots for flip-flops and I’m gone until bed time. They’re always close to the center of town, so it forces me to get out and explore.”

“Okay, I see your point, it gets you out and about. But you’re certainly not going to impress any ladies staying at a Motel 6.”

“And I’m all the better for it.”

“Well wait a minute, aren’t you trying to impress me?”

“Oh God no!”

“No!?!?”

“No, absolutely not. Why would I put on a silly charade? Our paths crossed today and somehow we ended up in the same restaurant at the same table. You’re either going to like me for who I am, or you’re not. But I’m not going to pretend to be something else to impress you. You see, fundamentally, a motorcycle is a means of escape … an isolationists tool. When the visor comes down on the helmet, it’s like piloting a little spaceship through the galaxy. I’m not going somewhere to do something. The journey is the journey. The zen is the solitude.”

“That actually impresses me.”

“What does?”

“Your answer. It was very genuine. Most guys in your position would just say anything to get into my pants. You seem …”

The waiter visits the table and interrupts the conversation. He’s a young Thai man. He looks like he’s probably the son of the owner and working an afterschool shift. Autumn asks if she can order for the table and I give her a nod of approval. “I was trying to decide between pad thai and the curry, but now that my friend has joined me, we’ll have both” she tells him. “White wine?” she asks me. I give an even more enthusiast nod of approval. “A bottle of the Willamette Valley white” she tells the waiter “with ice.”

Autumn takes the cloth napkin from the table and arranges it in her lap, then leans forward and gazes across the table at me. From that moment, our conversation leaps into top gear. I tell her that I work in business consulting, and she shares with me that her father always wanted her to be a journalist, but after his passing she decided to attend law school. “If he’s not going to live his life, then neither am I” she jokes.

The discussion turns to her Leica. A family heirloom that survived a tour of duty in Vietnam, and now even in the age of digital photography, it’s the only camera she’ll use. She holds it up to her face and looks through the viewfinder at me. I grab her iPhone from the table and snap a half decent portrait of her. A beautiful woman with strawberry blonde Farrah Fawcett hair, face hidden behind a fifty year old film camera. You could frame it.

We laugh, and talk, and tell light hearted stories about family and friends and growing up.  We talk about destiny and fate and love and the cosmic meaning of it all. And as the earth tumbles on its axis through space for two hours, time stands still as we fall into each other’s orbit. I’m impressed by her intellect and curiosity. She seems to appreciate my earnestness, and when I laugh she smiles. When the second bottle of Willamette Valley white is gone I have to wrestle the bill from her hands.

“I’ll make you a deal Autumn, if I still know you 24 hours from now, you can buy me dinner then.”

—

We are both pretty tipsy from the two bottles of white wine, but “not so tipsy that I want to spend the night in a Motel 6” she tells me. “Listen, my hotel is a ten minute walk from here and I’d rather not walk it alone since I’ve been drinking and it’s dark out. Would you walk me back?” Seems like the chivalrous thing to do, so I agree to provide her with safe passage home. Her hotel is at the far west end of First Street at the Oceanfront Lodge overlooking the iconic Battery Point Light House. It’s nearly a mile away but it’s a pleasant walk along a seaside park. We pass a bustling restaurant called SeaQuake Brewing but decide against stopping for a nightcap as we’re both pretty drunk. For the entire walk I’ve been bristling with anticipation, wondering if she’ll invite me up to her hotel room for a nightcap. When we reach the entrance to her hotel, I don’t have to wait long for the answer. She taps her drunken finger against my chest and proclaims “no hanky panky on the first night David” then she falls into my arms and devours my face with a deep and rapturous French kiss. I squeeze her so hard I lift her right off of her feet. She wraps her legs around me and I run my hand up under the her sweater, feeling the warmth of her bare skin, and then I set her down gently on the ground.

I stroke her ear with my hand and she pushes her head against my chest as we stand there wrapped in each other’s arms in the afterglow of passion. I politely suggest that now might be a good time to exchange phone numbers.

“Do you believe in fate David?

“Yes.”

Trees of Mystery - One Month Ago

She’s right, best to turn back now so that I don’t have to spend the next two days on my motorcycle in cold, wet boots and soggy, stinky socks. I turn around and begin the delicate rock dance back down stream and out of the canyon, but by the time I reach the parking lot the strawberry blonde is long gone. Her complete disregard for dry feet means that she was able to stomp down the middle of the creek at a jogger’s pace. Like a pair of wet socks hanging on the line, my opportunity to pour on the charm in the parking lot has … evaporated.

I mount up on the Ducati and begin the hour-long backtrack along the beach and through the Jurassic forest to the highway, and then onward north until I reach the gas station in Klamath where I top up the tank with fuel. A couple of Harley riders are filling up with gas at the pump next to me and point out the Country Club Bar & Grill across the street from the gas station.

“Son, if you ain’t afraid of the occasional fist fight, that there place has the coldest beer and greasiest burgers in a hunert-miles” he tells me. “Course I’m not sure if you fellers riding them fancy Italian sissy-cycles er cut out for fist fights.”

You’d think that all motorcyclists would stick together as a tribe, but the Harley guys are a faction unto themselves. It’s clear they’re looking for trouble, but predators are always looking for prey, never another predator. So I put my hand into my pocket and pretend I’m reaching for my knife as I tell them “Well you know those Italians like a good knife fight, and I already left a blade in the ribcage of some smart-ass in Reno, so you’d better just mosey along.” It’s a fight-fire-with-fire response that’s just unhinged enough that they decide to leave me alone.

Close call.

They fire up their big obnoxious Harleys and blaze off down the highway, thankfully heading south. I notice my hand trembling a little from the adrenaline as I pull my helmet visor closed. “Plus I’m still full from the waffles” I joke to myself nervously inside the helmet. With the tank full, I pull my fancy Italian sissy-cycle onto the highway, point it northbound and disappear over the horizon at light-speed before they decide to turn around and call my bluff.

Residual adrenaline, a motorcycle, and a twisty road are the perfect bedfellows. “Fleeing from a biker gang” is also the perfect excuse to give a highway patrolman, so I speed northbound without fear of consequence. North of Klamath the highway twists and turns as it climbs into a canopy of Redwood forest. The bark of the exhaust echoes off of the great trees as I wrestle with the handlebars to drag the motorcycle from corner apex to corner apex. I’m pushing the motorcycle to the absolute limit, at speeds where the tiniest lapse in concentration could be fatal when a fifty foot tall wooden statue of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox appears on the horizon and nearly startles me to death. I clamp the Ducati brakes and slow the bike like a junkyard dog finding the end of his chain, decelerating just enough to swoop into the parking lot without crashing.

I shove the kickstand to the ground and rev the bike good and hard one time before shutting off engine. The sound rips through the sky, shattering the serenity of this majestic forest. The revving and posturing is all for naught. There’s only one car in the parking lot, an empty SUV. There’s a little gift shop building to my left with a sign on the roof that says “Trees of Mystery.” Clearly it’s a redwood forest tourist attraction and the gigantic lumberjack is just to attract passersby.

I’m standing marveling at the statues when I hear a faint click behind me. I turn around and standing about 15 feet behind me is the strawberry blonde with Leica camera up to her face. As I’m looking at her, she click off a second photo, and then without saying a word just turns and walks away.

She crosses the parking lot to the only car here, the little white SUV, opens the rear tailgate, crawls inside, kicks off her wet boots, and hangs her soggy, porcelain-white feet out over the rear bumper to evaporate away the wrinkles in the warm pacific sun.

I’m intrigued now more than ever. Intoxicated on a cocktail of moxie and machismo from having fended off the Harley idiots, I march right across the parking lot to the back of the SUV and grab her big toe between my thumb and finger and give it a friendly wiggle.

“Should’ve kept those feet dry.”

“Great advice.”

“Do you always take people’s picture without their permission?”

“I’m a journalist. It’s in my DNA.”

“Seems as though you and I are following the same path today.”

“There’s only one road through here amigo.”

“Yeah, but this is the third time we’ve crossed paths today. Twice is a coincidence, three times is …”

“Three times?”

“The diner this morning … you were sitting behind me.”

“Oh Jesus, that was you? Every time you shifted your weight that stupid booth was bouncing me up and down like wump wump wump!”

“Oh no, every time YOU shifted YOUR weight my seat was bouncing up and down like wump wump wump!”

We both have a good laugh, then she tosses a pair of flip-flops on the ground under the bumper and motions with her hand for me to pull her to her feet. Her toes slip into the sandals as I gently take her hand and pull her up to standing. We’re face to face now.

“I’m Autumn” she tells me.

“Hi. David.”

I have to resist the urge to shake hands, because we’re already holding hands, so I just give her fingers a little squeeze of acknowledgement and let go. The sun is warm, so I unzip my motorcycle jacket and take it off. I’m wearing a blood red t-shirt with an art-deco Ducati logo emblazoned across the chest.

“Cool shirt” she says.

“Oh thanks.”

“Ducati, they’re like the Ferrari of motorcycles, right?”

“Ahh yes, the Ferrari of motorcycles … I use that line to impress all the ladies” I joke.

“Ha! You’re so full of shit.”

“True. Girls have zero interest in what kind of motorcycle you ride”

“Only that you ride …”

“Bingo.”

I glance up at the big lumberjack statue, then look around the empty parking lot, and then back to Autumn.

“What’s newsworthy enough to bring you all the way out here?”

“I’m driving up the coast and writing a travel piece for Westways Magazine, mostly photography with some lite storytelling.”

“You’re getting paid to take my vacation.”

“It’s work!” she protests.

“Now you’re full of shit.”

“It’s a complete boondoggle” she admits while wiping tears of laughter out of her eyes. “But there is one downside, sometimes I have to visit these cheesy tourist traps all by myself” she tells me suggestively.

“Oh no! No no no no. Do I look like the kind of guy you’d find strolling through the Trees of Mystery?”

