A mysterious stop at a roadside shrine spooky fate or creepy coincidence?
By RJ “Cowboy” Carter
(As seen in Thunder Press Magazine)
ear Jenkinson Lake, California…finally, my day off. That morning, I crawled out of bed to find a “honey-do” list a mile long from my wife “catnip”. Hmmm… let’s see now, goats are in the chicken coop again, brush needs burning, go to the feed store etc, etc. Yeah, looks like things are getting a little ratty around the “Ol’ Lazy C Ranch”, but for some other unexplainable reason I’m being drawn to my scooter like Mr. T to a jewelry store. So I’m thinking to myself, chores, bike ride, chores, bike ride. You can guess which one won. The funny thing is I had totally intended to get up in the morning and be a completely responsible husband, but for some supernatural reason it just wasn’t going to happen.
The road in front of my ranch runs straight into some of the Sierras prime scooter riding country and I had been hearing a lot good things about an old Saloon up Highway 88 so I thought I would give it a try and shoot on up for a cheeseburger and a cocktail. I pointed my scooter due east and cracked open some major throttle. In about 20 minutes I reached scenic Jenkinson Lake and the turn-off to the old Mormon Immigrant Trail Road. I knew about twenty or so miles up this road was Highway 88 and on that stretch of road, the saloon I had been searching for.
It wasn’t long before a very curious thing happened. While calmly cruising along about 45 mph and taking in all the wonders of an early morning in the Sierras, I became so immersed in my thoughts I seemed to forget where I was and what the hell I was doing. The next thing I knew, on a perfectly clear smooth, well-paved road, there was a rock the size of a bowling ball slamming into the rim of my front tire. Legs flying, head bobbing, struggling to keep my old chopper underneath me, I immediately pulled over to check the damage. Not bad, no big deal, just a slightly bent rim, but just then, as I stood there a strange feeling came over me. I looked up and happened to notice right beside me, on the hill amidst the vast green forest, was a row of 5 large white crosses. Not on the road side, like you see most often, but above the road, maybe 15 feet up on the edge of a tall embankment. Large and uniformed they loomed over me like an eerie beacon or ghostly testimonial. It was right then and there that I realized I wasn’t there by mere chance and a rather strong feeling came over me that somehow, someway; I was brought to this exact spot for a reason.
Now, I know what you are all thinking; it’s starting to sound a little bit like some crazy ghost story. Well you haven’t heard anything yet and it’s all true. For some reason I felt I had to get a closer look and for another reason I can’t explain, I even packed my camera, fresh film, and my tape recorder for the ride. So there I am all 265 pounds of me, clawing and scratching, my way up the side of the embankment, grabbing pine trees, cussing, swearing and painfully coming to the stark realization that there isn’t anything in the forest this time of year that doesn’t sting ya, stick ya or bite ya. Beat to hell I finally make my way to the top and try to steady myself by clutching onto one of the large white crosses. It was then I saw behind the crosses, a small clearing, which contains a really eerie sight. Perched atop a large concrete pedestal, was a burned up motor of a Harley Davidson with a large plaque attached. The last paragraph seems to sum up the feelings of those loved ones left behind to morn. It reads, “This marks one of the worst tragedies in motorcycle history. The purpose of this memorial is to never forget those of us who have fallen, and to remind us how precious life is and how quickly it can be taken away. Live to ride, ride to live, God speed and please be careful.”
Every rider who visits the site seems to leave something in remembrance. The entire memorial was covered and lovingly adorned with relics, mementos, knick-knacks and other offerings laid there in honor of the fallen riders. Even the crosses, themselves, sported bandanas, key chains, and flowers from recent visitors to the shrine.
The scene reminded me of a verse I once read in an old cemetery on a rustic old tombstone. I have no idea who wrote it, but it when something like this. “And alien tears will fill for them pities long, broken urn for their mourners will be outcast men and outcast always mourn.” Now if you read this to yourself between 10 and 200 times it will begin to make perfect sense, especially to the old bikers like myself.
So anyway, as I stood in this forest primeval listening to the deafening silence, the only sounds were those of the wild birds nesting in the vast manzanita bushes nearby. And while gazing up at the majestic old growth pines, I realized this is probably the most tranquil, serene and peaceful place on earth. I had been there almost a half an hour by then, and not one car had passed by on the road below to interrupt me paying homage to my newfound friends. Friends I never would of had the chance to meet if not for their death.
No worse for the wares, I stumble back down the hill and make it back to my scooter. I quickly decided that by now my initial destination of the old saloon might as well be on the dark side of the moon, so I turned and headed for home. A couple miles down the road I began to get another strange feeling. The kind of feeling you get when you’ve got some unfinished business or like you’ve forgot something. Even stranger it was more like I had forgotten something back at the memorial. So I whipped my chopper around, bent rim and all, and headed back to the site as if someone was telling me “hey get your butt back here, you missed something.” But what could I have missed, what else is there? Wow, wait a minute, here it is, a small road I didn’t see before, just off to the right in the trees, just as you get to the site where the horrible accident happened that day. I followed it, stopped and found a trail all the way up to the monument. I didn’t need to climb the side of the hill after all, there was 50 yards of level raked walkway all the way to the top of the hill where the monument stands. Groomed and maintained, it makes it an easy walk for all visitors, even the larger folks like myself. It was obvious now that somebody or something had called back to this spot to show me what I had missed before and what they had desperately needed me to see.
Shocked and a bit stunned by all this, my next thought was, okay, “closest bar.” After that, it was on to the office of the Mountain Democrat, the local newspaper in town, to find out more about the accident. Since it almost was 17 years ago, they had no record of it and referred me to the county library, where, and after a mile or so of microfilm, I found the story.
