Saturday was all about Reckless.

Which is greatly unfair to Gary’s terrific “From Where the Sun Now Stands,” to Cody Canada and his boys and band, and to the other fine artists who appeared throughout the week. Not to mention Micky and the Motorcars’ Friday home run.

As Muzzie Braun himself said, “if it wasn’t for these guys, you wouldn’t be here….”

Saturday, a dedicated, wounded audience met a brilliantly crafted and executed performance that salved their wounds: Reckless Kelly with post-pandemic, Braun-Brothers-Reunion-intention. Sure, they had some advantages:

• They had not been touring until very recently due to the paaaaaaannnndemic. The lion’s share of their audience hadn’t seen them in over 18 months.
• They had released a beautifully-crafted double album just as Covid got serious, so almost no one had heard live versions of new songs we used instead of seeing them when they toured through.

And let’s be crystal clear…, these men are NEVER reckless when it comes to their craft.

• Willy Braun had delivered perhaps the best conceived, most relevant online shows during our Covid-driven, live music woes. His were episodic, they were scarce/short, they had cliffhangers and teasers, they were MUCH more than music performances, they were thematic, they were funny, they were personal. They were all of the things that online performances HAVE to be if they are going to continue as revenue-producing components of any musician’s business ethic. No other artist that I saw came so completely to this clarity and truth.
• Reckless Kelly has a significant catalog of possibility – and they use it. They have built a HUGE trove of their own art and uniquely-crafted approaches to music they respect and admire – from Mark Knopfler to Prince, the Beatles to the Boss, Elton to Jerry Jeff, they seem dedicated to channeling the best of the art form they present. This night it was Tumbleweed Connections’ “Ballad of a Well-Known Gun.”
• They NEVER just repeat a set. Unlike, say, the famous Texas band who delivered the exact same set on the pier and on the main stage in Key West this year. Because its lazy, particularly when you command such scope. And because they KNOW that someone will make the effort to see them in D.C. AND in Raleigh or in Manhattan, Kansas AND in Lawrence. And yes, because they know that, like baseball players, some young fan at their show that night is excited to see them for the first time.
• When Reckless plays Kansas or New Braunfels or Fort Worth, they rock like masters, but country music pops because they know their audience that night. When they play in Berkeley or in New York’s Manhattan, it is a rock and roll show, redefining what country music can be.
• Their shows are tight. Every musician in the band is a master at his craft. There are no gimmicks, just great writing and musicianship, consciously tuned to each others’ talents, moods and ethic that night.
• The artists in the band know they own the band — and they act like it.

One last thing. I would also claim they’ve been snakebit by fate not once, but at least twice.

They released their brilliant tribute to an older country artist (Pinto Bennett with “Somewhere in Time”) within weeks of T. Bone Burnett’s Crazy Heart, a movie starring Jeff Bridges, Colin Farrell and Ryan Bingham. Not exactly the same story, but it gobbled up the critical air for the Pinto Bennett tribute.

But much, much worse recently was releasing an album whose lead ethic, “North American Jackpot,” asks us to recognize how lucky we are as members of the human race to have been born in this time and place. It’s an overdue concept, and yet was released into the EXACT time that we had to accept that Covid (and climate and political turmoil) were changing our lives. Our lives, in this place and time, are still blessed with largesse unavailable to almost every other human being who has ever lived on our planet. It is a perspective often lost on us. But it wasn’t possible to land the point in May 2020.

Anyway, my point, and I do have one, finally, is that Reckless Kelly’s performance on Saturday night was sustenance to the starving, water for the parched. It was world-class in it’s delivery. It was simply of a higher level. I’ll share a couple of songs here with you. But I worry you’ll be able to feel what we felt, to see what we saw. An iPhone held from in front of the sound tent is insufficient.

But I am telling you that the 1000-ish people in front of me and the 2000-ish (guesses) people behind me didn’t listen to the music.

We bathed in it.

It was miraculous and funny and wonderful. There were tears in hundreds of eyes. I hope you get some small feel from these two performances.

Finally, I’ll mention that I was fortunate enough to have had opportunities to talk to Willy and his band mates this weekend. And I can’t believe I was so dumb as to not ask him re: the business ethic that might have driven his online Music in the Mountains and Quarantine Kitchen breakthroughs. How much did he plan to differentiate as he did, or did it just come naturally? But baseball, ball-busting, humor and even Jack London took precedence. Oh, and some ribs.

