Riding to Belknap

Margaret switched off her bike, pulled off her helmet and peeled off her jacket. By the time I had my bike on its centre-stand, my wife and riding partner had scampered across the parking lot, and was spinning in a merry jig under a sprinkler. The joyful display was an expression of her delight at her return to Belknap Hot Springs Resort in Oregon. She also might have dashed under the sprinkler because it had been a long, hot ride from our home in Calgary to Belknap – 2000 kilometers in two and a half days.

Margaret had visited Belknap on a solo ride two years previously, and had regaled me with enthusiastic descriptions of the region and the resort’s hot pools and gardens. When I managed to schedule a two-week vacation to coincide with hers, she started planning a long loop through Washington and Oregon. Daily distances were planned to allow for our bikes – Margaret’s Suzuki 650 Burgman and my Suzuki 650 V-Strom. We had to acknowledge that both bikes are capable of more endurance than our physical condition – or in my case lack thereof.

Packing and maintenance got delayed until the last minute. So, we departed Calgary enroute to Creston, British Columbia, late on a Saturday afternoon. Our late start caused us to cross the Crowsnest Pass at dusk. The last few kilometers into Creston were ridden under a quarter moon. Mist drifted out of the forest and it seemed like deer were waiting around every other curve. Thankfully both bikes have excellent headlights, although mine seemed to be aimed high. We made it to our hotel, tired but safe.

Sunday morning I remembered the suspension adjustment on the V-Strom was still at the factory setting. This explained my slightly misaligned headlights and some vague handling. After redialing my suspension to allow for a fat fifty year-old Viking with extra baggage, we were away again.

We crossed the border into the United States at Porthill and rode south past farms and forests. As we traveled through Sandpoint and Spokane we had to pay more attention to traffic than the scenery. However, it was apparent that the forest thinned out as we went west from Spokane. We left the freeway and the trees behind at Ritzville and turned south on Hwy 395, which winds through the low hills of the Columbia Plateau. This is dry-land farm country, with occasional rugged scablands caused by ancient erosion. By mid-afternoon the temperature hovered between 37 and 39 degrees Celsius. We both felt it was country to be crossed rapidly, not a place to linger. Even at 100+ kilometers per hour we could feel the heat radiating off the pavement. I amused myself by watching people’s reactions when they realized what Margaret was riding and how fast she was traveling. Margaret insists the Burgman is really a 650cc sport-touring motorcycle that looks like a scooter.

In our hotel in Kennewick we heard that we were in the middle of a record-breaking heat wave. Temperatures between 37 and 45 degrees Celsius were expected in the Pacific Northwest for the next week. Most of our riding gear was appropriate to the cooler wetter climate of the coastal mountains.

We set out on Monday morning to ride Interstate 84 along the south bank of the Columbia River, then cross the southern part of the Columbia Plateau before heading into the Cascade Mountains. The eastern Columbia River is an impressive body of water, more like a long narrow lake that winds through a, steep sided valley. Along the river, extensive irrigation produces a thriving agricultural valley. Near Boardman we passed an enormous tree farm. We cruised past perfectly spaced rows of tall, mature poplars. The rhythmic interplay of light and space between the trees was like some surreal scene from a science fiction movie. Later we paused for a short break at the John Day Dam and watched a tug and barge enter the locks. Watching the Columbia spill over the dam, gave us a sense of the enormous expense and effort expended to control the river.

At Biggs we detoured north across the Sam Hill Memorial Bridge, to visit a smaller but unusual piece of construction. Above Maryhill, a life size concrete replica of Stonehenge stands on an outcrop. It was constructed between 1918 and 1930 by Sam Hill, a prominent local landowner, as a memorial to several young local men who died in World War One. Standing in the mid-day heat, above irrigated vineyards and the vast river, this Stonehenge seemed about as far from the original on Salisbury Plain as it could be.

After fuel, food and air-conditioning in Biggs, we turned south on Highway 97. The road climbed out of the river gorge on a series of switchbacks, then stretched out through the heat haze across the Columbia Plateau. The arid hills and prairie seemed even more desolate than what we had crossed the day before. I was grateful I was crossing them at 100 kilometers per hour on a motorcycle, not at 20 kilometers per day on a wagon like the settlers on the Oregon Trail. I was also happy I was on a motorcycle, not on one of the road crews that stopped us twice. Still, the unrelieved expanse reminded me that I don’t like semi-desert, and I don’t feel it is improved by record-breaking heat.

With anticipation and relief we turned west at Redmond. We were relieved to be back in country with some vegetation taller than tumbleweeds and we were anticipating cooler temperatures in the Cascades Mountains. At Sisters we stopped for fuel and were informed by a friendly gas station attendant that Hwy 242 between Sisters and McKenzie Bridge is very scenic and a lot of fun on a motorcycle. Unfortunately it was closed for construction.

We had to detour northwest through the Santiam Pass. Highway 126 curved north, then west through open Ponderosa and White Bark Pine forest on the eastern slopes of the Cascades Mountains. As we crossed the pass, occasional piles of black basalt rubble and the surrounding conical peaks of Three Fingered Jack and the Three Sisters reminded us that we were in a volcanic range. When we turned south again the forest gradually changed to tall Douglas Firs and Western Hemlock as we wound south along the Mackenzie River Valley. After the long hot day on the open plain it was a joy to ride curve after curve through shady forest. However, the heat had not abated even in the mountains. When we rolled up the driveway into Belknap Hot Springs, Margaret found that sprinkler to good to resist.