As I travel around California, I fall in love with different parts of the state during other seasons. For a long time, I’ve always had a heart for the Sierras—both the eastern and western sides of the mountain range. The western side feels like it comes from an outdoor mountaineering magazine. It boasts lush pine forests and good snowpack. The eastern side is significantly drier, with a steep descent into the desert below. Going over the summit always feels like a transition between two very different lands.

COVID has drastically changed this part of California. With the proliferation of remote work, many people have moved from the Bay Area to the Lake Tahoe region. While locals and longtime residents have always shown some resistance to newcomers, the past five years have taken it to a whole new level. Traffic, land use, and cultural disputes remain in the Tahoe Basin. Housing prices are beginning to mellow with the increased economic uncertainty.

These changes have widened my search to other parts of California—and beyond—for that potential next step into the mountains. Lately, I’ve had my eye on the Trinity Alps—a much lesser-known part of the state in the far northwest corner of Northern California. It’s north of Highway 36 and east of Interstate 5. Highway 36 has earned its well-deserved reputation as a cycling “Mother Road,” with 140 miles of winding curves from Red Bluff to Fortuna. However, I’ve recently shifted my attention to Highway 96—the lesser-known, bigger, better brother, stretching just over 150 miles of high-speed sweepers in the middle of nowhere.

I’d wanted to explore British Columbia by motorcycle. Still, I had held off due to the two days of mind-numbing I-5 or three more interesting pavements to get to the U.S.–Canadian border. I decided to load the bike into the back of the truck and head north. A good buddy of mine lives along Highway 96, and I wanted to take the opportunity to say hello.

So here I am, on the Fourth of July, leaving Yreka for a 50-mile journey into the forest. As I wind through, turn by turn, I see no one. To say this area of California is remote is a complete understatement. Remember, this is a holiday weekend at the peak of summer, and I haven’t seen a soul in 50 miles. While the car driver in me is stunned, the motorcycle guy jumps up and down with glee! I’ve even done two rides with Pashnit to learn more about this area.

My buddy moved here from the Bay Area for his love of gold prospecting. I’ve long known about Sutter’s Mill, which sparked the California Gold Rush in the 1840s, but I wasn’t aware that this region had its gold rush history.

He taught me the art of prospecting. We’d start by digging up soil, removing the big rocks, flushing out the organic material, washing away the light silt, and finally isolating the progressively heavier materials. Until we were lucky, we’d see flecks that might be gold.

I didn’t find anything, but learning the process and passing the time looking was a blast. We talked a lot about the culture of this area. Coastal Northern California—where the redwoods thrive and cities like Eureka and Fortuna beat to their rhythm—is distinctly different. While the coast is soaked in fog, this area enjoys plentiful sunshine. Humboldt County sees significantly more tourism and population flow. Siskiyou County, in contrast, is much more isolated. This region also includes tribal lands of Indigenous communities, adding to the area’s cultural richness.

My buddy suggested I drive through the burned forest to Cave Junction rather than returning the way I came to Interstate 5. There are no electric vehicle charging stations out here. I needed to top up in Yreka, cross roughly 125 miles of unknown terrain, and hope I had enough charge left to make it to Grants Pass, Oregon. Mapping software was inconclusive on whether I’d make it, but it was consistent: there is no charging. After some back-of-the-napkin calculations, I figured I should make it, so I went for it.

We also talked quite a bit about forest management and the growing practice of letting fires burn instead of putting them out aggressively. He especially wanted me to see the burn scar along the road to Cave Junction. I’d had my eye on this route for some time, so this was finally the perfect excuse to explore it.

It was about 10 miles of climbing—up and up and up. With the motorcycle loaded in the back, I had no idea how it would affect my range. On the way out, I was getting about 1.7 mi/kWh. If I were towing a trailer, that number would have dropped to around 1.1 mi/kWh, so I felt okay about it. But once the real climbing started, that 1.7 dropped to 0.7. I won’t lie—I started sweating. I knew I’d regain some charge on the downhill, but you can’t count on energy until it’s safely back in the battery.

The burn scar was massive. I must have driven at least 10 miles through the forest, seeing burned tree after tree. This fire didn’t get anywhere near the publicity of some Bay Area fires, but it was a big one. I know fire is a necessary part of our ecological systems, but seeing the devastation firsthand had a profound impact, one that’s hard to put into words.

The motorcycle in the back of the truck handled it all surprisingly well. Bumps, twists, old forest roads—it didn’t seem fazed at all.

I returned to Interstate 5 via US199 with plenty of power to keep going. Now it was just time and miles to Canada. Would tonight’s stop be Eugene? Portland? Or could I push all the way to Olympia, Washington?

Rivian’s new power management display is a significant step forward in scenarios like this. Now, I can see where power is actually going so I can better optimize how I use the truck.

If you guessed Olympia, Washington, you’d be right. There’s a Best Western there that works for me. It’s a good hotel, run by good people, in a good part of town, at a reasonable price.

Plus, they offer warm chocolate chip cookies at check-in. While certainly not required, little touches like that get noticed—and they build loyalty.