Continental Divide to Home

Leaving the Continental Divide Motel, I let the big bike stretch its legs.  I rode many miles that day through beautiful country with good weather and light traffic.  I stopped in Whitehorse for gas, and per usual, the traffic was heavy and congested down by the river, and patience was needed.  But once out of the valley and up on the bluff, the miles flew by.  I stopped in Beaver Creek for a meal and gas, enjoying the quirks and oddities of the service industries this far North and West.  The people are lovely, but their infrastructure is always utilitarian, or make-do, or both.  Mostly both.  Turning a handle or a faucet does not always bring what you expect from your experiences in civilization.  But the food and service are good, notwithstanding the curmudgeonly signs warning of stern consequences if you break the posted rule.  And of course I abided by the rules.  Most of them.

The road between the Canadian border post and the U.S. border post was the worst section of roadway I have seen since 1979.  It was totally torn up, there were no well graded sections. It was all rock, gravel, dirt and mud.  Twenty miles or so of moonscape.  So up on the pegs I went, and rode on through.  I must admit to smiling a few times.

I rode all the way to Tok that day, a total of 571 miles in one day, the farthest daily ride of the trip.  I stayed at the Westmark after trying a few other places, because the Westmark is overpriced for what it offers.  I got to stay in the "pet" building, which meant I was able to pet a number of dogs, all of which were cute and friendly.

In the morning, I also met a fellow a little younger than me, who was riding two-up with a teenage daughter on a Suzuki 650, next to which I had parked the night before.  They were from Vancouver, B.C., and were riding to Anchorage where they would meet the rest of the family.  The daughter was about 14, I guess, and she came out, silently, with all her riding gear.  It was black leather, of course, with chains and other bright metal bits here and there, tall black leather boots with platform soles, and a bright pink neck scarf.  When she put her black helmet on, she looked as though she had come straight from the title role in "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo."  She was cute beyond words.  They were very sweet and nice, and rode off before me.

I gassed up and headed home.  The Tok cut-off was uneventful, and as beautiful as always, with just a few moose here and there.  I rode into Glenallen to have lunch with my friends, the Von Thaer family: Jack and Joy, their lovely and very smart daughters Victoria and Anna, and also met Joy's mother Gayanne (a faithful reader of this blog and the motivator to get it finished this year).  The Von Thaer family fixed me lunch, and we chatted for a bit, and then I headed home for the last, last stretch.

Glenallen was getting the road into town upgraded, and it was a bit of work to get through it all.  The pilot car (truck) was guiding us past heavy equipment just a few feet away.  It is somewhat unsettling to be driving along even at 35 mph on loose gravel with cars/trucks in front of you and behind you with earth scrapers roaring by an arms' length away.  If you slip and go down, there is nowhere for you to go, nor anywhere for the following traffic to go.  So I tightened all my sphincters and carried on.

As I traveled along the Glenn, drawing closer to home, of course I became a little pensive.  I had been a pretty far piece, and had some great times, seen some great friends, visited places old and new.  But I was still enjoying riding this magnificent machine.  It had an oil leak and was dirty, but it was just a monster that was great fun to ride.  I was going to miss being on it everyday.

I pulled into the driveway at home with 10,282 miles on the odometer.  I had ridden 9,521 miles over the past six weeks.  When I weighed my gear, I found that I arrived at home with 160 pounds of gear on the bike including the weight of the luggage and two liters of water.  That is still more than I want to carry, as you will see if you stick around for next years' adventure.  But I made it home safe.  Scout was happy to see me, as I was happy to see her.  Meredith too!

So this ride ended and the planning began for the next one: the TSA Tour.  Thrills, Spills, Adventures!  Read about it here, in the coming year.

The Cassiar Highway

The next morning I found where all the nicer motels were, as I got lost several times before finding the correct route out of PG and to the Cassiar Highway.  I had never been on the Cassiar before, and have been curious about it for several years.  It is remote enough that you have to pay attention to details such as fuel management, else you may be there for awhile.

Along the way, I stopped in Smithers to visit an old friend who works for Justice Canada.  Brett Weber is one of those lawyers for whom no task is to great, too small, or to in-between.  A great guy, he also served the Crown as a Judge in one of those Caribbean island provinces.  As I called him from a parking lot to see if he might be available for lunch or coffee, I found him in a restaurant with some colleagues, just finishing lunch.  There had been a fire that morning near their office which caused a great hullabaloo.  But I rode over and found Brett in his cycling gear, as he was riding his bike that day.  He admitted he did not look very lawyerly in that get up.  But his colleagues were all appropriately attired, and we gossiped like lawyers.  I told them about my adventures in PG, and they howled with delight, telling me stories about PG that made me wonder if perhaps I had been very fortunate whilst staying where I stayed.  After a great hour, and a visit to Brett's office, I remounted and headed off.

It was along this stretch of road that one particular motorhome pulling an SUV became a kind of nemesis.  Riding through a smallish town, he was in a right turn only lane approaching the intersection, and suddenly, without signaling, swerved into my lane forcing me to take hasty action.  I survived without going down, but it was pretty close.  Many miles later, he had pulled off for some reason.  As I came riding down the highway at speed, he suddenly just pulled out in front of me, but only accelerating slowly.  This was getting old.  At the next available passing opportunity, I accelerated sharply around him, and left him there.  I saw him once again later that day, as he had passed me when I stopped for gas.  But I chose not to stop and speak to him about our earlier interactions, being in a foreign country and all, and not wishing to get into trouble with the locals.

I spent the night in a provincial campground, which was very nice.  I met a man who wanted to talk about motorcycles, and Alaska, and Viet Nam, and all things related and unrelated.  We chatted for quite awhile, until his wife came down the hill and took him home to dinner.  The people in the next campsite were from Wasilla, and were trailering a custom Harley to the States where they hoped to sell it for a better price than they had been offered in Alaska.  I looked at it, and it was a really nice bike, with an awesome paint job.  I hope they got their money.

