MONDAY, JUNE 27, 2011

Vancouver, BC to Tacoma, Washington

Joe arose early the next morning, now in coat and tie and ready to go back to work.  Rachel, also up early, took care of me and Al  as we prepared to depart, even gifting us with our own individual bags of cookies to take along with us (they saw good service). Finally, seeing us packed up and ready to go, she bade us farewell, and off we went after having studied the detailed instructions Joe had drawn up for us to get us out of the city and on our way south to the USA checkpoint.

After a bit of confusion about exactly where Route 99 was at one point, Al and I made our way out of Vancouver and to the “Peace Arch” USA border checkpoint fairly uneventfully.  However, once there, we encountered more intense stop-and-go traffic. This time I resorted to turning my engine off at every stop to avoid the kind of overheating that had killed my motorcycle in Vancouver.  

After a bit of jockeying around, Al and I got into the same line for checking through into the USA. While waiting, I noted that those folks who got orange stickers placed on their windshields by the border patrol agent had to take a left into no-man’s land instead of proceeding into the USA.  Poor suckers, I thought.  Finally, I was up to the cameras and other unidentifiable detection devices mounted at the waiting line.  I smiled sarcastically at the camera in my best Erich Honecker style.  I was called forward by the officer.  He asked a couple of non-threatening questions, then informed me that he was sorry but the computer had randomly decided to pick me to undergo an inspection, and out came the orange sticker, plop, on my windshield. Go left to lane #2.

I went left and was directed where to park by another border patrol agent. He told me to take my documents and go stand in lane #2. Well, lane #2 was a line of people.  I was glad he hadn’t directed me to lane #1;  it had about 50 people, mostly Chinese, waiting in it.  My line was short.  It also had Chinese in it.   This ought not take long, I thought.  Looking at my orange sticker, I noted it said “Compex” on it.  This apparently denoted the computer-generated, random selection I had fallen victim to.

Outside, before entering the building, I had noted another biker had been pulled over.  He was riding a Road Star, a Japanese Harley knock-off, and he dressed and coiffed the part – you know, leathers, boots, cap, big handlebar mustache, longish hair.  Inside, I noted he had been put in lane #1.  He’ll never get out of here, I thought, while I am in the short line, hee, hee.  

There were two groups of Chinese dealing with the agents at the counter directly in front of me.  Thirty minutes later the same Chinese were still at the counter directly in front of me.  Various agents had come and talked to these people through translators, even guys with major and colonel insignia on their epaulets. Finally, two of the men were ushered into the spaces behind the counter and off somewhere out of sight.  Their translator returned later with one of the agents, who, during their conversation made a gesture like someone being handcuffed.  I figured they had been arrested and would be seen no more; however, they reappeared later and were directed to sit on a nearby bench.  That was what was happening to people whose vehicles were being inspected, as well, I noted.  

My line moved slowly, but I eventually made it to first position.  I had started out as number three in line, mind you.  Now, the other biker was nearly to the head of his line.  Wrong line again!  

I was called to the counter by an agent. He asked a few questions about where I had been, where I was going, how long I had been in Canada, who was I traveling with and had I acquired “any items” in Canada?  I denied the latter while wondering if cookies qualified as “items.”  Fearing the worst, I volunteered I had acquired some cookies before I could be accused of having hidden the fact.   They were going to inspect my cases, after all. 

The agent seemed especially interested in the fact I had been traveling with someone and wanted to know where that person was. I told him I didn’t have any idea, probably at the next gas station waiting for me.  He thought that was an acceptable answer, and mentioned that that other person shouldn’t be hanging around the border crossing point waiting for me. (Note: Unbeknownst to me, Al had indeed hung around outside the compound, parked on the side of the road waiting for me to emerge from the facility.   He told me afterwards that he had approached the guard at the exit kiosk to ask if he could go in or how long it was going to take me to come out, and was only answered with a “How the F... should I know!”).  

My agent took my keys and told me to go sit on the bench. 

Soon, my agent reappeared with my keys, having apparently found nothing of interest in my bike.  I wondered if they had confiscated the cookies.  A young lady with a clipboard had a few routine questions for me; she checked boxes as I answered.   Finally, she asked if I had had a pleasant trip, to which I answered in the negative thinking first of the traffic jam, the cycle quitting and then this experience.  Of course, I was diplomatic (read: cowardly) enough not to give word to said thoughts and left it at that.  She was smiling all the while, and the other agent too, I now noted with suspicion, as if now that they had verified to their satisfaction that I was a genuine, normal American bearing no contraband (cookies!), they could relax and demonstrate their friendliness.  It was kind of eerie and I was glad when they returned the keys and said I could leave.  One last instruction was that I was to hand the orange sticker over to the guard Al had already talked to. That done, I was surprised and pleased to see Al had waited all that time (well over an hour, he said) for me to escape.

