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.

The Story of Duck River

  I arrived in Viet Nam in late October, early November, 1966.  I had received some Vietnamese language training, and was expecting to be assigned duties in the Civic Action program.  That didn't happen right away, and I spent the next several months as a radioman working with direct air support centers at Chu Lai and out in the field at places like Duc Pho and Quang Ngai, and a few more remote locations.  On June 1, 1967, my unit was assigned an area of responsibility for Civic Action efforts, and I was designated the Civic Action NCO.  I soon convinced the Commanding Officer I needed a special pass that authorized me to be in the village at any time for any purpose.  I still have that pass, typewritten on a 3X5 index card.  It was never challenged, and I used it all the time.

  In July, a young 1st Lieutenant joined our unit, fresh from OCS, the Basic Course, and training as a controller on the TPQ-10, a voice vectored, high altitude, more-or-less precision bombing system.  In essence, it married a ballistics computer to a tracking radar, and the officers talked (voice vectored) the pilot through a course (air speed, direction and altitude) and gave them a command when to drop the particular ordinance on their aircraft to hit a particular set of coordinates.  It was pretty accurate, usually within 50 meters or so.  This enthusiastic, exuberant, and patently trainable Lt. was William E. McEwen, II (named after his grandfather) from Duck River, Tennessee.  Inevitably, he was assigned other duties, including to supervise me as Officer in Charge of the Civic Action Program in the village of Sam Hai.

  Lt. McEwen and I  spent some time together, although I trained him to leave me mostly alone.  We stole a lot of concrete together, helped the Vietnamese build aprons on their wells to hopefully improve water quality, and built a clinic for the village nurse, Co The.  We were assisted in our efforts by a young Vietnamese guy, Truong, and a lady in the village who ran a laundry, store, and ping-pong parlor, Co Lieu.

  From time to time, Lt. McEwen (now known as "Bill" because we are older, and he can't court martial me for insubordination) would talk about being raised in Duck River, Tennessee, on the family farm, with a brother who was a bit of a hell raiser.  I promised him I would come visit him after the war.

  In 1972, while driving around the continental U.S. in a 1960 VW bus, I stopped in Duck River at the general store to try and find him.  The locals were suspicious, and asked a lot of questions before they got me a phone number for him.  We talked on the phone, but didn't meet up.  In May, 2011, we made contact by email.  This time, I made contact by email to make sure he was around this week.  He was, so I rode on over.

St. Louis and the Ride to Duck River, Tennessee

  My time with Ben and Erika was wonderful and quiet.  Time for laundry, a little shopping, a little blogging, and Ben's excellent ribs.  It was also the first day I had not been on the motorcycle since I started riding.  We also had lunch at Gringo's, a newish place with what I will term nuveaux TexMex, as in "we'll throw some toasted pumpkin seeds on this taco for a good-lookin' garnish."  We also drove through some of the neighborhoods in St. Louis, which I love to do.  Wonderful houses on tree lined streets.  Mid-America as it was five decades ago.

  The cat, Mirtillo, is an important part of the family.  Ben is working hard to jailbreak an old iPhone for use in my trip to Europe next year.

  I loved my time in St. Louis, and the time with Ben and Erika.  However, I had to get back on the road to Duck River, Tennessee, to see a former officer for whom I had worked in Civic Action in Viet Nam.  He gave me excellent directions, most of which I followed.  It was high-speed flat-slab most of the way.  The only exciting thing was when an eighteen-wheeler in front of me had a blowout.  I heard the bang, and then I was doing high-speed maneuvers as the tire shredded parts and they flew all over the roadway.  Exciting times, indeed.

  The last 40 - 60 miles were on highways 412 and 100, and they were nice two-lane roads that were shady and cooler.  Tennessee is beautiful, and very neat.  Almost all the lawns were mowed and neat, and most people had all their stuff and equipment in sheds with the doors closed.  As I said, very neat.

But when I turned onto Bratton Lane in Duck River, I knew I was approaching a special place. 

Birmingham

  The trip to Birmingham should have taken two and a half hours -- but it took more.  Seventy miles North of the city, the skies opened up, and it poured.  I mean, two days later, and my riding coat still hasn't dried out.  The rain was bouncing so high off the pavement it could wash the belly of a cow.  So I stopped for a bit in a rest area to check the weather.

