49 | Anacortes, Orcas & Portland

We left early from our friend’s home in Sidney after a pancake breakfast (gotta keep in shape ya know) for the short ride to the ferry terminal.

There was a long line of cars, but we slowly inched forward for the ticket booth, only to see a set of 4 GS’s roll up into the line behind us. It was a nice sunny morning and the U.S. Customs officer was quite friendly - a real surprise - and after looking at our passports waved us through without the usual questions. Our position was first in line, and a few moments later the 4 GS’s rolled up behind us for first loading.

We spoke briefly with the riders, two ladies on 650 GS twins, and their husbands on F800Gs and R1200GS Adventures respectively. Kim and her husband Burke, Angie and her hubby Richard (IIRC!) were from Bend, OR and were returning from a couple of weeks riding in Canada.

Shortly after, we were motioned to board and rolled into place near the front of the ferry for the ride across to Anacortes, Washington.

Kim had old friends in Anacortes who’d been neighbors in Dallas. They were staying in a beautiful RV park in a nice 5th wheel while waiting for a home purchase to go through and we snagged a camp cabin there for a couple of days.

Anacortes was a beautiful area and our friends gave us a brief tour, including a stop for burgers at The Brown Lantern in the downtown section. It’s easy to understand why folks want to live in the area.

The following day, we jumped a ferry back to Orcas Island to see a couple of my friends who’d built a cabin on Orcas a few years back. It had turned out that they were up from Dallas that same week, and it seemed somewhat miraculous that we’d been randomly invited to stay in Sidney, which was so close to Orcas and Anacortes on the days that both our friends were there as well. Funny how that happens at times...

As we waited for the ferry, mild terror ensued when we saw hundreds of school kids milling around waiting to board the ferry. I began to sweat at the idea of being trapped on an island with screaming children and my flashbacks began about the years I served as an adult Boy Scout Leader for our local troop. Behind us sat two GS’s, an 1150 Adventure and a Red/White Anniversary version of the 1100GS like I’d owned previously. The owners weren’t particularly friendly and informed us they were parent chaperones for the kids we were watching below.

As I pulled over to the roadside to check directions to our friend's cabin, a car with California plates laid on it's horn behind me and I thought "Wow, it's SOOOOO nice to be back in the U.S. again". As I cocked-and-locked my middle finger, the car pulled up alongside and it was our friends, laughing loudly. They'd waited for us at the landing in a rental car. After laughs we followed them out to their well hidden cabin in the woods... and I NEVER would have found it, in spite of the detailed directions.

Orcas proved to be a really nice surprise, both for beauty and the lack of development. The little settlements were nice and not glaringly touristy and the day was spent touring the island with our friends. As evening neared we were exhausted and made for the ferry to wait an hour to catch the last late night run, only to find that the earlier ferry had been delayed - the lady at the ticket booth radioed down to the dock and they held the ferry until we were able to get on board. It was a blessing as we were spent for the day.

We made it back to the camp cabin and crashed in earnest. Since hitting Vancouver Island we’d been in some form of rush to get to certain places at certain times. Spending so much time with our hosts and friends added up after so much solitude and we were both ready for some downtime. Suddenly being thrust back into civilization, traffic and appointments was harder than expected...

Our plan for the next few days was to leisurely make our way down the Pacific coast, camping and spending time on the beach as much as we could to decompress. The 4 months of nonstop travel were catching up. Daily stresses of finding places to stay, planning routes, setting up camp, being bear-aware at all times, tearing down camp, riding quickly and cautiously day after day, staying with folks and staying up late talking, yada yada were all taking little pieces. A leisurely ride south sounded good indeed. As a matter of fact we were both sort of in shock to be back in the U.S. with all the trappings - traffic, stores, etc. Mexico was calling...

Late that evening Kim’s daughter called and said she’d like to meet us in California if possible, as she had a long weekend coming up and free flights out and back. The idea sounded fun, since she’s a motorcyclist and would really enjoy the ride down the coast even if on the back of one of our 1200’s.

The next day broke sunny and in the 50’s, perfect riding weather for our southward trek. We said goodbyes to our friends and headed for the Coupeville-Port Townsend Ferry an hour or so south.