Eureka, California - One Month Ago

One of the great joys of traveling alone on a motorcycle is the ability to make questionable life choices and not have to explain yourself to anyone. Want fish tacos from the greasiest spoon in Tijuana? Go for it. Cold beer at the roughest biker bar in Barstow? No one is going to stop you. Chase the dragon and have a threesome with a couple of strippers? Try to stop me.

What is my secret indulgence you ask? Shitty hotels. And not just any shitty hotels, but specifically Motel 6 shitty hotels. Why? Because it incentivizes you to spend the absolute least amount of time actually in the hotel. You see, Motel 6’s are always clean, sparsely decorated but well kept, and impossibly cheap. When you check into a Motel 6, the rooms are so devoid of character they’re more like a jail cell than a hotel room. So you immediately want to slip on a pair of walking shoes and explore the town. So that’s what I do. Are Best Westerns and Hiltons nicer? Yes! Very much so. But if I check into a nice hotel I’ll be too comfortable and just end up falling asleep in my sox while watching dirty movies on my iPad.

Motel 6, for me, is mostly a win. But there is a catch. They don’t offer breakfast, which is why I find myself sat here on a vinyl booth in a diner next to the highway in Eureka enjoying sausage, a waffle with warm maple syrup and drip coffee from a mug that looks like it has been in use since 1974. The booths are seated back to back, so every time the person behind me shifts their weight I can feel it under my seat too. It’s like being on a blow up mattress … when one goes up the other goes down.

The waitress is dropping off the bill to the person seated behind me, and as much as I try to mind my own business, I inadvertently eavesdrop on the exchange.

“Well that’s a fancy looking camera you got there. You don’t see many of them things no more on account of all these iPhones” the waitress says.

“Oh thanks” the diner replies in a pleasant, feminine voice. “It was my dad’s, he was a war correspondent in Vietnam and he handed the camera down to me in his will … when he passed.”

“Well God bless you for using it young lady, I’m sure that’s what your daddy would have wanted you to do” the waitress tells her. “So where ya headed?”

“Just going north along the coast. Going to see what I see” the diner replies.

“Well everyone stops at Paul Bunyan, but if I were you, I’d stop at Fern Canyon. It’s our little secret spot round here” the waitress advises.

“Oh, great tip!” the diner says.

“Well hey darling, that’s why I’m here … I’m working for great tips” the waitress jokes. It’s funny enough that it makes me begin to laugh but I pretend to cough quietly so that I don’t out myself for eavesdropping. I feel the vinyl booth bounce up and down a couple of times while the diner behind me wiggles out of the seat, then she walks past me to the cash register to pay her bill. I can only see her backside, but she’s a slender blonde wearing a white sweater and big clompy hiking boots with red laces. The waitress warms up my coffee and services my table, and by the time I look back at the cash register the lady in the white sweater is gone.

The Northern California coastline has notoriously cold mornings, so there’s no rush to get on the motorcycle. I enjoy my warm coffee refill, and with any luck, I’ll have a good shit before hitting the road.

—

One of the great pitfalls of traveling alone on a motorcycle is the ability to make questionable life choices and not have to explain yourself to anyone. About an hour after leaving the restaurant I’m sixty miles north of Eureka on Highway 1 and I am seriously regretting the second and third cups of coffee. I keep telling myself I’ll stop at the next little town, but around here, there are no little towns. I decide that I’m going to exit the highway at the next possible opportunity and pee right there on the offramp, in front of God and everybody, if that’s what I have to do.

As fate would have it, the next offramp is the exit to Fern Canyon. I swing the bike off of the road, then turn left at the stop sign, go under the highway and ride to a spot where the road disappears under a canopy of redwoods, where I absolutely drench a patch of sword ferns in piss. After zipping up, I take a moment to look around. The road has a very strong “Jurassic Park” vibe to it and I’m intrigued to see where it leads.

From where the bike is parked I can see that the pavement ends, so I decide to attack the road like it is a stage of the Paris-Dakar Rally. I stand on the pegs of the Ducati and burst through each corner with wide open throttle, letting the rear tire fishtail across the dirt. I’m having so much fun riding with reckless abandon that I completely forget that this a sightseeing tour. When I reach the coast there’s an empty toll booth where the mountain road meets the beach, so I roar through at full throttle and head north along the sandy beach road leaving huge roosts of sand flying behind me. “Woooo hoooooo” I’m howling to myself inside the helmet as the road drops out from underneath me and the motorcycle goes KER-SPLOOSH across a wide creek with fast moving water that is crossing the road. The bike launches up the embankment on the other side and after another few hundred yards the road comes to an abrupt end at a little dirt cul-de-sac where a few cars are parked. My adrenaline is pumping, so I park the Ducati, rip off my helmet and let out my loudest Viking war cry.

“Valhalla!!!”

The cry echoes off of the cliff wall and out onto the Pacific Ocean. “They’re hear that one in Japan” I joke to myself smugly. It’s only been 15 minutes since my pee break but coffee number three is already telling my bladder “it’s time to go” so I relieve myself next to a foot trail with a hilarious yellow caution sign depicting a tourist getting mauled by an angry elk.

In keeping with the theories that there are no roads to nowhere and there’s no such thing as the end of the road, I decide to follow the trail to see if there is actually a Fern Canyon around here somewhere. There are a few elk grazing in the meadows so I proceed with caution and after about thousand or so feet I’m relieved when a crack in the canyon wall turns out to be the entrance to Fern Canyon. There’s a fair amount of water running in and through the canyon, so there’s no actual path up the canyon. You have to rock hop across the stream from bank to bank and scurry upriver where you can. It is quickly apparent that anyone attempting ingress here must be willing to have wet feet. I’m in my only pair of motorcycle boots for the trip, so I’m doing my best to stay dry.

Fern Canyon is otherworldly. The slate walls are almost jet black and glossy from the water that is seeping out of them. Bright emerald green vines and sword ferns cover the walls in patterns that look like nature’s own fractal geometry experiment. It truly has a unique vibe unto itself. If a stegosaurus came rambling down the canyon it wouldn’t surprise me in the least. I rock-hop across the stream and then scurry upriver on each embankment and I make it about 200 feet into the canyon. I have forgotten about the terrorizing elk in the pasture because I’m having completely irrational fears of a twelve foot tall lizard appearing at the mouth of the canyon, with six inch fangs and a taste for human blood, so my heart leaps into my throat when there is movement on the horizon.

I freeze in my tracks, having momentarily convinced myself that dinosaurs could exist, even though they’ve been extinct for 65 million years. But it turns out to be the girl with the white sweater from the coffee shop. I finally get a look at her face. Perfection is an understatement. She’s has the kind of natural beauty that I just adore. She has bright intelligent eyes, with no makeup or signs of plastic surgery. Her face is pure, natural and wholesome. More “olympian” looking than “influencer.” She’s deftly hopping from rock to rock, but doesn’t flinch when her big leather waffle stompers get drenched with missteps. Her strawberry hair is dancing from side to side and she has a hand steadying the Leica camera hanging around her neck. She has the grace and poise of an athlete. I’m paralyzed with intrigue watching her as she heads toward me. She eventually gives up on criss-crossing and just stomps her big leather boots right down the middle of the creek directly toward me. When she reaches my embankment she glances up and gives me a polite “Good morning.” I smile sheepishly but can’t muster up a reply, as I am completely smitten.

River, Flood, Moses and David

The sun sets on our wonderful day and we enjoy watching the colors of the sky disappear and the lights of the glowing businesses illuminate the street. Sunday evening is typically slow for businesses, but the restaurants are bustling. We decide to find dinner somewhere on Front Street and set our standards as “authentic German cuisine with real Kölsch beer.” We depart our park bench heading north once again. There’s a group of people pouring out of a shoppe onto the sidewalk about a block and a half north that have piqued our in interest. They’re holding wine glasses and little plates of cheese pierced with toothpicks, so we assume it’s either a private party or an art gallery opening.

At first glance, it appears to be a space reserved by the local chamber of commerce for highlighting local artists. There are about six people in front of the gallery on the sidewalk when we approach, and I’m getting weird vibes from them as we approach. They’re looking at me and River oddly. They have a look of shock in their faces, like there’s some sort of Leavenworth localism and we’re crashing their party.

I take notice immediately at the way they’re dressed. Unlike Los Angeles or New York, their “dressed up” is more “dressed down.” There are no black turtlenecks or casual suits. Instead they’re wearing nice Pendleton flannels button-downs with cuffed denim, chambray, and fine silver jewelry with turquoise, malachite and onyx stones. The PNW vibe is strong and these people are definitely locals. There’s one couple, a petite blonde and a ruggedly handsome man, that are paying particular interest to me. As we approach, the man turns directly toward me and stops us in our tracks.

“Hey, you’re the guy” the man says to me with incredulity in his voice.

“Excuse me?”

“Aren’t you the guy in the art show?”

I am completely confused here. The only art I’ve ever created are the five drawings that are tucked away safely in the panniers of the Ducati and the one picture rolled up under River’s arm. I must look completely bewildered, because the man asks me again.

“Sir, you’re the guy in the art show … aren’t you?”

“This art show??”

“Yes, it’s a photography exhibit called Vanishing Desire. It’s about a woman who falls in love, only to have the man vanish forever. You look like the man in the pictures.”

I look at River. River looks at me. Could this be the final clue in the mystery? I turn back toward the man in the flannel.

“I guess there’s only one way to find out …”

The man and wife stand aside making way for River and I to enter the exhibit. We pass through the door. There’s a wall and and a guestbook between us and the exhibit, and on that wall is a photograph. It is a portrait of a woman with strawberry blonde Farrah Fawcett hair and a face hidden behind a Leica camera. The image takes our breath away. River unrolls the drawing under her arm and holds it up against the photograph on the wall. It is an EXACT match. The print and the drawing are coincidentally almost the same size. The details match perfectly. My blood runs cold. I am nearly in shock. River is looking at the photo in absolute disbelief.