  The weather maps showed the rain being worse right over Birmingham, so I stuck around the rest area. I had retreated into a picnic area shelter, but the bike was in the rain.  It was raining so hard that water got through the  zipper area on my Northface "waterproof" bag, and things were damp inside.  I must re-think that bag. Turns out the bag is water resistant, not waterproof.  But the rain didn't know the difference and continued to pour.

  After 30 - 45 minutes of checking the weather, I thought maybe the storm had moved a little,so I would give it a try.  Soon aftergetting back on the Interstate, I concluded I had erred, as I didn't feel safe driving as fast as the big trucks, and everytime one passed me I was buffetted badly. I started looking for signs for Highway 31 South, which I knew would take me to within a few blocks of the Kellums.  I found  a sign soon after, and left the interstate for the relative peace and slowness of the highway.  It kept raining, but riding at 55 in the rain feels better than riding 65 in the rain, particularly since I didn't have to contend with 18-wheelers.

  About 35 miles later, I saw the street sign for Hollywood Blvd., and I knew I had made it.  But I was soaked.  My clothes were soaked.  I had put my rain liners in my riding clothes before I left Duck River, but I took them out when I stopped just after entering Alabama, as I was slowly steaming with them in. My bad.  So I was wet.  Mike and Kay got me into a hot shower and dry clothing, for which I am very thankful.

  We went to Nabeel's, a Greek restaurant for dinner, and then to babysit Louis, one of the three cutest grandkids in Birmingham, AL.  While Louis slept, we watched show after show of Alaska State Troopers, and I was able to give a running commentary on some of the Troopers and APD officers, Trooper Vic Aye and Sgt. K. Lacey among them, which Mike and Kay found to be hilarious. 

  A word about Mike and Kay.  They are the parents of Amy Kellum, the wonderful young woman who married my older son, Matt.  While I don't think that Mike and Kay have forgiven Matt for taking Amy and their to children to Alaska, nor will they ever, Mike and Kay seem to like me well enough, and treat me like visiting royalty.  Being in the South is nice.  Mike and Kay seem to know everyone, and everyone is so kind to each other.  It's a place I could live . . . 

Welcome to Alabama

  Seventy miles of rain. 

Erika's Pickled Peach and Red Onion Salad with Mint

You can see the mozzarella peeking out under the greens. This salad was dressed with some olive oil and the pickling juices. It was really excellent. 

The Trans-Missouri Ride

  It started out raining by the time I finally left at 11:30, and rained intermittently for the first 100 miles or so.  But the nice thing was that riding on dried out the outer gear.  I never had to snap in the water proof liners.  They would have steamed me.  But the temps were in the 80s, the coolest day so far.  The humidity, however, was up.  You didn't need water to steam the broccoli, just put it in a pan and set it outside.

  I turned North off the highway at a community named Linn, and followed State 100 into St. Louis.  It's called the Lewis and Clark Trail, and was appropriately beautiful.  A perfect road for motorcycles.  Also important was that 100 turned into Manchester Ave., which took me very close to Ben and Erika's place.  I arrived about 7:12, and Ben treated me to the Best Roast Chicken Ever.  Erika's pickled peach and red onion salad with mint was also in the Best Ever category.

I fell asleep full as a tick.

The Dari-B

  An institution in Excelsior Springs, everyone has dessert here. Fast, inexpensive, good. 

 

The Wabash.

Award winning ribs. 

This the smokehouse. It's as big as a house, and OT is always smoking. 

Wood for smoking. 

Those ribbons?  Awards. Well deserved. 

Half rack. Lovely. 

Moving on to Excelsior Springs, MO

  After visiting the Memorial, I headed on to Excelsior Springs, MO. to visit my sister, Merri.  The ride was memorable in two respects.

  I stopped in a little town to gas up (and get off the bike for a minute).  Two locals were in the office  when I went in to buy some water ("Hydrate or Die," as Steve Skrocki says.  Or is it "Cotton Kills."?  Steve confuses me a lot . . .), and the one says "Can you really ride that thing (turns out he was a Harley rider) all t' way to Alaska?"  "Sure," says the other, "Ever since they built that road a few years back."  "Well," says I, "they built the road during the  Second World War, but yeah, you can ride to and from Alaska now."  "Tell me 'bout that road," says the first one, "does it have water on both sides?"  I courteously explained that the road goes inland through Canada, paid for my water, and left before we got to the subject of igloos.

