My Tour of the Western States

A group of motorcyclists hold an annual "Meet" at various locations throughout the country each year. This year's Meet was to be held in Montrose, CO. Not one to waste and opportunity, I saw that I could easily expand this trip to take in almost every western state. I would ride some amazing roads, see some amazing sights, and still attend the National Meet, all within just a couple of weeks.

June 17th ~ July 3rd 2005
Total Miles: 5,491 miles, 17 days
Seattle, WA to Montrose, CO and return
Tickets: 1
Mishaps: 0
Puckers: 0

Click for larger image

Day 1 – 203 miles
Quitting time was officially 5pm but my coworkers were sympathetic to my plight and encouraged me to leave early. I was about to embark on a journey through the Western States, as well as attend the 2005 Sport-Touring.net (STN) National Meet in Montrose, CO and I was eager to get started. By 4pm I was geared up and the bike, which I had ridden to work fully packed, was waiting for me in the parking lot. Good byes were said, a couple of pictures were snapped and I was soon making my way east through Seattle’s quaint neighbourhoods. I was on the road and feeling good! I had managed to travel about 3 miles when my journey stopped abruptly: I had hit Seattle’s “rush hour” traffic. Sigh. I slowly made my way through the city, weaving through cars and trucks, suffering in the heat in my full gear. I knew that this would be temporary and sure enough, I was soon rolling east on I-90 towards the beauty and cooler temperatures of the Cascade mountain range.

I was surprised at the amount of traffic over the mountains, but it was light enough not to impede me and I was able to enjoy the ride, feeling the power of the BMW 1150GS beneath me. It handled well even fully packed and with a full tank of gas. My new Aerostitch was comfortable and I felt ready for anything, including the rain that started to spit down on me as I crested the pass. The rain was hard but brief and I was drying out shortly afterward, but not after being quite chilled by the precipitation. I considered stopping to put on a sweater but was too lazy (a common trend you’ll see) and just braved the chill, figuring that things would warm up as I neared my night’s destination: Prosser, WA. This was to be a very short day, covering only 200 miles in 3 ½ hours. But it would give me a great head start on the next day’s ride, getting me further east earlier in the day on my not-quite-planned route to the STN National Meet and through all but two of the western states.

Mark, a fellow STNer, was kind enough to put me up for the night and I easily found his house in the quiet town of Prosser. It was after 8pm by the time I pulled into the driveway but both he and his wife and two of his kids were there to greet me. Some delicious chips and hot salsa was offered and the conversations ran on late into the night. We all eventually headed for our prospective beds and I soon fell asleep to the sound of wind in the eaves and crickets in the grass

Ready to leave from work	Entering Palouse country!

More rolling hills in Southeastern Washington	Part of Hell's Canyon Recreation Area

Day 2 – 605 miles
Mark and I discussed my day’s route over our non-breakfast and I decided not to go over Lolo Pass but instead to take an unknown route through Idaho and visit Craters of the Moon National Park, a place I had long been curious about. It didn’t take long to pack the bike back up and I was waving good-bye to Mark by 8am. I took the easy way east through the metropolis of the Kennewick/Pasco area and finally found peace in the secondary roads of southeastern Washington. Here the landscape undulates with vast stretches of wheat fields, some green in their newness and others golden with heavy ripe seed heads. There were fluffy clouds overhead and traffic was light. I was starting my first full day of what was going to be a 5,500-mile, 17-day trip through every western state except Montana and New Mexico. Life is good!

Then I got nailed for speeding. A State Patrol car, just outside of Dayton, WA, crested the rise coming toward me and reported that I was doing 74 in a 60. Personally I thought I was going faster, but I felt it prudent not to argue with him. He handed me the ticket to sign and stated that I had 15 days to respond. I informed him that I would not be back within 15 days, when he politely told me that as long as I contacted them, one way or another, within 15 days it would be ok. I tried to be calm, thinking of the countless times I hadn’t been stopped, but this really put a damper on the beginning of my trip. I felt hunted, as though a State Patrol lay around each bend and behind each bush waiting to snare me again. It took almost a full day to get over that feeling.

Riding through the Hell’s Canyon Recreation Area in Idaho helped a lot. It hadn’t taken me long to put the rolling hills of the Palouse behind me and enter the deep canyons and lush tree-covered hills of the Clearwater, Payette, Boise and Challis National Forests in Idaho. The road, Route 95, turned south shortly after crossing into Nez Perce country in Idaho, where it followed the merry course of the Salmon River. Roads that follow rivers are always good choices. They have lots of turns and good scenery, although this combination can often make for bad traffic situations where it’s difficult to pass. Fortunately, traffic was very light and I was able to stretch out the legs of the GS in brief spurts. What held me back most on this section was the weather. Remember those fluffy clouds back in Washington? Well here in Idaho those innocent-looking clouds were taking turns dumping rain onto the road. Every so often I’d come around a bend and find the rain coming down in sheets and a cold wind whipping it across the road in visible waves. I almost felt bad for the cruisers heading the other way, their faces scrunched up in grimaces of discomfort, holding onto their handle bars as though trying to absorb any heat from the bike itself into their own unprotected bodies.

Hell’s Canyon is a fairly well respected recreation area but I was still surprised by the number of little touristy towns along the way, ready to cater to the outdoor enthusiast and river rafter. I saw many trailers loaded with commercial river rafts and hip young people walking along the streets of towns that appeared to serve no other purpose than the tourists’ pleasure. I saw very few bikes parked in town, and most of the bikes I saw on the road were those of helmet-less, unhappy looking cruisers. I had the road to myself. Along one stretch there was a large grassy area to my right where numerous small personal aircraft were parked. Underneath their wings huddled tents and tarps while people mingled on the airstrip. I imagine it was some type of fly-in and I smiled at the fun that they must have, flying into different areas and camping out beneath their winged steeds, chatting with like-minded souls who shared their passion. They were like the airborne version of an STN Meet.

As I turned east at New Meadow to follow Route 55 along the east side of Lake Cascade I crested a pass that surprised me with hail. At first I thought it was just another hard rain, but then I saw the small white balls of cold bounce off my tank bag and sleeves and realized that it was hail. No sooner had I come to this conclusion than the hail became sleet and large patches of my vision were blurred as the wet snow-like substance stuck to the visor. This would be a good time to mention the beauty that is known as a Gerbing Heated Jacket. My BMW came equipped with an outlet that allowed me to plug in the equivalent of a heated blanket. Heat radiated from the jacket under my ‘Stitch, enveloping me in a dry warmth that made me smile and tingle with pleasure. Let it snow, dammit – I was ready for it! Just as quickly as it started, the precipitation stopped and I admit to feeling an inkling of disappointment. To compensate, I stopped in McCall for soup and salad. There were two fully loaded KTMs in the parking lot and while the owners gave me a brief smile when I walked in, neither appeared interested in conversation. I ate alone, wrote in my journal a bit and was soon back on the road.

Before leaving Prosser, Ol’ Rocket had suggested that I take a detour through the Sawtooth Mountain Range. Again, not having any real route planned I had agreed and I was now on my way to the snowy peaks that pierced the clouds. The road followed another river, this one the South Fork of the Payette. The river had carved a nice canyon and I was gaining elevation quickly as I rode through infrequent towns. The Sawtooths were indeed beautiful, but I confess that I am spoiled. Many times a year I ride through the North Cascades in Washington State where I am presented with high peaks, jagged cliffs and lush trees whose spires compete with the mountains for the skies. The Sawtooths, while beautiful, were competing against some spectacular ranges and I think that the Cascades won. This isn’t to say that I didn’t enjoy the ride. On the contrary, it was pleasant to ride through unknown territory, never quite sure what the next bend would present me. The weather was fickle and cool until I started to come down out of the mountains and entered the flat lands of southern Idaho. It was getting late and I could see my shadow falling further across the road with each mile. I was hoping to reach Craters of the Moon that night for camping, but the dusk that was falling made me question whether or not I’d make it. I wasn’t sure what type of road led there, nor exactly how long it would take. And setting up camp in the dark isn’t exactly fun. Add to that the possibility that the campground could be full and I decided to take the next spot I found for my tent. That turned out to be Carrey, ID. I had passed a sign that read “Motel/RV parking”. I circled back after realizing that I had essentially already ridden through the town and there were no other options. The “motel” was actually three small rooms facing a gravel parking lot next to a bar, and the “RV parking” was a chain linked fenced-in grassy area behind the motel. There were some derelict trailers there, and one man was playing with his dog outside of his. I asked him who was in charge of the “RV parking” and he directed me to the bar. I wheeled the GS back out to the street and after carefully parking it on the gravel I walked into the bar. There were a few locals inside and the TV was playing mindlessly in the corner. The waitress finally responded to my summons and informed me that camping was $15 for the night. It seemed steep for a patch of grass, but it was late and I was ready to stop. I asked about bathrooms and she motioned to the restrooms at the back of the barroom. I then asked how early they’d be available in the morning and she said that the bar opened at 11am. I must have looked dismayed because she then pointed to the convenience store across the street and said that they open at 6 or 6:30 in the morning. Satisfied, I went outside, circled back to the “RV Parking” and selected my spot. The tent went up quickly and after listening to the town’s dogs bark at every shadow, I eventually fell asleep.