“Floody” River says to me “what the fuck is going on here??”

I am at a complete loss for words. River leans our drawing against the wall below the print on the table behind the guestbook, then takes my hand and holds it tightly. “Buckle up Floody, I have a feeling your amnesia headache is about to hit you like a freight train.” I look at my drawing, and then at the picture, and then at River. They are three identical matches. My hand is cold and shivering in suspense, but River holds me tightly. We step into the exhibit.

The first image we’re greeted with is a candid photograph of me standing in Fern Canyon. It’s the reciprocal of my first memory recall when I saw River walk past me the canyon. I remember River’s spirit making this photo, but how was River’s spirit making photographs of me and then actually printing them? This is insanity. I feel a burning in my gut from the confusion and River keeps a tight grasp on my hand. The next image is even more shocking. It is a picture of me posing in front of the giant statues of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox. My hands are on my hips and I’ve got a big smile on my face. I’m so confused by what I’m seeing that I step to my right clumsily to get a look at the next picture and bump into another patron. She looks at me, and then at the pictures on the wall, and then back at me again a couple of times. “Oh look, it’s you!” she exclaims. She says it loudly enough that the rest of the patrons take notice and there seems to be a commotion and lots of chatter. It seems that everyone in the gallery are as surprised as I am that I’m here.

"Europeany"

Sunday

It has been 24 hours since we left the delightful Tillamook cheese factory, and after an uneventful night spent in Astoria (the town made famous by the movie Goonies) we find ourselves riding the gently twisting and exceedingly scenic roads of the Northern Cascades. Route 97 dead-ends at the intersection of Route 2, where we make a left turn and from there it’s only a few miles to Leavenworth. The sky is bright blue and we’re enjoying a beautiful day following the storm.

From the moment we round the bend at the edge of town it’s obvious that this is the Bavarian village we’ve been looking for. Leavenworth is a European themed village with wide variety of fairytale style architecture featuring German style “fachwerk” exposed beams, large overhangs and steeply pitched roofs. It’s hard to believe we’re still in America. If Snow White and her Seven Dwarves stopped traffic in the crosswalk, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least. There are hotels everywhere, each with their own Bavarian themed name. Icicle Village Resort, Der Ritterhof Inn, The Bavarian Lodge … you get the idea. We make a couple of passes along the main road until River points to one of the hotels. I can hear her yelling into my helmet “That’s the most Europeany!” Most Europeany? I haven’t seen that word in the adjective dictionary yet, but who cares? It’s in the middle of town so we’ll see if we can find lodging there.

Fortunately there are rooms available, they’re reasonably price, so we unload the panniers from the Ducati and get settled in. Greg LeMond once said of bicycling “It never gets easier you just get faster.” The same is essentially true of motorcycling. We’ve traveled well over 1000 miles in the past few days and by the time I collapse onto the bed in the hotel, I feel like a chain-gang inmate who has just been flogged for disobedience. We both struggle but succeed in kicking off our boots. River slumps into the chair and without a word we mutually agree to stay here and chill until our bodies acclimatize back to non-motorcycle normal.

River dozes off to sleep for about two seconds then snorts herself awake. We have a good laugh about it and that motivates us to begin the quest for dinner. With jeans and flip-flops on, we descend the stairs to the lobby. River asks the gal at the front desk for a dinner recommendation in the “most Enropeany” part of town and she points out the window. “Across the highway to Front Street. More food than y’all can shake a stick at, and it’s all pretty darn Europeany” she tells us.

River has my drawing, the one with her behind the Leica camera on one side and the Bavarian village on the other, rolled up and in hand. She wants to find the exact location where the drawing was made before the sun sets. Since Leavenworth is only a few city blocks long and a couple of city blocks deep, it should be a pretty doable task.

Front Street is indeed “Europeany.” It’s a cute little downtown area with touristy shops and plenty of germanic dining options. The idea of finding some good schnitzel, or better yet an authentic currywurst washed down with a Löwenbräu has my mouth absolutely watering. But first we are determined to find “the spot” depicted in my drawing. We walk the few blocks to the north end of the street, enjoying looking in the shop windows for souvenirs small enough to carry home on a motorcycle and perusing the menus of the eateries for something authentic. But we don’t immediately find the location from the picture so River pulls out the drawing to give it a closer examination. She decides that we’ll have better luck at the south end of Front Street so we turn around and walk all the way to the south end of town without finding the exact spot. But at the south end of town, when we turn back north again, we see it. There’s an intersection with the exact type of bierhaus architecture we’re looking for. We walk to the intersection and River holds up the drawing. From the middle of the intersection, it’s a perfect match.

I close my eyes and the crippling pain of the memory recall comes flooding back. River takes my hand to share her energy with me and the pain subsides. “I’m not here” I tell her. “I’m flying through space. Through the cosmos. Stars and planets are whizzing past the window of my spaceship. There’s a rainbow of galaxies and nebula, sometimes smashing against the window and exploding into colorful stardust. It’s the most bizarre thing, like I died and I’m riding to heaven on my Ducati.”

I open my eyes and return to the now. I’m no closer to solving this mystery. There’s a park bench in the greenbelt just across the street, so we sit there while the sun sets to understand what the hell we’re doing here.

“Okay River, let recap. I left home alone on my motorcycle heading for a nice relaxing Pacific Northwest motorcycle vacation and somehow ended up in Fern Canyon, and that is where your spirit first catches up to me. Then clearly I visited Paul Bunyan and you were on my mind there, and at Thor’s Well too. The barista in Tillamook claims to have seen you there, so your spiritual presence was becoming strong enough to manifest to multiple people at the same time. That led us here where my visions change from your bodily manifestation to a celestial manifestation, as I see the universe without form or time, just color and movement. If we follow that same path with the drawings, it only leaves one drawing left…”

“Me in the tulips.”

“Correct. So what does that mean?”

“I have no idea. Okay, let me suss this out for a minute. A few days ago we were having lunch at that weird little Indian casino in Klamath and I think that was the first moment when we realized that there’s a cosmic connection between us. The barista in Tillamook confirmed this and the cosmic vision you had just a minute ago confirms this. Which makes me think that maybe my spirit wasn’t following you here, maybe it was guiding you here!”

“But why?”

“That’s the real question isn’t it, but the only thing I can think is that the universe NEEDS us to be together for some reason.”

“Like The Terminator? We’ll make a baby and name him John Connor and our spawn will go on to save the world from artificial intelligence or something?”

“Ha! Maybe! Or maybe we’ll have a girl and she’ll be the first President of the United States or something.”

“Or maybe us just falling in love is good enough for the universe, and we’re here in the fairytale village to begin our fairytale love story?”

Saturday Morning Pancakes and Other Fucking Amazing Shit

I’m somewhere in a state of consciousness between asleep and awake when I feel River wrap her arm around me and cuddle up against my chest. I open my eyes and begin to say good morning but I stop myself before a word comes out of my mouth when I realize that River is completely asleep in my ams. The skies are dark and cloudy as the rain lashes against the window. My left arm is under River, so I have no way of checking my wristwatch to see what time it is. I decide that lucky is the man who gets to lay in the arms of a Scandinavian California girl, so I nuzzle up against her tightly and drift back into the state between consciousness until she begins to stir.

When she awakens, there’s no sign of drowsiness. Her eyes are immediately bright and focused on me and she leans in for a morning kiss. “What time is it?” she asks. I wriggle my arm out from underneath her and take a glance at my watch. “Oh wow, nine twenty! We really slept in.” I tell her. “I was dreaming about you so I stayed asleep as long as possible” she tells me with a thrust of her tongue in my mouth. I pounce on top of her, thrust her arms high up over her head toward the headboard and kiss every square inch of her body from wrists to ankles. A few extra kisses below the belly button net me explosive results and she finishes me off in reciprocal fashion.“Still hungry for breakfast?” I ask her jokingly when she’s done with me. She glances up at me from under the covers. “Pancakes sound really good right now!” she says. “I’ll bet they have them downstairs” I tell her “and we’re going nowhere fast with this lashing rain.” She gives my bare thighs a hard squeeze with her claws and with glancing smile she tells me “let’s go!”

We clean up with a warm shower (together again), get dressed and wander downstairs to the cafe in flip-flops. The hostess seats us against a window overlooking the raging sea as the rain continues to lash down. River orders pancakes, and I do too. They’re incredible. Buttermilk batter that’s been allowed plenty of time to rise, so they’re light and fluffy under real maple syrup.  We gorge and enjoy beautifully crafted lattes. A vent at the base of the wall is gently pumping warm air onto our feet. It’s cozy and when the pancakes are gone we order a second round of coffees so we can just sit by the window and enjoy more time at the table. We are completely simpatico and it makes me realize that I’ll probably never have to spend another night alone for as long as I live.

The rain is lightening up by the time the second coffees arrive and by the time we’re finished, there’s a little patch of blue sky far out on the horizon that appears to be headed our way. River asks the waitress about the weather forecast. She checks her phone and says it will be all-clear by noon, so we pay and then ask the front desk for a late checkout.

River turns on The Weather Channel when we get back to the room and looking at the forecast, it’s pretty obvious that making a beeline for Leavenworth would put us into the eye of the storm. We’re better off staying west and following the coast north for as long as possible. So that’s what we’ll do.

By the time we’ve got the Ducati loaded with the panniers at noon, the rain has largely passed, but this is the pacific northwest where weather is unpredictable and more-often-than-not unpleasant, so we visit a local fisherman’s supply store before leaving town and get a couple of rain slickers … just in case.

Onward north.

There’s a chill in the air that we haven’t experienced yet and River clings tightly to me for warmth. The plainly descriptive location names continue as we pass Otter Rock and Seal Rock en route to the cheddar capital of the pacific northwest, Tillamook. The big glass cheese factory building is quite unusual for the area and catches our attention immediately. There’s a hip, rustic looking coffee shack across the street so I pull in there for a quick word with River. “Cheese factory tour?” I ask. “Coffee first” she replies.