It seems it was the worst accident in El Dorado County history. The firefighters and emergency medical personnel that responded to the accident initially thought there were two dead bikers along with a truck that had caught fire. As they started putting out the fire, they started finding more and more motorcycle parts and more and more bodies. So gruesome was the scene that all the service personnel had to attend psychiatric sessions as a means of evaluating trauma induced by the grim tragedy.
The initial reports of the accident, which occurred 5 miles east of Sly Park Road on Saturday, September 2, 1989, were also incorrect stating that the bikes had inadvertently just hit some wood in the road. Not so, and after an extensive CHP investigation it was found that a 1-ton flatbed truck filled with firewood was westbound on Mormon Immigrant Trail. A pack of about 35 motorcyclists were riding behind each other two-abreast in the eastbound lane on their way to the annual Hope Valley Run. For unknown reasons, the truck lost control on a straight stretch of road. The truck traveled off the right side of the road, then apparently over corrected and the truck careened back across the westbound lane. When the truck entered the eastbound lane, the first two motorcycles in the formation struck the truck broadside. The truck then overturned directly into four of the cycles crushing them and their riders. At the same time, the large load of firewood spilled out onto the roadway forcing four more motorcycles to go down. Meanwhile the truck caught fire apparently due to a ruptured gas tank on one of the bikes or the truck itself, sending out a wall of flame engulfing everything.
Dead at the scene were Douglas Wall, 24, of Reno; Jeffrey Pearl, 41, of Foster City; Deborah Sund, 23, and her husband, Jeffrey Sund, 31, of Carmichael, along with James Carter, 35, of Sacramento.
So, I bet by now you’re asking yourself, what makes this a strange story? Well let’s see, okay, what on God’s green earth made me neglect my chores that day, I never have before to just go on a ride, and why in the world would I bring my camera to go have a cheeseburger. Also, after thirty-something years of biking, how in the world could I hit a rock that seemed to come out of nowhere at the exact spot of a horrific accident that occurred 17 years ago? Not convinced yet? Well, do you remember me telling you how I struggled up to the top of the memorial straight up the mountainside to the crosses? What I didn’t tell you in the beginning of this story was how one single cross stood out from the all rest and how it caught my attention right away. It wasn’t because that cross was any different from the rest, but it was the only one that was glowing bright white by a single ray of sunlight being cast directly upon it through the trees. Because it was glowing so bright is why I had singled it out, climbed the embankment and reached for it. While clutching this illuminated cross in my hands and steadying myself on the mountainside, I read the large inscription: James Carter. Just then everything became perfectly clear to me, why I was here, who brought me to this spot, the rock in the road, everything. I suddenly realized I wasn’t here by chance; I was summoned by James Carter to retell their story. You see, like my father whose name was James Carter; my name is also James Carter, just like the inscription on the cross. What are the odds? Spooky fate or creepy coincidence, you decide.
One thing is for sure, anyone whose ever been to the site will know what I mean when I say, “their all still there”. Jeff, Deborah, Doug, Jeffrey and James are all still there. You can feel them standing next to you in the gentle mountain breeze, you can hear them speak to you through your heart. All they ask is to please never forget how precious life is and how quickly it can be taken away, and that some day, if you have the chance, they’d like you to come up, visit and take the time to reflect and make some new friends.
Till next time, keep your knees in the breeze and please ride safe.
This story and pictures were sent to me by Ken Kinder who says: "Recently, I posted a story about our ride to Fallen Leaf Lake and our first stop was to introduce Howard and Dave to this memorial on Mormon Emigrant Trail. It is a roadside memorial about a group of motorcycle riders killed by a freak accident many years ago and the devastating effects it has caused over the years. I knew little about the facts of this accident until Johnny Owrstrich (a Pashnit member) asked for more information. I said I would ask around but prior to my questioning, Sydney another Pashnit member sent me this info VIA a link she had obtained."
Ken also wrote, "I was just wandering thru your web site and ran across the post about the fallen bikers and thought you might be interested in a reply to that story. I don't know if you know Don Wilson and his wife who lived in Chicago Park and now live on Dogbar Rd. Don's father Roy Wilson owned and operated the Questionmark Bar in GV that location is now the parking lot to the bank across the street from Marshals Pasties. Don is a long time resident of GV and in my wife Janey's class of 55. This is a reply he sent me after reading that story............"
"Hi Ken, Thanks for the mails on the rides you've taken. I could only get to the first one to Fallen Leaf Lake and was dumb-struck with the story of the five riders that were killed on the back road below Jenkinson Lake.
One of those riders, Doug Wall, was my son Andy's best friend and best man at Andy's wedding.
Nancy and I, along with all three of our boys, were on our roof re-roofing our home in Chicago Park when we got a phone call. Andy was called down off the roof to take the call and was stunned to hear that his closest friend had been killed when that wood truck had overturned into the path of that large group of riders.
Doug as well as the other four riders were killed instantly. Doug's sister-in-law, riding with Doug's brother Steve, sustained a badly broken leg. I can't recall the extent of injuries or how many other riders were hurt, but the horror of the accident is still fresh in Andy's memory after all these years.
We do recall, however, Andy wept for several days afterward, as we did. Doug lived up behind us in Chicago Park and was always coming down to our place to see Andy and hang out after raiding the refrigerator. Those two did everything together, along with Andy's younger brother Ben.
Doug was a giant of a young man, at 6'7" and close to 230 lbs. He was going to UN Reno on a basketball scholarship and had so much potential as an athlete.
Doug's parents and two brothers never got over their loss. His mother, Geri, suffered deep depression for years until she passed away a few months ago. It truly was a joy to have Doug around the house, always laughing and having fun with Andy. What a loss for so many people.
Thanks again, Ken. I'll get to the other stories after I get some chores done. Really good to see you and Janey again. Don"
