After less than two hours of riding with Darryl, he was already trying to get rid of me. We arrived at the junction of Hwys 89 and 299, about 38 miles from the Manzanita Campground where we'd both camped, separately, unaware that the other was there, and 22 miles from Old Station, where Darryl had caught up to me. He'd stopped at the same store I had, and the proprietor told him I'd left not long before for the breakfast spot a few miles further along. Darryl hustled on into the main part of the town of Old Station and found me happily eating a good bacon and egg breakfast. It was great to see his grizzled ancient mariner's visage peering in through the cafe window. We were both elated by the meeting -- it would have been very disappointing had we somehow managed to ride the same route without seeing one another. Darryl ordered a huge breakfast of eggs, sausage and gargantuan pancakes, one of which he tried to get me to eat. Demurring due to fullness, I nonetheless agreed to take on the pancake as road food. Rich, thick and bready, they were not such pancakes as you'd let go to waste. Our various morning preparations and ablutions made (I've developed the habit of washing out the previous day's clothes in a restaurant sink rather than in the campgrounds: the soap is better, the water is hot, and heck, you have to have something to do while you wait for your food. If you're making your own way, you can study the map; on the Milly all of that has been figured out, so you might as well do your wash) Darryl and I rolled out into the rapidly warming morning. As I rode along into a slight headwind with Darryl on my wheel, he said, "Hey, this is a lot easier. Maybe we should get a tandem." "Yes!" I enthused, excited by the thought of riding a big bike again. Those things are fast and fun, and capable of bringing back the thrill of cycling even to old burnouts like Darryl and me. "And you know, we're the same size. We wouldn't even have to change saddle height to switch positions." If you know of a good tandem out there, hopefully used and at a good price, for a couple of 6-footers, let us know. Then Darryl took a pull, easily pedalling 20mph into the headwind up a slight incline. I commented on his speed and he said it was only because I was there. But he hardly seemed out of breath. It was wonderful to ride along together and talk, but the road was pretty narrow and the traffic getting thicker. And pretty soon we arrived at the aforementioned junction of Hwys 89 and 299, where Darryl suggested I branch out on an exploratory mission. Bodfish had called this a preferable alternate route, so we should have a look at it. "You go try it out, and we can meet back up in Bartle, or else in Mt. Shasta," suggested Darryl. "I'd rather stay in Dunsmuir," I said. "Fewer sport-climbing-utility vehicle yuppies. More old railroad-town charm. And definitely cheaper motels." "Dunsmuir's okay," allowed Darryl, after a quick map consultation to be sure he wasn't agreeing to a death march. "Or Bartle. Probably see you in Bartle." I had already told Darryl about the little piece of heaven on earth that is Bartle. "Okay, but if you get to Bartle before me, drink a Bartle of beer for me. Or actually, they have Bud on draught." We parted and I rolled East on 299. The traffic was pretty light but the hills ahead looked pretty steep. After little more than two miles, I reached the junction with Cassel Creek Road. It looked so much more appealing than 299 that I decided to extend my detour to include the loop around Cassel Fall River Rd. to Fall River Mills. An alert Milly rider could have cut over to Cassel by taking this road from the other direction, thereby saving themselves 5 miles of Hwy 89 (it all helps). Cassel Creek Road follows the contours of the rolling landscape more closely than Hwy 89, but with almost no traffic the tradeoff is worthwhile. It's a fun road. Shortly after passing the Crystal Lake Adult Trailer Park (?) and the road out to the fish hatchery, I rolled into the berg of Cassel, evidently a resort fishery town with more than its share of country kitsch. One side of the placard at the Volunteer Fire Department read "Get more peace and quiet: try a phoneless cord." The other side read "In the pasture of life, don't be a cowpie." I didn't see a store, though there is probably one someplace. The sign at the Clearwater House Lodge said "Reservations required." Soon thereafter I reached the junction with Cassel Fall River Rd. and made a left. From its name, you might surmise that Cassel Fall River Road winds lazily up a well-graded easement next to a scenic river. If you surmised that, however (as I did) you would be wrong. In reality, Cassel Fall River Road begins, after some preliminary rollers, with a fairly steep and relentless five-mile climb. I thought I had reached the summit after only two miles, where a series of Sasquatch-sized Vibram prints stenciled across the road marked the road's intersection with the Pacific Crest Trail. The trail, though strictly off-limits to bicycles, looked devilishly tempting through this particular section, and I couldn't stop myself from checking the map to see if it might be going in the same general direction as myself. Fortunately, it didn't, and I was able to put these thoughts aside as I continued up the hill. About this time, the surroundings had started to turn weird, in a volcanic moonscape-y kind of way. It was still mostly chapparel, but there were these big burned out black igneous rock piles scattered here and there. By the time I neared the summit, the piles had taken over: the top seemed to be some kind of crater much modified by the geological extraction processes of several generations. A loose red-iron dirt road around the back of the hill lead me to the picturesque entrace to what may have been the first mining tunnel entrance, covered over in (I'm guessing) the late 1800s by a beautifully crude steel and wood gate. I felt as if I myself had happened upon a hidden treasure, and took a couple of pictures of it. Before leaving the mine, I rode up to the top and then slid down the iron scree slope with my bike in one hand. This seemed to catch the attention of a magnificent hawk, which soared aloft and