Excellent idea! Rain and fog are more common than sunshine on the Oregon coast so the local people have developed the art of coffee making to a level only seen in European cities like Vienna, Rome and Venice. The little coffee shop is empty except for a gorgeous native American looking girl with long back hair and perfect chocolate colored skin working both the cash register and making the coffee.

“Welcome in” she tell us.

“Such a cute little coffee shop” River exclaims.

“Thanks!” the barista replies.

“Where’s your bathroom?” asks River.

“Right over there” the barista points to a little black wooden door in the corner with a sign on the door with three pictograms on it - a man, a woman and an alien - and text underneath that reads “we don’t care what you are, just wash your hands when you’re finished.” River has a giggle as she latches the door behind her.

“Quad shot whole milk latte again?” the barista asks.

“How do you know my order?”

“I remember from last time. We roast strong coffee here and nobody orders quad shots unless they have a defibrillator nearby. Aren’t you the guy from California on the motorcycle?”

“Holy shit. You’ve got a good memory! Much better than mine.”

“Thanks. Not a lot of motorcycles in these parts. What does your friend want? I don’t remember her order.”

“You wouldn’t remember her, she wasn’t with me last time.”

“That’s weird, I could swear she was with you last time.”

River comes out of the bathroom with a spring in her step. “Miss, what can I getcha?” the barista asks. “Vanilla latte please” River tells her, and then I pay. The barista pulls the shots and assembles the drinks and has them on the bar in lighting speed while I ponder what just happened. We take our drinks from the bar and I offer a toast to River in light of this most recent discovery … “To convergence!” I toast with our paper cups.

“You won’t believe what just happened.”

Under the window, sat at a little two top like the one we sit at in our home coffee shop I tell River the incredible story of the barista recognizing me and even remembering my order. Then I tell her that the barista remembers her too. River is genuinely perplexed. It’s clear that I’ve been here, but this is River’s first time to the Oregon coast. I truly believe that River’s spirit had followed me on my previous journey, that’s why I keep manifesting her in my memories. But only I can see that, and unless we’re living inside of some science fiction movie, there’s no way the barista could have seen her before. River shakes her head in confusion. Her incredulity is completely justified.

“Floody, there’s a lot of weird, mystical, spiritual shit going on here.”

“Yes. Yes there is.”

“The problem is, I always joke about manifest destiny and karma and crap, but I’ve never actually seen it come true. Like, there are coincidences from time to time where you say ‘wow, that’s amazing’ … but this, this is truly amazing. I look at you and us and how we’ve become one on this journey, and I think about the universe and the stars and God and magic. I feel like something truly remarkable is unfolding before my very eyes, but I keep telling myself, this isn’t possible!”

“Well … it might seem impossible, but it’s not.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s happening, and there’s no denying it.”

River takes the last gulp from her drink, stands up and tosses the cup into the wastebasket.

“No fucking way, it’s just crazy” River exclaims as she’s heading for the door. Then she stops right in the middle of the room, next to the empty wine barrel acting as a merchandise display and looks right at the barista.

“What was I wearing last time I was here?” River asks.

“A white sweater, and right as you were about to walk out the door you asked me if the cheese factory tour is worth doing.” the barista replies.

River turns and looks across the room at me in absolute astonishment and disbelief. “I was totally going to ask her that” she tells me.

Yachats

Friday

The southern Oregon coast is the Greatest Hits of Unvisited Places. The California/Oregon border is only a few minutes north of our hotel in Crescent City. Every inch of the two hundred miles we will ride today is postcard scenic. The great northern Pacific Ocean is our constant companion as the highway follows the cliffs and bluffs at the edge of the continent. The landscape is verdant from the plentiful rain along the coast and there’s no traffic. The first little town, Brookings, comes and goes in the blink of an eye. Every five or so miles, there’s a signposted overlook with a plainly descriptive name like Arch Rock or Long Beach. With no real agenda today other than transiting the 200 or so coastal miles between Crescent City and Yachats, we stop more often than not to take in the view. One overlook has a small hiking loop, maybe 600 feet or so, following the bluffs to a rocky cliffside viewpoint. We hike is just for the hell of it and it turns out to be gorgeous. There’s a bench on the bluffs where lovers have been carving their names into the wood for decades. We check for a recently carved “Floody and River” just in case but find nothing, but there are a few Davids.

Our frequent stops make the miles more bearable. River takes a moment at each pullout to stand on her tippy toes then do a couple of high knee jumps to keep the blood flowing. The cities are really nothing more than dots on a map until we reach Bandon, famous for the Bandon Dunes Golf Course and an iconic lighthouse. We stop only for fuel and continue on across the bridge at Coos Bay and on toward Thor’s Well.

The highway is like a giant black ribbon stretching out in front of us cutting a path between the bright floral green on the right and the sea blue on the left. By early afternoon we’ve made pretty good progress heading north, but without a nav on the motorcycle we aren’t exactly sure how close we are to Yachats. We cross the low bridge over Cook’s Chasm and see another turnout on the left with a dozen or so cars, so we stop to find out where we are.

The parking overlooks a rocky outcropping with water spouting from a vent hole in the cliff. Below us, there’s a trail the rocks and a dozen or so tourists are gathered in a single spot, watching the waves pour into a giant hole in the ground. “That’s Thor’s Well” River tells me. As soon as she says it, it becomes plainly obvious. It is a scene that has been popularized on computer screensavers and lock screens for decades. I’m see flashbacks of the screensaver on my Amazon Fire Stick and as I close my eyes the debilitating pain of my memory recall comes rushing back. River see’s me fading and takes my hand. I keep my eyes closed as I tell her …

“We were here, you and I. We were parked over there, to the north and we walked the trail loop together. I see you with a camera, photographing the Well. I’m standing right beside you near the rocks.”

I open my eyes.

“We have to walk the path together to see if we can find my phone.”

My iPhone battery is long since dead so there’s no way to actively locate it electronically, but we can poke around in the bushes around the trail and see if it fell out of my pocket. If it hasn’t been picked up by a tourist, it’s here somewhere.

River tries to hold my hand tightly to keep the amnesia headache away, but I slip intentionally from her grasp. The memory recall has come and gone, so I’m safe to proceed untethered, but I do keep her close by just in case something jogs my memory. We walk to the north end of the parking area to pick up a narrow walking path that zig-zags a few hundred feet down the slope to the rocks. We walk slowly, I examine the grass and bushes on the left side of the path, River examines the right. We have no luck spotting the iPhone but I’m hoping we’ll catch a glimpse of it on the way back up the hill.

Thor’s Well is quite dramatic. Waves wash over the rocks and pour into a giant chasm 20 feet wide. The hole fills and drains with each surge of the sea. A fall into the well would be fatal, or at the very least, life changing. We stand holding hands for a few moments watching the sea pour into the chasm before returning to the Ducati empty handed. No phone, no luck.

15 minutes later we’re pulling into Yachats. I feel a tug on my jacket. River is pointing out a little fish and chips shack called the Luna Sea Fish Company. Clever name! We stop and gorge ourselves on deep fried fish and thick cut french fries. It’s the freshest deep fried cuisine I’ve ever had. We ask the cashier for a hotel suggestion and she tells us “the Adobe Resort, it’s the nicest hotel in town.” Once again, we’re astonished by the price. $81 for a panoramic ocean view on a Friday night. The value for money on the pacific northwest is beyond belief. I could probably sell my loft in Pacific Grove and buy this whole damn hotel. It’s crazy.

Micro Brew Macro Data

In any other city, the property overlooking a monumentally beautiful lighthouse such as the Battery Point Lighthouse would be worth billions of dollars. There’s definitely a cognitive dissonance associated with staying at the Oceanfront Lodge. Our room has a panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean from the spacious patio. Battery Point Lighthouse stands proudly on its own little island about 100 meters off shore. It is as iconic and beautiful as the Golden Gate Bridge or the Lone Cypress. If that lighthouse was in Santa Barbara or Malibu, my hotel room would cost $2000 a night, and feature Three Michelin Star dining and a world class golf course. But here we are, for under a hundred dollars, with chipped paint on the walls and a shit brown duvet. It’s hard to believe that tourists and property developers haven’t discovered this place yet. But clearly … they haven’t.

I’m unpacking my pannier on top of the cheaply veneered desk, River has her pannier on the luggage rack. The six drawings are sprawled out across one of the beds and River is on the other bed trying to wiggle her way out of her motorcycle boots. She lets out a little squeak as she’s trying to get the boots off, so I offer my unsolicited help by grabbing the heel of her boot and pulling it off. It reminds me of being a kid and helping my dad take off his boots after work.

We freshen up pretty quickly. River pulls on fresh jeans and sneakers, then rolls the drawings and snaps a rubber band around them. There’s still plenty of light left in the sky, so we decide to walk into town to find something to eat. The front desk attendant recommends a Thai food place located just across the harbor, an easy walk, maybe 15 minutes.

Front Street is a straight shot heading east from our doorstep and that’s where we’ll find the Thai food. Between us and dinner there’s a misnamed Beachfront park (it is clearly a Harbor-front park) filled with beautiful windswept coastal cypress trees. We decide for a romantic walk through the park, but our plans disintegrate about a quarter of the way into the park when River spots a building bustling with activity and a big sign out front that reads “SeaQuake Brewing Company.” Thai food will have to wait for another day.

The hostess tells us there’s a wait unless we don’t mind sitting at one of the communal farm tables in the middle of the dining room. “Sounds perfect to me!” River tells her and we’re quickly whisked away to our seats. We’re sat at one end of a long, hightop table with a butcher block top and barstool seats. There’s a lively crowd here tonight. Led Zeppelin is playing over the loudspeakers and there’s football on the big screens. Everyone seems friendly. It’s a brewing company, so we order flights of their in-house beers for tasting plus calamari strips and garlic cheese knots for a starter. For dinner we share the Thai chicken salad as a sort of consolation prize for not actually getting Thai food. After the waitress clears away our plates, we order more beer and River uses her napkin to wipe down the tabletop so we can look at the chalk drawings without ruining them. River removes the rubber band from the roll of drawings and lays them on the table.