And yes, Lynn took money from both of us in a golf skills sidetrack. You don’t need to look it up — she’ll be happy to tell you alllll about it! This, your Olympics medal count update, includes her lead lengthening in both total medals and gold.

As Howie Baetjer, a running back I mostly watched college football with often said, “Be wiiiild, Be RECKLESS!”

As masters of their craft, with complete, unfettered commitment, I recommend this kind. Of Reckless, that is.

So it’s time for another motorcycle tour. I’ve been on three others since Alaska, the Midnight Sun Game and my first (and only) blog effort. Time to try again.

Tours include:

• Spring Training and the Final Four – Arizona and the south California coast
  • Plus Arlo Guthrie at the BellyUp
  • Plus house concert in Cambria
• Braun Brothers Reunion (Challis, ID) and the eclipse in totality in Lander, WY
  • On a wild horse sanctuary
  • Followed by Reckless Kelly in the town park
• Braun Brothers 2019, Eugene and the California coast

We’ve all heard that the more things change, the more they stay the same. For me, the world has warped, but the ethic is the same. Between the pandemic, constant news that our beloved “West is on fire,” the end of citizen civility, and having two children enter adulthood, have I reconsidered? Nope, same day, just different lens.

I believe we all get today once. Seek to make the most of it — revel in it. Am I doing what’s needed to feel great about the day….

It was a strange start. I couldn’t leave until after 3pm and I do not ride at speed after dark. Sunset in Elko was 7:45pm. Had to GO. Interstate 80 through Nevada is no picnic. Huge roaring trucks, 104-degree heat, high winds and stark landscapes made this a “set-up” day.

I saw the same old streets for far too long
I put the rubber on the road
I left it all behind
And now paid with memories
Those streets are long since gone
Rubber on the road & the blood inside

Reckless Kelly, Desolation Angels

Note, you will see more from this song.

Strange signs made the ride intriguing. Near Elko, there is the “California Trail Interpretive Center.” It is a long, long way to California from there. I couldn’t interpret.

Town after tiny town, really not towns, more like “collections of 1 building” dot the landscape. Sparsely. My favorite was Mote, which means “a tiny piece of substance.” I looked it up and it now represents HUGE substance. On the one hand, “What you see is basically what there is to Mote. Nothing. Mote was originally a railroad siding and that’s all it’s ever been.”

But the world has changed. Now 640 acres south of the Mote interchange is a huge solar farm. Looks like a giant mirror. It’s WAY more than it was.

Just 10 miles down the road is Battle Mountain. “After exhaustive research into the nation’s crummiest localities,” Gene Weingarten of the Washington Post awarded the town the title of “Armpit of America.” I remember reading of this study and the articles some years ago. Gene said, “Seated at the foothills of a mini-mountain upon which the town proudly proclaims its identity with a gigantic arrangement of rocks (‘B.M.’), this place of fewer than 4,000 benighted souls contains no movie theater, no ice cream parlor, no department store, no clothing store, no sense of culture, no feel of history, no sign of architecture, and one whorehouse. (The ladies are nice, but kind of skanky.)”

But on August 12, 2021, I can tell you that I found a lot of beauty around Battle Mountain. So before I wrote this, I delved in a little more. You see, the people of BM sought to make the most of their plight. After hosting Gene during his “exhaustive research,” (and having read the articles, he did try to play this fairly and do real analysis), Battle Mountain’s anger turned to resolve.

While Gene did protest that he “actually respected and liked this crappy little town, and that I was actually trying to help it by giving it a national identity, [but was] widely rejected as being disingenuous.”

For 5 years, Battle Mountain hosted the “Festival of the Pit,” with billboards, dunk tanks, volleyball tournament, massage therapist (?), horseshoe throwing contest, wheelbarrow contest, Poker Run, boxing, rapelling off the water tower, and Indian fry bread. It was sponsored by Old Spice (why not Febreeze?)

Anyway, for a tough, lonely and not particularly beautiful Day 1, the beauty of Battle Mountain, it’s citizenry’s resilience and for what has become a blue-grass Festival of the Trees, I salute my Battle Mountain start! THEY make the most of what they have. Good on ya!