  My second memorable event was Mr.Garmin taking me on a loop through the Missouri countryside that included miles of gravel roads.  It also took me places that looked familiar but then took me the wrong way.  I was frustrated.  So I turned it off, rode to Excelsior Springs, found the Dari-B, and found my own way.

  No visit to Excelsior Springs without visiting two places.  The Wabash for ribs, and the Dari-B for dessert.

National Homestead Memorial

  I spent the night in Beatrice, Nebraska, just 4 miles from the National Homestead Memorial.  SO I had to go visit.  The National Park Service has done a very good job.  The Visitor's Center/Memorial is on the edge of  the "first recorded homestead."  The "first" is in parenthesis because no one knows for sure which was actually recorded first, but legend has it that this was the first one.  The displays are pretty well balanced, including discussing the then prevalent view of the white man's superiority over the Native Americans, and therefore a right  to take the land for the white man's use.  That is, the view that the white man could and would out the land to its proper use.

  The building design is quite nice, I think.  On the wall along the walkway to the entrance are hung steel plates in the shape of each of the 40 States where homesteading under the Act was permitted.  In the center of the map is a square cut-out representing how much of the State was homesteaded.

  We often forget the role that Black Americans played in populating the West.

  Including the family dog was important to this family for some reason.  We see it over and over in these centuries old photos though, the inclusion of pets and livestock as part of the  family photo.

  And they lived and thrived in small houses, too. The color photo is of a cabin moved to the memorial site from a short distance away.

(It was National Bike to Work Week).

  The Park Service is returning the land to the natural prairie.  They've been working on it for about  three decades.  It's beautiful.

Reminder for the SPOT tracker

This is the correct link for the SPOT:

http://share.findmespot.com/shared/faces/viewspots.jsp?glId=0DWyypnQpbAoSyaE6BlYWIajsqgd02D3k

I tried to correct it at the bottom of the page.  If it didn't work for you, please post a comment.  Thanks!

Friend, Nebraska - The Reality

Here is Friend today 

Chimney Rock

  The story of the westward migration is a story of incredible hardship and tremendous courage.  One of the landmarks along the way was Chimney Rock.  When I saw it on the map, although not on my way, I had to see it.  The Nebraska State Historical Society has a very nice visitor's center, so I went there and took this picture.

  The rock has eroded quite a bit over the years, as evidenced by the photographs over time.  Not surprisingly, the Native Americans did not call it Chimney Rock, but rather Elk (male part).

   The things one learns as one travels the prairies of North America . . .

The story of Friend, Nebraska

  In 1965, June, I went off to Marine Corps' boot camp in San Diego.  There was a guy in my platoon (Platoon 240 as you surely recall) named Gary Girmus.  We became friends.  Gary was from Friend, Nebraska, and just the name of the place made it sound like an All-American City.  Aftere all, how could a city named "Friend" be anything but gloriously friendly?

  After boot camp, Gary and I (and the rest of the plaoon) went off to Camp Pendleton, and were selected to first serve our Nation on KP duty for two weeks -- specifically, cleaning garbage cans.  We both became proficient enough at cleaning garbage cans that we had a few idle minutes every day, and I asked Gary over and over about Friend, and what it was like growing up there.  He described a place that was magical, with tree lined streets, football in the Fall, corn growing up to the edge of town, pretty girls, fast cars, and hot summer nights.  In my mind, Friend became, in fact, the All-American City, the metaphor for what we were all willing to die for in Viet Nam.

  So I promised Gary Girmus in the Fall of 1965 I would come see him someday in Friend, Nebraska.  I had been close before, but this is the year I can go anywhere and see anyone.  So I rode to Friend.

  The main business streets are of brick, the main buildings are brick and stone, but business has clearly fallen off.  The clerks in the grocery store where I bought  water and a plum were very friendly, and curious about a guy dressed in dirty riding gear, but too polite to ask.  I was struck by how clean and neat all the public infrastructure looked, including the new cars driven by the police.  The public park was very neat and clean, and the baseball field and football field were manicured.  Every city should aspire to have such parks and sports fields.  The streets were indeed tree-lined, and corn grew right up to the edge of town.  While I didn't stick around for the night, it seemed like it was going to be hot.

