My bike had been packed the previous day, my auspicious exit was, as usual, less than timely. I believe I finally rode out of my “valley of the gods” neighborhood at 1PM riding over Carson Pass to Monitor Pass by way of some fun little Sierra foothill roads. The passes were cold, and I was glad to be sporting my heated gear. There was little snow along the roadsides but the elevation thinned and chilled the air. I made a quick coffee stop in Markleeville and visited with some other riders returning from Laughlin, NV. They were at the tail end of a 5 day trip and were celebrating with beer pints knowing they still had miles to ride to get to the Grass Valley area. I am simply amazed why anyone would desire an altered state riding pillion with them. I bid them a dubious safe journey and eagerly took to Monitor Pass in the opposite direction.

Ahhhh, what an amazing ride!! The sun wrapped me in caressing golden beams that warmed my face while the twisty descending roadway sought my continued attention. I traversed the hillside, wrapped in my Gerbing and celebrating a moment when all my riding skills seemed in sync. Upon reaching the valley floor I grinned ear to ear within the private confines of my helmet, feeling stellar.

I paused turning off my heated gear then continued the ride over to Nevada to check on my aging father, resetting his phones, doing a bit of paperwork, checking his well being as he resettled into his spring home from his winter retreat. He is larger that life, a character from the core whose glow is beginning to dim as he approaches his mid 80s. He decided several years ago to make Yerington, NV his home, a decision I question each time I visit.

Yerington, NV is a sad, quiet windswept little town. Where other towns continue to grow and prosper, Yerington is like an hourglass whose sand is thinning to the last few grains. The inhabitants are seen in droves on the Wednesday bowling night in the local casino-bowling alley-theater but the rest of the time are like absent shadows from the worn streets. As I walk near my father’s home, I hear only barking dogs, large and small, no other sounds emerge.

Neighborhoods with retirees boast green lawns, trimmed bushes, and glowing homes in stark contrast to deserted run down shacks peaking cautiously from embarrassed dirt yards. There is an overall feeling of desperation here, of onion pickers, displaced families and mental health drop outs. A neighbor of my orderly retired father, explained the town as a place of fleeting meth labs and alcoholics sprinkled with fixed income retirees and hard working immigrants. Looking around, I accept this without question.

I do question why anyone would want to be here. I asked my father carefully, as not to berate or rile him, seeking a reason he choose this spot to retire. With a wink and a grin he told me that this was the last place one goes before heading to the grave. I mulled that over but after spending some days here, I can’t provide any sane reason that would make one call this place home.

I have done what I can to help my father whose age and WW2 campaigns have left him tired and battle weary. Every day reality veiled with another layer of what if and what may have been, quietly recedes into yesterday. I sort through his memories like old photographs no longer able to distinguish the fading images in the snapshots or fact from fiction in the conversation. He will always loom large in my mind, but I can’t wait to get back on the road to anywhere else.

Up early on Monday morning, five days after arriving at my father’s, I pack my bike. The plan is to do Dad’s banking as soon as it opens and then get on the road. The wind has laid down from the day’s prior 60mph gusts. The sky is still sporting a cloud cover but the air is muggy like a thunderstorm in the making. The Sierra mountain range looks intense.