Introduction
In the spring of 2025, stirred by a restlessness that only the open road can cure, I set out upon a modest yet richly imagined expedition through the western Sierra Nevada. Over three days, I sought not conquest nor acclaim, but the simple, exquisite pleasures of a winding road, a faithful machine, and the unspoken fellowship of mountains that have witnessed the folly and triumph of countless travellers before me. What follows is the chronicle of that journey: a tale of mist and sunlight, solitude and unexpected company, mechanical quirks and sublime scenery—woven together in the only way a proper adventure can be—by accident, instinct, and a touch of wild fortune.
Friday, April 11th, 2025
There is a peculiar sort of virtue in departing at an uncivilised hour. At 5:30 in the morning, the world is neither asleep nor awake, but floating somewhere in the dreamscape between ambition and regret. I left my house with the theatricality of a man escaping dull society for nobler altitudes, my motorcycle humming like a caffeinated butler ready to ferry me away from the obligations of Friday.
The plan—such as it was, for I loathe plans that involve excessive structure—was to ascend the western slopes of the Sierra Nevada. I have long flirted with the eastern side, where the mountains rise like gothic spires in a tale by Poe: abrupt, dramatic, and utterly unapproachable. But the west! Ah, the west is gentler in its seductions. It unfurls its roads like ribbons on a birthday gift, each curve a promise, each incline a tease.
I packed light. Or so I swore to myself. Two modest bags—a 50-litre and a 20-litre—whose interiors, despite my Spartan intentions, soon resembled the bric-a-brac drawer of a Victorian solicitor: cluttered, curious, and entirely overstuffed. I brought no new garments, only the tried and tested ensemble from my Spanish escapade: my short Daytona boots and Rukka riding gear, both weathered by Iberian rain and reluctant tapas-fueled meandering.
The bike, bless her cold mechanical heart, purred to life with a dignity that belied her recent surgeries. No more the clack and whine of dying chains. No more wires flailing like drunken vines. She was, for once, a lady.
By 8:30 the air hung cool and petulant, like a London dowager disapproving of one’s hat. The sky threatened rain but did not commit. I filled the tank and joined Interstate 5, that grey artery of Northern aspiration, and began the long upward sweep toward whatever delights or indignities the mountains would provide.
The traffic, surprisingly, offered little resistance—until it didn’t. Just past Burbank, progress slowed to the pace of continental drift. There, in full theatrical stasis, were two vehicles locked in a tableau of post-collision melodrama. One gentleman leaned into the other’s window, not with fists but words, as though a soliloquy might reverse the laws of physics and mend a bumper.
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| On the shore of Lake Isabella |
Then Bakersfield: a city suspended between oilfields and nostalgia, where natural history museums masquerade as places of leisure and orange groves announce the arrival of the Central Valley’s sweet vulgarity. I turned east onto Highway 178, and like a secret passage in a Brontë novel, the land fell away into a canyon. No grand preamble, just an elegant collapse of topography into grandeur.
Twenty miles of coiled river road later, I arrived at Lake Isabella—a place where the wind lost its venom and the sun warmed the bones like a memory of summer.
Lunch was taken in quiet reverie and strategic recalibration. My grand northern arc was abandoned; too long, too late, and—most damning—too exhausting. I chose instead the 155, a road whose name suggests tedium but whose soul proved otherwise.
Oh, Highway 155! A serpentine marvel. A twist of ribbon flung by a god with a fondness for alpine ballet. Ascending rapidly, I found myself in dripping pine forests where rain had composed symphonies on leaves and rocks had scattered across the tarmac like exclamation points of caution. Fog sashayed across the asphalt, seductive and treacherous. I slowed not for fear, but out of respect.
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| Watching the fog on Greenhorn Summit |
Eventually, I returned to the flatlands, where orange trees stood swaddled like infants and the air smelled as if the gods had juiced the sun. Insects joined the chorus, bees and beetles of considerable size and questionable manners. This time, wiser from Iberian experience, I kept the visor down and the poetry internal.
At last, Porterville. Gas. A misadventure with a road closure. A cattle ranch that seemed a set piece from a John Ford film. And finally, the town of Tulare—my sanctuary for the night.
I arrived at 4:15, tired but whole. The day had been long, the road theatrical, and the weather a fickle co-star. Tomorrow would bring new elevations, new solitudes, and, with luck, fewer bees.
Saturday, April 12th, 2025
I awoke at the hour of six, that indecent hour beloved only by farmers and penitents, and promptly submitted myself to the rituals of hygiene and preparation. My belongings, which had somehow multiplied overnight like rabbits in a moonlit glade, were coaxed, folded, and compressed into the same stubborn bags as the day before. By seven I descended to breakfast—a largely uninspiring affair enlivened only by the mild surprise that the eggs were recognisably egg-like.
Returning to my room, I resumed packing and attended to my motorcycle with the reverence of a monk tending to a relic. The sun had already ascended with a cheerful indifference to my plans, and the temperature sat agreeably at 54 degrees. The air was dry, the bike was dry, and—most notably—the cover was free of dew, which felt like a small and undeserved triumph.
