Borders are such arbitrary things. Think about it: In suburban Portland, you cross a street and you're in a new city.

Typically the only way I notice I've crossed into a new Oregon county is that the road surface gets either better or worse. Seen from space, it turns out, Earth's countries are not actually pink and green and purple like the globe of my childhood.

Yet borders define us, beyond simple reason. We wage war on other people based on those lines. We debate about who can move across them and in which direction. We wave a particular flag and sing a specific song at the Olympics. Borders are important to us.

Even if we choose to define ourselves by them, sometimes borders are not clear. Or real. For a relatively tiny group of people who live within a section where California and Oregon meet, their real home state -- what they call the "State of Jefferson" -- exists only in their minds.

But you can visit Jefferson, and it's a place worthy of exploration. Along with 2,000 fellow cyclists, I spent a week there last September. And I didn't need a "Welcome to" sign to know I was crossing a border.

Throughout the late 19th century and into the first half of the 20th, a general political dissatisfaction arose among the residents of the ruggedly rural stretches of northern California and southern Oregon. Philosophically, it came down to the feeling that the folks making decisions in Sacramento and Salem weren't exactly tuned in to life in the hinterlands.

According to a

: "The abundant supply of minerals and timber in the region was largely inaccessible due to the lack of sufficient roads and bridges into the rugged mountain border country. The local pioneering people grew weary of unfulfilled promises from Salem and Sacramento to help fund sufficient highway projects in the region while building campgrounds in cities where there were more votes."

Things got truly interesting in November 1941, when representatives from three northern California counties (Del Norte, Siskiyou and Trinity) and one southern Oregon county (Curry) met in Yreka to discuss the situation. With no apparent solution in sight, a serious secession movement was born.

Caught up in the ensuing excitement, the Yreka newspaper held a contest to name the new state. The winning nomination invoked our third president, Thomas Jefferson, who once said "A little rebellion now and then is a good thing." At that point, Yreka was designated the temporary state capital, and groups of armed (but harmless) men began stopping traffic one day a week on the highway outside town to hand out their "Proclamation of Independence" to drivers.

"The 49th State ...

Among the language in the officious little proclamation were these tidbits: "You are now entering Jefferson, the 49th State of the Union ... This State has seceded from California and Oregon this Thursday, November 27, 1941 ... Patriotic Jeffersonians intend to secede each Thursday until further notice."

The putative state made headlines around the world, and the San Francisco Chronicle sent a young reporter named Stanton Delaplane to cover the uprising; he wrote a series of articles that later won him a Pulitzer Prize.

On Dec. 4, the people elected Yreka Judge John L. Childs "governor of Jefferson." A torchlight parade and a festive inauguration followed, and Hollywood newsreel cameras captured the events.

The flag of Jefferson, a green field emblazoned with the state's gold seal, which contained a pair of X's to denote being double-crossed by state governments, flew proudly.

Three days later -- Dec. 7, 1941 -- everything changed, with the bombing of another place that was trying to become a state: Hawaii. Jefferson's citizens turned their attention to protecting their country, not fighting for their statehood. The Hollywood newsreels never aired. Good roads finally were built into the backcountry -- to access resources for the war effort. The movement for the State of Jefferson faded into history.

Focus shifts

Last year I rode Cycle Oregon on a loop through southern Oregon and northern California; the event was dubbed the "State of Jefferson" ride. And, sure enough, I saw Jeffersonian references in many places. A hay barn along Interstate 5 with "State of Jefferson " painted on its large roof. A stretch of highway kept clean by the "State of Jefferson Chamber." A local vendor booth selling State of Jefferson T-shirts, hats and flags. Heck, the local public radio network is officially known as Jefferson Public Radio. Maybe the movement still lives?

Curious, I took the time to ask a few people along the way what the State of Jefferson means to them today. Reactions were mixed. I found a split between two camps: those who see the State of Jefferson as a whimsical concept, a piece of interesting history; and those who see it as an identity badge for their gripes, political beliefs and rural lifestyles.

But nearly everyone spoke of the region's great natural beauty -- the forests, the streams, the wildlife and the ability to live amid nature.

"It's not a political thing for us at all," says Mark Butterfield of Jefferson Public Radio in Ashland. "The region we cover encompasses the entire mythical State of Jefferson, so it was a natural for us to come up with something identifying with Jefferson. But we're not part of a movement. We just have a respect for the notion of different-ness."

Regional pride

"We don't take it that seriously," said Mallory Pierce, sitting comfortably in a folding chair in her driveway as a stream of riders chugged up a long grade outside Ashland. "It's more about how you identify with this part of the country; it's a feeling of regional pride."

