“There are Ents and Ents you know, or there

are Ents and things that look like Ents but

ain’t as you might say…but what is going on?

What are you doing in it all? I can see and

hear and smell and feel a great deal from this…

where I stand and look out on fine mornings and

think about the Sun and the grass beyond the

wood, and the horses and the clouds, and the

unfolding of the world. What is going on?”
- Treebeard the Ent, Master of Fangorn.
The Two Towers by JRR Tolkien

Pages 68-69

The Ents are watching…My good friend Robin wrote that in the beginning of my road journal. She used the quote from the second book of Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkien. She described Ents as ancient trees watching – Ents the Earthborn, old as mountains. I had no idea at the time, but later I would think that the words held a certain poetic justice. Magic…wasn’t that what it was all about? Robin and I were going on our first big road trip together. For me, road trips are like oxygen. Essential for my survival. I charge up my batteries and come back to The City a new person. A person who has magic. Magic memories that you stash away for a rainy day, available upon request. Those magic moments which get you through rush hour, through the stress of business, and all of The City’s succulent ways. That’s what I needed. I was ready for some magic and for some reason, riding with Robin, I just knew we would both find some. The Ents would be watching over us.

We started our journey in Vancouver, B.C. with no real agenda except we were heading south. Two girls. Two bikes. Two weeks. Too perfect. We crossed the U.S. border and burned south down the I-5. Me on my 1997 Valkyrie Tour and Robin on her 2000 Magna V45.

Our first gas stop lurched us into reality. We knew we were officially on the road when this good ‘ol boy in a pick-up truck asked us where our old men were. Robin and I just smiled. We couldn’t be bothered. This was our trip and nothing was going to spoil the groove. He had no idea about magic.

We headed East towards Yakima and stopped in the mountain town of Cle Elum. It was dinnertime and we devoured some great Mexican food plus a couple of lime margaritas. On a side note, one thing that Robin and I realized before starting our road trip was that we were on a very limited budget. We’re talking’ between the both of us about $40.00 US a day. Ha! Good luck. Our motorcycles alone - with my big six cylinders and Robin’s inverted four - were gobbling over half of that a day! Well, despite the restrictions we both decided creative financing was the way to go. No problem. However, this delicious Mexican meal had already wreaked havoc on our daily budget. Sigh. What can you do? We shrugged it off, promised to do better tomorrow and took off into the night heading towards the Yakima Valley. The full moon had just started to rise and the valley was blowing a sweet warm wind that coated us in the moonlight. At one point, in the brilliant blue light, we had to stop smiling. Both of us were catching too many bugs in our teeth. What an incredible start to our journey.

We pulled up into the sleepy little town of Sunnyside, Washington. Population - 1,500. Churches – 15. One of my good friends was the local surgeon in the Valley and had told me to drop by whenever I was in the hood. Well, it was after midnight and we were officially dropping by. This little town was very conservative and my friend’s house was in a neighbourhood that resembled a Christian suburban dream. I’m sure you can imagine! So, here we are, two strange girls on motorcycles riding over to the Cleaver’s house on a full moon. Hmmmmm…I could visualize the crosses coming out. Even worse, my doctor friend was not home! Oh, my…There was no way Robin and I were going to ride anymore. We had already ridden 800 km and we were exhausted. We pulled out our tent and started to pitch it right there in the front yard. The backyard was overgrown with berry bushes and I knew my friend, in his wonderful bachelor ways, still had not hired a gardener since the last time I came to visit. Robin and I had no problem falling asleep. I didn’t care if half the neighborhood was peeking at us through closed curtains; we had ridden hard today and deserved this sleep.

The morning came with those sweet, special sounds of a lawnmower engine starting up. Well! Obviously, my friend had indeed hired a gardener! To the boy’s surprise, two sleepy, rather cat-like creatures yawned and stretched there way from within a blue tent. Almost simultaneously, Robin & I realized we were on display for half the neighbourhood. Ah well, have a little-lookey-loo, Mister and Missus Mormon. We continued to stumble out of our tent. The morning valley air smelled like mint leaves, honeysuckles and cow dung. Ah, yes! The sweet smells of a farming valley. We gave ourselves a bit of a rinse with the gardening hose, brushed our teeth with our fingers and with a quick wave to the gardener and the nosey neighbours - we were off.

On our way out of Sunnyside, we were forced to ride by a fertilizer plant. The bulldozers were moving the dung into giant hills and with that motion came suffocating clouds of fine dung powder. Mental note to self: always, always wear a scarf around your neck. It is for these exact moments where you need it to protect your respiratory system and preserve whatever old factory senses you have left. Yick. We were definitely going to have to find a river and go for a swim.