Port Townsend was an interesting place and we rode around a bit before stopping in front of the courthouse to check maps. A man walked over and began asking about our trip. We ended up talking with him about different routes and things to see. So many folks have been so nice on this journey and we never tire of conversing, even if we’re tired (:D)

We’d gotten an update from Kim’s daughter as to schedule and she could make the flight to Portland the next day, otherwise it wouldn’t happen. The decision was made to change course from our original plan to go west out to Port Angeles and around the Olympic Peninsula, and instead head for Astoria, Oregon to make the Portland Airport the next day. Our path lay due south towards Olympia, until the crossroads west towards Aberdeen and out to Westport to see the North Pacific.

Somewhere on the way, we stopped for gas and were shocked to see the two couples we’d spoken with in Port Hardy - Jeannie and Mark, the man who’d been taking pics of our bikes while we had breakfast, as well as their friends Harold and Sarah. Mark was the spitting image of Dustin Hoffman. They were heading back to Redding, California. We all laughed and actually hugged each other in surprise. It was fun seeing them again if only for a moment. It’s been surprising how many times we’ve reconnected with people randomly like that.

We rode out to the viewing point in Westport and got off the bikes as the sun was beginning to get a little low. On the viewing platform sat a couple with binoculars watching the bay.

As we struck up conversation, their British accents were a pleasure to hear as they discussed their travels around the world. They were intense birdwatchers, having spent years traveling to see various species and were currently watching this area for a certain seagull. From Westport, they were to fly to Barrow, Alaska to see another type of gull they’d not seen before. I was a bit envious that they were able to travel the world at will, though I admit less so at the thought of birding and sitting in chairs for hours with binoculars. Not knocking it, just that I’d rather be riding yaks or motorcycles in exotic places. Still, we had a great exchange and wished them well, as did they to us.

Astoria was still a ways away and the day was late, so I knew we’d be getting there at dusk most likely and warned The Butterfly. The ride south along the coast on 101 was very nice, whetting my appetite for more in the next couple of days. It was indeed dusk when we finally crossed the long bridge across the Columbia River and tooled through the town looking for coffee. McDonald’s was once again our friend with a one buck cup o’ java.

While we searched for motels on the phones, Kim got a text from our friend Ronetta in Alaska. Apparently her sister lived in Vancouver, Washington and she wanted us to spend the night with her that evening. If we’d gotten the text earlier it would have helped in planning but as it sat now, it was dark and we were really tired. Against my better judgment and despite my rule to not ride after dark, we made the decision to go ahead and stretch for Vancouver, with the upside that it would at least be closer to the Portland Airport. We gassed up and got going along the Columbia River east.

It wasn’t fun, as we were both tired and riding in the dark is a major no-no for me, especially after living in the deer infested Texas Hill Country. I told The Butterfly to stay as close to the centerline as possible to keep away from the roadside and we tucked in behind a car to let them lead and take the brunt of any deer hit.

The drive to Vancouver was a very, very, long one it seemed and by the time we finally hit the city we were fried. It took a while to find the house and it was close to 11 when we finally got our gear off and settled on her couch. We stayed up talking until well after midnight, and I must have sounded drunk from exhaustion as I have no remembrance of any of the conversation. Unfortunately our host had to get up at 2 am for her work schedule so she only got an hour or two of sleep. Her partner had to be awake at 4 am and out the door at 6 am, so Kim and I were up and out about the same time. We found a Mickey D’s and slumped in the chairs like zombies until the light rain subsided and the day began to dawn. Crabbiness was rampant.

It turned out one of Kim’s best friends was visiting Portland the very same day, so we made plans to swing by and see her while there. In addition, Kim’s daughter let us know that her flight time would not be early as expected, but instead arrival would be about 4:30 pm. It happened to be Friday, so I knew the way out of town for the coast was going to be a nightmare.

We met her friend for coffee and caught up, then headed east for Multnomah Falls to fill some of the time before her daughter’s flight arrived. It was pouring rain and there were hundreds of tourists packing the parking area of the falls as we rolled in. The short climb to see them was easy, but we both were terribly under-impressed. Alaska and Canada had so ruined us for spectacular beauty that we had feared our reactions would be that way. And it was. Milling herds of tourists swilling down ice cream and buying souvenirs didn’t help.

