In Search of a Season
There are four seasons due to the Earth’s tilt which is approximately 23.5 degrees from the perpendicular to its orbital plane. Four seasons, not the restaurant, the one that served New American cuisine in Midtown Manhattan until 2019. I mean the other four, and we are in the midst of what is perhaps my favorite: autumn.
The fancy restaurant, not to be confused with the fancier planetary motion
Say “autumn” and most people think of color. Shorter days tell the deciduous trees it’s time to shut down for winter, the chlorophyll fades, and the show begins. Oh, and the temperatures finally retreat from the intensely hot summer we experience in Central California where we live. There’s also, the World Series (Sorry Tampa Bay), the WNBA (Go Valkes!) football (Ya boy Niners), Halloween and brats (Don’t tell my cardiologist).
So we, Sisyphusdw7 and SMAP (Sisyphus’s Moto Associate Pete) climbed aboard the Moto Guzzi and the Suzuki respectively and pointed south and east of the Sierra, in search of fall color and the nifty little communities along the way.
The Owens Valley, it turns out, had other ideas. There was color, mostly brown, but fall hadn’t quite arrived in the desert. Speaking of deserts, we discovered food deserts where finding a decent meal became its own small expedition in a few of these nifty communities. This ain’t Manhattan.
For the first 150 or so miles of our ramble the air was thick with almond and pistachio dust, and wind blown dust from recently tilled acreage. It may sound delicious until you’re breathing it at speed. And there was heat, but that of an “Indian Summer” as valley temps were finally relenting (mid-nineties) offering some relief from consecutive 100+ degree days we experienced a few weeks earlier. Unlike our June romp, there was no need for the evaporative cooling vests.
What we hadn’t planned on was the rest of it: A room in a rustic hotel in Kernville in which Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Becall may have stayed, a lovely eight-room classic motel run by an owner who was a genuine no pretense delight, and a fellow guest who, at 90 years young, was on a search of her own. Not for color, exactly. Certainly not for interesting cuisine. But for meaning.
We went looking for a season. We found something a bit more durable.
Day One: The Valley to Kernville (~230 miles)
California has largely dodged those devastating wildfires for which we’ve become known. But the vegetation is moisture-starved and the heat has been unsettling. SMAP and I have a disdain for riding in either much needed rain or unrelenting heat. We’ve gotten soft in our autumnal phase.
Scouring unreliable 10 and 15 day forecasts offered a short window between the remnant heat and pre-season precip in this confused El Niño situation. It was just enough for a quick four-day ride before Sisyphus would be homebound, nursing his wife’s knee replacement. So we pointed south, aiming to cross the Sierra over Sherman Pass, just north of our first night’s stop in Kernville, to access the Owens Valley.
If you know where the food in the supermarket or the fiber for those expensive American-made tee shirts comes from, you know the Central Valley. Our 230-mile day began in almonds, pistachios, walnuts, various stone fruit and citrus orchards, cotton fields, and vineyards (grapes for the table, for raisins, and for vino), plus rangeland with sheep, goats, and cattle, dairy pastures, and fields of garlic, onions, tomatoes, peppers, even agave. We passed a pump jack or two as well. Well, you get the idea. Just like the idyllic photos from my elementary school day textbooks. Only now the mists in the foothills was brown.
The numbers are staggering. California’s agricultural supply chain (production, processing, support, and distribution) generated $310.8 billion in sales in 2024. That’s a billion with a b, and the San Joaquin Valley leads the state in agricultural production. Our zigzag route down the middle of the Valley (see map above) shows far more of this diversity than you’d ever glimpse from the I-5 or CA-99 slabs. (Source: UC ANR, Working Landscapes report, 2025)
It’s fall, and the growing season, now stretched by a longer, warmer regime courtesy of climate change, has the nut harvest in full swing. Almonds are the biggest player, and their automated harvest kicks up haboobs of dust. From late August through October, a continuous layer of light brown dust settles on everything gravity touches. We rode through it, not just summoning, but tasting true grit.
Interestingly, few of the crops we passed offered much fall color. Most orchards simply drop their faded green leaves once irrigation ceases, and whatever else was growing gets plowed under following the harvest for the next planting. The vineyards held a hint of yellow and red, but this hot, dry year left the show muted.