I finally got a picture with this sign!	Beautiful Idaho roads

Sawtooth Mountains	Camping in Carrey, ID

Day 3 – 567 miles
The first plane took off from the local airstrip at 6:30 am. Not to be deterred, I stayed in my tent for another 15 minutes before I realized that the rising sun was going to bake me unless I got up and got moving. I walked across the street to the convenience store only to find it conveniently not open. I had to pee and nothing else was around so I ducked behind one of the empty trailers and took care of things. The bike was packed and I was soon heading into the sun. Destination: Craters of the Moon.

I have always seen Craters of the Moon National Monument on maps and wondered just what it would look like. It looked like nothing I expected. One minute I’m riding along, surrounded by the arid vegetation of southern Idaho and the next minute I know there’s nothing but rocks. Dark, jagged rocks scattered for as far as I could see. I came upon the entrance to the Monument and saw a pleasant campground full of trailers, RVs and tents. The entrance booth was still empty (it was before 8am) so I rode past and began my own tour of the park. Wildflowers abounded in the seemingly desolate ground and plaques marked important historical and geographical locations. After taking pictures that would not do the flowers or the harsh landscape justice I exited the park. By then the park ranger was there to check my National Parks Pass and cheerfully gave me the standard issue map of the park before I left.

It should be mentioned that my route was not entirely unplanned. I had made arrangements to meet with Jean-Francois, an STNer from Ottawa, Ontario, sometime on Monday in Custer, SD. Therefore, I had two days to cross two states and enter the third. No problem. I decided to gas up in Arco, ID and was pleased to learn that Arco is known not only for being the first city to be powered entirely by atomic power, but it is also the home of the Glow In The Dark Toilet Seat! I was sorely tempted to buy one (there was one hanging behind the counter at the gas station) but the prospect of hauling around a toilet seat for the next 12 days did not appeal to me, although I’m sure it would have made for some interesting conversations.

After chatting with the locals in Arco I made a beeline for the Wyoming border. This is not a difficult thing to accomplish, as there’s very little to get in the way except for the city of Idaho Falls. I somehow managed to miss the turn off for the side road I intended to take and I spent a bit of time meandering other side roads in search of it. Being in no hurry, this caused no problems other than the fact that it was getting warm out. I eventually made it to Swan Valley, ID where I chose the northern route to Jackson, WY and crossed over Teton Pass (elev. 8,429’). At the pass I stopped for a photo of the back of the Grand Tetons and talked casually with some cruisers who were on a grand tour of their own, coming back to Missouri (?) from a trip to California. After taking my leave I passed through the bustling town of Jackson and continued north. The road runs parallel to the massive Tetons, whose snowy peaks reflected the brilliant sun of a warm June day. Crowds of vehicles were trapped behind RVs as tourist stared at the extensive and seemingly perfect line of the mountain range. I had hoped to make it to Yellowstone on this trip, but seeing this line of traffic and knowing that it would only get worse once I entered the park (and on a weekend, no less) I was pleased with my decision to instead explore the inner sanctum of Wyoming. I’ve seen Yellowstone before, and I’ll see it again someday. At Morton Junction I turned away from the hoards and the sentinel range that guarded the horizon and headed southeast. I wandered through graceful curves and tree-covered hills. The occasional rock formation would appear from behind a nearby ridgeline, startling me with its bareness and colourful rock layers. I stopped in Dubois for a bite to eat and found two other riders that had just arrived. Like the KTM riders in Idaho, they smiled at me but invited no conversation. I ate alone again while pouring over maps and my journal, content with my own thoughts and plans. After lunch I continued southeast until I reached Riverton where a bank sign was kind enough to inform me that it was now 96 degrees. I turned north to examine the Wind River Canyon, a road and place that had been suggested by others as “not to be missed”. And it wasn’t! Amazing geological history, high canyon walls displaying various layers of rock types and colours, a fast, sweeping road that followed the rushing Wind River; it was all there. It was also hot. By now it was after 5pm and I kept waiting for the sun’s powerful rays to diminish, but they wouldn’t. I pulled off at a small park to wait out the heat but to no avail. It was actually a good excuse to relax and enjoy the beauty around me and I wasn’t really that concerned about the heat. In due time I geared back up and finished the last of the canyon’s curves before breaking out of the gouge in the earth and returning to a relatively flat landscape. I had been over Big Horn Pass a couple of years ago and decided to take a new route towards South Dakota. I turned right at Worland (now 99 degrees at 6:30) and followed Route 16 through a charming town called Ten Sleep. There are a couple of versions of how the town got its name, the most interesting being how many nights, or “sleeps”, an Indian party stayed at this spot after a hunting and raiding party returned (http://tensleepwyoming.com/history/index.htm). After passing through Ten Sleep the road climbed quickly through a deep canyon and into high tree-filled mountains. It was a welcome chill that came over me as I crossed over Powder Horn Pass (elev. 9,668’) and I continued to put the GS through its paces through the corners. The road first climbed up one side and down the other of the Big Horn Mountains, eventually bringing me to Buffalo, WY. The sun was setting as I pulled into town and found a welcome sign of cabins and tent space. The proprietor was extremely friendly: she called me by name after our introductions, offered me route suggestions in Colorado (she used to live there) and welcomed me to hot chocolate in the morning. There were laundry facilities and limitless hot showers on site as well. It was a very cozy atmosphere and I felt immediately at home. The clouds caught the sunset just as I finished setting up the tent and I couldn’t resist taking pictures of the amazing shapes and colours. I slept very well that night, with only the neighbour’s puppy whining to be let in to disturb the silence.

Rare flowers at Craters of the Moon	Craters of the Moon National Park

Tetons as a backdrop	Grand Tetons, Wyoming

Colorful rocks and fast streams	Wind River Canyon

Evening clouds over Buffalo, Wyoming	More clouds

Day 4 – 249 miles
I had less than 250 miles to ride and all day to do it in. I was in no hurry today as I looked over my Wyoming map and planned my route. Custer is located almost directly east of Buffalo, WY, reachable by I-90 to the north or various major secondary roads to the south. The topography on my map didn’t show any major mountain ranges to cross, or canyons to plumb, so it looked like a brief, uneventful day of riding. Then I saw it: the gray squiggle. This is the reason I wanted the GS: to no longer look at a gray squiggle on the map and hesitate, wondering if it was paved or in what kind of shape it was in. The GS would get me anywhere I wanted to go. Perhaps a bit slower than the interstate, but it would be a heck of a lot more interesting. The gray squiggle on my map merely chopped a corner off in reaching the southern secondary roads towards Custer, but any chance at adventure was not to be scoffed at! I efficiently packed up the bike and rode quietly out of the campground to find the fabled “Road to Sussex” (“Sussex” being the town at the other end of the gray squiggle). A short jaunt down I-87 led me to the unmarked exit that would – in theory – lead me to the gray squiggle, and therefore, Sussex. It was called Trabling Rd on the sign, and the next sign I saw proclaimed this as a Stock Trail. As evidenced by what was left all over the road at frequent intervals it was apparent that the sign was not in error. Fortunately it looked as though it had been some time since the stock had been herded down this road and there was nothing threatening by what they had left behind. The road was paved but narrow and unpainted. A few ranches dotted the landscape but other than that it was a green and treeless expanse of land that lay before me. In fact, I was just noting the lack of trees when I saw them: all three of them, huddled in a draw. There were actually four trees there, but one sported no leaves, so I didn’t feel that I should include it in the count. More trees eventually showed up along this route, but they were definitely in the minority. The ranches disappeared behind me and no more came to take their place in the view before me. The road turned sharply to the left, with a dirt track continuing forward. No signs to confirm which was the way to Sussex, so I put my logic to work and followed the pavement. A couple of pronghorn answered my question of why they needed to put No Hunting signs up on the fences. The few cows that I did see regarded me with suspicion on a scale that I had never seen before. I honestly doubt that any of them had seen a motorcycle before. Either that or the deer whistles really do work.