We headed southwest, climbing up into the Cascade Mountains, down towards the Gorge and into Hood River City, Oregon. Leaving the morning warmth of the fertile valley, we passed beautiful pyramids of hops plants growing into the sky, acres and acres of mint and berry bushes, hills sketched with vineyards and fields full of yellow mustard flowers. Riding side by side, we smiled at one another, laughed out loud and blasted towards the Cascades.

With the morning heat already reaching thirty degrees, the cool mountain air was refreshing. Route 80 through the Cascades is wonderful with its large graceful turns up through the Wenatchee forest. The Ents were smiling down at us from here, without a doubt. I motioned to Robin that I wanted to get off the main highway and take a detour through the Klickitat Valley. This was an amazing road. Beautiful twisties winding along the gorgeous Klickitat River, definitely one of my favorites in Washington. We were in high desert country and the weather was perfect. We stopped around noon at the local fishing hole. It was divine. We had the whole place to ourselves. This was serious backcountry. We had not seen one person on the whole ride in. The noon sun was hot and once we got off our bikes we both started to bake. Robin and I walked over to some trees and starting stripping off all our leathers. The river was amazing. A nice shallow stream with a gentle current that held you just in place if you lodged you buttocks between the stones just right. This was what it was all about. A good ride and a refreshing dip with your best friend.

As I lay floating in the river, Robin handed me a tin cup with a stick. She had smuggled a bottle of Canadian Club in her backpack. Here were the fruits of her labor - the sweet nectar of home. We sipped our whiskey and relaxed into the belly of Mother Nature. This was heaven. The sun was twinkling through my eyelashes. Ah, yes. I laid in this spot for a long time. The light began to flicker. It kept twinkling and twinkling and moving closer and closer to me. I opened my eyes and there within two feet was a long green snake slithering on the surface of the water. Okay, don’t panic. My mind flashed through geography specifics – where was I? Were there poisonous snakes in this area? Ah yeah, I was in the desert – there was definitely rattlers here. But do rattle snakes swim? Okay, enough contemplation. With a big heave and a splash, I exited the river. Robin just sat there laughing at me. After a moment of consideration, we decided that the water snake was nothing but a very friendly Gardner. I had probably positioned my butt right on top of his rock condominium. We both had a good laugh. The snake just stuck it’s tongue out at both of us and continued to surf on the current. It was time to hit the road. The afternoon heat was really upon us, so we made sure our hair was good and wet before we put our helmets back on.

The next leg of the journey was to finish the Klickitat and get back on the main highway along the Washington side of the Columbia River and cross over a bridge into Hood River City, Oregon. Easier said than done. From past experience, I knew this could be hellish. Seriously. The Gorge blows hard. This is the place for World Class windsurfing and the place is well - windy! Not just a little breeze, we’re talking knock you off your motorcycle kind of wind. And not only that, the bridge we had to cross went right over one of windiest areas. I told Robin about the situation coming up and to prepare for it. My advice: hang on and try to keep your bike on the road. Robin was a damn good rider but I could tell my warning had sort of startled her. The two of us had ridden in snow, dirt, sand – you name it – but heavy wind was one of our least favorites. Deep breath.

As we left the warm belly of the Klickitat desert and descended into the Columbia Gorge, we both began to feel it. The wind. It was late afternoon. Best windsurfing, worst riding. We smiled nervously at each other and took off down the highway. The wind was literally taking our breath away. My knuckles where white and my arms were already starting to shake. Even with the 800 some odd pounds of my Valkyrie, I was getting jerked around the road. Robin was doing no better. The bridge was approaching us and I went ahead. To make matters worse, the bridge was one of those metal mesh bridges. The wind hits you side ways forcing you to lean hard into it – literally hanging off your bike, but then it hits you hard from below. Holy Shit! Instinctively I sped up. My tire was wobbling, my arms were shaking and I could barely breathe, but Man! I was doing it! I couldn’t even look in my mirror to see how Robin was doing. I needed to concentrate. A toll booth was coming up ahead – yeah, right! I was not about to stop. The toll booth guy gave us a thumbs up as we blasted by his station. We were not stopping and he knew it.

The rush of adrenaline was crazy. When I stopped at the next stop sign I could barely hold my bike up. I looked over at Robin. Her face was flushed and she was smiling ear to ear. My god, that was nuts. We were nuts. I told her I had a friend in town that had a small brewing shop and boy, did we deserve a drink! Ed’s shop Herbs specialized in brew packs for wine and beer and had a great selection of different cigars and tobacco. Ed was thrilled to see us. He offered us some of his homemade apricot beer and told us to relax on the bench out front of his shop. Well, two days later we were still sitting on Ed’s bench, sipping apricot beer, meeting the locals, writing in our books and smiling like Cheshire cats.