For awhile, it seemed like we were simply missing the town. On Saturday night, we tried the Blue Loon (empty 80‘s party) and Lavelle’s (grumpy bartender and very small crowd.) What we missed was that the entire town was running in the Midnight Sun Run and was finishing up at a dive bar on the river called The Boatel. On Sunday, we went into town for the festival and had a very good but not hugely populated time scarfing pulled pork sandwiches, listening to music, watching some miraculous beanbag toss (one young lass made 6 of 8 on average, from over 40 feet, across multiple games.) Many competitors came and went, shaking their heads in awe. It seemed like she might have sold her soul for cornhole greatness as we sat there drinking beer at the Big I.

But then, THEN. We got into a cab and went to the ballpark 90 minutes before game time. A little ramshackle, perhaps, but absolutely packed, and we saw people we had seen around town.

The BEST part, though, was fueled by meeting Sam Morton the day before. Sam, his wife Kathryn and grandson Xavier joined us at the game. We had met Sam at a gas station on our last Saturday – we on our way to Denali, he to a doubleheader that he was helping coach for his grandson’s team. Turns out Sam is a baseball guy, a high school baseball coach and interested in motorcycles. Doug realized we had three extra tickets to the game after Sam said he always goes, so we offered them to Sam. He was going, but our tickets had him bringing his wife and grandson. It was guh-RATE! All game long, we spoke the language of baseball, told stories, laughed with Kathryn over the antics of the talented and really fun PA guy, and challenged (and tipped) Xavier to help us get the stuff we dropped through the bleachers.

We met some of Sam’s ballplayers, fans and extended baseball family from all over the ballpark – they would all stop to say “hello” to our new friend. The game was great, the experience transcendent, but the ability to share it with Sam, Kathryn, Xavier and their ballpark full of friends confirmed the Midnight Sun Game as the spiritual experience I always thought it would be.

It is rare that a dream event surpasses expectations. It felt a little like W.P. Kinsella’s Shoeless Joe, the model for Field of Dreams. Growden Park / Goldpanners Field may not have been magical cornfields, but what started as an old, neighborly ballpark with limited comforts, on this night became the center of baseball — a jewel with an otherworldly glow. Physics were suspended. Light stayed through 130am, even though the sun was trapped behind a dark storm cloud on the horizon and filtered through smoke from over 350 fires across the state. The winning runs were scored when Seattle outfielders could not see or quite corral a long fly ball up the gap or a ducksnort down the right field line. Long outfield runs netted only glancing blows off of extended gloves in the gloaming. The 7th run in a 7-4 victory was plated when Scooter Bynum impossibly scored from first base on a hit down the left field line, blazing around the bases and through the late evening haze like he was on his own motorcycle – the most exciting play of the evening. Or morning.

With Sinatra in the background and standing near the gates at 1-something AM after a 7-4 Goldpanners win, we chatted with our new friends (see the video for Sam and Kathy at the end.) Soon, we finally met up with Todd Dennis, our host as the GM of the Goldpanners and the architect of a great game experience. He saw us talking to Sam and said, “Hey, it’s Mr. Fairbanks Baseball!” Which I would have thought might have been Todd as the GM of the local ballclub. But everyone in the ballpark knew — including Todd. As we strolled the dirt of the parking lot, it felt more like the magic of that Iowa cornfield. Long ago, Growden Park was no more than an idea. Just like my longstanding idea of motorcycling to the Midnight Sun Game. They built it, and I knew we would come. We finally did. It was indeed a “best day.” I will remember the game, the people and the place for all they were as long as there are memories.

A dream realized is a really wonderful feeling. We made it to Alaska, to Fairbanks and through a long morning after. And the good bounces eventually came with hydration and rest. And greasy bacon and eggs. Below are some moments from the way in.

Tomorrow we ride to Denali and there will be more to report — but for now, we are very thankful to be here. Dinner on the deck at the Pump House with Alaska King Crab legs was a great end to this day. As was the ride back through the stunning Univ of Alaska Fairbanks campus. At 11:54PM.  

In the words of our friend Stanley Clayton, oof.

I thought the title was a line from a song. Looked it up. The Buffalo Gals wrote it. Seems appropriate.

We made Fairbanks! We thought we should celebrate. We are trying to get over the joy, and well, the well-past-midnight-sun.

