It happens that there is an even grander tour, longer, more scenic, includes much of the "Grand tour", and is far less traveled. Read along and I will tell of it. Oh, and grab a map of Washington.

This trip begins in Bellevue, Washington. The time is 8:00am, and the mid-August weather is cooperating with mild temperatures and no clouds. Traveling north on I-405 through Redmond, Kirkland, I head northeast on Highway 522 at Woodenville. Redmond is widely known as the home town of Microsoft - the renowned makers of billionaires. Woodenville is a formerly quiet, formerly little town that got big fast without spending a lot of money on infrastructure such as streets. It is also home to a couple of very nice wineries (St. Michele and Columbia) and Red Hook beer. The brewery has a nice patio bar and restaurant and some nice brews whose born-on date is frequently the same as the day you are there. Did I mention live music? A dinner train runs daily between Renton, 25 miles south, and the Columbia Winery where travelers disembark to take strolls and tours through the winemaking facilities. Very cool.

Highway 522 meets US 2 at Monroe, WA. The route passes over glacial til and second-growth forests in a sparsely populated corner of Puget Sound. Monroe is known for, well, damn little. It has an annual fair, a large prison, and, well, damn little else. Once on US 2 the road narrows to two lanes, winding toward Stevens Pass along the Skykomish river. A railroad line parallels the highway for much of the trip but finally disappears into a hole in the world that is the longest rail tunnel on (in) the planet. Small towns dot the landscape: Sultan, Startup, Gold Bar, Index, Grotto, Banng, Skykomish, and Scenic. Some are no bigger than a memory, others look like they are developing new life. These are remnants of logging, mining, and rail development that marked the early days of the state's existence.

The Skykomish river is heavily populated with bald eagles, salmon, and steel head. Deer abound as do Winnebago motor homes and SUV enthusiasts. During the late summer months the river is a wide, gravelly sluice, gently grinding down the slopes of the surrounding mountains. It is a great rafting river if you plan for the cold water. It is clear as a fresh spring dawn and bounces along, sometimes gently, sometimes with frothy riffles. During the spring thaw it is a killer of all things careless.

The altitude along the highway rises slowly for much of the trip but ascends rapidly as one nears the pass. Today it is cloudy in the immediate area of the 4,061 ft. pass and the chill is biting. Happily, the road is lightly traveled and there is little competition for asphalt. In winter months the area is bulging with skiers, snow boarders, and inner-tubers who flock here to take advantage of one of the best winters sports areas in the state. Summer months find backpackers, kite flyers, picnic parties, as well as hardy mountain bikers rambling over the same acreage as the wintertime skiers.

Cresting the pass, the road descends out of the clouds down a sharp valley. Looking around one can see avalanche chutes and exposed rock where the harsh winters continually chip chip chip away. The treeline is still a ways to go and so the vistas are fantastic. The view from the seat of a Harley is unmatched. In the fall the aspens and elms provide an artist's pallet of ambers, reds, yellows, and greens. In the winter, snow mantles the trees and mountains, softening the stark, craggy summer scenery while providing endless miles of skiing, snowshoeing, and telemarking. Spring brings a panoply of floral bouquets, splashing colors and shapes across the landscape. If you are a bee, life is good.

Again, infrequent small towns hug the hillsides. The eastern side of the pass is a popular area for rock climbing, as well as hiking. Unlike the western slopes, the forest here lacks much of the heavy rain-fed understory. Walking along a trail here presents a long viewing range and a heightened sense of being in woods. There are numerous camp grounds and trail heads for every level of visitor from day picnicking to overnight backpackers. The road twists gently and there are few intersections to distract from the sightseeing. Caution is advised, however, along this entire route to be wary of deer. They browse the roadsides where sunlit grasses are plentiful, and will dart God knows where when startled.

Chasing along the Wenatchee river toward Leavenworth, the air warms and it is time to doff the leathers and get comfortable. Leavenworth offers a good opportunity to do so. This is a cute town. Years ago, when times were hard and money short, the city fathers (and mothers) decided to rework the look of the place and chose a European alpine village theme. Today you see Tudor structures, wide boulevards, sunken beer gardens, great restaurants, and gents walking about in lederhosen and jauntily cocked feathered hats. Oompah bands, squeeze boxes, and folk dancing round out the atmosphere. During Oktoberfest this place is a hoot. Polka music, beer, and clear fall weather, painted against a tapestry of autumn foliage, give this place a mystical quality. If life gets better than this, send a picture.