“Let’s recap …”

“Somehow you made your way north along the coast and ended up at Fern Canyon, that’s this drawing with me in Fern Canyon and me setting with Dave Jr.” she observes.

“RIP Dave Jr.”

We toast and take a gulp of beer to commemorate the passing of my beloved potted fern.

“Then, clearly the picture of me in the red flannel is actually Paul Bunyan” she muses.

“Yes, and the portrait of your face matches the wood carving of Paul Bunyan’s girlfriend.”

“Yeah, I gotta be honest with you, that portrait wasn’t the most flattering but now it makes sense.”

“That was the one drawing that never made sense to me. Why would I have drawn you to look wooden and lifeless?? I think you’re gorgeous.”

That comment elicits a warm smile from River and she leans across our little high top table to give me a kiss.

“That leaves Thor’s Well, which we know is north of here, plus the picture of me rolling around in the tulips, and the portrait of me somewhere in Europe.”

“Thors Well, okay. I get that. You rolling in flowers, sure. That could be anywhere. The Europe connection I just don’t understand.”

“That’s the one that has definitely got me stumped … for sure.” says River as she’s arranging and stacking the pictures on the table so she can re-roll them and put them away. The most flattering shot is the one of her rolling around in the tulips so she places it on top and leaves them on the table for a minute while she finishes her beer. The waitress checks in on the table and sees the drawing.

“Wow, beautiful! Did you draw that?’ she says in amazement.

“I did. Yes.”

“Amazing. So much detail. Are you a professional artist?”

“No. It was actually after a night of … well, let’s say it’s just a hobby. A new hobby we’ll call it.”

“That seems awfully modest. I’ll bet it’s more than a hobby.”

“Thanks.”

“Where y’all from?”

“Monterey.”

“You two must be coming back from the tulip festival then?”

River’s eyes light up.

“Tulip festival?”

“Yeah, in Skagit Valley. Isn’t that were you drew this? That’s the only place around here where you find tulips like that.” the waitress proclaims. We are both in absolute amazement. Could this be the clue we’re looking for?

“Actually, we’re trying to solve a bit of a mystery here. I bumped my head and I can’t remember where I drew this.”

“Like, amnesia?” the waitress asks.

“Well … not like amnesia” I tell her “It’s actual amnesia.”

“Wow that’s crazy. I’ve never met anyone who has actually had amnesia before. I thought that was just in the Jason Bourne movies. So what are the rest of the drawings?”

“We’re trying to retrace our steps since I can’t remember the last month.”

“Oh wow, that’s crazy. Do you mind if I take a look?”

“Please. We’ll take all the help we can get.”

The waitress flips through all of the drawings and then asks “Okay, looks like you were on a journey. Were you going north to south?”

“No, south to north.”

“Okay, so you’ve already figured out Fern Canyon, and Trees of Mystery then?” the waitress asks.

“Yeah, and we figured out Thor’s Well too” River adds “It’s the last two we can’t figure out.”

“It looks like you came up the coast, went to Fern Canyon and Trees of Mystery, then passed through here on your way to Thor’s Well. Then it looks like you went through Leavenworth on your way to the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival.”

“Leavenworth?”

“Yeah, Leavenworth Washington. It’s a little Bavarian themed town in the northern Cascades. It’s where all of the Pacific Crest Trail hikers stop for groceries.”

The Logger’s Dream

The only thing more repulsive to me than a tourist trap is a tourist trap gift shop. The Trees of Mystery gift shop is an overstuffed curio shop crammed with useless Sasquatch and Paul Bunyan themed crap. I am repulsed to the point of misbehavior so focus solely on reaching the ticket counter without causing a scene in front of my new girlfriend. The person working at the ticket counter is dull and mindless. River reminds me what we’re here on a fact finding mission when I recoil in horror at the entrance fee. “It’s a fucking walk in the the forest” I harp. “We have a gondola” the ticket counter attended reminds me. “Think of this as a lift ticket.” I pay the money begrudgingly, take my gondola ticket and head for the exit. I’m already in a bad mood when we start up the obnoxiously long zig-zagging ramp to reach the beginning of the trail.

“Fucking wheelchair accessible ramp. Can’t they just put a little staircase for ninety nine point nine nine nine percent of everyone else?”

“This looks fun Floody. Just relax. We’ll survive.”

“Bah.”

“Hey, you’re the one who led us here. Let’s not forget, this is not my idea.”

I keep stomping my way up the wheelchair ramp and avoid the entire existential discussion about who is leading who here. Maybe I physically experienced this moment in my recent past, but it is River’s spirit that is guiding this journey, I’m sure of that now. The intensity of my amnesia recalls this morning are far beyond my control, and River is the centerpiece in each of them. A part of her soul has clearly diverged from her physical being and implanted itself in my psyche. So I contend that she is now leading this journey of discovery, and I am merely the passenger. I keep the thought to myself as we soldier on.

The gift shop may have been chintzy, but the redwood forest is spectacular. There are only three places in the world with groves of thirty story tall redwoods, and this is one of them. This attraction should have been called Trees of Majesty, because there’s nothing mysterious here. We’re enveloped in the pure grandeur of these gigantic trees, some of the oldest and largest living organisms on earth. The path wends its way through the forest to a seemingly high point on the trail and a sign guides us to a spiral staircase. It is the Redwood Canopy Trail, a series of suspension bridges high in the treetops that allow the guests a birds-eye view of the forest below. The stairs up are a narrow circular affair that wrap around a tree trunk. The rope bridges are downright terrifying. I imagine Indian Jones standing at the other side of the bridge with a machete threatening to kill us all. If you’re prone to the heebie-jeebies, I would recommend against the canopy trail. But we love it! It’s just the kind of thrill we need to get refocused on our journey.  We pass from treetop to treetop, one terrifying bridge at a time. By the time we descend back to the forest floor, we are glowing from the adventure and the adrenaline.

Just a short way down the trail we reach the gondola. We climb aboard the little pod and sit side by side facing downhill so we can see the gorgeous view as we ascend the mountain. River nuzzles against me and I hold her tight. We don’t say a word. I just hold her and enjoy the moment as we glide over the treetops. At the summit is a small platform with a grand pacific ocean view to the west. My bitterness about the entrance fee has evaporated. This was well worth the money.

River produces a little square of Ghirardelli dark chocolate and a water bottle for us to share. We sit at the edge of the summit platform, resting our feet by dangling them off of the side and enjoying the view over the forest to the pacific ocean. It’s a nice moment of relaxation since we’ve been going seemingly non-stop since daybreak. We strategize the day ahead. It’s only another ten or so miles until we reach Crescent City, the northern-most city in California, and that seems like a great place to stop for the day. Even though we haven’t made a lot of miles today, we have experienced a lot of things with the discovery of the Fern Canyon and the Paul Bunyan statues providing new clues about my amnesia journey. Rather than barrel ahead, it is better to stop, analyze the remaining drawings, and think about our next steps.

This is bliss, and it is with some sense of irony when I tell you that I could have never imagined myself in this position, considering that at some point in the past thirty days I’ve already been in this exact position! What I’m saying is that falling in love with River is a complete surprise and something that, before two weeks ago, I never could have imagined. But there again, prior to two weeks ago there is a huge block of time missing from my memory, so there’s a lot happening that I never could have imagined. It is my paradoxical reality.

We depart. The gondola ride back down the hill feels as though we’re flying a hang glider down into the forest. It’s tranquil and immersive. My motorcycle boots aren’t exactly the greatest hiking boots (or even walking shoes for that matter) that have ever been made, so I welcome the downhill path toward the exit. We pass many more great trees and as we’re nearing the exit of the park we reach an area called The Trail of Tall Tales. It’s an area with dozens of large wood statues and carvings that perpetuate the fairy tales of Sasquatch and Paul Bunyan and his big blue ox Babe. It’s charming and quaint and silly, and is certainly situated near the end of the tour so that children will be enamored with the story enough to ask for more goodies in the gift shop. We’re walking hand in hand enjoying the trail when we both are stopped in our tracks at the sight of a face carved into the base of a fallen giant redwood. It’s a woman’s face. It is the exact wooden face that I drew in chalk on the back of the fourth drawing. What we thought was River’s face rendered in redwood is in fact the carving called Paul Bunyan’s Girlfriend … a.k.a. The Loggers Dream.

We are both shocked and astonished, but it doesn’t elicit a painful extraction of memories because fortunately for me, we are already holding hands. River keeps her grasp firmly against mine, and I close my eyes.

“You’re here again River. Standing across from the statue.Once again your soul stands here beside me.”

I open my eyes and we both stand staring at the statue in amazement.

It's You Babe, A Blue Babe

There’s a new closeness between us as we ride north. River’s arms are wrapped around me tightly and she feels more like one of those plushy monkey backpacks that parents make their toddlers wear than a passenger. I feel the side of her helmet pushed firmly against the middle of my back between my shoulder blades. She’s clinging to me like a woman who has just fallen in love and she never wants to let me go. My torso tenses, subconsciously transmitting my masculine strength to reassure her that I’m a man worth following on this journey of life. As we ride I imagine making passionate love to her tonight, missionary position so I can gaze deeply into her eyes while our bodies are connected. I will cum inside of her tonight, unapologetically and quite deliberately. I imagine her holding me tightly against her body by the small of my back while I orgasm, the sweat from my brow dripping on her bare breasts. The birth control pill will prevent me from impregnating her tonight, but this will be a practice run for the type of lovemaking that will bear our children someday. We’re not going to have homely little doggy style babies. The kind of kids who will fail out of remedial english classes and smoke vape pens in the toilet. We’re going to have beautiful missionary position babies, who are conceived of love, and grow up to be intelligent and overachieving, like us.