The one idle feature of our route was California’s High-Speed Rail. The photo above, taken in Fresno County, shows a segment under construction slicing right through the valley next to the existing low speed rail. The full San Francisco-to-Los Angeles system is now estimated at $126 billion, and the Merced-to-Bakersfield stretch we rode alongside is pegged at roughly $35 billion by the authority and closer to $48 billion by its inspector general. I’ll leave the debate to others. Like water-starved agriculture, high-speed rail remains viable… for now. Maybe our hometown will get a station.
East on CA-155 we crossed CA-99 and CA-65, winding our way to Glennville, where we had a BLT and fries at the Highway 155 Market and Cafe.
Less soul searching than in Then Came Bronson… Just two wild and crazy guys!
Back on the real motos costing considerably more to roll down the road than this coin operated baaaagerrr, we rambled on an even windier road up and over Alta Sierra and down to Kernville where I had booked a room at the River View Lodge.
We usually camp but are increasingly seduced by beds and showers with meals within walking distance, so this would be a lighter, less gear-dense ramble, in the autumn of our riding days.
The River View Lodge in Kernville is nearly as rustic as the Y in Chama.
Derivatively rustic, the Y in Chama, New Mexico.
According to the River View Lodge’s website, and attested to by our hotel owner/propriator John, Hollywood discovered Old Kernville in the late 1920s. The Sierra Nevada and the Kern River made a favorite backdrop for Westerns, and later for TV productions like Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Bonanza, and The Waltons.
When the government-built dam flooded the old town to create Lake Isabella in 1953, the old inn was rescued and moved upriver to its current spot on the Kern, where it became the Sierra South Lodge. The cast and crews kept coming, among them Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, Audie Murphy, Tom Mix, Andy Devine, Yvonne De Carlo, Rod Cameron, and Gabby Hayes. Not a bad guest book, although we didn’t actually see a guest book. We simply took the John at his word as a good faith gesture.
John went on to say that the stars preferred the lodge because each room had a private bath. Ours was about the size of the bathroom in a Tab teardrop trailer. Apparently western stars of yesteryear were smaller than moto-tourers of today.
We opted for a Mexican restaurant on our first night, foregoing the Kern River Brewing Company featured in previous stays in Kernville. Not realizing we would have Mexican food for dinner the rest of the trip, I have a few regrets about that decision. The location of the River View Lodge on the Kern, however, and a beach along the river more than made up for the cramped bathroom and mediocre Mexican food.
Mallard searching for a snack and SMAP searching for a Mexican restaurant
Day Two: Kernville to Independence via Sherman Pass Road (~223 miles)
Not having had our fill of winding roads (or Mexican food), we headed for Independence on the east side of the Sierra over Forest Route 22S05, a.k.a. Sherman Pass Road. After omelets at the Big Blue Bear in Kernville, the only eatery open at that early morning hour, we added layers in anticipation of lower temperatures and set off from Kernville at 2,667 feet, bound for Sherman Pass at 9,200.
The Sherman Pass summit with Mt. Whitney in the distance
Sherman Pass Rd runs from the North Fork of the Kern River valley in the west to the high desert near US-395 in the east. Few folks are aware of this southern pass over the Sierra. Sherman Pass is not as renowned as Tioga or Sonora Passes in the Central Sierra or Walker or Tehachapi passes in the Southern Sierra but well worth seeking if one wants to avoid the conga line over Tioga Pass.
I don’t support the hijinks of Elon, but the Grokipedia: Sherman Pass page is far more detailed and informative than the Wikipedia: Sherman Pass version and both worth a read if you want a deep dive.
Across the Kern Plateau, just before the descent of Nine Mile Canyon to the Owens Valley, lies the off-grid community of Kennedy Meadows. Depending on which website you believe, its population runs from anywhere from 93 to 125. this doesn’t count the through-hikers who take a break from the Pacific Crest Trail.
As a featured stop for Pacific Crest Trail hikers, the Kennedy Meadows General Store stocks trail-worthy gear and resupply food and showers. There’s even a small kitchen, the Cook Shack, that serves burgers, sandwiches, wraps, and pancakes. When it’s open.
The Kennedy Meadows General Store, inside and out
From there the road takes a dramatic turn and drops a breathtaking 3,000 feet in its final 10 miles to US-395.