Leaving east out of Leavenworth one quickly arrives in apple country. Washington is without question the apple capitol of the world. The valley widens here and conifers and aspens give way to Golden Delicious, Winesaps, Jonathans, Grannies, and more. The Wenatchee river joins the Columbia river downstream a few miles in the town of Wenatchee. Along both rivers, for as many miles as you care to follow, the hills are alive with apples, apricots, and cherries. A word of caution about this. In the spring time, hives are brought in and set up by the thousands in this area. If you are sensitive to bee stings, stay away. In any event, plan on getting at least a few bees in your helmet, up your sleeves, and any other place you can imagine. Also, don't even poach the fruit. These hard working folks are not at all shy about this point.

The road becomes a multilane divided highway when it picks up state highway 97, more commonly known as Blewett Pass, but correctly known as Swauk pass. The road over Blewett Pass, for years the only way to travel north/south over the Wenatchee mountains, was closed long ago, but the name stuck. The old pass is now a fantastic area for off-roading, snow machines, mountain bikes, and hiking. There is much wildlife here including elk, bear, deer, mountain sheep, and raptors of all kinds. The hills have a tendency to burn frequently and so one should take special care with camp fires and smoking materials.

The town of Wenatchee is snagged on the confluence of the Columbia river and the Wenatchee river. The area is a broad grassy valley that is filling with people and structures. It is the largest city for miles in any direction and the hub of commerce for the eastern Columbia basin. Following US 2 north along the Columbia river one quickly becomes consumed by a wide gorge cut into lava flows hundreds of feet thick. Dams along the river have stilled the waters into a placid string of lakes. The highway follows along the base of a loose rocky gash and falling debris is a real hazard. On the water are jet skiis, fishing boats, kayaks, and party boats. Water fowl fatten here the year round. It is common to see large deer stroll across the highway looking for fallen fruit but willing to pick their own as needed.

If you are not paying attention you will miss the turn at Orondo, a figment of a town that is at the base of a high lava flow. Eons ago the earth opened up along much of the eastern part of Washington, Oregon, and California, and lava flowed in thin sheets across the land. A quick look around tells you that this happened time and time again as there is flow upon flow in this area. US 2 winds up a narrow cut to the top of the flow and the elevation increases quickly. Once on top you are on a very wide treeless plain. Welcome to wheat country. A quick look at the maps will, by the uncurving roads, lead you to conclude this is a flat area, and it is.

The geography is far from boring, however. Some of the most devastating natural events on the planet have occurred in this area. Sheets of glacial ice, thousands of feet thick, have gouged and ground their way through here. A prehistoric lake, larger than any lake on earth, existed in the northwestern states of Washington, Idaho, Montana, and Utah. The Great Salt Lake is a remnant of that time. In a great cataclysm, water held back by ice dams broke free and drained the lake in just a matter of days. This water flowed out across eastern Washington, gouging, swirling, and ripping away at the very bedrock of the state. Where US 2 meets Highway 17 is a place called Dry Falls where today you can see that thunderous cataracts pushed boulders the size of factories around like corks, where the rock was bashed and chaffed and the land was cut and slashed until the water finally fell quiet. What is left behind is a dramatic dry river bed, including a water fall, dry for centuries, and potholes ground out by rocks swirling like millstones trapped in eddies of uncommon power and force. Take the time to visit these places - and bring a camera.

This area is on a major waterfowl flyway and in the late fall the bird hunting is unbelievable. To the south, Billy Clapp lake is alive with Lesser Canadian honkers, brant, ducks of all manner, and the surrounding wheat fields provide a rich grain source and cover. Mountain grouse and pheasant are also found here in good numbers.

Staying on US 2 you cross a dam which holds back Banks Lake. The other end of the lake joins the Columbia river which is backed up by Grand Coulee Dam, one of the unnatural wonders of the world. Gas is available at Coulee City and again at Wilbur some miles to the east. Wide grassy plains are the makeup of the area here and there is solitude in abundance as there is little traffic. Highway 21 joins US 2 at Wilbur and with the sun at my back, I head toward the Colville Indian Reservation. The road is well maintained, having been paved recently, and follows the lay of the land which happens to be descending into the Columbia gorge for much of the trip. The last 3 or so miles are 15-20 m.p.h. switchbacks which drop you quickly down to the river at Keller's Ferry. There is no bridge here - you take a small 8-car ferry for about 20 minutes across the river. This is a beautiful area surrounded again by layers of lava and sprinkled with clean sandy beaches. There is a camping area on the south side (full sign was out) and the water was alive with sailboards, jet skiis, fishing boats and water skiers. The ferryboat ride was smooth and I had no fear my Fat Boy was going to fall off the stand though I did straddle it during the docking maneuvers.