So in the meantime, some great vistas from the Yukon rides:

Well, goodbye, new friend. Boston Pizza was good to the Blackhawks and then good to the Warriors, so that’s a start. But it was the Logpile Lodge, Barbara and Chris that made our stay great. And Rob the cab driver. The whole town was filled with kind and generous people, at the restaurants or just walking around. Even the conspiracy wack job at the laundromat was engaging, if in need of a slight electro shock.

Smithers has taught me that there are more shades of green extant than I had even considered. And I am red/green colorblind. STILL it pops everywhere. Where is Bubba Gump when you need him? I saw olive, forest, hunter, lime, dusty, apple, kelly, bright, chartreuse, mint, emerald, verdant, teal, seafoam, with envy, around the gills, goddess, Pumpsie and Robert (for those who know The Mayor) green!

But it’s how Smithers is easy on the eyes that compels.

It was hard enough to leave, so I filmed it. It starts with a Charlie dance – always a bonus.

See for yourself how beautiful this lodge and town is, on our way out….

AND there’s a Tim Horton’s! That exclamation point is a relic of a day when TH baked their own donuts and bagles in store. Uhh, no. Now it’s a sad reminder of how lousy chain food can be. After eating some bacon-flavored cardboard, we were engaged by some older bikers (yeah, imagine) who enjoyed telling us about our bikes, where we should go and what we should do. It was fun to be the cool kids, but a pretty easy compare. We smiled and nodded, a lot, and headed ouwt, ay?

Most of the day was spend on the remote Cassiar Highway, a relatively newly-paved standard that gets narrower and rougher as we head north. Our first stop on the Cassiar was Gitanyow, the last gas headed north for 135 miles on an Indian reservation. Note that at the pump, we are non-status, and welcome to use Pump #2.

At Bell 2, we stopped for lunch and had surprisingly good salads and became introduced to our new friends, the bugs. Huge spruce beetles, tiny mosquitos and butterflies that had been sacrificing themselves on the alters of Harley, Triumph and BMW were now on our glasses if not in our teeth. The salad was a better refresher. I got back on the bike tired and needed to sing at the top of my voice to scare myself in ways I did not want the road to. Success.

All was surprisingly sunny, fast and fair, with occasional visibility dance party exceptions of a quick and bone-chilling rainstorm 70% of the way there and 10 minutes of hail before breaking through into sunshine at Dease Lake.

We saw wildlife (black bears) and too much wilddead, primarily rabbit. How could the sparse Cassiar traffic sacrifice so many rabbits? Crows were always there to try to wake them up and point them out to us.

The Cassiar is exceptional. Almost nothing there – a corridor of green and narrow. Beautiful vistas and an ever narrowing, less traveled road. It may be hell on tires, but it grips like crazy for motorcycles, and through Dease Lake, anyway, it’s been safe and a blast to ride.

Seeing the black bears was a treat – a couple by the side of the road just gazing at us as we motored by. Lots of signs about moose and caribou, but so far we are left jumping at moose shadows.

As for leaving Smithers, we left beauty and quite a bit of civilization. At Dease Lake (population 450,) the beauty is NOT joined by a pub or restaurant to watch the Blackhawks win the cup. There is no restaurant. Our humble rooms at the Arctic Divide motel are nice, but just that. We had sandwiches, Cheesies, Ketchup flavored potato chips and Smarties for dinner with Kokanee and Canadian beers over hockey and cribbage. Ay? I can feel my vowels getting longer and a Mazda in the plaza for pasta sounding decidedly like something that might be uttered on a chesterfield. While scarfing a cup of cheesies.

Oh, yeah, and Doug, thanks for all the cash from the cribbage games. It seems fun and I really appreciate you reviewing the rules with me again so I can play. Need a hat?

Oh Perpetual Saturdays, we appreciate and love you all. Perhaps the boys and I will need to make a sacrifice to the PS God to develop continuation, ay? Think of it like traveling in the NBA. It goes on forever.

So yesterSat, we left a very dreary and drizzly Quesnel and the Billy Barker Casino Hotel (whoa!) to ride through Prince George, leave Ol’ 97 and start to make our way west toward the southernmost beginning of the legendary Cassiar Highway.