From the falls we took the old Historic Columbia River Highway back for Vancouver, an amazingly beautiful stretch of road that got us smiling again. We spent time at the Vista House overlooking the river valley, definitely a good stop for sure.

The rains to the east were approaching as we got back on the bikes and headed for the Portland Airport, Kim excited to see her daughter again after so much time on the road. She appeared at the Arrival Lane already dressed in her Dainese leathers and gear with a small travel bag. Kim had wanted to let her daughter ride on the back of her bike, but after strapping both duffle bags and luggage on my back seat, Kim didn’t feel safe with Alexis aboard. Kim had never ridden with a passenger and her daughter’s movements climbing aboard made her think she would drop the bike. A small crowd had gathered to watch the sideshow of the three of us in gear on bikes from Alaska and Texas, swapping bags and feverishly strapping things on as the security car sat with flashing lights behind us.

It seemed forever by the time we got moving, Alexis excitedly chattering to me from behind through her AGV helmet, simultaneously while Kim asked a thousand questions in my headset. I felt like a translator at the U.N. who was moonlighting on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange at the same time...

The traffic was a nightmare and lasted for hours as we slowly crawled southwest towards Neotsu and Lincoln City on the coast in the fading light. Rain threatened continuously but never seemed to hit us hard.

It was dark when we finally made Lincoln City and abandoned the idea of a campground for a cheap motel.

50 | Pacific Coast Highway

The next morning we left Lincoln City and headed south along the coast towards Gold Beach.

The unfortunate reality was that to make San Francisco and her daughter's return flight, we would have to make serious time along the coastal highway. It seemed doable on paper but in reality I knew the trip would require long days on the road with little time for stops.

Despite that, it was good to see family and share the time on the road. Kim relished having her daughter with her after so much time on the road, even if only for a couple of days.

It was a brilliantly sunny and clear day, the ocean was blue with tufts of aqua and the views were great. As we made Depoe Bay, we stopped where people were gathered at the viewing area. We peeled out of gear for some whale watching and sho’ nuff there were whales cruising the waves below. For several moments only the waves would be seen, then the great, grey back of a whale and the telltale puff of mist would signal a brief sighting. A first for us all and we really enjoyed it.

Seeing and riding the coastal highway was fantastic, the curves and high overlooks, the ocean and rock formations below. Alexis was enjoying the ride from the back of the Beemer, tapping and pointing out something here and there. More stops for distant whale sightings below...

We eventually made Gold Beach for the evening, getting a motel for the night. Kim enjoyed the beachside hot tub, listening to the sound of the surf til closing.

The next day we were excited to get to see some redwoods for the first time. On the map I noticed that there were several redwood preserves and parks in region, a surprise as I just assumed there was only one. The Drury Scenic Byway was a real treat, a beautiful road with the magnificent trees flowing by.

Harbor seals in Crescent City

Due to our time constraints, I didn’t shoot a lot of photos which I regret in retrospect, however sometimes it’s nice just to feel like you’re riding with no cares and leaving the camera holstered was nice. One of the highlights of returning to the US was at least I could stream Pandora again, and just listening to music and riding the curves felt great.

Traffic was something we’d had to get used to again after the thousands of miles in Canada and Alaska, and there was quite a bit more than expected on the road. In one congested area of twists and turns, a white pickup emblazoned with fire department logos came barreling up on us, his yellow lights flashing and passed us on double yellow line curves. He was driving a bit crazy and since his siren wasn’t on it didn’t seem he was heading for a fire. Jackass driver noted.

A while later, the same truck came racing up behind me on the scenic byway, riding us about 10-15 feet behind, then racing out again in a blind curve and catching up to Kim, sitting about 15 feet behind her. He continued to ride right against her for a mile or more. I was seriously pissed and Alexis leaned around asking why he was such an asshole. Kim finally slowed to about 10 mph and he jerked around her and tore off ahead.

About a mile ahead we came up on him sitting behind a parked car on the roadside with his lights flashing like a cop car. We rode past and stopped. I got off and walked back to him, where he immediately started commanding me off the roadway like a cop. I’ll let your imagination go, but serious words were exchanged and I told him exactly what he was and where I could put him. He was a serious asshole suffering from severe control issues. Kim said he was one of those creeps who probably couldn't make the police force and was now trying to live out his fantasy...