Highway 21 continues north across the Colville nation to the town of Republic. On a map with poor scale it looks like a straight line. Hardly. The road follows faithfully the quiet Sanpoil River as it meanders through some of the most beautiful country I have been in. These are old, round-shouldered lava flows which tower over the Sanpoil. There is clear evidence of glacial wear, but these old hills are here to stay. Long after Seattle has been ground to silt, these mountains will still guide the quiet river toward the Columbia. There is well-wooded forest, meadows, and the ever present hills, and the occasional orphaned boulder, tossed aside by ice sheets as though moving house-sized rock were time idly spent. Droppings along side the road serve as reminders that this is range cattle country, and deer are everywhere so one must stay alert even as one is enjoying the remarkable scenery.

It happens that the quiet Sanpoil is not always quiet. About 10 miles south of Republic it has washed out the road in a couple of hundred-yard stretches and road crews are working to put things right again. One section that was being prepped for paving was loose, rutted, heavy gravel, and me and the Harley nearly parted company. In my desert riding days I would have simply stood up on the pegs and grabbed a handful of throttle but the H-D floorboards are too far forward, I am too old, and I wasn't paying proper attention, anyway (I know, read the FAQ!). I got through this OK and continued to Republic without any further episodes, though there were a couple more washouts along the way.

Republic is one of those towns that make you ask "Why is this town here?" It appears to be yet another remnant of logging and mining, but doesn't seem in any hurry to do anything, including going away. It has a proper ratio of bars to gas stations, good eating spots, a race track south of town that causes the hillsides to rumble with the sound of open exhaust V8 engines, and an interesting fossil site right in town. My wife joined me there as an extension of her visit with her parents in Oroville, 50 miles off to the west. We headed north of town to Curlew Lake which is a long finger of water nestled in an even longer valley. This is a beautiful lake, has great fishing and boating, still allows jet skiis, and is largely undisturbed by the presence of the few homes around the shoreline. We found a large well-maintained campground where we pitched our tent and set up camp.

It was late afternoon, there was still plenty of light, it was comfortably warm so we took several walks around the area. I bumped into a couple who were launching their boat which is one I recognized as having passed way back at Orondo and which I saw again when I pulled behind it on the ferry earlier. Small world. Needless to say, I wish I had come prepared to do some fishing as they were coming in fat and frequent for those who were drowning worms. We drove into town and picked up a bottle of wine and some supplies and settled back into our lawn chairs and watched the bats turn somersaults overhead in the darkening sky. Several other campers built campfires and so with our radio quietly playing Simon and Garfunkle, the smell of fresh politically incorrect camp smoke, the bottle of wine and each other we enjoyed the balance of the evening outdoors before turning in. I must take pride in observing that my turquoise '94 Fat Boy caught many an envious eye while we were camped there.

We had pitched the tent in a horseshoe shaped basin about 30 yards wide, a couple hundred yards long, and about 50 feet deep. It was lined on three sides with large conifers and leafy trees and so when the dawn came, it was bright but shady and the tent did not overheat as so often happens when exposed to direct morning sun. We shook the cobwebs out, broke camp, policed the area, and made our way back to Republic for breakfast and coffee. The quality of both were quite good, and the restaurant was peopled with some pretty friendly folk.

We left Republic heading west on Highway 20. Nancy was driving the Dodge pickup ahead of me. She had been over that road the day before and told me there were places where roadwork was going on and that there was a lot of gravel in long stretches as a result. Sure enough, they had graveled the road for miles at a time but had not oiled it so it was pretty slick going particularly in the winding sections. The bike was a bit lighter now as I had my T-bag in the truck so the handling was much improved as was the ride. As skittery as it was, the trip to Tonasket was done without too much problem other than the occasional cager who wanted to pass me in the gravel. I was wearing a full-coverage bonnet so didn't lose any teeth but I did pick up some chipped paint.

The road to Tonasket is high and very dry. Once you leave the immediate area around Republic the landscape takes on a typical high desert look with greasewoods and scruffy, down and out trees. This offers long wide vistas which we don't get much of in the Puget Sound area where 90 foot trees block the view. The temperature was comfortable and the road conditions improved as we headed further west. Tonasket is a very small town on the Okanogon river at the junction of Highway 20 which takes a precipitous plunge down off the lava sheets to join the river. It is also the birthplace of Nancy, my wife. Just a few miles north is Oroville where both her parents live in the home she grew up in, and where her brother and sister-in-law teach in the highschool they all graduated from. Roots are a nice thing.