made a kite of itself, tacking in effortless circles that brought it closer and closer without ever flapping its wings. I emptied the gravel and dirt from my shoes while I watched, then rode with my head tilted all the way back, up over the last steep climb and over to the other side. At the summit, a very good gravel road marked 18 joins from the South. It appears possible to take this road most of the way from Chester via Westwood and a few other minor backroads, which could be a good way around Mt. Lassen in the winter when Hwy 89 is snowed in. Not long after that, Bald Mountain Road joined from the East. It appears to be a paved lane that joins with Pittville Road, which also travels south in the direction of Westwood. With luck, some future Milly riders will bring us information about these two interesting roads. Pretty soon the descent leveled out into country with big rolling hills, and residential real estate began to take over. There seemed to be a very active real estate market in the environs of Fall River. Many properties were for sale, others appeared to be quite newly built. Some of the places looked pretty expensive, too, suggesting that the area is getting its share of retirees from the city who have sold their humble three-bedroom city homes for a half-million dollars. Soon thereafter I crested a slight rise, went around a right-hand bend, and saw before me the old mill town of Fall River Mills. It appeared like a little Swiss river berg that through some miraculous lapse of Swiss-ness had somehow grown unkempt. It was pretty nonetheless, and I stopped for a picture. After crossing the bridge, I spotted a public library in a diminutive building on the right, and I decided to go in and ask about Internet access. It would have been pretty wonderful to make a report from such a tiny town as Fall River Mills. Alas, an unlikely looking librarian -- a kind of rough- looking construction worker on disability of some sort, probably -- said they had no Internet access even though there were a couple of prominently placed computers with modems sitting next to them. Resisting the urge to volunteer to fix whatever was wrong with the machines, I went into the bathroom and filled my Camelbak with cold water, made a quick tour of the otherwise empty library and headed up toward the rest of Fall River Mills. There were many interesting places, including a restaurant/bed and breakfast stuffed to the gills with antiques (Hal and Kathy's Cookhouse B&B) a stylish old hotel with restaurant (the Fall River Hotel/Cafe, built 1935), and Russell Cycle Products, "Home of the World Famous Day-Long(R) Touring Saddle." (Motor) Cycle, that is. Leaving Fall River via Hwy 299, I came to a sandstone cliff on the right side of the road with perhaps a thousand fluttering swallows dashing in and out of the many small burrow-holes perforating it. It was a remarkable sight to see the speedy animals darting around and filling the air with cheerful chirps. I stopped in a 7-Eleven across the street for a cold citrus drink and then sat down outside to watch them and enjoy the pancake Darryl had given me (wow, was it delicious!). The cashier, attractive in a trailer-trashy blonde kind of way, came outside for a cigarette and I asked her about them. "They're swallows," she said. "Some organization that protects wildlife bought that lot to save it. That house on top is falling down. "They come here every year. This year they came, and there was a late frost, and they went away for a little while, and we were afraid they wouldn't come back. But they did." Soon after leaving town I turned right on Glenburn road, a flat lane through farming country that makes its way to Glenburn, which may once have been a town but appears now as little more than a group of houses, some abandoned, some not. Riding through the Glenburn valley at a pretty high rate of speed, I heard human voices and looked up to see a couple of farmers waving from the other side of the fence. "Good pace," one grinned. I smiled, as that is what I always say to runners who seem to be scooting right along. Just after that, I hit the brakes for an historical market that told of Fort Crook, an early establishment in that valley. Dick Pugh, guide to the American soldiers who established the fort, stuck around after they left and raised an Indian boy called Captain Dick. The boy went on to lead the area Achumawis to peace, even when the nearby Modocs entreated them to join in war, according to the plaque. Soon enough, a right on Brown Rd. lead into Glenburn, which appears as a town on the map but not alongside the road. Instead, there are only a few farmhouses, some abandoned. Very soon thereafter, a left on MacArthur Road leads back toward Hwy 89 in a zigzagging path. MacArthur stays flat for a little while but begins to climb after Dana, which consists of a small store that appears to be permanently closed. After Dana, MacArthur soon becomes an arrow-straight stair-stepping five-mile back up to Hwy 89. So should you take the Cassel Creek/Fall River Mills detour? If the traffic on Hwy 89 is getting to you, yes. If you are a geologist, yes (Jeanie, are you reading this?). If you don't mind a little more climbing, yes. It adds about 10 miles, taking 33 miles instead of the 23 you'd ride on the main road. The main road is pretty hilly and the detour has a nice break through flat farm country. The main road is not without charms though; if you go that way you can take a break at Burney Falls, quite accessible just a short walk from the headquarters at Burney Falls State Park. Read Darryl's report for more information on the Hwy 89 alternative. As I emerged from the climb back up to Hwy 89, I was feeling pretty pooped. I pulled over next to the road to have a look at the map and take a restroom break. Suddenly, just as I was leaving, I heard a stern voice. "Hold it right there!" it said. Darryl had caught up with me, for the second time that day. I expected him to be well ahead of me after all the sidetrips I'd taken, but he'd left a pack behind in the store at Burney Falls and had had to retrace the same part of Hwy 89 several times. He told me I had better ride on ahead to Bartle and order a bartle of beer, so I did.