Robin and I had decided one thing. Our road trip would have no fixed agenda. We would go wherever the wind took us. Well, it had definitely taken us to this little town and we were loving the hospitality of Hood River City. We both slept like logs in our tent by night and daydreamed on Ed’s bench by day. But like all good things, the end was nearing. The road was calling. By day three, the bench seemed a little harder and our bikes looked back at us with pouty little engines. It was time to hit the road.

We had found out through the grapevine that there was a festival happening back in the Klickitat Valley. It was a large outdoor music & arts gathering called the Phoenix Festival. Apparently, it was like a micro-Burning Man. Burning Man being a fabulous-bohememian-mad-max-meets-art-meets-music-meets-madness-meets-participation-beyond-your-imagination and all in the middle of the Nevada desert. Burning Man has over twenty five thousand participants, while the Phoenix Festival has around twenty five hundred. So, it wasn’t going to be Burning Man but it was going to be an adventure nonetheless.

I had attended Burning Man a few times and had ridden into the event. It was difficult because you needed to pack in all your own food and water. Usually, I had a friend with a truck who brought in my supplies. Robin and I were going to have to do this on our bikes. Luckily, the festival was only three days. We loaded up our bikes with over thirty litres of water, a couple bottles of wine, a six pack of red bull and some fruit & power bars. What? Isn’t that a healthy balanced diet?

One of the jokes on the trip was the packing of Robin’s bike. It took me exactly five minutes to pack my Valkyrie. It took Robin over an hour to pack up her Magna. No kidding. In her defense, she had no back-rest or any touring accessories to help her pack and she had a lot to pack! This suited me fine since I slept later than her and it gave her some nice quiet time first thing in the morning and enabled me to wake up slowly. Plus, there wasn’t the pressure of me impatiently breathing down her neck. Robin and I were groovin’ on this trip. Our daily schedules flowed beautifully together and we never once got in an argument. How could we? We were on OUR road trip and the Ents continued to share their magic. So, back to the precariously packed bikes…

I wish I would have taken a photo of our motorcycles! The water jugs were bungeed and strapped to every part of the machinery. It was nuts. We were nuts. Pointing ourselves North, we headed back into the Klickitat Valley. BUT FIRST, we had to cross that god damn bridge!! Robin affectionately named it the “confounded bridge” after the last few lines of the Led Zeppelin song The Ocean and every now and again would break into song mimicking the squeals of the electric guitar. Man, she cracked me up. So, here we were again crossing the confounded bridge with our precariously packed bikes…oh my! Brother Wind had mercy on our souls that day and only blew half mast, so the two girls and their two bikes passed without event.

We headed towards the Phoenix Festival. I had written the directions on a piece of napkin that eventually blew up my jacket sleeve. The directions were pretty weird anyways – follow the Klickitat river, then make a left at the children’s crossing sign, pass the cows grazing by side of the road, follow the sun and head into nowhere!

Well, we followed the instructions and climbed high into the hills into the upper desert. It was hot. Really hot. The temperature was soaring close to 40 degrees and even the wind wasn’t keeping us cool. The twisting roads were paved but very steep and covered in oil. Who was the lunatic that thought this was a good idea?! Yet another mental note to self: Please remember that this was going to be a bitch to descend once we left the festival. The road eventually leveled out but only to place us on a dusty gravel road. Did I mention we were hot? I was wondering what the hell we were doing heading to an event like this on our motorcycles. I smiled reassuringly to Robin but I was doubting every second of this.

By the time we reached the entrance to the Phoenix Festival, I was nearing heat stroke time. Robin looked equally as whipped and was covered in a fine layer of orange dust. We resembled road kill. I walked towards the two guys sitting on lawn chairs under the trees. Shade. Must have shade. Both dudes had this funny look on there face. Awe. Disgust. I didn’t care; I just wanted shade. I stood under the tree for a long time before I spoke to any one of them. They didn’t even attempt contact. Once I started talking to them, they became animated and totally excited. Cool, man. We were two chicks on two bikes riding down from Canada – all the way from Canada! – just to come to this magical festival. I loved how my American pals always figured it was so far to come over the border. Oh well, we milked it. Robin and I were on a budget and we didn’t have enough money for two tickets.