The pavement ended a few miles later, with the road continuing along in a charming mix of loose gravel and soft dirt. I slowed down to 30mph and took my time negotiating corners and enjoying the feeling of being completely alone and – quite possibly – lost. Churning through the dirt at this relaxed pace I noticed a small dark shape in the middle of the road ahead of me. As I approached, it stood up and flew away. It was a mallard duck, here in the middle of Nowhere, Wyoming, with nary a body of water for miles. After stopping for some pictures of the road and the scenery I noticed a pickup truck in my mirrors, some distance back. I waited for him to reach me and then flagged him down. He politely turned off the motor of his truck and his dog watched attentively as I asked him if this was the road to Sussex. He looked at me a moment and then in a slow drawl, replied “Well yeah. You can get to Sussex from here”. He said it in such a way as to let me know that no fool would chose this way to go to Sussex, let alone want to go to Sussex, when there’s a perfectly good interstate not more than a few miles to my right. He then proceeded to describe the road, with the Y turn and when the pavement began and then met up with the highway and Sussex. I thanked him for his time and the information and let him lead the way. Not wanting to choke on his dust I made no effort to match his speed and instead tooled along at my previous unhurried pace. Sure enough, I found the Y (more of T, but who am I to argue the alphabet with a local?) and just as foretold, precisely 16 miles later the pavement began again. The road was now following another river and the trees grew in profusion along the banks. More houses and ranches dotted the landscape. I had stopped at an old wooden bridge and watched a hawk soar above me while sparrows darted in and out of the trees. Everything was very green. I had been informed that Wyoming had a good snow pack and had also gotten a lot of rain recently which was evident in the high rivers and green fields. Eventually the pavement I was on met up with the major secondary road that I was anticipating. I passed three or four houses when I came upon a herd of cattle on the road with four cowboys looking like they weren’t quite sure what they were doing. I stopped, realized that neither the cowboys nor the cows were moving, and proceeded to thread my way carefully along the side of the road furthest away from the herd. The cowboys gave me no indication if I was doing the right or wrong thing so I just kept on going, gave them a polite nod as I passed them and waited an appropriate time before returning to normal highway speeds. And somewhere in that mess was the town of Sussex.

The remaining roads to South Dakota didn’t have a lot to offer. I spent the time traveling over the wide-open spaces guessing how many miles away the next landmark was, or looking for raptors, or anticipating passing the next vehicle that came into sight. But it was all beautiful country and I really love the palette of colours with the red road, green hills and blue sky. I eventually reached South Dakota and familiar territory. The route to Custer passes through dry pine forests, some of them fairly recently burned, and follows the contours of the hills and valleys leading to the Black Hills. It was noon when I arrived in Custer. I found the campsite Jean-Francois had reserved for us, set up my tent and went back into town for lunch. Unbeknownst to me, it would be another five hours before Jean-Francois would show up. I settled down with a book and relaxed in the pine scented forest of Custer State Park.

Jean-Francois arrived later that evening, we set up his tent and then went into town for dinner and a walking tour of Custer. We stayed up well after dark and attempted to read maps by candlelight and had a pathetic fire in the fire pit. We talked about our rides to get to Custer and what we had seen on the way. Eventually we retired for the evening in anticipation of exploring the Custer area in the morning before heading to Colorado.

Soft dirt and loose gravel = fun!	Following the landscape

Quaint little bridge	Wyoming surveying at its finest

Day 5 – 534 miles
As I was waiting for Jean-Francois the previous day I noticed that the tread on my rear tire had worn down considerably since leaving Seattle. When I had started on this trip I knew that I’d need a new tire by the end of it, and quite possibly sometime during it, but I was surprised by how little tread was on it at this time. Ah, Colorado wasn’t that far, and there was a BMW shop in Grand Junction if no one in Montrose was able to help me. Jean-Francois and I packed up the campsite and headed out for a leisurely tour through Custer State Park, Needles Hwy and Iron Mountain Road. We both felt it would be a shame for him to ride all this distance and not partake in the tight twisty roads of the park, view Mt Rushmore, or see the buffalo along the road. He was suitably impressed.

Not to be completely digitally isolated, we returned to Custer for breakfast and a brief dabble on the Internet. It was then that I found out that a good friend of mine, Doug, was planning on joining me in Moab, UT to tour the southwest with me. Yay! My Alaska riding partner was going to be able to partake in at least part of my adventure with me. Jean-Francois and I finished up our business in Custer and headed to Wyoming, where we rode south for mile after mile on Route 85, avoiding I-25 as much as possible. Near Cheyenne we again avoided the interstate by following Route 210 through Medicine Bow National Forest, which surprised me with its unusual rock formations and the return of trees to the landscape. After a brief jaunt on I-80 we exited at Laramie for a backdoor entrance into Colorado. By now my rear tire was worrying me slightly as I was noticing a serious decline in performance. Stupidity or naivety kept me riding, however, always believing that I’d make it to my destination. We were climbing into the mountains and soon found ourselves in a wide valley between two ranges of snow-capped peaks. The weather was cooperating nicely, although a bit of rain threatened to fall as we were about to cross into Colorado. At Walden (“Moose Viewing Capitol of Colorado”) we headed west on Route 14, where we continued to follow the wide valley. A young oxbow river fascinated me, with its banks looping back almost on itself over and over, the water threatening to break through the earthen walls at any minute. We came upon a sign proclaiming that we were at the Continental Divide. What I didn’t realize at the time, however, was that we were at a turn of the divide where the Pacific drainage actually pointed east, while the Atlantic drainage was heading west. And here I thought that the State had gotten the sign wrong… Rabbit Ears Pass (elev. 9,426’) had some snow along the side of the road but for the most part wasn’t terribly dramatic. It held some long sweeping curves as it gently descended west towards the skiing mecca of Steamboat Springs. Jean-Francois had mentioned dinner and for the first time that day I realized that I hadn’t eaten since leaving Custer. We both had a hankering for Pizza Hut, which I somehow managed to spot among the camouflaged storefronts of the tourist town, and we pulled over for dinner.

From here we had a choice: we could continue west towards Craig, where there was a known campground but few towns between here and there, or we could head south, where there were more towns but unknown accommodations. It was getting late and we knew that we wouldn’t be able to reach Craig by nightfall – what to do? I asked our waitress for her opinion, including road type, speed and accommodations for either direction. She suggested that we head south, as there were some nice cabins in Yampa, about 45 minutes away. That would put us there in the dark, but we decided to try it anyway. I’m not sure how slow she drives; Jean-Francois and I were there in less than 25 minutes (although we did see some deer and kept our speeds down accordingly). On the way to Yampa we passed through Oak Creek Canyon, a former mining site that is just now enjoying the last few stages of cleanup and restoration. It was interesting to see the remains of mines, buildings and the couple of towns that are struggling to hang on as their livelihood changes from industrial to quite possibly tourism, serving the patrons of nearby Steamboat Springs. As we pulled into the town of Yampa I was dismayed. Main Street was a dirt road divided by a lamppost boulevard. The liquor store was cute, but located next to a junkyard of parts and well, junk. The “cabins” were in a gravel lot behind this junkyard and the front was overgrown with weeds. We parked the bikes by the office where a dry erase board directed us to check in at the liquor store next door for cabin rentals. We did just that, with the young man behind the counter obviously new at the whole cabin rental job. He quoted us a price of $60 for a cabin with two beds – I was floored by the price. Sixty dollars for this hole-in-the-wall? But split two ways, and it being late at night and at high (read: cold) elevation, I agreed to it, as did Jean-Francois. We took the key and moved our bikes to the front of our cabin. I opened the door and my eyes grew wide: it was beautiful!!! The cabins were well-constructed, the beds covered in thick featherbed blankets, a wood burning stove stood in the corner, a dorm-sized fridge and microwave oven took up a little space next to the door. Useful hooks were placed on the walls. The main light source was an antler chandelier. It was all very tasteful and charming. And then we discovered the bathhouse: a full sized hot tub, ready to go. New and modern showers and bathrooms, decorated in the same manner as the cabin rooms. Even the towels were thick and soft, not like those sandpaper bits you get at commercial motels. I was impressed. And the hot tub was very nice.

