So there I am, filling up in Sonora, when a bloke leaning over his ute notices the Aussie flag.

Friendly stranger: "Australian, hey?"

Gav: "Yep"

Friendly stranger, pointing to matching South African sticker on his ute, makes a crack about being a fellow colonial, then in the next breath asks where I'm staying. 

... and in this way I met Barbara and David, two of the best folk you could trip across. Despite Kirsten's fears, they turned out not be axe-wielding homicidal maniacs.

These two had loads of stories, such as sailing around the world, riding pushbikes from Brisbane to Sydney, fighting local bureaucracy to help local schoolkids...

It was a treat being in (new) friends' home for the night. 

Yosemite exceeded expectations. It's easy to understand why millions visit annually. It boasts North America's tallest waterfall. Hiking to it's top was a slog, rock hopping the 7.2 miles round trip and 2,700 feet elevation gain.

Next day I hiked the Mist Trail to the top of Nevada Falls - another load of hard yakka, but just as worthwhile. Whereas Yosemite Falls had been for the fairly serious hiker, the Mist Trail is more accessible, having an asphalt path for the first half. This attracted a different crowd, with many families and thousands of walkers, not the dozens of the day before. We hiked right alongside the first fall, getting saturated with the spray. Wonderful. 

I might have absorbed some of my wife's "I will beat everyone" philosophy.  Hiking Yosemite Falls, no one passed me up and back, but I was a bit miffed when three blokes jogged past coming back down Mist. Oh well. 

"Camp 4" has a reputation for drunken debauchery with it's mostly rock climbing crowd. I must have come on the wrong night, bummer. Yes, campers are close together, but it encourages meeting others and folk were respectful. I enjoyed conversation with three young Mexicans and a very Los Angeles couple (he actor, she music video dancer, both cute).

Glacier Point overlooks Yosemite Valley from the south. Well worth riding the twenty odd miles in, to see where I'd been. From on high, the waterfalls looked smaller than my aching shins suggested. 

En route to the coast, I found Steve, pushing his VFR800 along the road. No battery voltage, motor wouldn't run. He must have known about it beforehand as he already had jumper leads in hand. It appeared he spends more on cigarettes than either his bike (busted screen, clutch lever in half ...) or any dental work. Still, plenty of good Samaritans have helped me, so off with the seat and give him a few amperes to get him going.

I had the most unusual campsite overlooking the coast. A ten odd mile lumpy dirt road led up "TV Towers Road". Cresting a hill suddenly bang! I was above the clouds, sharing the sight with dozens of others, spread out camping along the road. I set up below said TV towers for the night, well away from anyone else. The "clouds" are actually a sea mist that rolls in every afternoon, blanketing the coastal towns. Once the sun set, beams of light from those towns shot through the clouds in weird lines. Above were a million stars. Only the wind to hear. Surreal.

Morro Bay is a sweet little coastal town. Along its waterfront are quaint shops and eateries, including a superb French bakery. Their strawberry + cream croissant is decadent. I stayed in the local state park; these cost a little bit, but provide a quiet spot with reasonable facilities.

The rolly poly hills near the coast provide exciting road riding. Many examples, but a notable stretch is "Rossi's Driveway" as the local bikers call CA-229. I doubt The Doctor ever road it, but hey! Only six miles long, this twisty rollercoaster is an absolute hoot to fang along. Okay, the DR is not a fire breathing monster; still, getting it on a good lean then twisting the wrist coming out of bend after bend is thrilling. Perhaps there's space for a supermotard in the shed.

I didn't realise this was a competitive sport. My dear wife could be world champion.

Big Sur is a stretch of Pacific coastline rather like Victoria's Great Ocean Road: winding tar road cut into the cliffs, dramatic scenery of ocean waves crashing ashore, walking trails heading inland to damp forest, tourists dawdling in a procession. If it had Chinese visitors stopping in the middle of the road for photos, it would be complete.

A local park ranger suggested an interesting route. An eleven mile dirt track left Highway 1, rose up high in the hills, then dropped back down into moist valleys past rustic properties, before rejoining the tar. Not one other vehicle. Sure, the coastal road has the sights, but for this little black duck, this gem was the day's highlight.

So what was the big cock up? In short, I lost my wallet for a couple of hours. Mass panic. Last used for a coffee way back, it was one of those cold shiver moments. There is an emergency cash + card stashed on the bike, so I raided these and set off back to cafe. Twenty five miles later, the staff of the restaurant laughed their heads off. Apparently I'd roared off at a thousand miles an hour, wallet had fallen off the bike and they'd stood there waving. What a twit.

So here I sit in an upmarket Carmel restaurant, munching on an excellent salmon pizza, sipping an even better Belgian dark beer and laughing at my stupidity. It'll cost a shedload, but it's a little celebration of stuff just working out sometimes. 

Life is good, if a bit crazy.

Here's one for my good mate Eddie (& a street adjoining the fairgrounds is "Casa Verde". It really should be "Casa Rojo", hey? If my baby don't love me no more ... I know her sister will).