Raven's Roads
Living an interesting life: the travels and musings
of motorcycling author Linda R. Moore

Jan 28, 2007

Raven’s Quest Part 10 — Los Gatos, New Almaden and San Jose

10 October 2004

When you go to Weight Watchers, you’re expected to show up every week, or else you are charged for the weeks you miss. Since I’d run out of “get out of jail free” cards, I went to a meeting, stayed for a refresher course and then just kept on going. Before long I was on highway nine, heading towards Los Gatos.

The stretch between Saratoga and Los Gatos is one of the few straight patches of that road. Trees line it, almost but not quite concealing the pretty multi-million-dollar mansions. I was looking for “Heritage Avenue,” but didn’t see it until I’d already shot by at fifty miles per hour. I shrugged and kept going, knowing that I’d be coming this way again. I wasn’t feeling relaxed, and didn’t want to mess with u-turns and weaving my way through unfamiliar lanes.

This was the first time I’ve given Arnie a good workout since his troubles, and every bump of the road, every odd noise seemed cause for concern. I rode with a thick layer of paranoia hanging over me, expecting at any moment to see metal parts go flying into the road or clouds of smoke enveloping me. It’s a terrible thing to not trust one’s bike.

But I reached the town of Los Gatos just fine, and the signs for Forbes Mill guided me right in. The main street is lined by historic buildings; they looked like something out of a western.

Notebook in hand, I wandered down a steep, shaded hill where the signs very helpfully petered out. But I recognised the building I wanted from photographs, and aimed for it - Forbes Mill is a big square faced with old, rugged stone, the only remaining wall of the original structure. It now houses a museum which, because I was there, was closed for the entire month of October: refurbishment. Museums sense me coming, you see, and run away screaming.

So, there wasn’t much to do other than photograph and document the building, then take its coordinates. I slid a book on top of a telecom box on the way back, perspiring from navigating the steep hill in full leathers. I tried not to run over the people who strode out right in front of my bike, apparently not believing that 500-plus pounds of metal could possibly offer them any bodily insult.

A few minutes later I was on Shannon Road, which I’ve never before tackled on my own. It’s a lovely, woodsy, three-dimensional road, following in part a pretty creek: not only does it have moderate twisties, there are steep bits and even a token switchback. Since there was next to no traffic it was ideal: inexperienced on such roads, I was able to be lame (and somewhat puckered) in peace.

I followed my nose and the shady wooded idyll popped me out on one of the wide, fast multi-lane streets which are more typical of Silicon Valley. Blinking at the sudden transformation from one world to another, I picked up Almaden Expressway and zoomed down it happily for a while, playing a cheerful game of tag with a Harley rider and his passenger. I branched off when I reached Old Almaden Road. It was gentle, not many curves, and a pleasant change of pace, cutting through farmland and passing New Almaden Feed and Fuel, a historic watering hole and “all-American” eatery. I finally relaxed into my ride just as I reached New Almaden.

I enjoyed riding through the tiny little town. All the cottages seemed surrounded by trees and to be part of the woods instead of separate from it. There was a museum, which looked open, and several markers lined up along the way, courtesy of E Clampus Vitus: they had plaqued almost all of the original miners’ cottages, wanting the original owners to be remembered.

E Clampus Vitus is a not-at-all-serious group of men who are the sheer antithesis of societies such as the Freemasons in that they do not take themselves seriously at all. Brought to California during the Gold Rush, and allowing the workers to blow of steam by playing pranks on one another, the organization also had a more serious side; to look after the many “widders” and “orph’ns” created by a dangerous industry. They almost faded out, but were revived in the nick of time and are now a strong group with a membership that increases rather than declines. I suspect that this is because they offer offbeat humour as well as charity, have only one criterion for membership (you must be male), and just generally laugh - a lot.

The marker I sought, “Site of the First Mining in California,” was towards the entrance to the quicksilver mines park, and I parked in the bumpy gravel lot, feeling rather nervous at the way my tires skidded and crunched. Nearby was a cute little
stone bridge over a creek, and I wandered across to find a Clamper plaque for Vichy Springs - this place used to have healing springs which were named for the famous ones in Vichy, France. It was hard to read because the tree growth above was so thick by now that the words were shaded and speckled with what little light came through. Down the road was a fancy French restaurant, where even a bowl of pasta cost over $20. As I left, a blue jay flew by in a brilliant flash of colour.

I attempted to wild-release a book in the parking lot, but first there was a cyclist who seemed hell-bent on studying the map for half an hour, then I realized that the book wouldn’t fit in the map box anyway, and finally a family showed up and I felt that I couldn’t just wander down to the picnic table and leave it there. I gave up and rode very gingerly out of the parking lot.

Two motorcycles were parked outside the Feed and Fuel when I passed it on the way back to the Expressway. They were still there when I passed again ten minutes later, having taken the wrong way up the Expressway.

I thought that I would pick up the Almaden Vineyards next, but was going from memory. It would appear that I do not have a photographic memory. Parked in a gas station, wandering up to the street to shade my eyes and look for some unspecified Thing that was actually miles away, I received some very odd looks.

I gave up, moved further along Blossom Hill, and took another side-street that looked familiar. It turned out to look familiar because it was a turn-off I had taken while visiting a friend a few months ago. It sucked me in and spat me out again only one hundred feet south of where I’d just been. I gave up; it was not to be. Hayes Mansion was well-signposted and easy to find.

I now entered an Official Posh Area. I rode past the plaques as I hunted for the parking lot. The pavement was patterned with little swirls and a man in a suit was patrolling to pick up every errant little piece of trash that might be found. The mansion is a high-brow conference suite and hotel, and I could tell. Arnie and I were the scruffiest things for miles.

I pushed towards the house, passing an innocuous little city marker en route, and admired it for a while. I had an impression of whiteness and size - it was a mansion in all senses of the word, with big lush lawns in front. Then I walked through the main gates, checked out the forest of plaques on the gatepost, and returned to my bike for a map check.

I had decided to try for one more landmark on the way home. I both found, and didn’t find, it. First I got ridiculously lost in south San Jose. I think that this is one of its jobs - to get people lost. I was tired by this stage, and a little saddlesore; I’ve not done a great deal of long-distance, and I’d already been riding for four hours with only short breaks.

Navigational challenges notwithstanding, I was filled with a sense of joy at having finally gotten out to go landmark-hunting. I hadn’t managed to do this for months; Arnie had been suffering from various complaints since early August. It made a great difference to my sense of well-being to be able to get out into these pretty places that lurk not far from the urban jungle.

Some time and many wrong turns later, I found my way to Lincoln Avenue, and it took me through another new city center–this time, Willow Glen. Willow Glen seemed as pretty as its name suggested, but I only had fleeting glimpses as I passed through.

As I passed the recycling center we used to use, I realized that I had already overshot my landmark. I had an impression of white and frills, like a wedding cake, but wasn’t sure that I was seeing a landmark; there didn’t seem to be a plaque. So, I backtracked and had the same fleeting impression of white and frills, and gave up. It was a rather seedy, industrial area, more or less deserted, and I didn’t feel safe there. I went home.

Later research online was cause for self-kicking. The glimpse of white and frills had indeed been the adobe I sought, and the plaque was angled in front of it rather than flat - hard to see from the road. The Almaden Vineyards were on a totally different section of Blossom Hill Road, about a block from where I peeled off in my homewards direction. I’m going to have to more or less repeat my route sometime in the not-too-distant future.

Oh well!