Pigtail bridge in Custer	Another view

Entering Medicine Bow in Wyoming	East is not to the right

Fluffy beds in Yampa	Playing with the GS

Day 6 – 216 miles
The tire was getting worse. Fortunately this was to be a short mileage day for me and although it was difficult to resist the lure of the corners, I took it easy through the canyons. The roads were all perfect, with excellent surfaces, scenery to distract you and enough curves to keep me off the worn center of my tire. We hopped on I-70 through Glenwood Canyon and found that this was no ordinary stretch of Interstate! Some engineering masters were hard at work when this section was built. Stacked lanes, lanes carved into the sides of the canyon, lanes that curved far out over the river below… it was all amazing and well thought out. And it was also over quickly. We exited at Glenwood Springs where we then followed Route 133 over McClure Pass (elev. 8,755’) and down towards the Gunnison River. It was at Hotchkiss that Jean-Francois and I stopped for lunch and parted ways. My tire decreed that I take the most direct route to Montrose, while Jean-Francois’s sense of adventure required him to go through the Black Canyon of the Gunnison to get there. I think he got the better end of the deal.

I took the shortest, and therefore dullest, route to Montrose and rolled into the parking lot of the hotel at 12:30pm. There were a few STNers already there and it was fun to watch everyone else roll in by ones and twos. The hotel was set up well for our event, and I was lucky to find a motorcycle shop with tires for my bike literally one mile from the hotel. I made the appointment for the next day, knowing that once again I was going to be at a Meet and not be able to go on the local rides. But this was as good excuse as any: my tire was bald to the point that the cord was showing and it wouldn’t hold air. I could go no further on this shoe.

The dinner that night went over well, although it was a bit late in getting started. There were lots of prizes to raffle off, and some bad news circulated about a few downed riders (all of whom are well on the road to recovery as of this writing), and I think everyone had a pretty good time. After the meal the group did the usual “stand around in the parking lot and look at bikes” sort of thing. Riders discussed their routes to the Meet, their plans for the next day’s ride, the latest additions to their bikes or even the latest bikes themselves. It was just what we enjoy doing when we can’t ride.

Entering Colorado from the north	Happy rider

Cool and refreshing waterfall	Racing slicks on a GS??

Day 7 – 2 miles
There would be no riding for me today. I did take the bike one mile to the shop at 8 am that morning, in anticipation of it being done “sometime in the afternoon”. I walked back to the hotel, caught a ride into town with some other STNers, found that Montrose doesn’t have a lot to offer and went back to the hotel to sit by the pool and read. I did a load of laundry and took a dip in the pool and hot tub. I basically relaxed for a day – it was weird.

Other riders eventually trickled in from their rides and I got the call that my bike was done. I walked back down to the shop to pick it up and then rode the one mile back to the hotel. Nothing like high-mileage days to keep a sport-tourer happy… The group eventually headed to the Backwoods Inn, the restaurant next door to the hotel, for an informal dinner and afterwards we wandered back to the hotel for more bench racing. The night ended earlier than the previous night, as many riders planned on leaving early the next morning for their return trips home.

Day 8 – 236 miles
Three of the riders who went down on the way to the Meet were at St Mary’s in Grand Junction, CO. A small group of us decided to pay them a visit on our way home and headed in that direction. Being true sport tourers we couldn’t take the direct route there and instead detoured through Grand Mesa National Forest. This was a pleasant road that wound its way gently up to the top of a large mesa, giving out views of the valley we had just left. I’m not sure of the elevation, but there was snow at the top and groves of fresh young aspen. It was these aspen that gave some other motorcyclists quite a bit of trouble. A small group of Germans had just passed me as I stopped to take some pictures and by the time I got back on the bike and caught up with them, one of them had struck a deer that had darted out from the trees. The rider had a broken leg, but otherwise was ok. It was startling to come around the corner and find a person waving frantically to slow down just as I saw the cruiser lying at the side of the road and other riders looking around anxiously. Emergency crews had already been called and I had nothing useful to offer them, so after deliberating for a few minutes I continued on down the other side of the mesa to wait for the rest of my group. We eventually regrouped, took a break before finishing off the last bit of canyon riding before we hit the super slab that would take us to Grand Junction.

After lunch in the cafeteria, which was surprisingly good, we said our good-byes and went our separate ways. I continued west on I-70 into Utah, where it tried to rain on me a little bit. I thought that the southwest was supposed to be dry? At Cisco I exited onto Route 128 for the “back way “ to Moab. Behold the wonders of Utah! Red sandstone, deep canyons, bizarre rock formations… it was as though I went through a door into another universe instead of just crossing a state line. I was mesmerized the entire way to Moab. The mesas, the cliffs, the headwaters of the Colorado River…it was all new to me and foreign to my Pacific Northwest sensibilities. And it was hot. But this was to be another short day, so I left my secret “its too hot” secret weapon in the side case of the BMW. I arrived in Moab and after a bit of hunting I finally found the Riverside Oasis Campground that Doug had chosen as our meeting place. Once again I was early and had plenty of time to set up the tent and relax with my book. After a few hours Doug pulled in on his GS – he had just ridden for two full days from Victoria, BC to Moab, UT to explore the southwest with me. We set up his tent and then headed into town for dinner. We made a short night of it as he was tired and sore and we had all of Utah to discover the next day!

Colorado near Grand Junction	Entering Utah for the first time

Day 9 – 61 miles
We didn’t go anywhere today. Doug’s ride to Utah took more out of him than he previously thought so we decided to relax in Moab and let him rest up for a bit. We packed up the bikes and headed to a motel in town so that we could be closer to the amenities that Moab had to offer. Moab is a very nice place with plenty of stores to browse and restaurants to chose from. I bought some heat-appropriate clothing and Doug got a haircut; it was a very relaxing day. But not too relaxing. We were mere miles from Arches National Park and I didn’t want to miss my chance of seeing it. Doug chose to stay at the motel while I hopped on the GS about an hour before sunset and took off up the road. The park was fairly empty of people, with most of the ones there already pulled off into vista lots or the campground. I rode down every side road, taking it all in from the back of the bike. I almost took the short hike to the Natural Arch, but when I considered the lingering heat and the setting sun, I decided that enough pictures had been taken of it that I didn’t need to add mine to the collection. I toyed with the idea of exploring the “4 x 4 Only” road that veered off of the main road, but the impending rain to the west told me that the ruts I saw in the dried mud would become snares for my tires in the blink of an eye. It turned out to be a wise choice, as about 20 minutes later the skies opened up and the rains fell. A spider web of lightning streaked across the sky and the rain came down in sheets, with a strong wind blowing it (and me) across the road in a haphazard fashion. Fortunately I was already on my way out of the park by the time the rain started so it was a brief ride back to the motel where I got off the bike, the ‘Stitch dripping wet but me feeling comfy and dry inside.

Arches National Park	Incoming storm

Arches National Park	Artsy-fartsy shot

Day 10 – 336 miles
We were finally ready to hit the road. The morning was cool and we pointed the bikes south from Moab down Route 191. The landscape was wide open, with more and more frequent mesas and “monument” type formations. There were occasional arches and the colours of the rocks varied from tan to red to pink. We stopped by the rock formation that gives Mexican Hat its name and decided to take the dirt road that leads to the base of the rocks and down to the river. I was completely fascinated by the ancient folded rocks that make up the banks of the San Juan River and the stark contrast of the green growth and the harsh red rocks. We took some pictures of ourselves and the bikes and the “Mexican Hat” itself before continuing to the town proper. As we were heading back to the paved road from the dirt roads we were playing on we saw that a tour bus had stopped to give its passengers a chance to get out and take pictures of the Mexican Hat rocks. A few of the photographers were apparently quite taken in by the sight we presented: two renegade off-road riders that appeared out of nowhere. We kicked up dust as they focused their cameras on us and quite a few lenses panned along as we rode past them and headed off into the distance. By the time we reached Mexican Hat it was lunchtime. Doug knew of a great little place to eat near the bridge over the San Juan that served some native dishes. Mmmmm, fry bread. It had been years since I’d had any!