My inner monologue about baby-making has given me an erection and I direct one of River’s hands down to my crotch to let her know that I’m thinking about her. She’s hip to my game and rather than stroking my cock obnoxiously while we ride, she simply dances her fingers along the shaft until she reaches the tip, then ever so gently makes little circular swirls right at the tip with her middle finger. It is subtle, yet intensely erotic.

I become rock hard and struggle to stay focused on the road as the coastal prairie gives way to a dense redwood forest. The road begins to sweep left to right, and our touring becomes more sporty and exhilarating. The road is twisty enough that River just wraps her arms around me and our little game of diddle the dong is suspended for the time being. Probably for the best because if she had kept at it, I was either going to make a mess in these jeans or crash into a tree … which would make an entirely different kind of mess in these jeans.

The road is gorgeous. It’s twisty and passes deeply through the redwood forest. The dark asphalt contrasts against the aged yellow center lines. Occasional patches of dampness in the road keeps our maximum speed to a reasonable (read non-lethal) level. The riding reminds me of our first ride together down the coast toward Big Sur. Just as I’m beginning to enter a mental flow-state, where the riding becomes like a video game on autopilot, I see something out of the corner of my eye that causes me to clamp on the brakes at full force. River’s body slams against mine and I struggle to keep a grip on the handlebars as the Ducati shutters to a complete stop right in the middle of the road.

I nearly collapse as my amnesia headache returns instantly and vengefully. I need to get the Ducati restarted and off of the road before we get rear-ended and killed. So I thumb the starter button, hastily find a gear and pull off of the road into the only parking lot we’ve seen in the twenty miles. River hops off of the motorcycle before I can get the kickstand down and she tears her helmet off.

“Dude what the fuck is that?!!!” she shouts at me in astonishment as I’m pulling my helmet off. 

“That my dear is a fifty foot tall statue of Paul Bunyan and Babe, his blue ox”

“Holy fuck Floody, he looks exactly like the sketch of me in the red flannel with the blue dog!”

I’m trying to respond to River verbally, but the amnesia headache is crippling and I take a knee. “Take my hand River! I need your energy” I cry. River rushes to my side. She tries to take my hand but we’re both wearing motorcycling gloves. I’m fading toward a loss of consciousness  from the pain as River tosses her gloves to the ground and begins violently tugging at the fingers of my gloves to get them off. The gloves fly off and she firmly takes my bare hand with her own. The light grenade behind my eyes explodes like the grand finale of a fireworks celebration and I begin to rise to my feet.

“Don’t let go River. Do. Not. Let. Go.”

“I’m here Floody. My energy is here for you.”

With our hands tightly clasped, standing in the parking lot of Trees of Mystery, I pull River to me. I run my free hand up the back of her neck into her sweaty hair, then with our eyes closed we share a deep tongue kiss. River’s energy quells the violent headache. With my eyes still closed I bury my face in her neck and begin to whisper into her ear the visions I’m seeing in my mind.

“I’m here in the parking lot. I see the giant statues. It’s Paul Bunyan and Babe. They’re watching over me. I see movement. It’s you! You’re here with me. You’re in the sweater and you’ve still got the camera. You come to me again, like our first encounter. It’s in passing. You’re saying something. You’re stepping backwards, away from me. You take a photo of me. Then we walk off together. That way, toward the building. You’re walking beside me.”

I open my eyes. With the memories extracted, I carefully end our embrace and let go of River’s hand. The headache is gone. I look around the parking lot, and indeed, the building I was seeing in my mind’s eye is there. I point to the building.

“River, we went that way together. That is our path. We must follow it.”

River is completely astonished by the clarity of my vision and also how closely the chalk drawings match our surroundings. We leave our helmets and jackets at the motorcycle and head toward the building hand-in-hand.

Bet It All On Red

Dining options are nearly nonexistent along the Redwood Highway north of Eureka. We pass the occasional run down burger stand or chicken shack, places that are more likely to give you food poisoning than a packet of ketchup. The freshest food in a hundred mile radius is the meat the vultures are plucking off of the roadkill. We’re famished after the stressful ride out to and from Fern Canyon and we’ve got high hopes for fine dining ahead when we pass the sign that says “Klamath 6 Miles.”

Klamath it turns out is not actually a city. It’s a single boulevard in the middle of an Indian reservation, with a tribally owned gas station, a post office, and a surprisingly large Holiday Inn Express. “The cashier tells me the food is pretty good next door at the casino” River says as she returns from the gas station bathroom. I give River an approving head nod and thumbs up, then tap the fuel nozzle twice on the gas cap to keep fuel from dripping on the gas tank, then I replace the nozzle on the pump.

—

The one thing that’s not a gamble at the casino is the food. It is delicious, and certainly better than the hair-covered hot dogs on the rollers at the gas station. The burger is stacked high with haystack onions, barbecue sauce and blue cheese crumbles. River’s fish tacos are lightly breaded and criss crossed with a jalapeño and cilantro aioli drizzle over a bed of cabbage and freshly made corn tortillas. We splurge and share a soda when we see that they’ve got the crunchy little ice pellets that look like rabbit shit. The little ice pellets displace most of the soda but turn what remains into a slushy. We ask for extra ice and crunch it loudly as we giggle with our mouths open much to the annoyance of the waitress.

It’s not even noon yet, but this day has already changed my life forever. This universal connection between us is profound. River is giggling and smiling and enjoying her lunch. But I’m watching her in a world without time. I see her morphing before my very eyes, from a girl, to a woman, to part of my family, to the mother of my children. I blink hard and lightning bolts flash behind my eyelids, as I see her walking through a grassy field of fallen leaves holding hands with our children. They’re wearing OshKosh B’gosh overalls and converse sneakers with white rubber toes and velcro instead of laces.

I see destiny.

The universe is speaking through me in a world without time. This isn’t a journey to find my iPhone. This is a journey to find myself. A journey, not just to piece together the memories I lost, but to define the path for the remainder of my days. It is no accident that we are here together.

“Floody. Floody! Floody!!”

I snap out of my daydream.

“I lost you there for a minute buddy. Whatcha thinking about?”

“I want to tell you River, but I don’t want to scare you away.”

“You’re not going to scare me away.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Even if I say something completely nutty?”

“Floody, this entire morning has been filled with you saying things that are completely nutty and you haven’t scared me away yet.”

“I was imagining your future River.”

“Oh?”

“I was imagining our future.”

“Ohh … like ‘our’ future?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you see in ‘our’ future?”

“Fam … uh … River, I wasn’t imagining your future. I was imagining my future, and you were in it. That’s all I’m going to say.”

“Golden retriever.”

“What?”

“If you and I end up together and someday you decide to surprise me with a puppy … I want a golden retriever. And an SUV. If you get me a minivan, I’ll leave you. Like … immediately.”

“Oh. Okay. Do you think you would ever have … kids … to go along with that golden retriever?”

“Oh wow. You really were thinking about our future there Mr. Flood. Is that what you were imagining?”

“Yes. I mean no. Actually, I did mean yes.”

River takes a big mouthful of ice and crunches on it playfully.

Her Soul On Holiday

Thursday

Highway 101 north of Eureka is a tapestry of greens, browns and blues. The route follows the rugged Northern California coastline, a grassy verdant route with swampy freshwater lagoons on the inland side of the road and sandy seawater lagoons on the beach side. Osprey and red tailed hawks keep watch over the elk filled landscape. Less than an hour into our morning ride I feel River tugging urgently on my jacket pocket. I glance over my shoulder to see her pointing excitedly toward the highway exit. She needs an emergency pee break I suppose.

I swing the motorcycle to the right at the last moment and barely make the exit. When we reach the end of the offramp River flips open the windscreen on her helmet and yells into my ear “It says Fern Canyon Loop this way.”

“So?”

“So? You dummy. The back of the first drawing is a picture of me walking through a narrow canyon filled with ferns!”

“Oh wow, do you think this could be …”

“Yes. I think this could be a clue. Let’s go check it out!”

I thumb the starter button and the Ducati roars to life. We turn left, toward the coast, and the road immediately devolves into a dusty, unimproved single lane path through a dense forest of gigantic coastal redwoods. Ferns and heavy vegetation line the road. We proceed with caution. The last thing I want to do is skid out on a patch of dirt and crash in the middle of nowhere.

After five treacherous miles we emerge from the redwood forest at an empty toll booth in the middle of nowhere, which we ignore, and continue on a straight unpaved beach-sand covered road heading due north along the coast. The bike is extremely unstable in the sand with the weight of two people onboard, so I ride the entire way in second gear with my feet off of the foot pegs near the ground to catch us (or at least attempt to catch us) if the front wheel slides out. After a few miles we come to a deep water crossing. Deep enough to give us pause. But I decide not to stop and just power through before she can protest. We splash our way across the creek, the tires dancing across the slick river-rock covered bottom and emerge unscathed on the other side. After a short distance we reach the end of the road and a little dirt parking lot. With seemingly nowhere else to go except to turn around and head back, I park the motorcycle and we hop off to stretch our legs for a minute. River decides to take off her helmet, so I follow suit.

“What the hell are we doing here?” says River.

“I don’t know. I don’t see ferns or a canyon anywhere.”

“Do you think the road in was the fern canyon? I mean, there were a ton of ferns.”

“I guess so. I don’t see anything else around here. So it must have been.”

“Sorry about that. It seems like this road was kind of a bust.”

“Well look on the bright side, we have to ride through all that crap again to get out of here.”

“Oh shit.”

The sound of splashing in the distance tells us that a car is fording the river about a quarter mile behind us, and within a moment a Subaru appears. A young Asian couple wearing bougie outdoor gear hop out of the car, toss posh little ruck sacks over their shoulders and start walking north along a barely visible foot trail near the cliff wall. They walk about an eighth of a mile, then magically disappear into the forest.

“It seems like they know something we don’t” River tells me.

“It seems you’re right.”