  So I called the only listing I have ever found for a guy named Gary Girmus near Friend, Nebraska.  I had been trying the number for several days, but there was never an answer, and there was no answering machine.  This time a man answered, and I asked if he was Gary Girmus.  He replied he was, and I told him my name and that I thought we had gone to boot camp together in 1965.

  He hung up.  I suppose he values his privacy, and I respect that.  So I climbed back on my bike, and rode East and South.  However, I kept the promise I made almost 48 years ago.  The debt is paid.

The KOA

  The bike is aimed at the immediately adjacent sewage treatment lagoon. There is no Zoning Commission in this part of South Dakota. 

After the Badlands

  After the Badlands, I rode south a short distance to a KOA because it had shade and showers (the campground in the Park had neither).  That's where I found the cicadas.  Those are some big, ugly bugs.  And the holes they crawled out if were as big around as my thumb! 

  For dinner, the KOA kitchen was serving Indian Tacos.  I passed, and had an epicurean delight from my collection of dehydrated dinners from PackIt Gourmet.  Their stuff is actually very good, and I have to eat it up so I can try some new stuff.

  In the morning, I made myself of good coffee, and headed off to Friend, Nebraska.

More Badlands photos

I love the juxtaposition of the eroded formations with the grasslands.

Badlands

There are no Harleys in Heaven

  They are all in the Black Hills of South Dakota. They ride them in, they truck them in, I think they even fly them in. They are everywhere. Solos, two-up, groups and clubs. Bobbers, baggers, choppers, sportsters, every model manufactured and modified.

  The riding is incredible, and so is the scenery. But when you die, and if you go to heaven, don't expect to see a Harley. Unless, of course, you look down from heaven on the Black Hills of South Dakota. 

The Badlands

  I put Mt. Rushmore in my rear view mirror and headed for the Badlands of South Dakota. If you were following the track on the SPOT, you saw my confusion, as I backtracked twice looking for Park Headquarters. So my  path took me to the Pine Ridge Reservation, and an interpretive center at White River. As I walked in the door, a Native woman sitting at a picnic table called out "Indian Tacos!  Only $5!  They're really good!"

  I told her I knew Indian Tacos were really good, recalling some Indian flatbread Meredith and I had recently enjoyed near Tucson, and I would see her when I came out. I got the info I needed from the staff inside, and came out and ordered my Indian Taco.

  It was good, a little sweet, and she explained that she hand made the bread and meat mixture, making them a little sweet like her mother did. Her husband helped out by putting the chopped onion, lettuce, etc on the taco. 

  I hadn't eaten much yet that day, so when I finished I told her thank you, and that God had put her there that day to feed me when I was hungry. She told me yes, she had taken vows with the Franciscans, and had vowed to feed the hungry, give shelter to those who needed shelter, and tend to the sick. 

  We then discussed how the Jesuits would come to a place as missionaries, and start building the church, and then the Franciscans would come, finish the church, and stay and serve the people. Meanwhile, her husband looked at me as though I were a space alien. 

  I finally found Park Headquarters, and cooled off a bit. I took some photos, which I will post, but just enjoyed the beauty. It's a peaceful place for me, and I enjoy the landscape. 

Nebraska National Forest

Should I believe the sign?

Or the country itself?

Meal for a sparrow!

Cicadas?

Awesome grasslands

Scotts Bluff

Mt. Rushmore

Mt. Rushmore

I will backfill the Rawhyde Adventure segment later. In the meantime, I will say that it was awesome. 

Monday I rode through the rain along the "Front Range" of Colorado until I was tired of being wet and not seeing the road because the rain was bouncing 18 inches off the pavement. Riding downhill into a tight right corner and not being able to see the fog line is dicey for me. So on the advice of my friend and Concierge, Bryan, I headed east to the prairie. No rain, just wind, but it dried me out completely. 

I rode through and on the edge of the Pawnee and Oglala National Grasslands. They are spectacular. It is easy to imagine the Plains' Indians, buffalo, antelope, trappers, mountain men, and immigrants under the blue bowl of sky as they made their way. 

After spending the night in Kimball, NE, I made my way to Scott's Bluff on the Oregon Trail. The immigrants were possessed of incredible courage, strength, and an indomitable will. It is difficult to imagine their daily existence, but I admire and respect them. 

