LETTERS FROM HOME: `THE WILD BUNCH' MEETS `THE BRADY BUNCH'

June 16, 1994

Dear Leslie,

Folks here in Southern Humboldt County -- sometimes affectionately called SoHum -- take pride in their independence and their diversity, it says in a brochure we hand out at the visitor information center. A movement has been alive for awhile to carve a whole new county out of Southern Humboldt and Northern Mendocino counties. Some people don't think the bureaucrats up in Eureka, the county seat, treat us right, and since Humboldt County itself is the size of Delaware...

But the miles aren't the big difference. It's a mindset, a do-it-yourself and do-your-own-thing attitude passed down from the pioneers who settled the valley only 120 years ago to the 1960s back-to-the-landers who turned 40 acres and some marijuana seeds into a way of life that even old-timers seem to accept.

One of the local beauty salons has a tanning bed, but some of the local people seldom or never cut their hair (quite a few Rastafarians about). Both, all, anything, is, are, OK.

"The Wild Bunch" met "The Brady Bunch" here last weekend. Four thousand Harley riders and companions taking over streets for the Redwood Run, a parade of lovingly cared-for motorcycles, a drunk, a music festival.

The actual run was held at a campground to the south, where like knights of olde the riders jousted with each other in contests of riding skills, faire maidens bared all in the name of Harley, and everyone listened to the likes of Leon Russell and Roy Rogers (the blues guitar player, not the cowboy).

Only Harleys were allowed on the grounds. No cars, no trucks, and especially no "rice burners," the Harley riders' disdainful term for the motorcycles most everyone else rides.

Since Garberville is the only nearby town of any size, many of them visited. The town makes them welcome. (The run's sponsored by the Kiwanis Club after all.) Every motel room in the vicinity had been reserved months before. Even the antique shop had the requisite "Welcome Harley Riders" sign.

Saturday morning, the diagonal parking spaces along Redwood Drive were mostly lined with Harleys.

The bikers generally behaved, if you don't count the occasional drag race up Redwood Drive and the unfortunate accident that occurred when an impatient rider's two-wheeler ran up the back of a truck with 18.

Some were bonafide Wild Bunchers. Hell's Angels proudly proclaimed on the fuel tank. Full leathers. A stare that could knock you down. But they could fool you too. At biker central, a bar called The Brass Rail, I talked to a guy named George who had the bandana across the forehead, suspiciously stiff leathers, the soul handshake, the glassy eyes from all-day drinking. After some hesitancy, he admitted he's "in property management."

The Bradys are welcome too. Saw one guy wearing white snakeskin boots, another in Reeboks, A grandpa with grandma in her sidecar. One contingent hung out down at the burger bar instead of The Brass Rail.

The bikers left behind one amputated leg and at least two dazed dental assistants, who were hopping rides at the biker bars Saturday night, who both missed work at DC's clinic on Monday and whose memories about the middle part are fuzzy.

Speaking of fuzzy, about 150 students at the local high school walked out of their fifth-period class one sunny day recently to gather on the lawn and air their feelings about the quality of their educational experience. The principal, a saintly man, joined them and listened. Seems the cafeteria food could be better and the lunch hour longer. A French teacher would be nice. And how about making it OK to smoke marijuana on campus?

It may have been about the time somebody passed him a joint -- later determined to be fake -- that the principal's desire to have a meaningful dialogue faded. Those who walked out fifth period were not punished, but those who went swimming during the sixth and seventh periods were.

So SoHumian.

Now that the roar of motorcycles has finally faded from the valley, the rodeo is coming to town. If the dental assistants disappear again, we'll know it wasn't the Harleys' fault.

Love, Sam

(Sam Blackwell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian and is currently on a leave of absence.)