Curiosity piqued, we hang our helmets on the rear view mirrors and toss our motorcycle jackets over the seat follow the bougie couple north along the little path. We pass a yellow triangular sign that, quite humorously to us, depicts a tourist getting mauled by a large bull elk with the warning CAUTION AGGRESSIVE ELK. “Duly noted” River chuckles.

After about a thousand feet of hiking the trail abruptly ends at a tree line where a creek washes out the trail. The creek, as it turns out, is running out of a narrow, vertical-walled fern covered canyon that looks exactly like that back side of the first chalk drawing. River gasps when she sees it. The cognitive dissonance of knowing that I’ve been here before and having no recollection of it causes me dizziness. I bend at the waist, and put my hands on my knees as I try not to fall over.

“Oh my fucking God Floody” River says in astonishment. “This looks exactly like your drawing.” My amnesia headache returns with a vengeance as the memories fight like warriors to escape from my brain. The pain is instantly debilitating and and feel faint. “Floody, you’re as white as a ghost” River tells me. I feel beads of sweat perspiring from my forehead and I wipe them away with my forearm. I take a moment to regain my composure and evaluate my surroundings. I close my eyes and the image of the fern canyon is burned into my brain.

“Floody?” I hear River saying. I open my eyes. “Floody, can you hear me?” she says as I look at her with a gaze of confusion and bewilderment. “You’re going to pass out Floody, take my hand.” The instant River’s hand touches mine our energies unite and my universe is altered completely. I regain my balance and composure. The headache disappears completely and my eyes clamp shut. I begin channeling memories.

“River, I see you. I see you in the canyon. You’re in your white sweater and you’re hopping from rock to rock trying to keep your feet dry. You’re coming toward me down the canyon. Right here. You were right here with me.”

Astonished at what I’m saying River lets go of my hand and the headache roars back to life instantly as the memories evaporate.

“No! Don’t let go!” I yelp. “Don’t let go under any circumstances.”

I feel her fingers grasp mine and the headache disappears instantly. “River” I whisper “We have to stay connected or the memories wont come back. I’m feeding off of your energy. Hold my hand and walk with me.”

River grasps my hand tightly and we take a few steps forward, dancing from rock to rock trying to keep our feet out of the creek. It’s about two inches deep and ten feet wide, with many little islands of river rocks and fallen logs to hop from and to. We only go fifty or so feet upriver before the scene matches my memories exactly. I stop on a little bank of river rocks and my eyes instinctively clamp shut.

“River I see you. I’m standing right here, in this exact spot. You appear out of nowhere. You’re coming down the canyon toward me. I see your strawberry blonde hair, it’s parted right down the middle. I see your big sweater, and you’re wearing shorts. Like, hiking shorts. And big boots with wide red laces like they wear in the Alps. They’re leather with heavy cotton socks pushed down around your ankles.”

“There’s something around your neck. It’s a necklace or a strap or something. You’re getting closer. It’s a camera! You’ve got a camera around your neck. You look up and see me for the first time and give me a little wave with one of your hands to acknowledge me. ‘Good morning’ I hear you say as you continue navigating the rocky islands in the stream as you make your way toward me. You’re getting close. I can see everything clearly. But I can’t see your face. You’re like a ghost. The memory is blurring your face. You raise the camera and snap a photo of me. ’Keep those feet dry’ you tell me as you go past, and then you’re gone. Gone from site. Gone from the canyon. Just gone.”

I open my eyes and look at River, then I carefully release my grip of her hand. I know instinctively that the memories are free from my brain so the amnesia headache won’t return, and it doesn’t.

“You were here with me.”

“That impossible. I was in Pacific Grove.”

“No, you were here with me. I saw it. I felt it.”

“Impossible.”

“River, what are the chances that we both have amnesia? And that we both were here before?”

“Zero Floody. I can tell you everything I did for the past month while you were gone. Every single day.”

“But I saw you here, clear as day. When you held my hand just now, those were memories, clear memories, not dreams. I saw your sweater.”

“I have that sweater for sure, but not those boots, and I definitely don’t have a camera.”

We stand in silence for a minute trying to comprehend what just happened. It’s clear that I’ve been here before. Those are memories, not dreams. No dream could have that much detail. Plus, the drawing, it represents exactly what I just experienced, clear as day. But if River wasn’t here with me, then there has to be another explanation.

“Okay, so let’s say definitively that you haven’t been here before. Then there are only two other possible explanations. The first is that your spirit diverged from your physical self, and that your soul, or spirit, or whatever you want to call it was here in the canyon with me at some point in the past. Or second, is that when we join hands we have the ability to have precognition and see into the future. It makes perfect sense. When we were under the influence of magic mushrooms, we were connected via our lovemaking, and that give me ability to visualize this moment in the future.”

“No that’s impossible.”

“Why, you don’t believe in clairvoyance and psychic ability?”

“No, because if it was clairvoyance, you would have seen us standing here holding hands, not me walking down the canyon.”

“Well we’re still here, maybe that moment is still in our future. Maybe it’s going to happen in the next few moments?”

“But I can just turn around right now and go back to the parking lot. I can make sure it never happens.”

“Shit. Okay, so it’s not clairvoyance. But that’s good! That means we’ve ruled out one of the two possibilities. It means that we’re spiritually connected somehow. We have a universal bond, and when I was here the last time, your spirit was here with me. That’s why you had the camera, your spirit was on holiday from the coffee shop.”

The River Abides

Eureka!

“I can see them, but I can’t feel them.”

We’re in a cheap motel room in Eureka and River is laying on the bed flat on her back, splayed out like a starfish. She’s wearing jeans and one of those vintage looking Def Leppard t-shirts that they sell at Target. She has managed to get her boots and socks off, and she’s wiggling her toes in amazement as they’re physically attached but seemingly disconnected from her nervous system.

“How many miles today Floody?”

“385.”

“That’s too much.”

“Those are rookie numbers River. People do thousand mile days on motorcycles.”

“No way”

“Way. It’s called an Iron Butt.”

“And people do that voluntarily, or did it just happen once because people were fleeing an armed conflict?”

“Oh no. It’s a ‘thing’ with motorcycle guys. There’s a whole culture surrounding it. Guys will ride 500 miles to get a cheeseburger, then ride 500 miles to get home.”

River is looking at her feet in amazement. Her little toes are twinkling like they’re warming up for a piano recital. I’m sat in the surprisingly comfortable cloth covered chair, feet splayed out in front of me, but I haven’t mustered up the energy to take my boots or jacket off yet. 385 miles is actually a pretty reasonable day on a motorcycle, and that is from the perspective of riding in the front seat. I can’t imagine sitting on the tiny back seat for eight hours. You can never relax and let your guard down or you’ll fall off.

“Are you hungry?”

“It’s too early. Come lay next to me.” she says as she pats the empty side of the bed with her hand. She’s right. It’s only 2:30pm. Too late for lunch, too early for the early bird dinner. I gather up a little strength to stand, wriggle out of my jacket and boots, and melt into the empty side of the mattress next to River. She rolls over toward me and lays her arm across my chest. I can feel the warmth of her breath on my neck. In a darkened motel room on a moderately uncomfortable mattress, I find peace and comfort in the arms of a beautiful woman, and we both drift off for a well deserved afternoon nap.

I awake to the sound of the shower turning off. River waltzes in wrapped in a white hotel towel, water dripping down her beautiful toned legs. “Now I’m hungry” she tells me as she’s drying her hair in a second towel. I blink hard a couple of times to rouse myself from my sleep. Remembering that it was a nap I tell myself that there’s nothing worse than waking into the darkness of evening. So I’m thrilled when I pull back the blackout curtains to see the golden light of the afternoon. Even just a few minutes of light is enough.

This is not a secret, but a pretty widely adopted life hack for motorcyclists is to pack a pair of boots for riding and a pair of flip flops for walking around. So I fish the flip flops out of the pannier, slip them on with jeans and a sweater and head out the door. River chooses running shoes, since it’s Eureka and the air has a crisp bite of coolness.

We’re hoping to find a quaint downtown area filled with charming new Americana bars and restaurants with plush comfortable seating, but downtown Eureka is pretty dismal. Instead we find a row of shitty fast foot, and worse … an Applebees. Then something catches our eye. It’s an In-N-Out burger! God’s gift to the west coast of the United States. Yes, technically In-N-Out is fast foot, but it is divine. A treat every time you have it. Anthony Bourdain called it “his favorite restaurant in Los Angeles.” After 385 miles, we are carnally hungry and the smell of fried beef and grilled onions has our mouth watering.

“Better than gourmet” River exclaims as she dips a french fry into her “black & white” milkshake. She is smiling from ear to ear, even though were sitting on a cold hard bench with absolutely zero padding after an exceedingly tough day in the saddle. But I see real joy in her eyes.

“Did you just dip your fries in your shake?”

“A little trick I picked up in college! Lots of sweet, lots of salt. Great after a run.”

River is wonderful. The burgers have really made her mirthful, and we take our time enjoying the meal, laughing and talking, and planning out the day ahead. I step away from the table for a quick moment to refill my Coke and the ice machine unleashes a torrent of little rabbit shit sized ice into my cup, making the Coke more like a slushy. River giggles when she sees it happen, and cruelly takes a big sip when I return, essentially emptying the cup of soda in a single gulp, sending me right back for another refill. Schadenfreude! It’s a silly stupid little thing, but it’s just the sort of silliness I need right now and it is quite endearing. I dunk a french fry in her milkshake and we both have a silly laugh.

Two men walk by wearing bowling shirts that look like they’re straight out of the 1960s. One is canary yellow and looks exactly like something The Dude Lebowski would wear. The other is light blue with racing stripes, like a Gulf racing car from Le Mans. River is in a giggly mood and when she sees the bowling shirts she just bursts out laughing. I notice that the guys are actually wearing bowling shoes too and give a surreptitious nod to River to have a look.

“Oh wow. Do you think there’s actually a bowling alley nearby?” she asks me quietly.