It was much less scary riding fully armored than in a lycra kit on the descent
Tim Mayhew of Pashnit Motorcycle Roads and Tours describes the descent “as fast, wide open, and intensely twisty, with mostly no guardrails, patches of sand, blind corners, and oncoming drivers who ignore lane discipline. He also notes that the open vistas let you spot traffic from far off. Joshua trees line the hillsides at certain elevations, and halfway down the Los Angeles Aqueduct pops out of the ground, leaps the canyon, and vanishes into the mountain again. Ridden eastbound, he says, Sherman Pass delivers “a dramatic big finish.” Sherman Pass Road-my Pashnit
My first two west to east crossings of Sherman Pass and Nine Mile Canyon were by bicycle, in 2008 and again in 2012 with a feisty group of knuckleheads I’ve mentioned in prior posts. Tim isn’t kidding about lapses in attention, sandy blind corners, or oncoming vehicles. Speaking of disregarding lane discipline, this knucklehead remembers passing a descending car on one of those bicycle rides. Fortunately we saw only one oncoming vehicle on this day with no descending vehicles to tempt us.
Open vistas, but you still need to pay attention…
Once on US-395 we headed north past Fossil Falls, Olancha, and Lone Pine to Independence, where I had booked a room at Ray’s Den Motel. There we met Linda, the sole proprietor, room service, custodian, pilot-light lighter, Chevy Volt-driving Jane of all trades, who had just celebrated 20 years of owning her solar-paneled motel. Linda embodies independence, both lower and upper case versions. The upper case Independence is the Inyo County seat between Lone Pine to the south and Big Pine and Bishop to the north. For a deeper dive, see Wikipedia Independence, CA entry.
Linda, rightfully proud of a mural she commissioned on the side of her motel
It’s also a town that was once a bit more thriving than today, despite the magnificent Inyo Covnty Covrt Hovse as carved in 1922…
The Pines Cafe in 2004 and 2026
Independence once supported the Still Life Cafe, noted for fine dining specializing in French/Mediterranean cuisine prepared by renown chef Malika Adjaoud. It closed in 2022. Now there are no sit down eateries. As noted, it’s not Manhattan as if we were looking for a table at the latest bistro, L’Arrogance to try the Reinterpreted Tapas (A Single Tater Tot) for $85, listed on the menu as: one single potato cylinder, deep-fried to crisp perfection in rare non-GMO heirloom lard, dusted with edible 24-karat gold flakes, and served on a bed of smoldering pine needles. We’d have to ride all the way to Lake Tahoe for that. So we cruised the entire main street on foot in search of the two food trucks Linda had mentioned.
It turns out only one food truck (Mexican) was open in town on a Monday evening, besides the two gas station mini-marts. Highway 395 was being repaved through town and was chock full of 18-wheelers, cars, SUVs, and pickups passing through. Missing were any traffic lights that might give Mammoth- Reno- or Tahoe-bound Southern Californians reason to pause and grab a bite, I suppose. Here’s an idea: install a traffic light and open a L’Arrogance franchise in the vacant Pines Cafe building.
In my biased opinion, Glenn’s of Independence was not Ramone’s of Planada, Marco’s of Le Grand, or M&D’s of Snelling. But it was open. Business was good what with all of the highway construction workers joining us. However, adding a Reinterpreted Tapas to the menu might change its blue collar clientele …
Before our culinary adventure, we met a fascinating ninety-year-old woman who pulled up in her 2002 Toyota Tacoma at Ray’s Den with a camper shell and a tailgate covered in stickers telling just part of her story.
Her name was Frances, a widow from Pasadena, who lived next to the Eaton fire that consumed 14,021 acres, burned 9,419 structures, and killed 19 between January 7 and January 31, 2025. She evacuated and was later able to return to a home that remained standing, heartbroken by the destruction of her neighboring community.
She had just come from a reenactment of a baseball game between teams of descendants of Japanese families interned at Manzanar War Relocation Center, now a National Historic Site. Frances, who traveled with her cat Lexa, was incredibly present and sharp as a tack. Her wit and intensity came through in lively conversation, and I was astounded to learn she had driven solo to Independence from Pasadena, something she does regularly.
We chatted about our common past as teachers, she in special education and later as an instructor at UCLA. Her sons, like mine, went into firefighting; hers are now retired, and mine will likewise be when I’m 90.
Then chat turned to conversation. I may have tipped my persuasion when asked whether I knew of Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States. “Indeed”, I replied with some enthusiasm and in my best academic semblence since she had UCLA cred: “The People’s History, oh yes. Zinn’s U.S. history from the perspective of folks often left out of traditional accounts. As I recall, he emphasized grassroots movements and conflicts over power.”