The next morning I got up and headed north, wondering what the northern half of the Cassiar looked like.  Well, the road became narrower, the brush in places encroaching on the road, there were plenty of black bear, and it started to rain.  Moreover, the electrical inter tie they were building meant there was more heavy truck traffic, which in turn was degrading the road.  The chip seal was breaking up, and road chews were out repairing the breaks.  The road was fairly crowned, and so the big trucks liked to drive int he middle to keep their loads balanced.  This made for interesting interactions 'twixt trucks and everything else on the road.

And it rained.  I failed to get my rain liner into my riding pants in time, and I got soaked.  To make matters worse, I couldn't keep my visor clear.  It just kept fogging up.  When I opened it up to get air in, the rain pelted my face, stinging quite a bit.  I became more than damp.  I finally hit the Alaska Highway, and turned West, hoping for relief.  Relief was sporadic, and I knew I had better get to some shelter quickly.  Near Rancheria, at the Continental Divide Motel, I stopped and got a room.

It was a room in an ATCO trailer motel, just down the hall from a laundry room.  I took advantage of that, getting my gear dry right away.  After a hot shower, I went over for dinner, and to watch the people.  A mining crew was staying there, with the lead guy looking a lot like Clint Eastwood, and the young guys all studly young men.  A young woman tourist was traveling through, and had stopped there as well.  She was hilarious to watch, as she flirted with each of the young guys.  I don't know if she wound up with anyone of them for the night, but she had them all trying very, very hard to be chosen.  Her car was still there when I left the next morning.

Oh, Canada . . .

I passed into Canada without too much trouble at Sumas, and rode to Hope where I spent the night in a quaint (euphemism) Red Roof Inn.  I walked to a restaurant for dinner, and on the way back to the motel stumbled across a small Anglican Church, Christ Church.  It was very old, and almost mystical in its form and setting.  There was a bench for sitting upon outside, and a prayer labyrinth under the big Douglas firs and cedars.  Very beautiful.

Home was really pulling me now.  I rode steadily the next day up the Fraser River Canyon, the highway much improved over the last time I drove it in 1982.  It is a beautiful route, and the pioneers and railroaders have done a magnificent job.  I appreciate engineers more and more as I see the results of their work in these more remote areas.  The next day, as I was riding north on the Cassiar, I would see more evidence of fantastical engineering.  There, they are building a major power link, and the towers are designed with a curve in them to compensate for the weight of the lines.  When the lines are strung. their weight pulled the towers into a vertical position.  I marvel that someone can sit in a  office hundreds if not thousands of miles away. and design a tower to a precise height with a precise curve to handle a precise weight calculated on the length of the line to the next two towers.  And then have a manufacturer build that tower, and have it trucked to the particular location on a sealed gravel road in the literal middle of nowhere.  But they do it as a matter of course.  I applaud them.

So I rode until I came to Prince George.  Unbeknownst to me, the downtown center of PG (as it is known to the local prosecutors)  has "gone downhill" in the last years.  I was riding around in circles looking for a place to stay, and not really finding anything.  Riding around in circles also got me accosted by a youngish prostitute, who apparently thought I was circling because of her (?) charms.

I finally found a seedy motel, the front desk of which was manned by a singlet and shorts wearing snaggle-toothed man of limited intellectual capacity, who was very nice and accommodating.  However, no sooner had I unloaded all my gear and taken a turn or two around the confines of the not-quite-clean room, someone commenced pounding on the door while the room phone started ringing.

Since it was still daylight, I opened the door.  There, a man of apparent mid-Easteren ancestry was holding a pizza box demanding payment,  With the phone still ringing, I told him it wasn't mine.  He was angry.  I told him it isn't mine again, and went to answer the phone.  The voice on the phone, also with a mid-Eastern accent, wanted to know about the pizza I had ordered.  I answered in words to the effect that I had not ordered any sodding pizza, as I had just told the man at the door, and to bugger off and leave me alone.  Whereupon I hung up.  Smartly.  The man with the pizza box was still loitering outside my open door, so I repeated my words to him and shut the door.  Smartly.  I never did figure out what their scam was, but at least they went away.

I went and asked my newest friend at the front desk where I might get a bite to eat.  He wasn't really sure.  I mean, he was pretty skinny, but surely he ate from time to time.  With little guidance except from the iPhone, I stepped out smartly.  The info in the iPhone was outdated.  The first three places it described had closed long, long ago, if appearances may be believed.  The cracks in the sidewalk outside their doors had tall grass growing in them, and the dust was caked on their windows.

Lots of inebriates were lolling about, notwithstanding the closeness of the police and municipal offices.  I finally found a place with a sign outside, marvelous brass rails leading up the granite stairs, and brass fitted revolving doors at the top of the stairs.  Apparently it was a pretty good place to go, with lots of regulars, some of whom were still capable of sitting upright.  I ordered pizza, which was delivered promptly, hot, and very tasty.  After finishing, I made it back to the motel without incident, and slept the night away between the more than slightly grey sheets.

Out of Yellowstone, headed home

I left Yellowstone with a new plan - to head on home, taking a miss on the Going to the Sun Mountain Highway.  My visit to Yellowstone had given me at least a temporary cure to revisit these places from trips of 40 years ago.  So I headed north on 191 with the idea of picking up Interstate 90 and flat-slabbing it to Spokane.  The country was pretty, but nothing memorable.  I stopped for gas in Belgrade, and reluctantly got on the Interstate.

It was a fast trip, with light traffic and minimal road construction.  Not too many trucks, but the Harley traffic headed East for Sturgis was ever present, and really loud.  I met a few characters in rest stops where I stopped to "rest", the most memorable of whom was a fellow from Washington State, who wandered over bare-footed munching an apple.  He wanted to tell me about his motorcycle (a very nice one) and why he wasn't riding it on this trip (defying belief) and how I needed one of his peer cookies that a holistic health friend of his baked especially for him.  They kept him awake and rejuvenated, he explained.  As I was leaving, he ran over with four of these beauties in a paper towel and handed them to me, once again stating they were very filling, energizing, and utterly beyond belief.  I thanked him enthusiastically, and put them in my tank bag.

Later, at the next stop, fearful of what magical ingredients or stimulating chemical formulations might have been added to these gems, I politely disposed of them.  All I needed was to get high and crash.  The latter hurts, as I understand it.

Because of the fast moving I was doing, I didn't take any photos that day.  I stopped at St. Regis and camped, finding a little place that the Harley's were ignoring.