Safely departed from the border checkpoint, Al and I made our way down the I-5 to Custer, where we stopped briefly to recuperate.  Al had a burger with fries, but I didn’t feel like eating anything yet. After Al forced me to eat some of his fries, we gassed up and headed south to find the turn-off on our old friend Rt. 20 West.  On our way down 20, we passed Whidbey Island Naval Air Station. The facilities weren’t visible, but we saw a “Wart Hog” flying around and coming in low for a landing. Another generic military jet aircraft was also in the air.  

Still referring to Joe’s instructions, we found Fort Casey, where we got in line for the ferry that would take us about 30 minutes across the water to Port Townsend.  Motorcycles parked and now hungry, I lost no time making my way to the local café for a latte and a bran muffin while Al wandered around the territory.  There were only two motorcycles waiting in line when we arrived.  After us, several others arrived to await the ferry.  One group of three was familiar with the area and when they learned we were headed for Tacoma, they advised us to take Rt. 7 south from there for a scenic ride through the country with good curves.  We made note of the advice and I shared Rachel’s cookies with them making sure to keep a few in reserve for myself.

Al, with Fellow Bikers on the Ferry

Bikes on the Ferry, Looking Down

After about an hour from the time we arrived, the ferry, Chetzemoka, arrived and disgorged motorcycles first.  Motorcycles are ferried on the first-on/first-off principle, which was quite nice for us. We drove on, were directed into lines by one of the crew members, then went upstairs to take in the view and take advantage of the comfortable seating and the restrooms. Soon, however, it was time to disembark as Port Townsend hove into view.

Disgorged Motorcycles

Al in the Comfortable Seating on the Ferry

Coming into Port Townsend 

We continued our drive down Route 20, and as I recall it was cloudy, cool and wet but not too rainy.  The bikes seemed to get good traction on the wet curves and we moved along at a comfortable pace enjoying them.  The ride along the Hood Canal to Olympia was quite relaxing, compared to what we had ridden through earlier that day and the day before, both of us noted.  Before rejoining the I-5, we stopped and Al phoned his son, Mike, and got instructions to go north on the I-5, turn east on the 512 and make a right on Canyon Rd. taking it until it intersected with Military Rd., all of which we did.  Pretty simple.  

Once at Mike’s, he kindly vacated his garage for us to be able to park our bikes inside with his other sporting machines. Al parked first, and I pulled in to his right. As I got off my bike, I did not fully deploy the kickstand, and when I stepped off to park my bike it fell over against Al’s bike and all three of us had to right it.  No damage done there, thankfully.

Once organized and established in Mike’s apartment, we met his USAF fire-fighter buddy (name?), who works with Mike on McChord AFB, then pizza and beverages were served all around.  In a feeding frenzy, I faintly recall gobbling three slices.  Starvation allayed, we enjoyed some good conversation about aircraft, firefighting and the admirable fact that Mike’s wife, Jessica, is an EOD specialist stationed in Aviano, Italy, but who has had to deploy to the Gulf on occasion.  Mike noted he had made a couple of trips to Italy to visit her.  

Since Al and I had not pre-planned our southerly route, but had gotten that recommendation to take Rt. 7 from the guys at the ferry pier, Mike put a great map up on his over sized computer monitor and we planned our route (don’t know what the grimace is all about, guess it’s just one of those unfortunate photo moments. Kind of interesting, though.)  

Al, with Mike Grimacing

We planned to go south on the 7 until it intersected with the 12 East, ride to Randle and take little mountain roads (beginning with the 135) atop the Cascades and via the Gifford Pinchot National Forest to Carson on the Columbia, a ride of about 150 miles, if I recall correctly what Mike said.   This route would also afford us an opportunity to take a side road to Windy Ridge Viewpoint,  from which we would get a look at the backside of Mt. St. Helen's and all the devastation its 1980 eruption left behind.  

  

Mt. St. Helen's, Washington, May 18, 1980

Finally, showered and with a plan in mind, we decided we’d go out for breakfast the next morning.  Al took the one available bed since I had had that pleasure while we stayed two nights at Bud Anderson’s in Seeley Lake, MT. I had the entire floor of a vacant bedroom to myself, where I spread my sleeping bag and got a good night’s sleep.