Hayfork report

(Clockwise from upper left) 1. Peary Wood next to Keith and his crappy BMW. 2. Keith. 3. Hey, I’m takin’ the photos here. 4. I think this is that divide with Bully Choop. 5. Me and Peary in the cage. 6. A man, his bike and his provisions.

(Jim #5) — Keith is my motorcycle. It got that name after a friend, Jim Gilmore, said something to the effect of, “That thing will outlive the cockroaches.”

Then, another friend, Peary Wood, chimed in, “Yeah, it’s Keith Richards.”

So you know, the only things that will survive a nuclear holocaust will be cockroaches, Keith Richards, maybe a few Twinkies … and my motorcycle.

Well, Keith, a 1975 Goldwing, still has a lot of rockin’ to do. You can start him up. On Thursday, I did, and Peary and I scooted west on Highway 299 on a brilliant, warm, Shasta County February afternoon. (I wonder what they’re doing in Fargo?)

It was a sin to simply ride right past Whiskeytown Lake and Shasta Bally, so well-draped in its white winter gown. Every glance to the left was a postcard.

But we were headed for Hayfork. That twisty road may be a bummer in a car, but on Keith, it does totally rock. In my ears, people like John Hiatt, Beck, Jerry Garcia and Mississippi John Hurt were rocking and sharing the ride via my iPod on random.

This was one of those amazing motorcycle rides. The kind where you take these huge deep breaths and exhale the chorus to some song as loud as you want.

A lot of snow remains on the divide on Highway 3, and the drop into Hayfork reminded me of the descent off Coal Bank Hill into Durango, Colorado.

We stopped in at the Hayfork Hotel, with its spacious bar, but were instantly looking for a place to take our beverages outside and enjoy the lovely afternoon.

We asked the woman behind the bar if we could take the beers out to what looked like a wooden cage of a patio.

The woman looked confused.

“You can take your drinks out there, but you can’t smoke pot out there.”

I looked at Peary. He looked at me.

“Who said anything about smoking pot?” I asked the woman.

“Oh, I’m sorry, it just seems like everybody smokes pot these days.”

Welcome to Hayfork.

In our little wooden cage we drank a beer and talked. Peary went inside for a minute, and I asked a crusty fellow with a bike (who was just outside the cage) how he was doing.

“Well, I’m OK, but I could be better,” he said.

“Well, I guess we all could,” I said, although I was feeling particularly good at the moment.

“I’d be doing better if you had some money you could give me,” he said.

I gave him two dollars and he almost immediately disappeared. He returned after a few minutes with a bottle in a bag. It looked like whiskey. He took a long, long drink and set the bottle down hard on the concrete.

I was a bit puzzled. It didn’t look like a two-dollar bottle of whiskey. I must have provided him with just what he needed to make a purchase. There was something so direct about him taking my money and so instantly buying hard booze.

He got up, stashed his bag and started to walk off. I raised my camera to shoot a photo of him through the cage. He saw me and laughed at first. Then he said, “No, no. You’re not taking a picture of me.”

I wondered what he thought my intention was. I have a pure heart, I might have told him. I wasn’t trying to steal some of his soul or exploit him. I wasn’t even judging his decision to spend the lovely afternoon chasing off demons with a bottle of firewater.

We’ve all got demons we’re trying to escape.

Soon, Peary and I were back on our bikes and winding through Wildwood and Platina (where we had a burger) and back to Redding via the road through Ono.

We saw about 15 deer crossing the road together. Most of the light of the day faded as we reached Redding. At the intersection of Highway 273 and Clear Creek Road, I saw Peary’s cheeks rising through his helmet. A big smile.

Indeed, a great ride. An odd adventure as well.