Go West Young Man!

32 Days and 5,536 Miles On My Vintage Motorcycle

I may have written a paper on Yosemite in school. I don't remember, if I did it doesn't matter. Until you visit this place you won't believe it really exists. Everywhere your eye falls there is some spectacle of nature. El Capitan rises thousands of feet above the valley floor, sheer and absolutely unforgiving of weakness of grip or character. Sharing in the same field of vision is Bridalveil Fall. Justin and I walk the short trail and stand below it, trying to sniff out the weak mist floating down. We wonder if we had missed Half Dome, which we know only by name. Of course if we had known it by sight we would have realized how unmissable it was. I feel humbled when the tightly shaded park road opens up and the full spectacle of the valley floor becomes visable. I dare any man to improve upon a square inch of any of it.

We climbed and sat on a hillside just beyond the park boundry. I had a lot to think about. At that strange moment Justin and I were united in reaching the halfway point of our trips. Every mile onward was a subtraction that brought us nearer our respective homes. It was the first time I was confronted by the thought in weeks; at some point I had to go home. The realization was fleeting and the edge of the Sierra Nevada range gave way to the familiar monotone golden, rolling hills. My always thirsty fuel tank stopped us just outside of Madera. While I topped off the tank we struck up a conversation with Fred. The archetypal surfer dude, he warned us we had missed the A+ muff in Santa Cruz and had better go back. He gave us some weed and sent us on our way. Navigating the unfriendly streets of Fresno later that night reminded me why I couldn't live in California. As I drifted away on a rare hotel matress I dreamed of the gorgeous women of Santa Cruz.


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