The next day I was up and out of there, forgetting to turn my Spot on.  This caused my support team to become concerned later in the day, when they made e-contact to check on my well being.  I appreciate that.

I rolled into Spokane to visit with my old friend Jim Goeke for a little while over coffee.  He was shocked, shocked, to see me on such a large bike.  I explained I was expressing my inner self, that I had always wanted to be larger than life, and so I bought this particular bike: they just don't get much bigger or badder than a BMW R1200GS Adventure.  True statement.

I left Jim in Spokane, headed for the North Cascade Highway and the Wet Coast of Washington.  The ride was uneventful, with light traffic and that huge wonderful bike.  The bike just ate up those two lanes throughout the wheat lands, down and up through the canyons, and slowly, quietly through the little farm and ranch towns.  I had never travelled this way before, and was once again impressed with what the pioneers had accomplished.

As I left Chelan, the clouds over the Cascades were threatening, and thunder could be heard.  Just as I arrived in the vicinity of Pateros, the sky opened as if there were multiple fire hoses pointed straight down.  I decided I would forgo camping for the night, and pulled into a hotel.  There, I was able to get dried out, and a reasonably good meal.

From Pateros, I rode over the North Cascade Highway.  I think the North Cascades are every bit as beautiful as the Tetons.  However, there is more immediacy to the Cascades, as you are right in the middle of them.  The Cascades are so much closer, whereas the Tetons are far off.  And since you are in the midst of them, you get to ride all the ups and downs and twisty turns.  It is a great ride, and I saw several other motorcyclists, including a set of four, each with a color coordinated single wheel trailer behind it.  Quite cute, they were.

I rode over Deception Pass to Whidbey Island to have lunch with my best friend from High School, Jay Sigafoos, and his wife Carol.  They are great friends, and had all their children and grand children there.  

After a typically fantastic lunch prepared by Carol, and was off to cross the Canadnian border and get a bit closer to home.

West Yellowstone KOA

The West Yellowstone KOA is (wait for it) west of town.  The place had been recommended to me by the guy at the campground in Rangely.  So when I was at Marbelton, I made a reservation.  He told me it was a little pricier than most KOAs, but worth it.  He particularly lauded the on-site dining facility.  It sold me.

As I pulled in, I saw a couple of other bikes, one a BMW 1200, the other a Yamaha Super Tenere.  No riders were in sight, so I went in the office and registered.  When I cam out, the two riders were now near their bikes in riding gear, talking to a third fellow.  Seeing as they looked like they belonged to my tribe, I walked over and introduced myself to Carlos and Nick, thereby opening the door to an evenings adventure.  The third guy was a Harley rider camped nearby, and he wasn't to be seen for the rest of the evening, and dropped right out of this story.   All three were drinking beers from cans stuck in brown paper bags, and a blind man could see where this evening was headed.

Carlos is a retired Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant, and Nick is a former Ranger Medic, now working as a Paramedic.  Both live in Northern Colorado, right where the horrible rains and mud slides were to occur a few weeks later.  They invited me to come down and join them after I set up my camp.  Here is the camp: lights, electricity, fences, the whole kit.  It was very comfortable.

After setting up, I walked down about 30 yards to where Carlos and Nick were camped.  After declining a beer and accepting a Pepsi, the yarns begin to spin.  Carlos was up on the Super Tenere, having sold his 1200 GS Adventure like mine.  So we all strolled down to my bike, and looked it over.  It received thumbs up from both, and we did a few field repairs that were indicated.  This meant that I got out tools while Carlos wrenched on the bike to get it to Gunny Specs.  So I learned a few things, and then we went to their bikes, and I learned a few things more.  Carlos had switched from aluminum boxes to soft luggage by Wolfman, and he now prefers them.  Nick was still on his aluminum boxes, and we traded ideas on how to modify them, what I had done on my Cascade Design boxes, and how we could better carry our first aid and trauma kits.

Pretty soon it was dinner time, and we strolled over to this outdoor kitchen place where food was being served.  The orders were taken at a little window, where both of the young women workers were from Mongolia, they were surprised and excited to hear I was planning on heading there next year.  We chatted a little, and placed our order.  Right about then, we also started conversing with the guy who was the cook.  About 50 years old or so, he had a small pony tail, and looked and acted like a an old surfer.  When he got our order, he called over to me that he would cook my steak so I could eat it on the paper plate on which it would be served with the plastic cutlery I would be issued.  I replied I was looking forward to it.

Carlos and I started swapping Marine stories, which are different than fairy tales, and Nick chimed in from time to time.  A lot of it was about the difference in equipment between 40 years ago and now, but some was about things we had seen and done.  AT one point, I turned to Nick, the paramedic, and asked what I would need to take on my trip for next year for a first aid kit.  Nick replied that I needed to have a boo-boo kit with medicines (including two epi-pens, rehydration salts, and anti-emetics) and band aids, and a trauma kit.  Carlos immediately jumped up and said to wait, he would go get what I need.  He returned with four things and put them on the picnic table: an Israeli bandage, an SOG tourniquet, a package of quick clot, and a space blanket.  Nick opined that he would add two chest seals and a chest dart.  Carlos and Nick started arguing about that, with Carlos' position being that if I was in the wideness and need chest seals and chest darts, it was likely to just prolong the suffering before help arrived to find the patient dead.  Not a comforting thought . . .  But on these recommendations, I updated my first aid plan.

We also talked about travel routes.  They had been up north in Glacier Park, a place I had intended to go.  They described the Going to the Sun Mountain Highway as a veritable long parking lot, and the roadway itself as in need of repair.  After talking with them, and in reviewing my recent experience in Yellowstone, I decided to skip Glacier.

When the steak arrived, it was better than advertised.  I don't think that plastic knife left a mark on the paper plate -- and I did not eat with my fingers.  The cook was as good as he said he was, and Carlos and Nick invited him over for beers after he got off.  After a few more words with the Mongolians, we retired to our camp sites.