A couple of moments later a Park Ranger showed up at the scene and Kim went up to the ranger, explaining the situation and wanting to report him. It was a bad scene and the guy seriously needed to get tossed off the force based on his driving both earlier on the main roadway and then after endangering us. Notes were made, yada yada but I’m sure nothing would come of it.

From that experience, we at least continued unmolested through the forest and enjoyed the ride. Our plan was to continue until Leggett, where we were to jump off Hwy 101 onto Hwy 1 out to the coast again where we wanted to camp. Kim wanted to stay and enjoy a slow ride and walk in the redwoods, asking us to go ahead and find a camping spot where she could catch up to us.

Alexis and I took off since the day was getting late, stopping at Leggett junction and waiting a while for Kim. There was no cell service so we rode back north about 15 miles but didn’t see her and still had no cell service. We decided to head back to Leggett to wait. As darkness approached we got worried that some how we’d missed her and went briefly to the small store to check for wifi so my phone could call out over wifi. None was available so we rode back the 400 yards to the intersection and waited again. It was beginning to get dark and I thought maybe we should ride on to the beach 30 miles ahead just in case she’d somehow slipped by us.

Hwy 101 was an incredible motorcycle road, super tight and twisty but about 3 miles in I decided to turn back, since I didn’t want to leave Kim to ride it alone in the dark.

Again we waited until well after dark by the roadside, eventually giving up and looking for a motel… the only one available in the area being a couple of miles away in South Leggett. A ride over in the dark led to a dimly lit motel sign with no cars in the lot, however a knock at the door proved the owner/manager there. He looked questioningly at us, probably a bit surprised and a little suspicious for some reason, until we explained the situation, having lost Kim somewhere. He was happy to lend us the land line phone and Alexis got voicemail, but after several repeated attempts got Kim on the phone. Apparently she had ridden by during the 10 minutes we’d left the roadside to seek wifi, and had also missed the turn at Leggett. She was safe and had found an RV Park to camp in for the night.

From the conversation, the motel manager surmised Kim had ridden south to Laytonvile and then taken a county road over to the coast - his comment being that it was a very bad one to have taken. We asked if there was a place to get any food, since we were starving. He said no, but felt pity and offered to make us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It sounded like steak and lobster to us and I offered to pay him for his kindness but he refused. He finally loosened up a bit and the conversation drifted to the marijuana growers in the region, telling me this was the hot spot in California for pot growers. In fact he told me where there were fields of plants across the road, pointing out into the darkness, and how many were there, commenting that there were far more than “personal use” could account for.

He said there was an unspoken agreement between the growers and he, that as long as they left him alone, he left them alone. In addition, several big ranches in the area had just been bought by tobacco companies in anticipation of California legalizing pot the next year.

We finally got into the rooms, our host bringing PBJ’s and chips as well as a couple of Cokes to the room. It was a major relief to know The Butterfly was okay and the long day hit hard. Sleep came easily to say the least.

51 | The Loneliest Road in America

Everything kicked into high gear… the increasing traffic, the deadline to make the airport in “The City” and a general desire to keep moving fired us up. Mexico has been calling my name and the desire to get south was hitting in earnest.

Needless to say, Highway 1 continued to amaze as we poked our way south towards San Fran, the traffic, RV’s and road construction keeping the pace slow. Due to the deadline to get to the airport, stops were limited and we pushed hard

Alexis had a pipe dream to make a flight at 4:30 that afternoon in San Fran, but the traffic kept getting worse the farther south we rode, and I had to laugh at the fantasy posted “Speed Limit 55” signs along the way.

As the day got late we finally gave up and stopped in Petaluma at an Irish Pub in the downtown section to cool off and tank up. After an hour or so we geared back up for the Interstate and San Francisco, arriving at rush hour and the setting sun on the Golden Gate Bridge. It was our first time to see it and San Francisco.

The flight issue required Alexis to take a very early flight the next morning so I found a relatively inexpensive motel in the vicinity of the airport and we all crashed for the evening, with one stop for some great Chinese food. We were up at 4 am the next morning and I dropped Kim’s daughter at the airport about 4:30, then blearily looking for a cool coffee shop to no avail, riding around for probably 45 minutes in various neighborhoods before finally giving up in frustration and riding back out to the airport area to the only breakfast spot I’d seen...