Visiting the State of Jefferson

It's not as if they have a state tourist map or anything. It's even a little hard to define when you're in Jefferson; the "borders" shift according to what source you're looking at. But there are many good places to explore that at the very least embody the natural wonders that Jeffersonians feel a connection with.

This 108-mile-long route, part of the National Scenic Byways Program, begins by following California 96 west along the Klamath River just outside Yreka, turning north into Oregon after reaching the optimistically named town of Happy Camp. The riverside stretch is gorgeous, and this area is the real hotbed of separate-statehood sentiment. Leaving Happy Camp, the road turns up for a magnificent climb through forested slopes, coming down into the hamlet of O'Brien on U.S. 199.

U.S. 101:

For my money, the Oregon's southern coast from Bandon to the border is the best stretch in the state -- staggeringly rugged and beautiful, and vastly less crowded than the central and northern sections. Highlights include Cape Blanco, Port Orford, Cape Sebastian and the views coming down from Cape Ferrelo toward Harris Beach State Park just north of Brookings. Then you hit California and the coast redwoods, an entirely different treat.

Oregon Caves and U.S. 199:

Because of its isolation -- it's literally at the end of the road -- Oregon Caves National Monument requires planning to visit. But it's a gem, and no self-respecting Oregonian can live in the state without making the effort to take the tour through the marble halls (open late March through November). Then, while you're down that way, follow U.S. 199 southwest for a lovely taste of the majestic redwoods. Between Gasquet and Crescent City is one of the wildest, winding stretches of tree-slalom you'll ever drive.

This natural attraction is also not really on the way to anywhere, but it's worth the side trip. Take the three-mile (round-trip) trail to visit the charmingly named Bumpass Hell, a 16-acre bowl full of mudpots, hissing fumaroles and boiling pools. Or take the opportunity to scale a 10,000-foot-peak -- it's really just a good uphill hike that starts at 8,500 feet, but it sounds impressive to friends. (The peak trail, which was closed after a slide, is scheduled to open again this summer.)

If all you've heard about in southern Oregon is Ashland, you're missing out. The nearby historic town of Jacksonville offers a lovingly restored Old West atmosphere, with antique stores, galleries, good food and rustic lodging. There's also the local Britt Festival in the summer, which attracts big-time acts. And the anachronists out there can even take a tour of the town on a Segway.

If you like taking the concept of "getting away" to an extreme, here's a place for you. Otter Bar Lodge Kayak School, on the Salmon River in northern California, is so far out there that it has to generate its own power. It offers weeklong kayaking-instruction vacations in a remote but far-from-primitive atmosphere (massage, hot tub, wood-fired sauna). From my experience, if driving the road to get there doesn't petrify you, the kayaking will seem easy.

-- Jim Moore

Perched on a picnic table in a leafy park in Happy Camp, Calif., Karen Toulledo called the State of Jefferson "an emotional thing. It's about interconnection. It's recognition of this being an amazing place. The State of Jefferson is pretty much just the area around us."

And then there were the semi-serious secessionists. Josh, a disaffected twentysomething from Mount Shasta, Calif., would "totally, 100 percent" support a separate state, and he estimated that 90 percent of the people in the area feel that way. Mike Hood of Klamath River, Calif., said: "We end up with laws that apply in Sacramento or San Francisco, but don't fit here. Politicians think Redding is the state border."

I spoke at length with Brian Peterson, one of the separation movement's leaders. He is a passionate, intelligent and well-spoken advocate for some ideas that seemed conspiracy-theorist crazy.

His arguments boil down to the idea that locals should be allowed to manage their own natural resources without government interference -- although he wants to create a new government to do this. He spoke of the 10th Amendment, PC thinking, resisting government oppression and forming a new Jeffersonian national political party. He recognized that the region doesn't have enough people to make anything happen in the current political system, yet he held out hope that a new state could happen in his lifetime, "depending on world affairs."

Us-versus-them

Although they come from many different angles, most locals express a sense of tribalism about Jefferson -- an us-versus-them thing anyone who feels disenfranchised or different on any level recognizes. It's a way to make a connection with people through a sense of place.

I encountered aging hippies, chamber-of-commerce types, pot growers, the gun-rack crowd, shop owners and schoolteachers. And they all expressed a fierce pride in, and a deep fondness for, their corner of the country.

My overall impression? The State of Jefferson is less about definition than perception. To some it's a political movement. To others it's a sense of neighborhood. Still others see it as merely a shared bit of historical eccentricity.

Like so many of the invisible bonds that disparate groups of people feel, what it means is more important than what it is. The borders of it are not really that important.

-- Jim Moore, Special to The Oregonian