I had heard that if you volunteered a certain amount of time that you could get a free pass. I asked if this was still true. The guy shook his head and asked if there was a problem. Robin and I looked at each other. Yeah, the problem was budget restraints. The guy smiled and talked to someone by the neighbouring tree. They smiled and waved. I waved a dusty arm and crossed my fingers. The nice guy came back and said “two for one”. Cool. We could do that. I asked the nice guy if he knew where the Church of Mezz was camped. One of my good friends, Kitty Kat was with this Seattle group and I wanted to camp with them. He motioned to the farthest end of the field. Robin and I looked suspiciously at the road surface going in. It was bad. The roads were so hot and dry that they had become inches of fine dust. In some parts, the paths were about eight inches deep – quicksand. Not good. We knew that if we hung off the main paths near the bush or balanced in between the tire tracks we would be okay. Dirt biking with a Valkyrie. Fun. Well, I was up for anything. I told Robin I would follow her since her bike would be easier to dig out. We hopped back on our precariously packed bikes and rode like motor-cross champs.

At the far end of the field, I saw the large white tarps of the Church of Mezz. We rode through the trees and right beside a small orange tent. We both parked our bikes. Neither one of us could ride any further. I guess this was where we would camp. To our surprise, from out of the small orange tent, out poked the head of my Kitty Kat. Wow! Out of thousands of campers and we pulled up right beside her.

The festival was amazing. Dancing till dawn, sucking on red balloons full of nitrous, cart wheeling down the road to wonderful groove of hand drums, jumping on trampolines, lounging in the red cushioned camp of Camp Fallopian, lying in the middle of a cow field watching the moon rise while the sun set and then watching the moon set as the sun rose, bathing in cow troughs, dancing high in the hills to Drum & Bass and then moving over the next hill and dancing to Trance, giggling our heads off in the field staring at the stars, making new friends. It was heaven. We were both out in nature with open-minded, artistic spirits and dancing, participating and sharing. Robin had never been to a festival like this and she was accepted with open arms. Everyone referred to us as Rogue & Fireweed, the motorcycle girls. By day three, it was time to go. The water had run out, and we needed a bath. We were sad to go but it was time. Magic and more magic was waiting for us out there.

We rode aggressively, another 800 km and ended up down in Southern Oregon. We both showered and crashed hard in a cheap motel. The ride down had been amazing. I love riding through upper desert. You can haul ass and the expanse around you is breathtaking with the vast skyline, fields full of sage and the orange glow of high desert country. Beautiful, plus you can see for miles and miles. In regard to wildlife, this was much safer way to fly.

In the morning we hit the road turning off towards Crater Lake. The weather was turning grim. The clouds were looming by the mountains and the desert sky was full of black rain clouds. We laid low by the side of the road. Watching a groovy wind thing happen in a field. It looked like a small tornado. The weather system didn’t seem to passing us, so after a couple of hours we got back on our bikes. Well, we must have ridden right into the heart of the storm. Suddenly, the day sky turned black and the rain pounded down on us. And the Ents? Even they were asking, “What’s going on?”

Robin and I slowed right down and rode side by side. People could see us better. We rode through the Crater Lake area and over the mountains into the Rogue River valley. I wanted to stop and photograph Robin next to a Rogue River sign since it was her nickname but the weather was brutal. The lightning and thunder really started to get scary. Every now and again, we would look over at each other and burst into laughter. What else was there to do? This was really ridiculous. The magic was not here and we were definitely pushing our luck. We both knew, without a doubt, that it was time to get off our bikes. Luckily, we were nearing Medford, Oregon – home of my very good riding buddy, Chuck.

By nightfall, two wet bikes and two thrashed, grumpy girls arrived at his doorstep. He took one look at us and laughed out loud. We did too. We looked like drowned rats, we knew it and even better we didn’t care.

The next day the sun peaked it’s head between ominous looking clouds. We were heading to the coast along 299 and through some beautiful back roads off of it. This was Chuck’s turf. His white beard and his big old black Harley led the parade.

Unfortunately, along the way, Chuck’s back brake cable snapped. He decided to head back to Medford and quickly replace the part and meet us in the neighbouring town of Cave Junction. I loved this town, so I was excited to hang out there. Along the way, Robin and I grooved through the windy roads of the southern Oregon mountain range. Pear trees lined the roads and quaint little mountain farms speckled the area. Within about ten minutes of our bliss, the rains hit along with serious thunder and lightning. Not again!