Given my entre, in her Brooklyn accent, Frances made several animated comments about the current state of politics, spiced with Yiddish phrases and a couple of near F-bombs. She was thrilled to have picked up a copy of The People’s Historian: The Outsized Life of Howard Zinn, by Dave Zirin, a sort of biography and tribute to Zinn, in of all places at a Lone Pine bookstore and insisted I read the book.
Pete though I was flirting. I thought Frances was flirting.
Frances’s tailgate left little to the imagination about her politics, with a “Legalize Fruitcake” bumper sticker adding a note of humor. Our talk of Zinn, The Nation, The New Republic, and The New York Review of Books was unexpectedly refreshing in a small rural town that has seen better times. To a casual bystander it might have looked like woke elitist academic proletarians whining about what capitalism has done to this rural community.
The photo above struck Sisyphus and SMAP as innocently hilarious, but I was misunderstood by another motel guest getting ice from a freezer adjacent to the “DO NOT PUT FISH GUT HERE EVER!” can, when I jokingly reminded him that fish guts were not permitted. Despite my apology for any unintended offense, SMAP and I decided it was a case of mental illness or a too tight sphincter that compelled his over-reaction. I’ll leave it at that.
just behind Ray’s Den Motel
Day 3: Three Rivers Bound ~238 miles
We opted to return to the western Sierra over CA-178, Walker Pass. Skipping breakfast (the Taco truck was closed) we layered up and headed out on a crisp fall morning.
On the downhill reach of CA-178 having crested the summit, a fool in a pick-up with two dirt bikes in the truck’s bed, attempted to pass on a double yellow striped blind curve. He got around me just as an oncoming car came around the curve. I immediately slowed and moved over to the right side of the road as he slammed on his brakes, swerving back into the lane right behind SMAP who was ahead of me by 25 yards. Pickup man then had the audacity to stick to SMAP’s tail light. SMAP, who raced motorcycles in his youth, took off attempting to lose this annoyance.
Perhaps Tim Mayhew, whose comments were noted earlier about “oncoming cars disregard[ing] lane discipline entirely” might want to add, “and dirt bike toting pickups (or substitute any appropriate profane references) disregarding lane discipline while impertinently attempting to pass on blind curves.” Where’s the CHP when you need them? I cautiously proceeded and met up with SMAP who had pulled over once on the floodplain of the South Fork of the Kern River on a long straightaway to permit the nitwit in the pickup passage.
The verdant riparian habitat of the South Fork of the Kern River lies in strict contrast to the arid, golden hills through which it flows. Cutting off CA-178 at Weldon to enter Kernville through the back door we crossed the river, or what might be the subterranean aquifer that represents the river and supports the lush habitat, after the spring runoff ceases. Signs of fall, the poplars among the oaks, were hinting at yellow.
From there we retraced our inbound route over CA-155 to Glennville where we then turned north on White River and Old Stagecoach Roads populated by cattle ranches every few miles or so. From Porterville we continued north on CA-65 to Woodlake where we took CA-198 into Three Rivers near the entrance to Sequoia National Park.
The Lazy J in Three Rivers
We settled in at the Lazy J Ranch Motel then rolled into town for 3R beverages and, yep, you guessed it, Mexican food. Though I swore against having Mexican food for the third night, I have to admit, I was seduced by the fish tacos and chicken mole enchiladas on the menu. We watched the sunset on the ride back to the Lazy J where we were greeted by an assortment of inflated whimsical Halloween decor as we strolled around the grounds.
This fella was my favorite
Day 4: Homeward Bound ~154 miles
The next morning we bid adieu to the Lazy J. Clouds were gathering with rain in the forecast as the deflated Halloween characters lay at rest.
What would have been a two and a half hour sprint down CA-99 was in the classic Sisyphean “ramble” form, a three and a half hour zig-zag through massive groves of dust-less citrus, with a stop in Friant where SMAP had a coffee and bear claw and I, the rest of my roasted pecans.
We went looking for fall color and found it only in patches on our 845 mile ramble. What we found instead was a western lodge haunted by stars of yesteryear, a motel owner who has kept her place going for twenty years despite a town on the brink of evaporating, and a ninety-year-old woman who drives alone across the state with a cat, a bumper sticker filled tailgate, and a hunger for small towns and mediocre Mexican food. Not a bad season to be in search of.
We managed to beat the rain arriving home shortly after 11 AM, giving me time to mow the lawn, put out the trash cans for pickup, and get drenched while cleaning out the rain gutters that I should have cleared before going on the ramble…
A motorcyclist’s work is never done…
Fin