After a bit I wandered back to see how the evening was progressing for my two new friends.  I was not surprised to see the beer was still fling, and a fire was being attempted.  In another interesting conversation, Carlos brought out his Kabar and we discussed knives and their uses.  Carlos prefers the big old Kabar because you can use it for everything, it only costs $75, and you don't have to worry about losing it like he would worry if he had his Randal knife.  So he used the Kabar to split kindling and to poke the fire.  This is the fire he finally wound up with, and of which he was proud.

After a bit, the cook showed up with a flask of of cinnamon schnapps and a bag full of stories.  Oh, and some barbecued ribs that were "left over."  So everyone sat around telling tales, eating ribs, poking the fire with a knife or a stick, and drinking.  While I was happy with my soda, the beer and the schnapps flowed freely.  Cookie told us tales of his alternative lifestyle, which was mostly about being a ski bum and resort cook, anything he could do to stay away from the IRS, an ex-wife, and responsibility of any sort.  He passes out secrets, such as how to get a hot shower without paying for it for the rest of your life, and certain hot springs where clothing was not optional, it was banned.  Oh, and where the greatest espresso in Wyoming was between Jackson and Yellowstone.  When staggering ensued, I excuse myself and went down to my little tent and bed.  Did I mention the love sick cow in the next pasture?  She was noisy and apparently distraught over the absence of her companion.  After awhile, I finally dropped off to sleep.  Several hours later, my bladder forced me out of my tent and over to the restrooms.  Carlos, Nick and Cookie were still going strong.  I slipped by, and back into my camp.

The next morning, I didn't see any signs of life in their camp until about 8:00.  After telling them good-bye, I headed out at about 9:00 for the Northland.  And having decided to delete Glacier Park from my route, I decided to flat slab it up to Spokane.  And off I went.

Yellowstone

I kept on headed north, stopping on the way in Daniel, Wyoming, where the old mountain men held their rendezvous for a few years.  The cottonwood trees are really big along the river bottom, and the grass is tall and ever so green.  It's not hard to imagine those hardy men having a heck of a party with the traders, Indians, gamblers and hangers on.  After sitting a bit, I headed on up to Jackson, the Grand Tetons, and Yellowstone.

Jackson is crowded, noisy, and well visited by many people.  Getting through town was a chore, and it was a relief to be headed towards the Grand Tetons through the National Elk Preserve.  The grasslands spread out to the east, and the mountains appear to the west, and finally you give up looking at anything but the mountains, that great gray spiny ridge of mountains with snow fields at the tops, a surge of granite that captures the eye and holds it.  My only complaint was and is that they put the highway too far away from the mountains.  If I could just get a little closer, I would be so much happier!  I stopped at the visitor center in the park, and ambled around reading the history of the park.  Like every great park, there was controversy in its establishment, and controversy over who climbed what first.  I'm always reminded of the competing claims of righteousness by the opposing sides of the Lincoln County War in New Mexico, where each side clamors that they were the "best" and most righteous.  And the truth, of course, can't be found, though it surely lies somewhere other than where either side claims.

From the Grand Tetons, I headed into Yellowstone National Park.  I first visited Yellowstone in 1972, and I enjoyed it then.  Since then, each succeeding trip has been less enjoyable, and this time was to be no different.  In August, the Park is full to bursting.  Parking areas at the major and minor attractions are overflowing.  It is hot, and not all tempers are restrained. Along the way, I encountered this charming little trailer.

I wanted to go to Old Faithful, to be faithful I suppose, and encountered a cloverleaf intersection.  That's right: to get to Old Faithful, you have to figure out a highway intersection with a cloverleaf and overpass!  I did it, to arrive in what must be a 40 acre parking lot, no shade except maybe 10 pine trees, and more Harley Davidson motorcycles than you can count.  I didn't try.  Harley Davidson riders do not believe that parking directions apply to them, so they were on sidewalks, striped areas, traffic lanes, crosswise, everywhere.  And apparently they can neither stop nor go without revving the engine several times.  Why is that?  They are like an old man clearing the phlegm form his throat every few minutes.  Get a cure!  I am not a fan of these riders who are noisy and self-centered.

I went into the Old Faithful visitor center with the idea that I might get a sandwich.  That notion was soon dropped, as the lunchroom looked like 15 pounds of apples in a ten pound sack.  With lots of aggressive behavior going on by those apples, I thought a ride to somewhere else to eat was a good idea.  So I pointed my front wheel to West Yellowstone, and the West Yellowstone KOA where I had made a reservation on the recommendation of the fellow in Rangely.

On the way, I was caught in a two mile traffic jam, the resultant mess from a woman rear ending a motorcyclist.  By the time I got to the accident, it had cleared off, but the air-cooled boxer engine I was riding did not enjoy the sitting-in-line.  I was very close to overheating, and so was the bike.  I saw some buffalo on the way, which is nice, but apparently they had seen enough motorcycles during the day that mine was not particularly attractive to them.  I rode past unmolested.

Yellowstone is, of course, a crown jewel of the National Park system, and that is why people go there.    I can't blame them, but I just don't enjoy being with that many people at once.  I admit I wonder what it would be like to do a VIP trip there, with rooms in the famous lodges reserved, and time to hike around a bit and maybe fly fish.  But I don't think that will happen, and so I just enjoyed my memories, plus what I saw this time around.  Good stuff.

North from Rangely

I headed northwest from Rangely, across the river and up through the sand hills and oil fields.  Once again, the oil field infrastructure was painted to match the surrounding earth tones, but little could be done to camouflage the scraped earth of the service roads and containment berms.  I wondered if the flinty sand which seemed to make up the berms would be able to contain a spill, or if the material was too porous.  I surmised that the engineering of the berms was adequate, and that they had plenty of sensors installed to give them early warning if the worst were to occur.  I also noted, however, that the air was overly scented with the odor of crude oil.  As in Texas and Arkansas, the smell of oil must be the smell of money, and if so, there was plenty of money around.

I rode on up to Dinosaur on Highway 40, where I turned west again and back into Utah, a route I rode eastbound on day three of this trip.  This time I was headed to Vernal to ride north, which I did on Highway 191.  I wanted to ride to Flaming Gorge, and take off around the western side of the park, to stay on the road less travelled.  It is a beautiful highway, through forest and plains alike.  I could see that there was some weather building up ahead of me to the northwest.  As I rode closer to the Gorge, I climbed higher into the mountains where the weather seemed to be hung up on the peaks.  At the junction, I took 44 west, even higher into the mountains, and headed directly for those nasty looking black clouds.