After drinking enough coffee and finally waking up, I hit the motel to find Kim packed and ready for the day’s ride. The plan was to cut short some of our time in California and get to Utah for the parks and Highway 12, one of my favorite areas on earth. The rushed pace, traffic and such had hit us both hard since crossing the border back into the U.S., and getting back to some solitude was about all we could think of.

From SF, we hit the throttle and I-80 for Sacramento and then Reno, NV. The long buzzing drone of engines on the interstate and the remaining early morning fatigue lulled one into a brain dead stupor, simply getting to the destination as fast as possible being the only motivation of the day.

Gassing up outside Reno and swallowing a sandwich was the excitement for the day, finally reaching Fallon, Nevada for a motel as the day wound down. After the magic of the riding for months in the places of the recent past, we both were feeling the down turn of emotions as this phase of the journey was nearing it’s completion.

The next morning as I walked out with my duffle to toss on the back of the bike, I heard a voice to my left and turned. An older gentleman stood by the doorway to his motel room, waving and with a weak smile said “God bless your travels!”… I thanked him and walked over to say hello.

As I reached to shake his hand and introduce myself, he said “My name is Vasco.” I hesitated for a moment, the name recalling school history books of explorers from forgotten history lessons. He reached to pull up the sleeve of his t-shirt, exposing a frail arm with a large flourish tattoo with “Vasco” and “Portagee”, now a bit faded. As he pointed at the tattoo, he said “I am Vasco the Portagee!"

He then asked “Do you know history? No one knows history anymore.” I said that I did to some degree. He then asked “Have you heard of Vasco da Gama?" I responded “Yes, he was a world renowned explorer”. That much I knew, though I couldn’t recall the specifics of what his fame was for at that moment.

Vasco began to shake physically and tears came to his eyes. He said “No one knows history anymore and I can’t believe you know that name.” Through aged, tear-filled eyes he proudly said “I am the 18th generation grandson of Vasco da Gama. I was named for him to carry on the family lineage." I told him I was honored to meet him and he shook my hand again. He once more lifted his shirt sleeve to show me the tattoo of his name, then lifted the other sleeve to reveal a tattoo of Christ on the cross, the image shrunken on his now frail arm. He again pointed to the tattoo of his name and said “This is who I am” and then pointed to Christ on his other arm and said “and this is why I’m still alive."

I could see that Vasco was struggling some physically, and asked him if he was okay. He said that he was about to drive to a doctor’s appointment for a bad concussion, one that had happened months earlier when he fell off his front porch and hit his head on the ground hard. His local hospital told him he was okay, but he said he knew he wasn’t, because his head felt like it was full of fluid and he now had serious trouble remembering things. He’d not been able to convince anyone how bad his fall had been and said they never checked him for a concussion, despite his repeated story and complaints. In frustration, he’d driven to Fallon to visit another doctor.

About that time Kim came out of the room and saw us, coming over after tossing gear onto her 1200. I introduced her and told her what was happening. We offered to drive him to his appointment, but he insisted he was okay to drive. Vasco asked about our trip and where we were going. He’d had a Harley for many years but could no longer ride. Vasco said he used to say “Have a safe trip” to other motorcyclists, but now prayed for them instead. I told him we’d love to have his prayers for us.

He gently placed his shaking arm on mine and asked God to protect us as we rode. When he finished, Kim and I both put our hands on his shoulders and prayed for his concussion and cloudiness to go, and for God’s blessings to fall on him. He cried quietly and thanked us, grasping both our hands and holding them for a while.

I told Vasco I was honored to have met him and that I needed a picture to remember him by. He smiled and said “Wait a moment”, shuffling slowly back into his room and returning to proudly display his NRA cap for the picture. After the shot, I shook his hand again and we watched as he slowly climbed into his old Toyota pickup and backed out. With a wave he slowly drove away.

Kim and I prayed for Vasco again as we rode out on Highway 50, the “Loneliest Road in America” towards the distant Utah border. Highway 50 cuts Nevada in half west to east, going through the vast empty center of the state and earns it’s name well. It was a sunny and warm day, thankful to be alive and thankful to be riding through the Nevada desert in the fall and not the summer.