After lunch we made a stop at Goosenecks. Doug had asked if I wanted to continue south to Monument Valley, but after looking at the haze in the sky I decided that I would be disappointed with any pictures that I took and that I was seeing plenty of amazing things as it was. Like Goosenecks! Those oxbow rivers that I loved so much in Colorado just got bigger and deeper. I could see tiny little splashes of colour on the river. Doug informed me that they were river rafters – amazing. The sheer size and depth of this section of the river is hard to fathom, and nearly impossible to photograph.

From Goosenecks we headed towards Moki Dugway (sometimes spelled Mokee Dugway – even the state couldn’t be consistent in their signage) The Moki Dugway is a three-mile section of dirt and gravel road that somehow traverses up the side of a mesa. I couldn’t see the road at all as I approached the mesa and it was impossible to try and figure out how I going to climb up the side of this cliff in just three miles on a road that is not apparent. I couldn’t even see the road when I was at the base of the mesa. But oh what a road it is! It twists and turns in a torturous route up the side of this mesa, climbing 1,100’ to the overlook at the top. The turns are tight and posted at 5mph, which, when you’re running on gravel roads, you take at 5mph. We met a couple of guys on a Dakar and a Trans Alp at one turn who were traveling together and they took a picture for us before we continued up on our way to the top. While the top of the mesa was just what one would expect, I was still surprised. I’m used to mountains that go up and then down, but to climb up a road like the Dugway and then come out onto a large flat plain – it just seemed weird. There was all sorts of vegetation along the way that precluded viewing anything of any distance, but it was interesting to look at nonetheless and a pleasure to see the variety of shades of green and textures after the relative lack of growth below the mesa.

Route 95 follows the White Canyon, so named for the bands of white rocks that abounded on both sides of the road, and provides continuous long, fast sweepers. Once again my preconception of Utah being full of nothing but flat and straight roads was shattered. It was a pleasure to drop down through some rough red rocks into a canyon that opened up to the wide plains above the very beginnings of Lake Powell and Glen Canyon Recreation Area. I was amazed at the level of the lake! In fact, if someone hadn’t told me otherwise, I would have assumed that this was just a river meandering through the ravines of Utah. Doug and I stopped at the Marina at Hite for an ice cream sandwich and to ask about the lake level. The gentleman working the store said that poor (read: no) snow pack for the last six years was causing the water levels to drop precipitously. Later, Doug pointed to a rock that he swam out to the last time he was here – and it was 30’ above the current water level. We left Hite, crossed the bridge to the other side of the canyon and quickly climbed to the top of a high mesa. From there we were able to look down on the marina and the “lake”. In the distance I could see the concrete pad that had been placed for easy boat launching and how it was at least 50’ above the waterline, leaving boats stranded literally high and dry. A vivid green belt of growth had taken over where the lake edge used to be and lent a surreal beauty to this otherwise desolate looking scene.

We turned our GSs to the west and headed for our next adventure: Capitol Reef National Park. The ride there was pleasant, following the Fremont River and passing through infrequent, small towns. The temperatures were pleasant, although stopping for any length of time became unbearable in our ‘Stitches, so we just kept on riding. The day was full of mid- to high-speed sweepers, excellent pavement and very little traffic. It was a pleasure to keep my new tires round as the GS met each successive curve with equal aplomb. Just before the town of Fruita Doug decided to get a closer look at the river that a side road apparently led to. We rode carefully down this rutted dirt road and were rewarded with a lush and quiet valley of greenness where the river had bent into a gentle curve, leaving a fertile crescent to the side. The water was warm but not very well suited for swimming. We poked around the underbrush and found some rusty hinges from an old shack of some sort, remnants of an era gone by. Then the fun started! The road we had come across had passed through a sandy patch of a dried up riverbed. It had startled both of us, but we had made it through. Now we had to re-cross it to get back to the main road. Doug went first, and by the time I put my gloves on and came around the corner I found him standing next to his bike, with the bike resting peacefully on its side. I made it next to him and we lifted the bike up into its proper position after snapping a photo of the downed bike for fun. No harm to either bike or rider, as the sand – while causing the fall, also cushioned it. Doug got back on the bike and plowed his way through the rest of the sand and onto the hard packed dirt beyond. I chose my line carefully and gently rolled on the throttle, easing the heavy bike through the soft sand and hoping that the front end wouldn’t wash out. It didn’t, and I was now on solid ground with Doug. We got back to the main road and continued on our way.

While I realize that I was wrong about my preconception that Utah would be flat and desert-like, I have to admit that Dixie National Forest completely floored me. Nothing but thick green pine trees and white aspen for miles. The road curved aggressively between stands of trees, giving me more of a workout in the corners than I had had in days. The fear of deer was always upon me, knowing that it was a similar type of forest that produced the deer that took out the German rider in Colorado, but I gamely stuck it out and tried to keep up with Doug. By the time we exited Dixie NF it was getting late again. We chose to stay in Boulder, UT (“Gateway to the Grand Staircase”) and found a nice little place to stay and a tasty restaurant for vittles. Over dinner we looked at our maps and saw a gray squiggle!! The road was called Hell’s Backbone and would completely cut out the Grand Staircase Escalante, but our sense of adventure was high after our earlier off road escapade. But then we thought about the fact that it was 44 miles of unknown road conditions and that it would be hot and uncomfortable if we had to pick up our bikes every few miles. We decided to forego Hell’s Backbone and instead stick to the pavement. We retired for the evening with the stars shining brightly in the sky.

The turn off to the Mexican Hat rocks	River along Mexican Hat

Mexican Hat	Goose Necks State Park

Looking towards Moki Dugway	The Moki Dugway road climbs this mesa

Looking back at the Moki Dugway road	The beginings of Glen Canyon

Coming out of Glen Canyon	Low water in Glen Canyon Dam

Day 11 – 277 miles
We loaded up the bikes and set off towards Grand Staircase Escalante. Both of our heads swiveled to look at the turn off to Hell’s Backbone, but we kept on going. A few miles later Doug pulled over. “Do you want to try it?” “Yes!!” We turned the bikes around and soon were riding on a well-maintained gravel road. And to add to the sense of adventure, the map indicated that this road would skirt completely around Box Death Hollow. What great names! The road wasn’t nearly as bad as we feared, although the gravel was a little looser than I would have like. We started out in green lowlands and rode past a couple of ranches before we gained elevation and views. Hell’s Backbone follows a ridgeline, but it’s not terribly obvious until you get to the one-lane bridge that crosses over a deep ravine at the top. The views were astounding, as was the absolute lack of any sign of humanity. None. We saw one dirt biker heading down just as we started coming up, but we hadn’t seen a soul since then, and there was no evidence of civilization other than the road we were on. We spent quite some time at the bridge taking pictures and just plain “taking it in” before getting back on the bikes and finishing our loop around Box Death Hollow. There were a few side roads off of the main road, most of them evidently trailhead access roads. We had to stop at one that was signed “Upper Death Access” – who could make it any easier? Eventually the road started to lose elevation and we found ourselves coming down long, fairly straight descents and the next thing I knew we were in Escalante. What a great adventure! It was neat to see something that we knew very few others had seen. We rewarded ourselves with some tasty sandwiches from the local eatery before continuing on to Bryce Canyon. As Doug & I sat in Ruby’s parking lot just outside of Bryce at 4pm we discussed what we wanted to see and what our options were. The north rim of the Grand Canyon was tantalizingly close, but we wouldn’t be able to do that and Bryce Canyon. I chose the Grand Canyon. We hopped back on the bikes and headed to Arizona.

