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FALL 2018 ISSUE 02 / VOL . 03
The open fields that flank the access road to the North Rim is “ where the buffalo roam .”
The ST1300 is a fleet and brawny traveler , but in the shadows of the Northwest ’ s mightiest peaks , it ’ s just an interesting prop .
Tahoma and head east on the Ducati in fog as thick and black as gearbox oil . Somehow , every day , on the same spot , climbing the same hill , just when I was convinced the sun would never shine again , Rainier would burst through the clouds , a golden stairway to heaven . I ’ m headed south this morning through unknown farm towns that could be in rural Illinois or Ohio — or I was , as least , until a construction detour spit me into the Seattle / Redmond / Bellevue morning rush hour . Maybe Interstate 90 is an escape ? Perhaps another platinum view of the great one ? The interstate is scenic and swoopy , and it ’ s ever-so-easy to forget it has a speed limit . By Snoqualmie Pass I ’ ve racked up 40 fast miles , and it ’ s clear there ’ ll be no Rainier sightings . No big deal . I exit and explore a teeny flume of a forest road through the firs to the South Fork of the Snoqualmie River . Descending the curves , I watch the ST ’ s “ outside ” thermometer climb 12 degrees .
In Enumclaw , when I stop for gas , nothing looks even vaguely familiar . Has the memory faded or simply been “ malled ” by the dozers of economic growth ? A little saddened , I finish fueling and prepare to ride out of town when suddenly , through the gasoline vapors , wafts the sweet smell of memories I never knew I had . I look up and see the passing logging truck , loaded down with