The loneliest road was a wonderful ride. The seclusion, lack of people and cars washed away much of the recent traffic and metropolitan clutter, with beautiful sweeping vistas of nothing but rock and desert mountains. The farther east we traveled, the skies darkened with heavy clouds.

From the KimCam:

It was ride we both enjoyed, passing eventually a few cattle in the sparse landscape, along with the carcasses and bones of dead cows sprinkled randomly along the roadside. It was an odd sight and one wondered if it was drought, disease, redneck gunshots or cars that caused the dead carcasses, all within 50 yards of the road and spread a mile or so apart.

As the day drew down, we turned south on 487 / 21 and passed the entrance to Great Basin National Park. It was a park I’ve never heard of and the temptation to once again use the National Park Pass was abated by the threatening rain storms. High winds killed the last thoughts of entering the park, and instead we pulled off to suit up for the approaching rain to the southeast.

We were lucky to have only mild spats of rain and winds the rest of the way to Milford, Utah. More rain lay ahead towards Cedar City and Zion National Park, our actual destination for the day, so we decided to look for a motel in Milford instead. Kim located one online at a great price and we arrived to an old motor inn off the beaten path. The clerk was waiting for us, proudly presenting our keys and pointing to the notebook he’d made for things to do in the area. It was painfully obvious he had almost no clientele and had excitedly waited for us to arrive, bursting into a full presentation the moment we walked in the door. He was very nice, but also one of those people who made you feel awkward, with long pauses and long stares. We both felt a little weird at the awkwardness but were glad to find a clean room after some of our other motel experiences.

That night I googled "Vasco da Gama" to refresh my memory. Vasco had been the first explorer to make the voyage around the south tip of Africa and all the way to India from Europe, in doing so singlehandedly building the Portuguese empire by establishing a new spice trade route and causing Portugal to become a world power. What Vasco did back then was the equivalent of our first moon landing.

It’s interesting the jewels one finds hidden in dusty, forgotten corners…

52 | Mud In Zion

It was nice waking up not dead, the awkward clerk having reminded us slightly of Anthony Perkins in “Psycho”. The fact we were the only guests at the motel didn’t help. We nabbed a banana and a couple of muffins from the free breakfast our host provided, said “Thank you!” and peeled south towards southern Utah, one of my favorite places on earth.

There were threatening storms to the southeast as we headed towards Cedar City and they appeared to be parked over the Zion National Park area. My cell picked up enough signal to verify that indeed the forecast was rain ahead. The plan was to hit Zion and work our way east towards Colorado, seeing as much of the orange sandstone state as possible before heading back for Texas.

The rain stayed just ahead of us as we made Cedar City. The map showed a scenic backway to the Zion/La Verkin area, and though it sounded good we had some concerns since the clouds were black over the area. I told The Butterfly that we may have some “fun” since it had been raining and it wasn’t clear whether the road was paved or not.

As we made our way slowly up in elevation, the road was wet, but the aspens were a brilliant yellow. The rain started and continued, as the initial blacktop section dropped away and the graded, crushed gravel sections began.

The temperature fell to the lower 40’s as we climbed higher, leaving the yellow tunnel of leaves and entering a higher and flatter area where the gravel sections turned to dirt and the road got slick with mud. My bike wandered immediately and I heard Kim shout in the headset as she got a bit sideways but kept it upright. It was tense as the rain continued and I wondered how many miles of mud lay ahead. My rear Heidenau was sporting 13,000 miles and had less than 1/8” tread so it was not working well. Even worse, Kim’s bike was wearing the somewhat new TKC-70’s from the dealership, which are glorified street tires. My experience with the TKC-70’s that had come on my bike at purchase were not good, so I knew Kim had a handful on the slick stuff - not to mention a new and bigger bike notorious for ill handling in sand and mud.

Eventually the muddy open area began to transition back into aspens and a more solid road with crushed gravel. With the transition came some blue skies and sunshine and we began to relax a bit. It was to be short-lived.

Again we came into an open area with threatening skies and started uphill on a slick dirt section. Almost immediately, Kim’s bike went sideways about 20 feet ahead of me and did a 270º spin, throwing her down hard. My bike almost went down as I stopped. Kim was not obviously hurt, however an old neck injury got fired up with the impact.

