I'd been to the Bartle Bar once before. Last fall, when I rode the 
Milly course from Truckee to Mt. Shasta (taking the train to Truckee
and the Green Tortoise back from Mt. Shasta) Bartle had been one
of the highpoints of the ride.  

In order to confirm my place on the Green Tortoise, I was supposed
to call before 3 p.m. That was when the driver left Portland,
and unless he knew for sure that I was coming the bus wouldn't stop
in Mt. Shasta. Unfortunately, Highway 89 from Mt. Lassen to Mt. Shasta
turned out to be a lot longer and lonelier than I realized. I remembered
about the phone call sometime around 1 or 2, and by that time I was 
on a fairly uninhabited stretch of narrow road with a bad shoulder and
quite a bit of traffic. During the week 89 has logging trucks; that 
weekend it had endless lines of Harley Davidsons because of the Street
Vibrations festival happening in Reno. The little motors are certainly
less likely to run you down, but the incredible unholy din they raise
kind of gets to you after a while. The noise, the severity of the fairly
long and steep climbs in the area, and the time pressure to make it to 
a phone by 3 conspired to put me into a pretty poor mood. Oh, and the 
road, with its crumbling shoulder, demanded a lot of attention. 

Bartle, on the map, came shortly past Dead Horse Summit, and by the 
time I reached it that's about how I felt. Initially, I was a bit
disappointed. Instead of a town, there was only a bar and restaurant,
and the restaurant had closed at 4, just minutes before . However, there was a payphone, and
I put in my call even though I was late. The first good thing that 
happened was that one of the drivers that day had a cell phone. The 
dispatcher gave him a call, I called back, and learned that the bus
had been contacted and was going to stop. This was merely the first
of many good things that happened in Bartle. 

The next good thing was discovering what cold and delicious the water 
poured from Bartle's water taps. Next, the beer tap turned out to 
be quite cold and delicious as well. And finally, while the restaurant was 
closed, the bar served surprisingly delicious frozen sandwiches for
just a couple of dollars apiece. I think I ate three. 

While I was there, several motorcyclists arrived and to drink, smoke
and play pool. It was a nice scene in there, and even made me feel better
about all the bikers out there. By the time I left, I left greatly fortified
in mind, body and spirit, and naturally during my first full ride around
the Milly circuit looked greatly forward to stopping in Bartle again. 
"I'm going to stop for a bartle of beer in Bartle," I told Darryl as 
we rode towards it. 

This time, it was even hotter than it had been that October, and Bartle
appeared out of the forest every bit as beautifull and as lush (maybe 
lusher, in the drinking sense) as an Egyptian desert Oasis. I arrived just 
prior to 4 p.m. this time and order a couple of sandwiches for me and
Darryl. They were even better, it turned out, than the frozen ones the 
bar served.

The barkeep, though, an older lady with a kind of patient concern, 
began to lecture us a little about the dangers of riding Hwy 89 on bikes,
but in a rare instance of diplomacy I actually kind of seemed to succeed
 a little in easing her concern and we ended the conversation in agreement.
It was a tricky spot, because if other Milly riders come along 89, they're
sure to stop in Bartle, and it certainly wouldn't serve to have this 
woman predisposed against them. But with unflagging good cheer, and the
insinuation that she must have gotten her opinion from overhearing the 
loggers complain, I seemed to bring her around a little bit and the 
conversation ended on a note of agreement. "That road is dangerous for
everybody, cars too," she admitted. I had to give her that. 

We finished our tasty chicken breast sandwiches and our mugs of Bud,
filled our waterbottles and headed back for the road. I told Darryl about
my trick of rinsing the salt off my butt on really hot days, because 
otherwise it could dry out the skin and cause salt sores. 
I told him to try it. I also tried to get him to put on more sunscreen
(he'd gotten a slight burn on Mt. Lassen) but he wouldn't do it. "I feel
greasy enough already," he said.

Then we set out, me to find a good place to overnight in Dunsmuir, Darryl
to explore McLeod a little bit and meet me later in Dunsmuir. The huge 
thermometer on the shaded front wall of the bar, right next to the 
Harley poster, said 96 degrees. But it was a short 35 miles or so to 
Dunsmuir, and we were feeling great. Bartle had worked its magic again!