I departed at 7:45, placing my trust once again in the capricious oracle that is GPS. My intention was clear and noble: ascend by the southern route to Kings Canyon via Highway 198, then descend by the northern Highway 245 to the unglamorous sanctuary of Selma. The orange groves offered up their scent like an offering to some ancient citrus deity, and for a while the world was nothing but perfume and motion.
Fifty-four miles of orchard-draped flatlands passed before the mountains erupted from the earth with theatrical abruptness—as if they’d simply tired of hiding. The road twisted, flirted, and finally committed to the climb. The higher I went, the hazier the view grew—like a dream one forgets upon waking, picturesque yet maddeningly unphotographable.
At 5,000 feet I reached a Ranger station and realised, with the sudden horror known only to the forgetful and the bureaucratically entangled, that I had left my senior park pass at home. I had removed it before going to Spain—presumably for safekeeping, which is to say I’d hidden it from myself with particular success. The prospect of paying $35 for what ought to be my birthright filled me with a quiet despair. I rifled through my wallet with a gambler’s hope, searched the website for mercy, and found none. “The physical card is required,” it said, with the cold finality of a tombstone.
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| Visiting General Grant in Kings Canyon |
As I approached the gate, I rehearsed my confession, ready to pay, to weep, or to beg. But the young ranger, radiant with the unblemished joy of the under-30s, beamed and declared, “It’s a free day!” I stared at her, unsure whether I had heard divine proclamation or a prank. “What?” I repeated, like a man risen from the grave. “It’s a free day,” she chimed again, with the kind of cheerfulness that would’ve gotten her exiled in Victorian London. I praised every god I could remember and drove through the gates like Napoleon into Italy.
I stopped to don an extra layer. Having defiantly left the electric gear at home, I now relied on three layers of fabric and the smug warmth of heated grips, which are to motorcycle travel what sarcasm is to conversation: not essential, but delightful.
A short ride later, I arrived at the General Grant Tree. I dismounted, walked among the ancient titans, and posed my smallness against their grandeur. The air was thin, the light soft, and the reverence involuntary. I snapped a few photographs to prove to future dinner guests that I had indeed communed with giants.
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| End of the Road in Kings Canyon |
On the ride back, snowbanks began to appear, lounging along the roadside like pale and disinterested aristocrats. The air was crisp, not cold, and I took comfort in the occasional blast of sunshine and the solitude of altitude. Kings Canyon in early spring is a thing of beauty: deserted, majestic, and just inaccessible enough to be alluring.
I stopped again at the General Grant Village, peeked into the gift shop (which was stuffed with people and mediocrity), and then found solace in the visitor center. There, I watched a film which, rather unexpectedly, turned out to be quite good. Informative, even. I discovered that my prior visit had missed the more dramatic parts of the canyon entirely, which was humbling and oddly thrilling. It’s always refreshing to find out one was wrong when the scenery is this grand.
Lunch was a recycled slice of hotel pizza and a bruised apple, both consumed with the desperation of a man who has been betrayed by his own forward planning.
It was around this time that my GPS—whose performance on this trip has hovered somewhere between mischievous and malevolent—decided to plot a whimsical detour down a road called Dunlap. It sounded charming, so I obeyed. Fifteen minutes later, the GPS shouted, with all the grace of a drunk in a cathedral, “Make a U-turn!” I paused, examined the road, and concluded that Dunlap had potential, but the machine had lost its nerve.
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| Snow along the road at Three Rivers |
I turned back, now thirty minutes older and no wiser.
Back at General Grant, I recalculated. I’d go south via Highway 245 through Sequoia National Forest. It was longer, yes—but uncharted territory, and I’m partial to novelty. For the next forty-five minutes, I rode through splendid emptiness. Not a motorcycle in sight. The cold had frightened them away, I suspect, leaving me alone with the trees, the road, and my own elevated sense of adventure.
But then—chaos. At Morro Rock, humanity returned with a vengeance. A torrent of cars, a sea of pedestrians. I waited at a crosswalk while what seemed like the entire graduating class of Fresno meandered across, oblivious to time, space, and internal combustion. From that moment on, I was swimming downstream, dodging SUV after SUV, my solitude shattered by weekenders and their unmistakable scent of granola bars and entitlement.
The traffic thickened, the snow deepened, and I began my descent. Hairpins twisted like the plot of a French novel, and I danced my way down at a pace both cautious and smug. At 3,000 feet I shed a heavy layer—it was now 60 degrees and the sun had returned, casting its approval upon my survival.
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| The Ride Down the Mountain |
By 3:30, I arrived at my hotel. It was 78 degrees—an outrageous number compared to the 30s I’d endured hours before. I checked in, parked the bike, and changed from adventurer to guest in under five minutes.
Despite the GPS treachery, the pedestrian apocalypse, and the pizza that bordered on tragic, it was a marvellous day. I would do it again, without hesitation, though next time I shall bring my senior pass, a map, and perhaps a monocle—if only to raise it disdainfully at the next swarm of weekenders.