The first few miles in Arizona were flat and fairly uninspiring. I could see the Vermillion Cliffs in the distance, but they were hazy and I was not impressed. But soon the road rose into the Kaibob National Forest and gave me plenty of twists and turns. I was leading this time and it was Doug’s turn to keep up with me. At Jacob Lake we turned south onto Route 67 and were rewarded with some amazing greenery that I didn’t think could exist in Arizona. A vast meadow surrounded by trees and carpeted with purple flowers became the focus of my fascination. We followed a most excellent road through the park, dispatching the occasional tourist with ease while still taking in the grandeur around us. The forest was dry pine with wide-open spaces beneath the high branches, giving it a magical park-like appearance. As I led us from corner to corner, mile after mile, I was taken by surprise when I looked off to the left and saw – nothing! There was the Grand Canyon! We had reached the North Rim Visitor’s Center and the terminus of the road. We performed some creative parking in the full lot and squeezed our bikes into a corner. Taking our cameras we first stopped at the Visitor’s Center to see if they had any room in the Lodge. Not surprising, they didn’t. The campground was also full. This meant at least a 17-mile ride back to the Kaibob Lodge and taking the chance that they had room. But in the meantime we were at the Grand Canyon with less than an hour’s worth of daylight. The canyons were filling with shadows but the setting sun illuminated higher points, giving dramatic contrast of colour and texture. We stood and stared for a long time. The cafeteria at the Lodge was open and it was late, so we grabbed a bite to eat before searching out accommodations for the evening. Leaving behind the beautiful Lodge, the cozy looking cabins and the spectacular scenery was difficult, but I didn’t want to sleep under my bike that night. The road out of the park was just as much fun going out as it was coming in, except now there were deer. Lots of deer. We arrived at Kaibob Lodge in the dark and were disappointed to learn that they were full and would allow no camping on their grounds. However, the clerk informed us that we were in the middle of a National Forest, where anyone can camp for free, anywhere beyond 100’ of the nearest road. She pointed out a road 2 miles back that many people camped off of and we were soon back on the bikes. The road was a well-maintained dirt road and we quickly secured a well-used empty campsite to put up our tents. Even at 8,000’ it wasn’t cold and the stars were brighter and closer than I’d ever seen them before. It was a good spot.

The base of Hell's Backbone	The bridge at the top (barely visible in previous pic)

Upper Death, anyone?	Zipping along the gravel

Bryce Canyon	The entrance to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon

Grand Canyon	The Lodge overlooking the Grand Canyon

Day 12 – 339 miles
I woke to the sound of gentle raindrops on the tent, smiled to myself and snuggled deeper into my sleeping bag. The birds were out in full force and provided a beautiful melody that all alarm clocks should endeavor to imitate. The rain was sporadic and sparse and didn’t hinder our packing of the tents and gear and before long we were back at the Kaibob for a rather uninspired breakfast. The woman in charge of the continental type meal kept referring to the food items by ending them with an “O”, as in “there are plenty of cere-o’s, (cereal) and bayg-o’s” (bagels)– Doug and I chuckled for a long time at that.

Coming back into Utah from Arizona I wanted to stop for some pictures of the red and pink rocks along the side of the road. I pulled off onto a side road and then saw that the side road had a side road – how perfect! I zipped down the red dirt road, somehow managed to power my way through the sand that surprised me at the bottom of a dip and parked the bike at the top of the next rise. Doug gamely followed me but gave me a serious questioning look as he parked the bike. We took some pictures, mused over an ancient outhouse and then prepared to leave. I pointed my bike back down into the sandy wash and after riding about 10 yards promptly fell over in the sand at the bottom. Doug called out, asking if I was ok. When I replied that yes, I was fine he said “Good, I’m going to take a picture!”. After the photo shoot he helped me get the GS upright again and we were back on the pavement in a matter of minutes.

It didn’t take long to get to Zion National Park from there. In fact, another one of the things that surprised me about Utah is how close everything is to each other. No sooner did I leave one Monument or National Park then I was approaching the next one. Either that or my perception of time is skewed because I’m simply enjoying all the time I’m spending on the back of the bike. Zion is amazing. This is a place where I would have to park the bike and spend 2 or 3 days hiking around in order to fully appreciate the vast beauty that is there.
As we exited out the west gate of the park it started to rain again. Apparently quite a storm system was sweeping through the West and we kept running into bits and pieces of it. We stopped for refreshments in Virgin, UT and here I pulled out my secret Heat Beating weapon. It’s a quilted vest made specifically to hold water. I soaked it thoroughly and put it on under my ‘Stitch. As the air flowed through the vents in my gear it pulled the water out of the vest, creating a sort of swamp cooler air conditioner. As long as I maintained speeds above 40mph I had enough air flowing over me to keep me cool.

Riding through St George, UT I could see the smoke from the forest fires that I had heard about on the news the other night. They were close enough to close the Interstate itself a couple of days ago. I saw at least five individual fires along the route to Las Vegas, and none of them looked like fun to fight in the heat of the desert. How do they do it? The Interstate was dull, with no variety and not much to look at. It dropped down into Arizona before crossing the Nevada state line, with very little changing to let me know that we were anywhere different. Las Vegas was visible from miles away and in the late afternoon heat it did not appeal to me at all, although I did enjoy looking at the fantastic structures and marveling that this place existed at all. As we finally crawled our way out of the other side of the city, the sheer number of cookie-cutter subdivisions that were being built struck me. Who would want to live here and why? It was 104 degrees in Vegas and it wasn’t even the first week of July. The only greenness that I saw was the artificially induced growth of palm trees in yards and boulevards. Ah, to each his own.

I had discovered the “flying squirrel” riding position. In order to fully take advantage of the vents and cooling vest I had to raise my elbows up and lean slightly forward. I also lifted my fingers from the grips over the hand guards to allow the air to pass through the perforated leather between the fingers. This allowed a maximum amount of air to flow through the ‘Stitch and my gloves and cool me off, but I also imagined that I looked fairly silly, like a flying squirrel preparing to land on a nearby tree. Oh well – I wasn’t out there for a fashion show.

Eventually Doug and I arrived in Pahrump, NV (apparently not home of anything in particular) and eventually found a much-needed air-conditioned hotel. After refreshing showers we walked to a nearby steakhouse, had a hearty and tasty meal and then wandered along the main strip of Pahrump. Not terribly interesting at all, but there was a Walgreen’s where I was able to buy some sundries that I needed. We made plans to leave early the next morning to avoid most of the heat, for our goal was to cross into California and through Death Valley.

A little exploration in Arizona	Leftovers

Sandy soil	I found these rocks fascinating

Oops!	Entering Zion National Park

Zion National Park	Stormy weather in Zion

Day 13 – 381 miles
The morning was cool, but I could tell that it wouldn’t take long for the sun to start baking the pavement again. We packed up the bikes and headed south to Shoshone, Ca. I wanted to check out a sign I had seen for “Dante’s View” – how could I resist? – and it was at the southern end of the Valley. Besides, I wanted to see more of it than just riding east to west through the center of the Park. From Shoshone the road was a fun roller coaster of dips and rises and unmarked corners. We crested Salsberry Pass (elev. 3,315’) and then dropped down to Jubilee Pass (elev. 1,280’), all the time surrounded by nothing but barren rocks, pitiful vegetation and views that went on for miles. We passed a small dirt side road that proclaimed it to be Dante’s Road, but I stupidly didn’t stop for a picture. I felt that I would wait for the View instead. We passed very little traffic and appreciated the rolling landscape as the road followed the east side of the valley. As we neared Badwater (elev. –282’) we saw our first few vehicles. The not-entirely accurate thermometer on my bike registered around 112 degrees, which I deemed close enough, if not a little low. I was wearing my full gear and still taking advantage of the Flying Squirrel posture with Cooling Vest air-conditioning. The salt flats were incredible, looking more like out-of-place snowfields in this impossibly dry and hot climate. At Furnace Creek we were lucky enough to be the last patrons admitted for the breakfast buffet before they closed the doors in preparation for their lunch buffet. This selection of food vastly overshadowed the measly “O’s” offered to us at Kaibob and we gorged ourselves on fresh fruit, sausages, French toast, orange juice and coffee. Mmmm, it was truly an oasis in the desert. After our feast we stopped by the Visitor’s Center. Furnace Creek is home of the famous “20 Mule Team Borax” ads that you may remember from years gone by. Large talc and borate veins were the region’s economy until the early 20th century. There is a ghost town that we wanted to visit but it was on a 14-mile dirt road and we were curious as to the condition of the road. The helpful ranger said that she did not advise us to take the road, despite our having dual sport motorcycles. She said that even high-clearance 4 x 4s have trouble getting through and the surface included dirt, gravel, sand and rocks. I could deal with any of it except the sand – that’s a GS Killer for sure. Disappointed, I then asked her about the road to Dante’s View. She apologized and said that due to recent storms the road had been washed out. Imagine that: a place that gets less than 2” of rain a year just had a storm that took out the road to the only real stop I had wanted to make. The injustice of it all: I’ll just have to go back someday. Besides, there are a lot of other roads that look like they may lead to interesting places, and the vast history of mining in the area is very interesting to me and would be worth checking out some other time.