I continued north headed for Custer State Park. I passed through Wind Cave National Park which is very beautiful. It leads into the Black Hills, and there are rolling grasslands and pine forests on the hills. The riding is spectacular. There is one 270 degree turn where you go over a bridge, turn, and go under the bridge. It's called a "pigtail bridge," and I was to see more of them later. 

In the park, I encountered a buffalo, trotting up the shoulder of the road. This was somewhat disconcerting, because as soon as he saw me the changed look in his eye told me the bike and I had become the immediate object of his carnal desire. Thank heavens for BMW's low end torque and instant throttle response. I was gone. 

There was no room in the park to camp, so I wound up at Wolf Run, a private campground just outside the park. I slept for 12 hours, being wakened once by the wolves howling, and wakened by them this morning, too. It was a wonderful and friendly place. 

This morning I headed up 16A, "The Pigtail."  Twisty, turning, low speed, tunnels, and at least four Pigtail bridges. Just a few crazy drivers who, not being satisfied with their current hood ornament, continually seek another by drifting across the centerline. 

So here I am at Mt. Rushmore. I will post some pictures too. 

WA, OR, ID, UT and now CO

After a slow start in WA, including an unplanned detour into Portland (missed a sign), I blazed (101 degrees) across OR to a lovely camp at Farewell Bend. In this section I learned that gas mileage decreases dramatically as average speed increases. 

I also learned that with the Big Agnes Lost Ranger sleeping bag and air mattress combo, I don't need the cot. Also, since the bag has a pouch for a pillow, I don't need the camp pillow, as I can stuff the pouch with a fleece. More cubic inches and weight to ship home!

The next morning, after finding gas and fixing an issue with a credit card, I stopped at Big Twin BMW in Boise. We engineered a fix for the seat release (1/2 inch hole-- pictures later), and I bought hot weather riding pants. They really helped riding across the rest of Idaho in 101 degrees again with high winds. That day I got down into Utah, just east of Salt Lake City. 

The highlights of the camp at Rockport State Park were the bugs and raccoons, the latter having left little paw prints on the seat. 

Next morning I headed east on 40. I rode 40 across Utah and into Colorado. The first and last parts of 40 are in the mountains and gorgeous. The parts in between are arid, some times hilly, sometimes flat, sometimes windy, and always hot. I saw some beautiful farm and ranch land though, with creek and river bottomland filled with lush green crops or grass. After Steamboat Springs, the route takes on the appearance of Colorado in the tourist brochures. Why the pioneers ever left here must be because of snow. Otherwise, you can live here in beautiful surroundings. Lots of deer too. 

I spent the night at a Best Western in Dillon. It was pouring rain, and I needed a shower.  After I finish my Starbucks latte, I'm headed to the riding course I have pushed so hard to be here for. It starts at noon, and since I doubt there is cell coverage or Internet, I will likely be off line until Monday. Same with the SPOT. The course is by Rawhyde Adventures, and you can find them on the web. 

One last word about this bike: it is a beautiful machine. I am really enjoying it. I usually have a smile on my face. I hope I can learn to ride it as well as it deserves. 

Peace, out. 

Correct link for SPOT Tracker

This is the new link:

http://share.findmespot.com/shared/faces/viewspots.jsp?glId=0DWyypnQpbAoSyaE6BlYWIajsqgd02D3k

Sorry I didn't get it right the first time!

I'm getting a late start this morning, but I needed the rest. 

In the beginning, I was late

I arrived in Seattle on time to see cloudy skies and coolish temps. I was put off by that initially, but as it took longer and longer to assemble the bike (needed a hammer, had to use a bottle jack-- brutally effective) the sky became brighter and brighter. Hot, too. 

There were a few problems on assembly, primarily because (a) both my brother John and I have largish (dare I say "manly?") hands leaving little room to maneuver parts, and (b) some parts weren't fitting. The seat is goobered up good, and the right-side pannier required gentle persuasion to mount to the frame. The final problem was the sun which burned me. My bad. 

My brother John was handy for moving large objects. The shipping weight of the bike, crate, and gear was 928 pounds. 

We finally finished it, and I started find raising for the trip:

No money yet, but I'm hopeful. Especially because I spent three days food budget for breakfast at 13 Coins. 

I'm writing this at a rest stop about 70 miles from Portland. I don't think I will make it to my goal today. 

Once again I brought too much. Looks like I will be helping the postal service out of its deficit. 

The SPOT is on now, so maybe you can see the track.