The highway was mostly in the forest, rich smelling pine, with many forest service roads leading off to various camps and such.  I ran across one group having some trouble getting an Airstream trailer backed around and headed the other direction, but they seemed to have it in hand, if a little awkward. The rain squall in which they found themselves, and which I too endured, probably wasn't helping them.  I rode in and out of squalls all the way up until the road broke out on a mountain side, and down below and behind me to the east was Flaming Gorge.

I pulled into a road to a lookout to take some pictures.  It is a beautiful body of water in a lovely location, as the photos I stopped to take show.  As I took these photos, the thunder rumbled, and the wind started kicking up.

The wind was getting serious in a gusty sort of way, and I decided, based on past experience, that I wanted to get down and out of the wind, and away from the source of all that thunder.  I could see the lightening through the clouds, and there was quite a bit and it was getting closer.

So I shut down the camera, got to the bike, geared up, and headed for the highway.  The road back to the highway was sheltered from the wind on the right by a ridge.  Being aware that I would have to come out of the lee of the ridge to turn left back on the highway, and that the ridge obscured my view of any traffic coming from the right as well, I was very cautious as I approached the stop sign to make my turn.  Sure enough, as nature would have it, just as I broke out of the lee of the ridge, an extra large gust hurled itself into the me, the bike, and whatever was behind us, and down I went.  This is what it looked like.

The road was cambered downhill as well.  Whoops!  This is a mighty effort to lift a 600 pound bike uphill against the wind.  Fortunately, an old cowboy with an old cowgirl stopped, and I got the bike upright with a stone under the kickstand to keep it that way.  The really nice people who stopped to help were not sure of my sanity, and commented on it, but I was relieved they had stopped to help.  After they left, I reloaded the panniers, and off I went.  A little the worse for wear, but still in great shape.

I rode on down hill to Manila, where I stopped to get gas and a snack, and chatted up a Deputy Sheriff.  He advised that since it looked like rain, it was probably going to rain, and I would be well advised to suit up for rain.  I demurred.

Out of Utah I rode, into Wyoming, up to Green River, where I had a dickens of a time staying off I-80.  I wanted to get northbound on 372, which I was finally able to do, with a few 360s and such.  It was once again a pleasant ride through rolling hills and grasslands, through the Seedskadee National Wildlife Refuge, to the intersection with Highway 189.

Just before I got to 189, I pulled off at a wide spot to stretch my legs and walk about.  There I chanced upon the most amazing sight: a pair of white lace panties and matching bra.  Now these were very fine looking undergarments, but they were of the larger sizes.  Not really going to fit a size 2 body, if you catch my drift.  Or a size 18 come to think of it.  They were just laying there in the gravel, next to some knee high bushes, about 20 yards from the roadway.  In fact, you could see about three miles in every direction from that spot.  So how in the world did they get left there?  I mean, there wasn't even a honky-tonk bar anywhere near.  Or empty beer bottles.  Another mystery of the American West.

I headed on up to Marbleton and got a room.

My camp at Rangely

  What you can't see are all the little holes in the ground. They were like ant holes, with the little mounds of debris or tailings that ants push out when they burrow. But there weren't any ants going in or out of them. I never did figure out what lived down there. 

  While I'm on the subject of insects, which I am now, does anyone know why yellow-jackets like BMW motorcycles?  Every time I stop, lately, two or three immediately show up. I'm starting to think they've got a hive going somewhere on the bike.  Or maybe I hit a queen while riding, and they smell her remains?  

  Surely there is an insectologist who knows the answer. So give it up, such person. Why do they bug me?

The Two Stories of Rangely, Colorado

  Rangely, Colorado, is another Western town laid out along both sides of the highway, and it looks a little more prosperous than most.  It has nice people, too, several of whom stopped to help me when I dumped my bike in some gravel turning around to find the campground.  On this fall, I broke the left front turn signal, which I field repaired with silicone and electrician's tape in the morning.  But I got to the campground, and there the two stories emerged.

  The first has to do with a guy in the next spot over.  He was driving a Tacoma, and pulling what I learned was a restored 1967 Airstream, one of the little ones.  He and his wife had bought it from the third owner, and spent a year restoring it.  He came over when he saw my bike, and started talking about his bikes.  This is common: some guy sees the bike, walks over to talk about it, and winds up telling me about his bike, and how envious he is becasue I am riding mine and he isn't rding his.  I listened a lot.  But this guy had lots of other stuff he wanted to talk about, and so I listened.  I never did see his wife, as she never left the trailer.  It turned out that she has lupus, and he had retired from the Bureau of Prisons as a case manager to be the caregiver for his wife.  He was an extraordinary man, very much in love with his wife, and attending to her.  They both had the courage to get out and see our country even with her debilitating condition.  You have to admire both of them.

  Oh, and he recommended that if I went to Yellowstone, I should stay at the KOA in West Yellowstone.  As it happened, I did, where I met Carlos and Nick, and we will get to those two later.

  The second story is about the guy who came to take a shower at the campground, and why pre-judging is bad.

  The campground offers free showers to those who pay for camping, and charges two dollars for all others.  I saw a few men and women come and pay their $2 to get clean, all of them arriving in vehicles that were neither new nor shiny.  Once, as I was headed over to the bathroom, a dirty, rusty former mommy-van pulled in, and an old guy got out.  He was about my height, but outweighed me by an easy 75 pounds.  He shuffled as he walked, his feet stuck into some old fake-fur lined house slippers, the palms of his hands turned backwards, one hand carrying "Alaska Carry-on Luggage" (a white plastic grocery bag for those who don't fly to or from Alaska) in which could be seen his toiletries and clean clothes.  He was covered from hat to slippers in dirt and dust, and he moved with seeming weariness.

  He was accosted by the camp hostess, a woman who seemed to forget to put her teeth in before meeting the public, and she asked him about payment.  In what sounded to me like a curmudgeonly tone, he told her that he had paid at the box by the gate.  He shuffled on into the shower, and I could hear him in there huffing and puffing and sighing until the sound of the shower prevailed.