Robin & I could see the storm was moving West and we also knew we could out run it on our bikes. Riding like road demons, we managed to lose the beast. I noticed along the way a golden field tucked along the road. It was perfect. I had been looking for this field to photograph Robin in for a while. One of the things about being a photographer is you always have your dream shot list but you don’t always have all the right factors to make the shot perfect. Well, here I had it. My good friend, her bike and a beautiful golden field. Robin was such a good sport. She always ended up in a shot and never once gave me shit. Within ten minutes of this impromptu shoot, the storm reached us again and pounded down on us with vengeful fury. I could feel the electricity in the air. The thunder rumbled and behind Robin’s head, the lightning flashed like crazy. And of course, me with my must-get-the-perfect-shot mentality, I thought how cool it would be if we could get a shot with the lightning in the background just behind Robin’s head. So, imagine this. Me on a fence post, balancing precariously with my old manual METAL-that-conducts-electricity camera, Robin in a field with all her gear on, arms stretched out reaching for the sky and the lightning flashing in the background. It wasn’t just in the background it was literally on top of us. The electrical current was making the hairs of my arm stand on end…we decided we better not push our luck. Even Ben Franklin was shaking his head. The rain was coming down in buckets and my camera and I were soaked. I just prayed that one of the shots worked out!

We flew down the mountain road toward Cave Junction, the storm booming above. Suddenly, all hell broke loose. Smash! Crack! Insanely loud cracking - a tree to our right had been hit by lightning. This hundred foot tree burst into flames and was spreading across the dry field towards a farm! Oh my god. So, what do two girls on METAL motorcycles in the MIDDLE of an ELECTRICAL storm do? We stop and take photographs. Yes, sorry Mom. We were both in shock and just jamming with endorphins. It was amazing! Just as we started to dial 911, I noticed the farmer was already on the fire and that made me feel relieved. The ground was really shaking and I figured we were again starting to push our luck. The Ents would not be happy with us.

We arrived in Cave Junction. Two girls, two bikes, too wet with too many endorphins. We stopped at a sweet little bistro called the Sage Beetle Winery and met the hostess. We literally fell off our bikes. We were buzzing beyond belief and the nearest person fell victim to our non-stop ramble about the day’s event. We laid out our wet clothes on the outside patio and walked into the café. The hostess was great and set us up with some wine, cheese & crackers. Yes, we needed to mellow out a bit before Chuck arrived. Within ten minutes of our mellow, Chuck arrived on his Harley setting off a couple of car alarms in the process. I guess we had been out in the field a lot longer than we had thought. Ah, well. We gushed our story to Chuck and he in turn told us how he had rescued a stranded biker by bringing her gas for her bike. It was only noon and already the day was shaping up to be more than eventful.

Deep breath.

We continued along the 299 and sneaked on south down a dirt road through the Redwoods and into Northern California. The Redwoods – wow. This is where our friends, the Ents lived. Robin and I - like true B.C. tree huggers - laid a big fat bear hug on a few of these beauties.

The next leg of our trip would be the Oregon coast and we had less than four days to complete it. That was perfect. It meant we could just wander at a snails pace. Or not! Riding with Chuck was never mellow. He rides hard. So, do Robin and I but with Chuck it was really a race. We stopped often, so the riding day was zoom, zoom, stop, zoom, stop, zoom, zoom, stop and it just continued. Unfortunately, somewhere south of (name of town?) I was given a $175.00 US ticket for excessive speeding but because we were in a pack, the rule was we split it three ways. Sigh. This was not in the budget. Robin and I shrugged it off; this was not going to ruin our road trip.

The Oregon Coast is the Oregon Coast. I won’t bore you with long, detailed renditions of the misty coast and the magnificent obsidian rock formations emerging from the white sands, the steep orange cliffs dropping into the green ocean water, or the incredible hospitality of the locals, the great wine, the great food and the salty sea air – at some point the Oregon Coast is just one of those things weall have to do in our lifetime. Chuck was a fabulous host and before we knew it, we were at the Northern tip of Oregon heading East towards Portland and north again to Canada. Sigh.

Chuck said his good-byes with acracking voice. The three of us had really grooved together and we were very sad to part company. As we watched Chuck blast down the road, blowing us a kiss with a growl from the engine, I think the reality of the end of our journey was upon us. Big sigh.

I didn’t even say good-bye to Robin. She left me first thing in the morning. I was sleeping with my toque over my eyes in my sleeping bag. She just kissed my cheek, packed her bike and was gone before 6 a.m. By now, Robin was a professional at packing her bike. She had it down from one hour to ten minutes. I was very proud of her. Bigger sigh.

I woke up that morning feeling a bit sick to my stomach. It was time to ride home. Go Home. Get back to reality. But what was reality? This was about as real as it got. Mother Nature was real. The Ents were real and they watched over us. They showed us their magic. I was glad Robin was having time to herself on the last leg of the journey and thankful she had given this gift to me, as well. We both needed space to carry our magic home.

I touched my cheek, smiled and starting packing my bike. This time I took an hour to pack it.