The mud was only about 2-3 inches deep, but it was as slick as grease. We could barely stand, having to take baby steps to keep from falling. Lifting the bike was impossible at first, our feet sliding out from under us and when we got traction the bike would simply slide away from us when we tried to lift. I was able to spin the bike on its case and head fairly easily until the rear tire got into a slight rut, giving us just enough of an edge to catch and we finally got it upright.

I took a couple of minutes and aired her tires way down in the vain hope it would help the TKC’s in the slick stuff. She got going again and in less than 30 feet had to bail. We had no idea how far it was to better road conditions, but we were about the halfway point and made the decision to go on forward since we knew how muddy it was behind us. For the next couple of miles, I had to dog-paddle her bike through the mud, then walk back to my bike and do the same. A couple of vehicles passed us, both having turned sideways in the mud coming downhill towards us, thankfully only to straighten as they crawled past. In my rearview I watched them spin and slide to the ditches.

It was exhausting and I wanted to give up. Thankfully it wasn’t raining, but if it got worse ahead we might be stuck for some time.

Check out the car in my mirror…

A pickup came along and the driver said it got worse ahead, but that blacktop was only a couple of miles away. Kim was exhausted from walking in the mud and I doubly so, having to ride one bike, then walk all the way back to the other and bring it forward. My legs felt like lead. It seemed to take hours to finally get into better sections, followed again by stretches of slick stuff, but eventually the road got better as we made for La Verkin. The blacktop was much further than 2 miles and maybe the guy did it to give us hope, but it was exciting to see the back side of the peaks in Zion to our left as we rode. The skies cleared a bit but the weather wasn’t stable.

We finally made the blacktop and then the main highway intersection, stopping for gas and a snack at the nearest gas station. After a short rest we headed on Highway 9 for Zion. To say we were tired after the mud-fest would be an understatement. As we neared the park, we stopped to look for coffee but the hordes of tourists drove us away. As we got closer to the entrance, I was shocked to see how many busloads of people were there. My last trip through southern Utah, including the parks, was almost solo for the duration as there were almost no people anywhere - it was late spring then and I assumed mid-October would be the same. Wrong!

There were so many people and it was late in the day so we decided to skip the park and go on ahead, our crusty brown 1200’s faithfully purring away. We continued on through the otherworldly terrain on Highway 9 until reaching Mt Carmel Junction and turning north. It was getting dark when we hit Hatch to check for a motel. None were available, but Kim found a good priced one further ahead in Panguitch.

It was completely dark when we arrived, waiting in the lobby for a long time before the owner finally returned. He had been helping his daughter at her Indian restaurant down the street since her only waitress had called in sick. Indian food sounded good, but we were beat and muddy. Kim washed her rain jacket and pants in the shower while I relaxed on the bed.

Eventually we mustered our strength and wandered down to the “Tandoori Taqueria”, where we had a good meal of spicy chicken wrapped in nan, taco style.

53 | The Canyons & The Spider

It was time to head back south a bit. Just a little bit.

Kim had wanted to see Antelope Canyon and we were so close it had to happen. The morning air had become a bit more brisk, even though we were in sunny Utah, as we rode south on 89. Highway 12 for Bryce Canyon slid past to our left as we headed for Kanab and ultimately Page, Arizona. In Hatch, we stopped for breakfast at a Harley themed motel and grill. It was definitely homemade and definitely good.

The heavy rains we’d seen in Zion had apparently moved on east and doused the region, but there was little sign of it on the roads or landscape. We broke into Arizona and as the sun settled lower, decided to find a camp site early, both to get back out in creation and to help a little on our battered budget from so many recent motel stays. Past Fredonia, Highway 89A led into National Forest land and we figured we could scrounge up a dispersed campsite pretty easily.

Riding up into the forest, the temps dropped as did the setting sun. Finally a forest service road appeared that looked promising, but after riding a couple of miles in, the only spots that seemed doable had deep mud patches and standing water. In addition, there were hunters camped randomly off the road. Turning back towards the highway, we idled back up the road, a lone hunter walking slowly ahead in the fading light as we rolled past with a wave.