  The next morning, I decided I needed to eat more fruit, so I found the local market, and went in.  I had toyed with the idea of getting a breakfast of some sort if thy had a deli, but when I got to the deli, all of the breakfast food was gone.  A bunch of geezers were sitting in the booths, picking their teeth and drinking coffee from paper cups.  I figured them for the offenders who had eaten all the scrambled eggs and sausages.  So I got some bananas, an orange, some bagels, and a gallon of water, and went outside for my breakfast.  I'm eating my banana, drinking my water, and eyeing my bagels, when I noticed I had parked near what looked like the old guy's former mommy-van.  Sure enough, halfway through my bagel, he comes out, shuffling towards me in those same slippers, but in new clean clothes.  In one hand he had something wrapped in a napkin, and it seemed likely he was one of the guys who had cleaned out the breakfast food in the deli.

  To my surprise, he stopped to chat.  He wanted to know where I was from, and where I was going.  We chatted some more, and there was never a less curmudgeonly man.  He was 76, had been in Rangely since 1948, because you could always find work in Rangely.  There was work in the coal mine east of town (three seams, he said, and gave me the thickness of each seam), or in the oil fields, and  "there is the richest man in Rangely right there."  Turns out the richest man made his money in the oil fields, but was paying the price from breathing the fumes occuring in the oild fields by contracting  emphysema, carrying his life-giving oxygen bottle with him these last few years.  The old guy I was talking with carried on about energy policy in our country, and his views on it, and so forth.  But the whole while we talked, he was leaning on something, as though gravity was trying to pull him down, but he was going to prop himself up and not let it win.  Told me he felt pretty good, pretty good, and we parted.  He walked over to his former mommy-van, pulled the door open, and in the nicest, sweetest voice, said to his dog, "Here buddy, I got something for ya', a treat."  I never saw the dog, it must have been on the front seat both times, quiet, patient, waiting for the old guy.

  I hope I can quit pre-judging people.

Further North: Highway 139

  So after Fred gets the new tires on, I'm complaining about having to ride through Salt Lake City on the bike to get north.  Oh no, says Fred, ride up to I-70, ride east on I-70 to 139, and ride it up to Vernal, and north from there.  I look at the map, and see that if I go north from Vernal, I can hit Yellowstone again.  Good idea, and I put Plan 139 into operation.  It was an excellent plan, even with I-70 in it.

  I don't have pictures, because I was just riding and enjoying it.  You get on 139 at a little town named Loma, which seems pleasant enough, even if a soccer-mom didn't recognize my motorcycle as another motor vehicle with rights to the space it occupies on the public highway.  The fun doesn't start until you get out of the grass (and therfore oil) lands and up into the hills.  Then it gets exciting.  Up a mountain pass with twists and turns and uphill all tthe way.  The switchbacks were just that:  180 degree turns, all posted at 25 - 35 mph.  On one, with a severe drop-off at the apex, was one of those signs markig the site of a fatal accident.  This sign was for a motorcyclist, with the admonition to "ride safe."  It focused my attention very tightly.

  A mile or two up the hill, I came across another sign, this one that pushed the pucker factor to 11: "Open Range Watch For Cattle."  What?  I have to watch for homeless cows AND steer this 600 pound bike (950 pounds with rider and gear) through tight corners?  There are only so many options when a 950 pound rolling object encounters a semi-stationary 1200 pound object on a roadway when the former is in motion and the latter is not, and all but one of those options ends with a loud "splat" and a bucket of pain.

  But I made it up and down the pass, into beautiful ranchland, and finally to Rangely, Colorado.  But before we get to the two stories about Rangely, I want to emphasize that Highway 139 is worth the ride.  It is both fun and beautiful, and we can't ask for more than that.

Northward

  So I got up and headed north. I thought I might visit Canyonlands National Park, but as I turned into the Park, the weather started threatening, so I turned around.  Next I thought I would stop at Arches National Park, but while in the Visitors Center, some rude Frenchman pushed me out of the way as I was looking at an exhibit.  I was hot, it was hot outside, and the rudeness just put me off.  So I just got back on the bike and started riding.

  Motorcyclists know that motorcycle tires wear out much faster than car/truck tires.  I had been watching the tread wear, and looking for a source for new tires for a week or so, as the tires I was running were known to last on the average 6500 to 7500 miles.  I was getting close to that bottom number, and only had 1/8th of an inch of tread on the rear tire.

 

  Moab.  What can you say about Moab?  Red?  Been said.  Beautiful?  Been said.  Awesome?  Been said.  It is just surreal.

  While riding down the street in Moab, I saw a sign that said "Powersports" on the front of a building, with a motorcycle or two outside.  I stopped to inquire, and they said they didn't have what I needed, but Fred would.  Fred?  Arrowhead Enterprises.  They looked up his telephone number, I called, he had what I needed, and would install them while I waited.  Off I went.

  If you are ever in or near Moab, and you need stuff for your motorcycle, this is the guy.  Write it down: The Guy.  Not only did he have the exact tire I wanted (as opposed to any tire will do) for both the front and the rear, but he had the equipment to change the tires and changed them in an hour or less.  I would still be trying to spoon that rear tire on.  And Romaniac?  He sells parts for KLR's just for people like you.

  It was after this wonderful experience that I ran into the Frenchmen, or they ran into me, but I found this arch anyway:

  See the people?  Harley riders. They infest the West like locusts as their Sturgis rally draws near. More like cicadas, really, with their ugly noise. Fie on them, fie I say!  Let them be muffled, and made to be courteous, or not ride at all. 

 But I digress from my story. 

The Sculpture at the Mesa Verde Visitor Center

 It is difficult to make out in this iPhone photo, but that is a man, scaling a cliff, with a basket of building materials on his back.

  Super-Size that, corporate America.

Mesa Verde

  Leaving Quemada, I continued to ride in those beautiful New Mexico hills for many miles.  In addition to the many signs of elk passing trough the area, I saw actual elk.  Actually, only one elk.  But that one elk (cow) proved to me that I was right: there were elk in the area.