“Either that, or the Lebowski fest is in town.” I reply sarcastically. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Fuck it dude, let’s go bowling!”

—

Turns out that the bowling alley is not even a two minute walk away, and just our luck, there is no league play tonight. So there are plenty of lanes open. Just a few locals and regulars “throwin’ rocks tonight” as the great Theodore Donald Kerabatsos once said. Turns out River is a huge Big Lebowski fan. She offers to get us a couple of beers and I can hear her asking the bartender for “a couple of oat sodas.” When she get back to our lane she tells me “If you see a man with a big mustache and a cowboy hat sit down at the bar, I’ll die right here and now.”

River is giddy, to the point of being beside herself. I remember hearing a comedian once say that there is no key to a woman’s heart. It’s actually a keypad in the middle of her back and you punch in an access code. Beep beep beep - tennis bracelet, Oysters Rockefeller, white zinfandel - access denied! Punch “motorcycle, cheeseburger and bowling” into River’s keypad and the light flashes “Access Granted. Welcome Aboard!”

Who knew?!

We bowl three games, taking our damn sweet time, and enjoying the time between frames as much as anything. Our scores are piss poor, we don’t care. River throws a strike and proclaims in a butt wiggling dance “Nobody fucks with the Jesus!!” loudly enough that the kids three lanes away are laughing at her. By the end of the night, our arms feel as though they’re barely attached to our bodies. “Throwin’ rocks tonight dude” indeed. The entire evening devolves into a River Lebowski love fest. We drunk stumble back to the motel with River singing the “La la la la la la” bit from Bob Dylan’s “The Man in Me” over and over again. We hold hands and giggle the whole way. 

From the moment we stumble into the motel room River transforms into Maude Lebowski and starts needling me with movie quotes as she gets undressed for bed. “Does the female form make you uncomfortable, Mr. Lebowski? Do you like sex, Mr. Lebowski? Sex. The physical act of love. Coitus. Do you like it?”

Wednesday: The Day of Departure

River is an early riser. Earlier than me. Morning runs in college have conditioned her to wake before dawn, a habit which has been perpetuated by her job at the coffee shop. For the second consecutive day I’m awakened with River nibbling on my lip in the darkness of morning. “Floody, we’ve got to get up. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.” I’m laying flat on my back and River is laying on top of me. My first reaction is to grab her firmly and trip to flip over on top of her, but she holds me down with a hand against my chest. “Shhhh” she says “Easy boy … not this time.”

River has done a little reconnaissance while I was sleeping and knows that I’m hard as a rock when I wake up. I reach my hands far up over my head and all of the muscles in my body tense up for a morning stretch. When the stretch ends, my body relaxes and I exhale away the sleep and melt into the mattress in complete relaxation just as River slips my body into hers. We inhale simultaneous gasps of pleasure. I remain silent and still as River the cowgirl rides me at her own pace, gently and rhythmically with lots of kissing and touching. No roughhousing or gymnastics this morning. This is “single position” lovemaking, and she orgasms pretty quickly. Me shortly after. “I had to get that out of the way so I don’t spend the whole day cumming on your back seat” she tells me candidly as she’s hopping out of bed.

After a quick shower I pack my side of the panniers while River rustles up two lattes. We depart my place in the dark, fill the other pannier with her things, then depart her place shortly after sunrise, heading north. After a few miles we reach the intersection of Highway 1 and Highway 156 in Castroville. My plan is to continue on the 156 toward the 5 freeway, as it is the fastest route, but River taps me on the shoulder and motions for me to turn north on Highway 1 so we can follow the coast through Santa Cruz and Half Moon Bay toward San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge. I happily oblige and tell myself inside my helmet to just go where River guides us for the duration of the trip.

“I’ll drive, you navigate.”

Highway 1 follows the arc of the northern shore of Monterey Bay, a barren windswept road surrounded by sand dunes. First light is glinting bright white on the breaking waves, the sea a deep royal azure. The warmth of the engine radiates into our wind chilled thighs as the sun warms our backs. I feel like leftover lasagna just pulled from the microwave. Half of me is baking, the other half still frozen.

The road bends inland at Moss Landing and the landscape is dominated by agriculture, with mile after mile of neatly manicured fields of berries on both sides of the road. By the time we reach Santa Cruz, the highway is surrounded by heavy forests of redwoods.

Just southwest of San Francisco, in Pacifica, we pass a railroad caboose that has been converted into a coffee shop, and the tug on my jacket tells me that it is too tempting to pass up. So I make a u-turn and we take our first break of the morning to enjoy a coffee and share a blueberry scone. The crisp cool Northern California morning air keeps us huddled closely together. River’s hands wrap around her latte so she can absorb as much warmth into her body as possible. She closes her eyes, lets out a big shiver, then turns to take in the sun.

The earthy coastal redwoods give way to the oddly pastel colored Outer Sunset neighborhood of San Francisco, a sprawling and brutal tessellated grid of wind battered buildings shaded only by the overhead rats nest of power and telephone lines. I contemplate how soul destroying it must be to grow up in a neighborhood where the only thing resembling a tree is a telephone pole. We are consumed by the tunnel under the Presidio, when we emerge we’re immediately on the Golden Gate Bridge.

Crossing the Golden Gate on a motorcycle is as surreal an experience you can have without being in a virtual reality headset or an IMAX cinema. Towering 746 feet above San Francisco bay, the Golden Gate bridge is one of the most iconic man-made structures on earth. It feels eternal, as if it has been there forever. But a young Ansel Adams actually photographed the Golden Gate, sans bridge in 1932, five years before it opened and it looked like every other coastal strait. In my opinion the Golden Gate Bridge is one of those rare instances where a man-made structure actually improves upon nature.  Frank Lloyd Wright’s “Falling Water” similarly comes to mind.

The crossing is so immersive. The bright rusted orange of the bridge is contrasted against the deep navy blue of the water and the bright blue of the sky. A sightseeing helicopter passes below us and then swoops up and around to pass below us once again close enough to see terror in the passengers’ eyes. The cables supporting the bridge tower above us and on cloudy days disappear into the heavens above. The bridge is constantly moving, so the asphalt is covered with a spiderweb of sealed cracks, and each section is separated by a metal grate. The bike vibrates against the broken pavement as we cross. Dunka-dunka-dunka-dunka-zip-zip dunka-dunka-dunka-dunka-zip-zip.

Coitus, Coffee, Steak & Molotov Cocktails

By half past noon I’ve managed to track down some generic-brand soft panniers for the Ducati on Craigslist and by half past three I’ve got them stuffed to the point of bursting with dirty laundry and strapped to the bike. River arrives at my place about 4pm and we take a short proof-of-concept ride on the Ducati to ensure that the panniers wont fall off, aren’t going to melt on the exhaust, and most importantly aren’t going to interfere with River’s comfort. We loop the coast road around the peninsula, stop for a moment to watch the waves break, check the luggage and steal a few kisses as the late afternoon sky begins to change to the color.

We catch a glimpse of Emma climbing the stairs to Henrik’s office when we return to the parking lot behind my building, and it’s a solid two hours before they re-emerge with a knock on my door. Emma’s skin is flush and moist. She has the look of a woman who has been ravaged sexually. Henrik looks as though he needs a coffee and pulls himself a doppio espresso macchiato. “Scribbly scratch it and down the hatch it” he says before slurping it down in a single gulp, then immediately pours himself a hefty glass of red wine.

“Help yourself.”

 “I did” Henrik replies snarkily.

I can’t complain. Henrik is a single guy living in a loft, with zero other bills, and a company that is beginning to make money. So he puts far more red wine into my wine cellar than he takes out. There have been months that he’s been so generous with the Grand Cru Bordeaux and the Vin de Bourgogne that I don’t even bother to collect rent.

“C’est bon?” I ask Henrik of the wine.

“C’est parfait!” he replies.

The plan was to enjoy barbecued filet mignon with red wine on my rooftop deck, but an unseasonably cold Pacific sea breeze swept across the peninsula at sunset forcing us indoors. We pan sear the steaks in cast iron, then finish them in the oven surrounded by a harvest ratatouille. The girls take command of the ambiance while Henrik and I cook. Emma is astonished by my stereo system, and in moment of maturity that surprises all of us, chooses John Coltrane’s album “Giant Steps” and turns it down nice and low. Upon her asking, I point River toward the bag of votive candles in the junk drawer under the junk drawer and she begins lighting them as Emma switches off the lights.

The house is dark, warm and cozy, with flickering candlelight and the smell of thyme and rosemary basting in Irish butter and steak juice. Henrik tells us about hygge (pronounced hooga) the Danish art of cosiness, and how back in home during the Scandinavian winters people gather in warm dark places, wrap themselves in heavy wool sweaters, eat reindeer steaks next to a roaring fireplace, and drink warm cider, mulled wine and hot chocolate. If there is a little book of hygge, we’ve certainly torn a page from it tonight.

The filet is exquisite. I sit across the table from River so I can watch the candlelight dance in her eyes. Emma regales us with tales of growing up the only child of a hippy professor with a penchant for recreational psychopharmacology, and losing her virginity in 8th grade to the  trumpet player of the freshman high school jazz ensemble while they were both higher than sputnik on pills she found when she was hunting for loose change in her dad’s watch drawer. This explains a lot about her, including tonight’s jazzy music selection. “Jazz” she tells us “is great during dinner. Great during sex. Great for getting high. But not so great at the coffee shop. It’s the opposite of music for the masses.”

After dinner we cosy up as couples on opposing couches and enjoy red wine as Emma DJs an impressively deep playlist of hard bop jazz, all of which was recorded during the calendar year 1959. Emma may not be a political science major or economist, but she certainly has a grasp on the progressive mid-century jazz scene. It isn’t long before the exhaustion catches up to River. The wild night of sex, early morning shift at the coffee shop, and the three glasses of red wine hit River like a Molotov cocktail, and she spreads out across the couch with her head in my lap. I stroke her hair as she struggles to stay awake.