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.