Shuck 'n Run
Every good story has some level of exaggeration and bullshit to it. The best often begin on a barstool – which is where I first heard about the Shuck ‘n Run. The brainchild of Olympia’s Chris Sigo – the Shuck ‘n Run is a long dreamed, and often bullshitted about, epic weekend of riding, camping, drinking, and eating. In sum, it represents the best the Pacific Northwest has to offer in the realm of motorcycle camping.
The 525 mile run transverses the hills, valleys, and waterways of Western Oregon and Washington beginning in Portland, before settling in Hama Hama on the westside of Washington’s Hood Canal. There is a delicate balance of planning and luck to pulling off an event of any magnitude – and the Shuck ‘n Run is no exception.
As one group headed out of Portland, the weather gods were good, and the sun sat high and bright as over twenty riders winded their way up the Scappoose toward Astoria, Ore. Riding in the Pacific Northwest is an exercise in dealing with bright blasts through shady firs, hemlocks, and pines lining the roads – a wide open stretch is a great respite for anyone not use to the contrast.
Of course every run is not without incident, this is especially the case with bikes ranging from 78 years old to current models. Audrey’s bike, “the Molotov” was the first to show its personality when rolling down the Astoria Bridge, the frame to fender bracket broke; pushing the fender against the tire smoking it until it flipped back. Skidding to a stop, she pulled over to side and the rest of the Shuck ‘n Runners helped pull the fender and bracket off the bike - throwing it in the chase truck with her bags and headed up the Washington coast. It’s moments like these when new friends become friends for life, and in turn define what motorcycle runs are all about through the ups and downs.
After pulling everything loose off the bike, the pack headed up through Naselle and wound its way up the Willapa Bay to Raymond, before pushing up toward Montesano and finally hitting the back-roads to Matlock where they would stay the night after covering over 300 miles of highway and back-roads.
The remote backwoods areas of Mason County are full of redneck tales of hell-raising, moonshining, and marijuana growing. In these parts of the woods industrious bootleggers never fully gave up their trade, and the echos of the wildman of the Wynoochee live in the wind whipping through the cedars and pines. It is the perfect place for road-weary bikers to let loose and howl at the moon.
As the riders reached the first night's camping spot, a private compound owned by a former Corvette racing, bike fixing Ohio native; the beer was flowing free courtesy of The Eastside Club Tavern, a seventy-five year old anchor in Olympia’s bar scene. In planning the Shuck ‘n Run, Chris Sigo was able to transform his barstool pondering to connecting a cast of characters to host the run in its entirety from crash pads, to campsites, beer, and seafood. The run was planned with an eye toward making sure that everyone had an experience that was unique to the region and day one set the tone for the rest of the ride.
Memories get fuzzy as the night progresses into the early morning, and as the sun comes up you tend to crash for as long as possible before hopping back on the road for the next leg of the run. It's at this point when another band of travelers join in the fun - and if the mountains of empties tell a story at all, it says that the last night was something wild.
Pulling out of Matlock, 35 riders headed north to the 101 past the State Prison to hit the beginning of Washington's storied loop. The near 300 mile loop covers the outer edge of the Olympic Peninsula circumnavigating the 1441 square mile Olympic National Park. Along the eastside of the park sits several smaller state and national recreation areas along the Hood Canal - an odd hook shaped canal that has served as Western Washington's backyard recreation area for two hundred years.
The canal is dotted with a mix of vacation homes, tribal lands, and multi-generation homesteads. In some spots not much has changed in the sixty-plus years since it was the region's hot tourist destination, and in other spots there is growth spurred by Seattle's tech industry and the closely located Naval bases.
Not far into the trip down the 101 the group took the Purdy cut-off and began navigating the back county roads and state park roads of the canal pushing up toward the hippy haven Port Townsend (know by most around the world as the location of the pivotal scenes in the film An Officer and a Gentleman). Running low on time and not wanting to miss making camp by nightfall the pack ran back south around the hook to climb north again up the 101.
But as fate would have it, with a pack of thirsty road warriors a stop at a waterside tavern was in order. What we wouldn't expect was to be denied entry. "We don't have the staff to serve you," the owner said marching out to the parking lot with her southern drawl. "And we don't have the inventory for you to drink here either."
After some quick negotiation on Sigo's part, and most likely the desire to avoid any sense of confrontation, the owner did say the group could drink their own alcohol in the parking lot and cool off in the shade as day's heat was about to peak. Road thirsty travelers tend to drink beer pretty fast - and this group was no exception. By the end of the respite the Eastside Club's generous donation had run its course and a collection was taken up to help fuel the evening's activities.
By late afternoon the group had reached the Eagle Creek Saloon, and their nearby camping spot for the evening. Lined with one dollar bills, stiff tall drinks, and greasy burgers and prime rib, the Eagle Creek Saloon is a staple in roadside eating and drinking for the region. Staffed by the kind of bartenders that equally bust your balls and serve with a smile, it is a great place to throw your boots up, and throw back shots of Jameson and cheap beer.
Before long the group had made its way parade style to camp, led by Emmett, a six year old Mason County badass on a Honda 50. Emmett's dad Adam, like his father before him, has lived on the same property his entire life - living a life subsisting on the bounties the canal gave him through timber and oyster farming. The closeness to the land, and the knowledge of what it provided served as inspiration to a group of travelers who have gathered for the ride; many from far flung locations, unaccustomed to the Northwest's rural life.
"Let's pile in the bus and have a beach campfire," he said. "We can all fit." Loaded 30 plus with people surfing the roof, and other cramped in every nook and cranny the group crept along the short but bumpy gravel road to the canal in order to set up for the night. As the sun set, and the veil of night covered the beach the familiar glow of flashing lights began to appear. "You're gonna have to put that out!" Yelled the fire marshal. "We have a countywide burn ban."
In truth, there was pretty much a state - if not region - wide burn ban, as smoke filled skies had began to make significant impact on the air quality in some locations. Though, it should be said that that had not been an issue on the trip thus far. Shuttle diplomacy is a fine art, especially when it is between thirty plus drunk bikers and an annoyed rural county official. But, without incident, the fire was put out, the group hopped back on the bus, and the fire marshal left satisfied with the outcome.
Either did he know, that some half mile away, a new fire pit - this time with the grate for cooking, and thus circumventing the burn ban - was in place. Over the new pit Adam shared stories of his land, of the Hama Hama oyster which he cooked up well into the early morning hours, and joined as the group let loose.
"My nipples are fucking dynamite!" exclaimed one of the riders. "We need to fucking dance," he continued as various substances that may make Hunter S. Thompson blush took its hold. It is at this point, some time after it is too late, but before it is too early, that the blend of all the concoctions hit equilibrium - and the moment of zen or actualization had been reached by some. The hazy time, the time when everything makes sense into the hours of dawn had arrived. By 4 am echos of drunkards singing David Allen Coe could be heard in the Eagle Creek watershed as the group stumbled to their tents... Though many didn't make it that far, deciding to call a soft patch of grass home for the morning before heading out on the road home.