Nancy's father was a forest fire lookout and lineman for years and years in the area and there are few hilltops and trails that have not come under his boot. He built a lookout shelter in a large tree snag that was later photographed and added to various travel guides and regional information magazines. The family name has been in the Okanogan since the 1800's. Nancy's mother came down from Canada. The family album has an interesting picture of the family from the 1940's where they called a lookout site home and shelter was a massive canvas tent. All they had was of necessity packed in on horseback or carried in backpacks. True pioneer women can still be found.

Turning south on Highway 97 we head to Omak before veering west over the north cascades. Omak is the site of the Omak Stampede and rodeo. Each year young horsemen take up a line over the Okanogon river. At the drop of a flag they all race hell bent for leather up to and over the embankment down a steep sandy slope to the river which the survivors cross at full gallop and charge on to the finish line. It is remarkable and exciting at once in that injuries to horse and rider are few, and the noise, smells, and near-carnage take full command of your senses.

The road from Omak to Twisp is through some old second growth forest. The two-lane road is excellent but heavily-traveled as it is a major east-west route. It joins the Methow River just east of Twisp. Now I am going to say this just once. You pronounce it Met-How. You do not say Meth-ow. Do not call it that around locals. The Met is a (OK, I'm a local, I can call it Met) clear fast river that winds up into the Cascade range where it just disappears. It is joined near its source by the Lost River but if there is a lake up there, it too is lost. At the town of Mazama the road and the river part company. Farther up the road from Twisp is the old west town of Winthrop.

This place looks like a Hollywood set for filming shoot-'em-up westerns. Old clapboard buildings, boardwalks, balconies, and over-arching trees give this town an honest old west look and feel. I have never been here when there were not at least 30 Harley-Davidsons parked or passing through. There are quaint shops, antiques, taverns, and restaurants for all tastes. Hell, you can even get a good cappuccino or latte at the old-west coffee stand. It is easy to spend a lot of time walking around here but it is light on the budget unless you see some gotta-have antique or local craftware that teases away your cash.

Continuing west toward the summit I can see it is clouding up. A watchful eye on the headlights and windshield wipers of oncoming traffic tells me it is wet ahead and it is. This part of the state is nearly as wild and pristine as it was hundreds of years ago. Even wet and cold, it is impossible to not try to take in every sight and smell. Wet forests have a rich earthy fragrance that is unforgettable. The temperature dipped down into the 50's or less and with the damp and windchill it was becoming quite uncomfortable. I had rain gear but didn't want to bother with it though in hindsight I wish I had. It rained off and on all the rest of the way home. I stubbornly pushed on while my wife followed along in the nice, warm, Dodge Ram.

After cresting the last pass you arrive at the damdest place. There is Ross Dam, Diablo Dam and Gorge Dam, which tame Silverhope Creek which is mostly in Canada, and which form Ross Lake and Diablo Lake. These lakes are the headwaters of the Skagit River which follows Highway 20 all the way to the banks of Puget Sound. The road is gorgeous, winding, and fast. You find yourself at times under a canopy of maple and elm and so dark it is like being in a verdant tunnel streaming with lasers of sunlight. Feeder streams crisscross under bridges and dying towns break up the otherwise natural world. At Rockport I leave the highway and head south to Darrington.

The road to Darrington is otherworldly in places. It is damp here. Hell, it is wet, here. The roadbed is raised and deep culverts and marshy patches convince you to keep your mind on your riding. It seems that parts of the road never see sunlight as it is quilted with moss over quite a bit of it. The Sauk River wends its way through here and has been making a mess of things recently. The road is fine but it looks like someone has dragged a world-sized plow through the woods, tearing down trees and turning up boulders and leaving the whole mess strewn over the countryside. At Darrington I decide to take Highway 9 south to Bellevue as I-5 is too often backed up from relentless roadwork. The rain came and went as I traveled west on highway 530 towards Arlington.

Just south of Arlington I came upon a very bad scene. While waiting for a light to change, a car was hit from the rear by a vehicle which failed to see the light was red. The destruction was complete and while it wasn't possible to know the condition of the people involved, it didn't look good at all. Traffic was stopped for about an hour during which time it drizzled continously. Given what I was held up for, I didn't take the time to bemoan my condition. Life provides perspective.

Moving once again, the ride the rest of the way was unremarkable save for the continuing grand scenery and the occasional soggy wave from another biker. The "Grander Tour" was over and except for a bit of rain and the even more chilling carnage on Highway 9, it was a memorable time, rich in experiences, and one more gift to the soul.

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