Leaving Death Valley is just as impressive as entering it, as you’re fully aware of the deep depression in the earth as you make your way up and out of it. I looked in my mirrors and could see the other side of the Valley, with the Amargosa Range flanking it to the east as I crested the Panamint Range on the west. The temperatures dropped to a more tolerable mid-90s range and bit by bit the vegetation returned to the landscape. Not much changed in our surroundings as we entered California until I noticed snow on the horizon. And there were mountains under that snow. I commented to Doug that I felt bad for the pioneers. I couldn’t imagine coming all the way across the plains, somehow surviving Death Valley only to be faced with a wall of rock and snow. How depressing! As it turned out, we weren’t ready to cross those mountains just yet. First we had to head north, through Lone Pine and Bishop, the road running parallel to the range. The further north we got, the more beautiful and colourful the scenery became. The trees were taller, the grasses thicker and greener, the mountains sported snowy shawls and there were crystal blue lakes dotting the landscape. We rode past Kings Canyon & Sequoia National Parks (we didn’t stop, so I’ll have to come back there too, someday) and on past Mammoth Lakes and Mono Lake. I confess that Mono Lake did not impress me. When seen on a map it looks like it should be some picturesque setting, like Crater Lake in Oregon but on a much grander scale. Instead it looked like an oversized puddle waiting to dry up on the next hot day. Route 395, which we had been on since Lone Pine, was one step down from being an Interstate and we were able to cover a lot of ground quickly. I really wanted to see Yosemite, but it was late in the day and I didn’t want to have to rush through it. Instead, Doug and I decided to check out Bodie State Historical Park that is just north of Yosemite. I had heard about Bodie from a fellow STNer and it sounded intriguing. It is a ghost town from the mining days of the late 1800s that is being held in a state of “arrested decay”, meaning that the park will do what it has to in order to maintain what is there and leaving things as they were found. At one time there were over 10,000 inhabitants in Bodie, but due to successive fires only 10% of the town’s structures remain. The town is about 13 miles off the main road, with the last 3 miles being good gravel, and we arrived about an hour before the park closed. We really need to time our days a little better. We spent our time poking around in still-furnished houses, checking out what people left behind and what Mother Nature was doing to it. Ours were the last vehicles to leave the parking lot as we headed back into modern civilization to look for lodging for the night. We didn’t have to go far: the Virginia Creek Settlement campground / cabins / wagons / motel / restaurant was just a short hop up the road and we easily found a nice place to pitch our tents and then relaxed with an enjoyable dinner. It was a very nice place to stay and I slept very well.

Lake at Tioga Pass	Yosemite River

Halfdome	California roads

Day 14 – 280 miles
Doug had to be back in Victoria on Saturday, but I still had four days left to get home. After we stowed our gear back on our bikes we had a long casual breakfast and said our goodbyes. He would ride north while I would return south, this time stopping at Yosemite and whatever else caught my fancy. The day did not start well, with Doug’s bike mysteriously falling over and almost taking out my bike with it. Then at my first gas stop I found the prices to be astronomical – $3.23/gal for 89! After grudgingly paying the bill I realized that two blocks down the street was a station with “normal” prices. What was Chevron trying to do? I turned west onto Route 120 and crossed over Tioga Pass (elev. 9,945’) that had opened less than a week prior and was now clear of snow. The scenery was spectacular! As I rode through the pass and then on and down into Yosemite Valley there was always something to catch my eye. From massive barren rocks to tiny clumps of colourful wildflowers tucked alongside the road there was beauty to behold wherever I looked. Many side roads were closed (presumably due to snow, although I saw very little from the road) and traffic was surprisingly light. The road descended into the Valley and I got my first glimpse of the massive waterfalls that grace this area. Bridalveil Falls was the first, and in the distance I could also see Vernal and Nevada Falls. At least that’s what I think I saw – it’s hard to tell. Traffic became a nightmare as I entered the valley and neared El Capitan. The heat also became oppressive and no amount of Flying Squirrels would help me at the pace I was stuck at. I finally decided to take a break and read my book by the Yosemite River. I locked the ‘Stitch to the bike, grabbed some sunflower seeds, my water bottle and my book and proceeded to find a quiet corner to cool off in. Mosquitoes immediately consumed me. I had used all of my bug spray and had let Doug take home the can that he bought for us to use previously. My foul temper returned and I stalked back to the bike, put everything away, strapped the gear to the back of the bike and headed for the Visitor’s Center in relatively naked squid-like fashion. After what seemed like hours of rolling through traffic and the parking lots I found a shaded corner for my bike, locked everything up (again) and attempted to find the Visitor’s Center or some place to buy some insect repellent. Apparently my brain was fried by this time because by the time I found the store I realized that I had left my money on the bike. I was not about to make the round trip back to the store, so I gave up (again) and retreated back to the bike to leave Yosemite. I took some pictures before I left, but feel somewhat cheated in my visit. I would like to return under better circumstances and take the time to fully appreciate the beauty of this jewel-filled park. I geared up fully, mounted the bike and headed out of the park, heading south towards Wawona. It was still early, so I decided to explore from the comfort of my saddle and took the 16-mile turnoff for Glacier Point. This was much better! The elevation cooled me off considerably and because this was a one-way in/out road, not as many casual drive-by tourists bothered with it. The road twisted around a bit and there was little traffic to get in my way. The views from the point itself were fantastic, and I could see Half Dome and Vernal & Nevada Falls, as well as many other peaks and promontories.

Eventually I had seen all I could see from Glacier Point. I headed back down to Route 41 which was just as much fun on the way down as it was on the way up. The same goes for Route 41 towards Wawona and Fish Camp. As long as there was no traffic in front of me this road was ideal: excellent corners, decent pavement and no surprises. I was disappointed when it finally exited out near Oakhurst and became hot and oppressive again, as well as flat and comparatively straight. Or at least that’s what I thought until I approached Mariposa, CA. From here until about Sonora the roads just rocked! Always a bend in the road, rarely a car in front of me, good pavement, and beautiful California scenery was with me the entire way. Since I had gotten such a late start to the day, and pissed around so much in Yosemite, I didn’t get very far today. I thought that finding a nice campsite in Angels Camp along the shores of New Melones Lake would be nice. Boy, was I wrong. The state park/campground is called “Glory Hole Recreation Area”. I should have kept on riding, but I was getting a headache and it was getting dark. The ranger waved me into the park and I found a campsite (more like a dustbowl) to pitch my tent in. I was literally about to crawl into my tent for the night when the park hosts (or whatever you call them) hailed me from their charming electric golf cart. They proceeded to ask me stupid questions, such as “is this your bike?” It appeared that I should have paid a $16 camping fee within the first 30 minutes of entering the park and I had also parked the bike in the wrong stall – or set the tent up in the wrong site, but I wasn’t about to move the tent. Of course I didn’t have $16 on me, only my last $20. The hosts naturally didn’t have any change and suggested that I either “tip” the ranger or ride back into town, approximately 5 miles on a dark twisty road, and get the funds I needed. My headache hadn’t gone away, the showers were locked, the neighbouring campers were having quite the party and I was not in the mood for any of this. I grudgingly walked to the registration board (easily missed in the dusk when I pulled in) and filled out almost no information. In fact, I considered not leaving them anything, figuring that they wouldn’t check before I left in the morning. But wanting to avoid trouble at the same time, I stuffed my $20 bill into the envelope and swore as I shoved it into the box. I started up the GS, gunned it a bit as I rode it the 50’ around the lot to park in “my” spot that I had just paid for and finally crawled into my tent.

Lake Berryessa

Day 15 – 88 miles
It had been hot and humid that night and the sun came up early to glare down on my unsheltered tent. My camping neighbours were fishermen, so they were up and making noise with their boat and gear. My mood from the previous day had not abated. I shoved my dirty and dusty tent into the dry bag, donned my gear and left the park in a hurry. If I had a big, nasty sounding bike instead of my subtle BMW I might have been tempted to let everyone in the park know that I was leaving. As it was, I was just happy to be going.