I should note that the Billy Barker was clean, nice and had a good breakfast. It is a remodeled throwback hotel, but the casino and some of its patrons were, well, interesting. There was the kindly and VERY big security guy who pledged to watch our bikes, the many-teeth-shy early afternoon patrons, and the Blackjack dealer who simply could not add. It seemed a bit like time travel — a parallel universe of some sort. Thankfully, we had Highlander with us for breakfast, and he was never scared, so we just enjoyed breakfast and took off. Into rain and cold.

We planned to and have stopped in Smithers, a lovely town in the Bulkley Valley. If you want a cabin where there is lots of water, beauty and nice people, you now have our recommendation – Smithers, BC. It was a magical end to a long, wet drive into the teeth of a moderate set of storms – so no GoPro. And I do mean wet. However, the biggest damper was not the rain, but a rather ominous, large, angry sign seen in an otherwise pristine valley. It said “Prepare to Meet Your God” in black and white. We all thought, “no thank you, no way, too much colour here” (yep, I’m nourth of the bourder) “not YET, not NOW, not on this or any other Saturday, for You-Know-Who’s sake!”

Made me think of the Rolling Stones’ “Far Away Eyes:”

“The preacher said,                                                                                                               you know you always have the Lord by your side,                                                         And I was so pleased to be informed of this,                                                                   that I ran twenty red-lights in his name.”

We arrived at the incredible Logpole Lodge. Run, do not walk, to make your reservations here. Up a gravel road about 5 clicks out of town, we climbed to this incredible property. We were met by Barbara of Barbara and Chris, the owners, formerly from Switzerland. Even though facing a large private party last night (PSaturday,) Barbara made us feel so at home, gave us a tour and offered us a cold beer. She SO had us at “cold.”

Barbara called us a taxi and we met Richard, of dark humor, radio voice, big personality, a gift of gab and the blueprint for a great Smithers night. Here are Charlie and Doug, at Boston Pizza, a Canadian chain where my friends know the menu by heart. NHL Stanley Cup hockey, good food, big crowd and more cold beer had us rooting for free, overtime hockey. Alas it was Blackhawks 2-1 in regulation.

There were more bars, more drinks and more Richard, and all was right with the world. We teared up often, but only from the laughter. “Oh, NO, not another HAT!” Mike Gill, we thank you! We think.

It was SO great, and the area SO beautiful, and we know we have some extra time to get to Fairbanks, we called an audible right at the bar. We called Barbara who gave us welcome permission and then pushed back all future stops one night. We still have two nights to burn if we want, both Saturdays to my recollection, and are now enjoying a beautiful real day off (there is little sun, so yet another way to avoid Sunday, so let’s, YES, call it SATURDAY again,) in Smithers, British Columbia.

And here she is.Beautiful Smithers. Again, she had us at “cold.”

And on my ride-around today, there was a train. Here.

Hearing Todd Snider’s “Play a Train Song” in my head. Hope you are, too.

Win Winofsky is a man’s man and a friend to all. He played professional hockey into his 30’s and now travels the world as a trainer of selling and customer service excellence, primarily for the automative industry. But that is only part of his passion. Besides his family, which he loves to distraction, he loves motorbikes and automobiles, yes, but with a particular fascination for the Toyota Land Cruiser in its many improved forms. He even owns a kind of Land Cruiser heaven.

And Win has the GREATEST Man Cave in recorded history. Here is Win and the building that is NOT in question. Win, thank you for your incredible hospitality, the stories, the fireside wisdom and for coming down to the hotel for more over breakfast. You are our collective hero. Of source, along with Highlander. Hey wait, I thought “there can be only one!”

So you have heard me speaking of Brett Johnston, renaissance man, serial entrepreneur and ne’er-do-anything-but-everything. He has owned night clubs, taught dressage, trained Claude Lemieux, been a cabinet maker, owned a stone factory and so much more. BBQ at Brett’s Kelowna home/farm/manufacturing plant “Saturday–3” and BBQ at his friend Win Winofsky’s home Sat-2.  We learned more about man-caving (spelunking is involved at Win’s place) and McGuyvering than we could ever hope for. And we had high hopes!

In preparing to ride to Quesnel from Kelowna, Brett told the story of Christmas Eve with his family some moons ago and traveling over Highway 24 in deep snow. No other cars for hours. And Brett’s car catches FIRE as the carburetor froze, dumping gas over the side which ignited. Brett takes it apart, sees that the float is melted — it is sub-freezing with no where to go and no help in sight. In the dark, he takes his pocket knife out, carves a new float from a pine branch, wires it together, gets the car started and home. “We lived” is all he said. And we all knew he was serious.