Sunday, April 13th, 2025
I woke with a start at precisely 5:45 a.m.—an hour of such ambiguity that neither night nor day claims it with any enthusiasm. My intent, so nobly conceived the evening before, had been to rise at five, greet the dawn with a yawn, and descend like a gentleman adventurer to breakfast by six. Instead, I bolted upright with that particular brand of panic known only to those who believe they’ve missed an appointment with destiny—or in this case, with scrambled eggs.
I hastily threw on my garments, arranged my hair with a flick best described as ceremonial, and arrived at the breakfast room at precisely six, where I was greeted by the rarest of spectacles: an entire buffet, entirely mine. The eggs lay pristine, the sausages golden and indifferent, the granola virginal and unmolested. I claimed a grand table at the centre of the room, as any true monarch of breakfast would.
But monarchy is fleeting. No sooner had I loaded my plate than the hordes arrived. First a trickle—then a deluge. Baby strollers rolled in like siege engines. Couples in cargo shorts swarmed the periphery. And sensing the imminent fall of my breakfast empire, I retreated with dignity to a quieter outpost behind the front doors, where I might finish my granola without interruption or accidental conversation.
My solitude was not to last. Just as I lifted the final forkful to my lips, a woman appeared, flushed and determined, pointing at the seat across from mine and asking if she might join. I replied with all the grace I could muster under attack: “You may have the table. I am done.” With that, I vanished—fork down, napkin abandoned, dignity intact.
I returned to my suite—the last door on the right, as fate would have it—and packed with the urgency of a man pursued by time itself. Down at the bike, I unveiled her from her nylon cocoon, checked the front tyre (which had the temperament of an old aristocrat: slow to deflate, slower to hold its dignity), and was forced to retrieve my electric pump—an act I equate with admitting one has forgotten the name of a dinner guest.
I did not, I must admit, check the oil. This oversight would later result in an unscheduled interlude at a gas station, but no journey is truly complete without some small act of forgetfulness to humble the soul.
By 7:00, I was on the road.
The morning air was cool, brisk, and obligingly silent. I layered wisely, wearing a sweater beneath my Rukka jacket, and set out with my GPS behaving—for once—like a dutiful if slightly sulky valet.
I pointed my machine southward toward Bakersfield. The road was gracious, the traffic light. The sky itself seemed to approve of my journey. I debated the eternal question—whether to avoid Los Angeles entirely, as one avoids a tiresome relative, or to plunge through it boldly while the city still slumbered.
By Bakersfield, clarity had arrived: it was Sunday morning, the traffic was tame, and the Grapevine beckoned like a siren with unusually good road conditions.
And so I ascended the Grapevine.
Unlike my prior encounter—when fog, wind, and existential dread had dogged every mile—this passage was exquisite. The sun bathed the hills in gold, the wind slept, and I passed through that oft-maligned corridor with the grace of a swan and the smugness of a motorcyclist who has triumphed over meteorology.
It was during this glorious stride that I encountered a strange and theatrical moment: a man on a Harley, wearing a black jacket, pulled up beside me—in my lane, at my speed. He said nothing. He did not even glance my way. Before I could consider this a crime against decorum, a thunderous pack of riders surged by in the left lane, fast, fluid, and frighteningly organized. I realized, with awe, that this silent spectre beside me was a sentinel, guarding the flank of a regiment. The final rider waved in solemn acknowledgement. On their backs: the emblem of the Mongols Motorcycle Club.
Say what you will about outlaw aesthetics, but their choreography was worthy of Covent Garden.
And then: Los Angeles. Remarkably, I entered it without fanfare or gridlock, slipping through its arteries like a whispered rumour. But the City of Angels never fails to provide spectacle. In Norwalk, I was passed by a pickup truck bearing what could only be described as a taxidermy bull wrapped in plastic. The horns glistened. The eyes judged. And, most disturbingly, the beast appeared to be staring downward at me as I passed by. I rode on, beneath its gaze, feeling peculiarly mortal.
The commuter lane soon opened, a ribbon of promise, and I sailed through the final stretch like Caesar returning from Gaul. I arrived home at 11:15 a.m.—a time so civilized it scarcely felt appropriate for a man returning from a high-altitude conquest.
And so the day ended: unpacked, unbroken, and with the peculiar sensation that I had both escaped and returned to the world. I took a long walk. I breathed. I smiled. For a journey of three days, it had held the joy of a fortnight.
Conclusion
As all grand journeys must, mine too found its gentle end—not with the clang of triumph, but with the quiet satisfaction of a spirit well-travelled. In the span of three fleeting days, I traced the ridges and valleys of the Sierra Nevada, conversed with fog and sun, tangled briefly with humanity, and discovered that solitude, when tempered by the thrum of an engine and the scent of distant pines, is a balm the modern world cannot counterfeit.
There were detours and wrong turns, tires that sighed their defiance, and a GPS that fancied itself a trickster god—but there was also the unfiltered joy of high mountain air, the solemn beauty of ancient trees, and the ever-changing theatre of the open road.
I returned home not quite changed, but certainly rearranged: my thoughts quieter, my heart lighter, and my respect for both journey and machine greatly enlarged.
Travel, after all, is less a matter of reaching destinations than of gathering fragments of wonder along the way—and in that, this modest expedition was nothing less than a triumph.
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