From Angels Camp it was a quick ride to Sacramento. I tried to take some back roads but found myself going in the opposite direction of where I wanted to go, so I retreated to the state routes and numbered roadways. I had been invited by another STNer (Bobby) to come to his house for a BBQ that evening and I knew that it wouldn’t take me long to get there so I meandered my way across the state. I saw Lake Berryessa on the map and recalled hearing great things about it for motorcycling so I pointed my GS in that direction. The lake was very nice, nestled among the golden hills of a baking California summer. The road was nice as well, but I felt compelled to keep my speeds down as it appeared to be a touristy area and this was 4th of July weekend, after all. I had just masterfully passed an obstinate pick-up towing a boat when I decided to stop for a photo. I hate when that happens, as you know that you’re just going to have to pass him again a few miles down the road. After I took a few pictures I then looked around. I realized that I had stopped at a turnoff to another road, read the sign and figured “What the heck – let’s see where it leads”. I had all day to get to the other side of the mountains to the west and I felt like exploring. I had chosen Pope Canyon Road and I followed it aimlessly through vineyards, along dark ravines and around lazy sweeping corners. I came to a “T” (not a “Y” like they have in Wyoming) and chose the most likely route only to find myself not at all where I thought I should end up. But the countryside was still pleasant, the traffic nonexistent and the day not yet unbearably warm. I meandered some more when I stumbled upon Calistoga, CA and knew where I was and how to get to Bobby’s old house. I had tried to call him a couple of times from the road to get his new address but for a myriad of reasons I couldn’t get through. I decided to go to his workplace and ask his co-workers. It didn’t take long to get from Calistoga to Healdsburg and I found the firehouse (Bobby’s a fireman) with no problem. What I did not find, however, was anyone at the firehouse who was readily available to help me. The day was getting hotter and I didn’t want to lose my patience and good mood that had returned with my pleasant ride that morning. I walked over to the nearby drugstore and asked to use their phone, which they readily allowed. I got through to Bobby on the first try and he gave me some very good directions. I could see by my map that I could take some back roads to his house, but by now it had been over two days without a shower, it was unbearably hot and I was a little tired of riding around. I followed the directions to head north on Route 101 to Hopland. Even though I was taking the most direct route, it was still a very beautiful way to go and I wasn’t unhappy about the side roads that I was neglecting. It didn’t take long to find Bobby’s house, where he invited me into the cool air of his house, I shed my gear and hopped in the shower as soon as I could politely break away from the conversation.

Human once again after my shower, the evening went by quickly and smoothly, with various friends and family stopping by for a tasty BBQ and beverages and some motorcycle racing on the telly. As fun as it was, it was with great anticipation that I curled up on the couch later that night for good night’s sleep.

Day 16 – 182 miles
The advantage of not having a planned route is that it’s so easy to change plans. And routes. In this instance I merely changed my plan, as the roads in northern California are pretty much all excellent but I had staked out my claim on the route I intended on taking. But back to the plans at hand. The plan from the previous night was for Jim, Cynthia, Chick, Bobby and I to ride up to Eureka together to visit two more STNer’s, Gil and Becky and crash their party with fellow STNer Stefan and his wife Lyle. However when I woke up in the morning no one other than Bobby was up. I dressed, packed up the bike and sat on the couch. Bobby was playing a video game. The house was quiet. The day was getting warmer the longer I sat here. I finally told him that I was going to hit the road, quite possibly heading past Eureka and on to Medford, where I had another friend expecting a visit from me. Bobby chuckled and agreed that I should head out. I decided to simply continue to follow Route 101 all the way into Eureka instead of playing around on the back roads. If I were to get to Medford today I’d need all the time I could get. I bid farewell to Bobby, thanked him for his hospitality and motored aimlessly around his neighbourhood until I found the street I had been looking for and headed for the highway.

Gil and Becky were expecting me, so I was a bit surprised when no one answered the door of their house. I knocked a second time and had just walked around to the garage to see if their bikes were home when they pulled up, engines roaring and tires squealing! Well, maybe it wasn’t quite that dramatic, but the timing was quite good. They were just returning from breakfast with Stefan and Lyle and were happy to see me. We went inside and stood around talking for a bit and the subject of the BBQ that evening came up. I had stated that I was shooting for Medford, OR that day, but they invited me to stay for the BBQ. It didn’t really matter to me if I saw my friend that night or the next day. Hindering my thoughtful hosts in their daily activities was my concern, as we still had five hours to kill before the BBQ would even think of starting. They gently insisted and I easily agreed to stay. We went out for a lovely lunch followed by some mad shopping sprees at the local markets. These people are mad, I tell you! They play weird games at the grocery store. We finally returned to their house where I helped prepare dessert and a little bit of dinner. Eventually Stefan and Lyle showed up, as well as a couple of STNers from Bobby’s house the previous night. It was to be a full STN house for dinner that night. After dinner the other STNers returned to their campsite in Fortuna while I retired to the STN Guest Room for a very comfortable and restful night’s sleep.

Day 17 – 699 miles
I was on the road by 8:30 the next day and was eagerly anticipating my run up Route 96, my favourite road in northern California. Even the brief stretch of Route 299 to the turn off at Willow Creek was a delight. The roads were surprisingly empty for a Holiday weekend; perhaps I was too early to get caught by the sleepyheads that would come through later. The weather was very cooperative, shunning the morning fog and rain that I usually find when leaving Eureka for home. I could attempt to describe Route 96 from Willow Creek to Happy Camp and then on to Yreka, but no amount of words can fully convey the sense of freedom and pleasure I get from these 145 miles of corners, bends, twists and turns. The road surface is always good, the views are always spectacular, the temperature is always perfect and the traffic almost nonexistent. Each time I turn the bike in for a corner I know that there will be another one waiting for me. There are sections of the road where the painted lines weave back and forth, causing the GS to flick from one side to the other in rapid succession. I am by no means a fast rider, nor do I usually demand high performance from my bikes, but this road lets me ride at a quick yet comfortable pace. I am sometimes pushing myself in the tight turns etched into the rock wall of the canyon while other times I am letting the bike fall in gracefully through a well cambered, perfect radius corner, all the time the pavement is following the snake-like progress of the Klamath River. The road is tucked into the wide canyon of the river, sometimes running deep alongside the water’s edge, other times coming up for air and soaring above the rushing rapids. I could ride this road all day. But each day must end and I eventually came to the end of Nirvana. It is called Yreka. From here on I was to be regulated to Interstates and slab. It was a short jump into Oregon and Medford wasn’t far after crossing the state line. I had called my friend from Eureka to let him know when I’d be through and he was home waiting for me. We sat outside in the sunshine and caught up on each other’s activities and current interests. Planning on making it home that day, I kept the visit short and after an hour or so we said our good-byes and I was once again heading north on I-5.

The only good thing about I-5 in Oregon is the Grant Pass region. After that the road becomes a straight arrow of concrete that tortures motorcyclists. I made a quick stop in Eugene to check out a bike that Bobby was hoping to buy and after deeming it “worthy” I returned, once again, to the slab. The range on the GS is both a blessing and a curse. Because I don’t need to stop for fuel, I don’t stop for anything. I find myself riding, pushing myself to just go a little further, to make it to the next town. When I get to the next town I keep going and start the mantra all over. I hadn’t eaten yet that day, not since the BBQ of the previous evening, in fact, and I felt that I should probably eat eventually. I waited until I got into Washington State and stopped at a café I had been to before. I’m sure that the waitress thought I was a complete pig, as I devoured my food almost as quickly as she brought it to the table. I didn’t wait around after I was done: I paid my bill and was soon heading north again.

Normally I’m a cool weather person and anything over 80 has me complaining about the heat. But having spent so much time in 90 and 100+ degree weather I found that the Puget Sound’s balmy 75 degrees was just too cold for my liking. I stopped at a rest area, donned my heated jacket and made embarrassing happy noises in my helmet as the heat radiated throughout my gear. If I was going to push to be home tonight then I might as well be comfortable doing it. Mile after mile passed under my wheels and I rolled into my garage at 10:30 that night. 14 ½ hours had past since leaving Eureka but with a couple of stops thrown in to break up the monotony. All four cats were home, my roommate had recently cleaned the house and I still had one more day of vacation left to exploit.

It was a fabulous trip and I still can’t believe how much I was able to see and experience in that short amount of time. The weather may not have cooperated the entire time, but each time it changed I was ready for it. The bike preformed superbly, as did my gear. My riding companions were excellent. All in all, the entire trip was a success. Now I must start planning the next one.