In just 48 hours, we toured Brett’s home/farm/businesses and heard some stories. Doug SWEARS that the only way Brett can be Brett is that he is Highlander, having lived for many centuries – and as many of you know, “there can only be one!” He now lives in Kelowna. Give him his space, as his duties include encouraging cooperation, peace and entrepreneurship – it is a very full plate. Great to reconnect, Brett!

On his way back to Kelowna, he took only gravel logging roads with very little cell coverage. The last we heard from him, he was lost, but finally had a cell signal. Pavement was only 50km away. He sent us the picture and text below. Highlander!

I woke up today after our last adventure and thought of a stunner. From Weed, CA to Klamath Falls, to Bend, through deserted brush near 125 mph in Shaniko, smokin’ Yakima, charming downtown Ellensburg, Okanagan starting the valley, Oroville, the lushness of Osyoos and Oliver, the young vibe of Penticton, through Kelowna and 100 mile house, Lake La Hache and McLeese Lake, and now in Quesnel, we have been on Highway 97.

The only betrayal was a beautiful exception (yeah, you’d count on a guy to say THAT — hey Lynn Renee, it’s only a road.) We traveled up Highway 5 from Kamloops (LOVE that name) to Little Fort and west in the epic Fishing Highway 24 to 100 Mile House. Then back to Ol’ 97. Only about 68 more miles to Prince George and we jettison our lives with her for another. Leaving that girl to the side of herself, if you will. Stop me before I subreference again.

Too much happened yesterday — I will simply have to write later as it’s time for breakfast and the road. Some highlights I owe the blog:

– Brett’s Highway 24 adventures past — “They Lived”

– The greatest Man Cave in History and the legendary Win Winofsky

– P.S., I Love You, an ode to perpetual saturdays

– GoAm and Prolog

The Betrayal of 97 for Highway 24

So we face our first rain this morning and we lose our friend Bob Berg, who heads south for those duties that the rest of us are so dedicated to avoiding via the PS. Perpetual Saturday, that is. We’ll miss you, brother, but can’t wait for the next time. Keep the tires down, as will we.

Well the day before yesterday was definitely Saturday, And yesterday was definitely Saturday, so certainly today must have been Sunday, our one day off on this ride to Fairbanks, so we might rest and relax in beautiful Kelowna.

But no. We had a spectacular but very full day. We did sleep late and lounge around the hotel till we weren’t. Except for that whole “check engine” thing which unfairly dogged the amazing Doug Gould. The man had tested his trusty steed with multiple trips to Tahoe, and had taken it in for new tires and a final check up. On the way back from the shop last Friday (yes, the day before our many Saturdays,) it broke down! So what did Doug do? Like any self-respecting friend and Canadian, he said “soary ‘boot that” and went out AND BOUGHT A BRAND NEW BIKE!!! Holy buckets, Batman!

Doug is now the proud owner of a beautiful Triumph Thunderbird LT named “Grace” — you’ll see Grace in the pictures hereabouts. But a check engine light erupted on YesterSaturday, yes the day before the Sunnyday of non-rest. He took it in and it has a clean bill of health. So THEN we rested up. Well, no, who needs rest when there are too many fun things to do?

Many kudos to our friend Brett Johnston, former San Mateo Grizzly, native of Vernon and farmer/cabinet maker and entrepreneurial legend from Kelowna. He took us to the Greymonk Winery, a world class dining experience overlooking the 100-mile-long Okanagan Lake.

Then off on a 2 hour bike tour on great twisties with incredible lake views. Except for the 30 minutes behind a self-absorbed, can’t-believe-he-wouldn’t-pull-over-when-the-SIGNS-say-“Pull Over-for-Faster-Traffic” ROAD BOULDER.

Beautiful West Lake Road — Bob (our pro photographer pulls over for pictures

The finale of a great day was an incredible meal and the opportunity to spend more time with my old teammate and friend. It was great for all of us to get to know Carmen, and the crew of WOOFers that she and Brett host on the farm. We met a Mexican Hairless named Aza and Big Dog, saw two incredible businesses, a farm and met the 5 WOOFer (Tayvan, Hakura, Sarah, Karlin and Damian) kids with the World Organization of Organic Farmers. Not to mention a marriage barn, a tractor that I would drive home if I could and a dance floor and stage. All at Chez Johnston — and no Grizzly is the least bit surprised. Brett, as he would, is joining us tomorrow for the ride to Quesnel. We pick up Charlie and the Harley in Kamloops and go!