  But beauty, as we know, is never constant, and all too soon the green and tree covered hills gave way to brown and brush, and I dropped into Gallup, New Mexico.  I needed water, and lithium.  Lithium batteries, I should say, for the SPOT.  After I found the right street for the one bridge over the railway tracks, I headed north to visit the Four Corners where Arizona, New Mexico, Utah and Colorado meet, and then to Mesa Verde.  The country was brownly beautiful.

  That mesa in the far distance is huge.  You can see it from the top of Mesa Verde.

 (By the way, in all of these areas, the oil and gas companies paint all of their buildings and infra-structure the same color as the local desert.  They are much less obtrusive than what we see in Alaska).

  Four Corners is a commercial enterprise run by a Native Tribe, and I refuse to recall which one.  I paid three dollars to approach the "monument," and had I known the amount of insanity there, I would not even have done that.  The monument is in a plaza, with booths on each of the four sides.  You may purchase all types of stuff, either before or after standing in line so you can stand in, on, or near the four corners.  I chose to purchase only water, and to take pictures of others having their picture taken.

  Having amused myself in this fashion, I rode on to Mesa Verde.

  I had never seen actual cliff dwellings until April of this year with Meredith in Arizona.  Of course, Mesa Verde is the largest collection, and they are stunning in their concept and execution.  Imagine a people with no steel or iron, weaving their ropes from plant fiber, scaling these cliffs, carrying baskets of rocks to a cleft, then building these communal structures.  Growing their food in the valley floors, hauling all that they need and had, including their water, up these cliffs.  What perseverance.  What imagination.  What strength.  No Super-Size-Me here, just humanity at its very best, working together that all might survive.  Do you hear that, Los Angeles?  Working together that all might survive.

  Look at those logs!  They had to be hauled up the cliff too.  Did they rig a block and tackle?  Or did they do it the old fashioned way, dragging the rope hand over hand over hand.

  The natural defenses to their "cities", the vast canyons and cliffs that surround the Mesa.

  My camp that night.

  A wonderful place.

The Lost Pages of New Mexico

The iPad ate my blog entry! And so I have to start over.

  The hills of southeast New Mexico are pretty in their own historic and dusty way.  Driving up to Lincoln was pleasant, with little traffic.  The bike just eats up those two lane roads, and I enjoy feeling it do its magic.  The smile never leaves my face.

  But New Mexico also teaches that change always occurs, and no place remains the same.  The crossing of the Jornado del Muerto was different this time, because the recent rains made the "desert" green.  The road is the same (although recently resurfaced) but the greenery completely changed the views and the whole sense of being on the edge of a place where surviving is one of two options.

  Likewise, Datil and the San Augustin Plains are changed.  The ride (after you get out of Soccorro and their away from their persistent police) and up into the hills remains beautiful and a magnificent ride.  The sweeping views are still there, but the towns seem to be dying.  From Magdalena through Datil to Pie Town, the closed businesses outnumber those that remain open.  Meredith is safe from ever moving to Datil, or any place close, because having been there again, I won't want to live (or die) there.  It is beautiful, but depressing at the same time.

  I took pictures of the plains, but I don't think they do them justice.  

  You will note the power lines in the picture.  You can not take a picture in the American West without the power lines.  The electrical "grid" or infrastructure is everywhere.  It supplies power to all of the resource development that has taken place and is taking place.  It is truly remarkable.  Even the great prairies and grasslands have huge powerlines marching across them.  They seem to be even more ubiquitous than the cell phone towers . . .

  After realizing you can never go back again (for the umpteenth time this trip) I left Datil and headed up to Pie Town, looking for some pie, and because I had never been there before.  BY definition, I couldn't be dissapointed.  Well, the only dissapointment was that Pie Town is not a town, or even a junnction, and the pie store was only open three days a week for four hours on those days.  I was there on the wrong day, much less the wrong time of day.  "There was no joy in Pie Ville, the Mighty Daniel had struck out."

  And there were no other services available either.  Nor would there be until I got to Quemada.  However, the beauty of this high country New Mexico made up for things like no services.  You can ride or drive and be nourished by the sights and smells.  There are no sounds other thaan nature's sounds when you stop and turn off the engine.  Traffic is very light, and so the quiet just dominates.  I'm told the country is a hunter's paradise, and people spend gooly sums to come here (if they win the lottery for getting a tag for the area) to hunt elk and deer.  I can understand  why.  Elk sign is all over, from their tracks on the shoulders of the roads to the waste products they leave on the roadway.  Yup, elks poop on the highway, friends, just like the bears do in the woods.  I think elk do it in the woods too, but I didn't go there to look.

  Quemada has a motel and restaurant that was much appreciated.  This little crossroads apparently does well becasue it caters to the hunters and fishermen who come to New Mexico for the world class fish and game.  But why don't the other little places do as well?  Maybe it is Quemada's proximity to Gallup and the east-west freeway that allows it to do better.  Regardless, I was really happy to find it at 7:00 p.m., because the nearest campground was another 80 miles away.

New Mexico SE to NE

  The morning I left the campground near Roswell, I saw a roadrunner. I haven't seen one in years. I was just happy to see one again. 

  I rode up to Capitan and Lincoln to revisit them. The land of Smokey Bear and the Lincoln County War. Billy the Kid. Pat Garrett. Murder. Nothing has changed since 1972. Except they resurfaced the road. 

 

  

Texas

  The drive across Texas on 82 was simply that: a drive across history, beautiful open country, and the smell of oil. Yes, from time to time, near the operating well heads, you can smell the crude oil. I'm sure an experienced oilman can tell you which field from which the crude came, just by the smell. 

  I spent the night in Wichita Falls, not so much a quaint little town anymore, and then headed for Lubbock. 

  It was on the road (82) to Lubbock where I had my closest call do far. 82 was a divided highway at that point. A fellow driving his pickup in the oncoming lane turned left in front of me. And stopped. He was blocking all the right lane, in which I was traveling, and half the left lane. Those lane change exercises they teach in the basic motorcycle course are worthwhile. 

The Turning Point

  Birmingham was the turning point.  I left on Friday heading West.  I rode down to Tuscaloosa, home of the Other Football Team in Alabama.  I was hoping to see some hulking big football players, or maybe the cheerleading squad, but none were in sight.  So I picked up Highway 82, and headed West.  I looked carefully at the weather maps, and they showed an arc of storms in Texas, more than a state (Arkansas) away. I felt good, and rode on.  