Oh, and I hear that the Warriors won. Way to go, Dubs! So it must not have been Sunday after all. Probably just Saturday again. Just like tomorrow.

A beautiful and kind country, right? Ever met a Canadian that wasn’t generous? Even when your Canadian buddies bring the needle out, they say, “I’m soary….” Of course, on Facebook when I posted our entry into Canada, a hockey friend or two pulled out that needle and said things like, “why am I surprised they let Ford in? Full cavity search!” Something about the white rubber glove treatment…, but I am sure he’s soary. Yeah, goalies don’t need no cavity searches. Exit only. That stuff is for wingers.

NOW we have learned and verified that if you are 40 km/hr over the speed limit in British Columbia (that’s 25 mph), THEY IMPOUND YOUR VEHICLE. Anywhere. Anytime. Leave you by the side of the road. That does not sound very Canadian to me. We will likely be doing the speed limit to Alaska, end of story. Soary.

Here’s some boys by the side of the road, still very much owning their rides:

We awoke in the 5’s, too fired up to sleep longer. Packing, planning, getting into a routine we had yet to establish. One walked to breakfast, two rode. Coffee, laughter, anticipation, confidence. Intending to leave at 730a, we busted out around 8 knowing it was a solid 8 hours in the saddle. It was more like 10+, 11 &1/2 hours, all in. Even with all of the 85 mph sweepers, a speed we will not replicate in Oh, Canada, it was 11.5 solid hours. Leaving Bend and seeing the snowcapped 7 sisters all along the road was a great start to the day.

We hit 125mph (one time only) on a lonely stretch of straight, deserted road near Shaniko, Oregon. It didn’t feel any different on the bike — I LOVE that bike. And in Shaniko, I was repaid perfectly for preparing just the right toolkit for the ride. They were needed, but for something minor on not-my-bike. Great outcome, on Doug’s bike and for the effort. Our Ambassador of bike-itude, Bob is now sure he will assemble a similar kit. I am still prideful.

A BEAUTIFUL ride through the Dalles, HUGE winds near the border, Bob and I were turning left but going straight for a solid 10 miles. Doug on the Triumph was low and cool. Huge wind farms showed that this is a pretty common occurrence on the Washington border.

Throughout the Yakima, Ellensburg, Okanagan, Oroville, Oliver, Penticton, Kelowna day, through check engine lights (eventually of no matter,) blistering hot afternoon pulls and lake-cooled descents, I had Guy Clark’s epic “To Live Is To Fly” on the mental loop:

To Live is to Fly

Days up and down they come

Like rain on a conga drum

Forget most, remember some

Don’t turn none away

Everything is not enough

Nothin’ is too much to bear

Where you been is good and gone

All you keep is the gettin’ there

Oh, to live is to fly

Both low and high

Shake the dust off of your wings

And the sleep out of your eyes

Here’s 50 seconds of the entry into the Okanagan Valley in Canada, where it turned this incredible green:

 And the bridge into Kelowna:

“What began nearly 100 years ago on a bet between two local bars has evolved into one of baseball’s unique natural events. The Midnight Sun Game, played in Fairbanks on the summer solstice every year since 1906, is played in the middle of the night with only natural light.”

How can that not be on my bucket list? Hey…, good news….

So several of my decades ago, the trip was about a humor-filled, blue-eyed lass with a special spirit, a convertible, the mountains and a summer solstice trek. I met that girl about 25 years ago, and we have built a good life together. And while she enjoys baseball and all, we have toured Tuscany in that convertible, and, well, so it goes.

Two decades ago, it became an idea about a motorcycle journey, and I didn’t ride. Time opened that door, and the dream became more than a glimmer. Alaska will become my 49^th state — only Mom’s North Dakota will await after the boys and I cross from the Yukon.

And it was always supposed to be the Midnight Sun Game. Business never intervened to send me there. Lynn and I had thought about Sitka for a music festival several years ago, and in my daydreams, I worried that my first time in Alaska would NOT be this trek.

What do you know…, a check on the bucket list is just days away….