  The BMW at 65 sounds like it is literally purring.  It is so quiet and effortless, the rider has little to do, aside from a steering input here and there.  It is really a joy to ride.  It can still get away from me at slow speeds, so you know where I will be practicing.  No, not the Federal Building parking garage.

  As I crossed into Arkansas, I entered what appears to be the southeastern fringe of the U.S energy belt.  Oil and gas infrastructure everywhere.  They were better maintained than the roadways . . .  I also entered bayou country.  Swampy land, sloughs, bayous, creeks, cricks, streams, rivers.  I had the feeling that if I spit, the water level in Lake Pontchartrain would rise.

  I found a campground in Arkansas, still a distance from that line of storms.  I could see that they had benefitted from some recent rains, with debris scalloped and shaped by run-off, but they had gravel pads for the tents.  Here is a photo:

  I pitched my tent, including the rain fly, and in a surfeit of caution, put all my gear in the tent with me or under the rainfly.  At about  8:30, some rain spattered about, so I crawled now somewhat less spacious tent.  Thankfully, I had done laundry in Birmingham, so I did not have to contend with smelly socks.  About 9:30, as I was dozing, some other nearby campers returned from their day of fishing on a nearby river/bayou/lake/swamp.  They were a little noisy, and their lights kept sweeping my tent.  Those lights kept on flickering, and then I realized - lightning.

  Soon I heard faint rumblings of thunder.  The storms were coming, and they arrived about an hour later in all of God's glory.  Lightning, thunder, rain right smack over me.  Since I was inside the tent, and dry there, that's where I stayed.  The storms slowly moved off, and by mid-nigt, all that was left was the rain, which continued while I slept.

  In the morning, all was still dry in the tent.  As I broke camp, even the ground under the tent was dry. The only wet things were the rain fly, and the seat on the motorcycle.  So I put the rain fly in a water-proof (not water-resistant) bag, and rode west on Ol' 82.

As promised, the three cutest grandchildren in Birmingham, Alabama

Connor, Parker, and Louis.

Connor became known as Motorcycle Man.

 

Roswell, New Mexico

  I'm in a State campground about 12 miles from Roswell. There is a lake with a day use area, and that was full when I pulled in. But I found a bit of quiet in which to make and eat dinner. 

  I think I'm a pretty fancy camper because I have a sleeping bag with a pocket for my air mattress. That's top shelf stuff. But here they have 5th wheel trailers with slide-outs, and Dish-TV antennas and portable septic tanks and tripod stands to put the 5th wheel pointless on and the topper?  Rope lights under the perimeter of the thing so people won't walk into the huge white house on wheels in the dark. 

  But back to the night skies on Roswell. Here is my tent in the dark.

  Get the idea?  There is a cloud layer at less than 10,000 feet. Off over Roswell, I see a bright light in the sky. It's moving towards me. Yessss. This is what I came for!  It's moving medium fast, from my right to left. Pretty soon though, I see the blinking beacons of a civilian aircraft. Darn it, not a UFO. But wait!  I can't hear it!! Yessss, it's a UFO!  It passes me, my person in near rapture, a UFO and I've only been here a few hours!  I'm pretty confident that if I stay here a week or two, I can solve the entire deal. 

  However, after it passes, I hear the sound of a jet engine. 

  I am devastated. Was this the nightly fly-by put on by the Chamber of Commerce?  I don't know, but off to the south is an eery chemical glow, and off to the north I hear engines of SOME KIND circling-but there aren't any lights!

  I think I'll stay up for awhile and see what happens. Who knows. I may get lucky. But getting lucky does not mean getting probed. 

Bill and Shirley McEwen

  Bratton Lane is lined with trees that form a lush green tunnel over the road.  The smells are of verdant fields, mown hay, and a pungent tinge of skunk.  I loved it!  As I rode up up the driveway, Bill came out and he looked exactly as remembered him, but older somehow.  And with a shaved head.  How had that happened?  But the same voice with the strong Tennessee patois by which I have always known him.  He was joined by his wife, Shirley, and a finer pair of people you would have a hard time finding anywhere in Tennessee.  Bill and I started catching up right away, and Shirley patiently listened to us for awhile, then slipped away to prepare dinner.  I could write for pages about the things of which we spoke, but won't.  Bill has made a DVD of slides from his time in Viet Nam, which he has narrated.  We started watching it before dinner, and paused it from time to time to discuss the details of what the scenes depicted.  It was like being there again.

  Shirley's dinner was perfect - baked halibut with herbs, served with a very nice spicy pesto sauce (I need that recipe, Shirley), steamed broccoli with lemon zest, boiled and barely smashed red potatoes, and key lime pie for dessert.  We had great conversation over dinner.  These are kind people, gracious hosts, fine folks you just want to get to know better.  They live on part of the old family farm, with Bill's brother Jim (who is married to Nancy, Shirley's best friend) living on the portion that has the old home place on it (the house was built in 1862, and is lovely.  There are pages to be written about that, too).  Bill and Shirley have a Bed & Breakfast, too, and the guests stay in a cabin Bill built from logs re-purposed from old cabins.  Bill dated the yellow poplar logs from 1810 - 1820, and they are massive.  The cabin is phenomenal, and I thoroughly enjoyed my stay there.

  After dinner, Bill and I chatted away until fairly late for old men, 10:30 or so.  Mostly we talked about Viet Nam, and the siege at Khe Sanh.  Bill did two tours there, and I did one.  You learn things about yourself, and about life, in a place like that.  One thing you take away, no matter how you say it or express it, is that you have absolutely no control over your life, so live right now.  It may be all you ever have.

  In the morning, we had coffee and sweet cake, then Bill took me over to meet Jim and Nancy, and see the place where he grew up.  History in Tennessee, it seems, is always right there.  Structures built in 1862 aren't seen much in Alaska.

  Too soon, I had to leave.  I was headed on a short ride to Birmingham, Alabama, to visit my old friends and shirt tail relatives, Mike and Kay Kellum, their children, and the cutest grandchildren in Birmingham, Alabama.  Seriously, the cutest.  Although the distance was short, the weather took a hand, and time stretched out.