The only accessible spot was near the highway, but we got the bikes into the woods and Kim began setting up the tent and hammocks between a stand of large pines. The ground was spongy from rain and as I scrounged under piles of limbs stacked up by park services to burn in the controlled fires we’d seen on the way, I was pretty disheartened. Even deep under the piles the wood was soaked. I searched and searched around the area but everything was wet and found nothing for tinder. The twigs I did find wouldn’t ignite for anything, no matter how much scrap paper I tried. The air was so full of humidity I began to wonder just how much rain had fallen. I tried all the tricks I knew for starting a fire - even chopping deep into old wood to the dry heart. Shavings wouldn’t ignite, in short nothing worked. It was getting dark and I’d given up more than once. I even tried cursing a blue streak but that didn’t help.

As we sat in our chairs in the last of the light, the tiny fire ring mocked us until I gave it one more try and got some shavings going. It took a very long time but eventually a mouse sized bonfire got going and we enjoyed the sight and sound of the wimpy fire. We’d strung up a couple of hammocks and the Noah’s Tarp, but I was suspicious of a heavy rain and crawled into the tent. Kim decided to enjoy the hammock until the rains came and luckily they never materialized.

The next morning’s pack-up took a while, as the rain soaked ground and humidity had made the tent base and ground cloth muddy and generally too disgusting to pack up wet. The offending camp gear was stretched out over bushes in the sun and eventually dried enough to knock off the muddy clumps.

From the camp site we rolled back onto the blacktop and eastward for Page.

From theKimCam:

At the Navajo Bridge crossing over the Colorado River, we stopped for a look and a break to make brunch. As we sat at a picnic table under the covered area where the Indian women hawked their jewelry, I heard a car pull in behind me. A couple of moments passed and suddenly I heard someone exclaim, followed by a loud thud. Kim was facing the vehicle and jumped up yelling to me to help. I finally untangled my legs from the tiny table and turned to see an elderly man lying on his back next to the car. Kim and I both knelt by him as his wife came around from the other side, telling us not to pick him up. I knew better than to suddenly try to lift him, as he was very frail and we didn’t know if he’d broken anything.

Despite hitting his head on the ground he seemed okay save for a bleeding scrape on his arm. We gently lifted him up and told him to lean on the car for a while. It was obvious he’d been suffering for years and was very frail despite his height. His wife had gotten him out of the car, along with his walker, and had left him leaning against the car while she went back to the drivers side. There was a slight slope to the parking lot and it was enough that he was unable to keep himself upright and had fallen hard, hitting his head. Kim had seen him start to go over but was unable to get to him in time, disturbing her greatly.

He was very embarrassed at his inability to take care of himself, and knowing he’d been a big strong guy earlier in his life I’m sure probably made it doubly hard for him, but we joked about it to loosen the atmosphere. After making sure he was truly okay, we got him on level ground and into his walker. Kim and I watched as the couple slowly made their way towards the bridge overlook and went back to our Ramen noodles.

We finally saddled up and rode back across the bridge to the other side just to see it. As we circled through the lot I saw the old couple, who’d made it all the way across and were standing with their backs toward us. Instinctively I started to honk and wave goodbye, but stopped myself since I was afraid if he looked back he might lose his balance again. On the road I told Kim, and she had made the same decision as well.

From the KimCam

Page eventually slid into view and we needed coffee and wifi. Again, McDonald’s was the convenient answer though we ate next door at Taco Bell. I must say my palate has been slaughtered and bludgeoned on this trip by fast food places. Normally I dine on foie gras, caviar, quail lips and such, having been suckled on Dom Pérignon 1959 since birth, however McDonald’s sausage biscuits have made a place in my heart. My French wet nurse and au pair is likely rolling in her grave...

That said, after waiting in line for coffee and a sausage bikkit, Kim and I plopped down on a couch by the window and I noticed a safety yellow motorcycle jacket on the adjacent couch, followed shortly by a woman named Sandy arriving with her coffee. We had the best conversation in a long time, concerning freedom, life changes and adventurous spirits. Sandy was returning from Phoenix to Wyoming on her Honda Silver Wing after a fast trip there.

Sandy shared how she’d reached a point of discontent in her life in her 50’s, realizing she was unhappy despite a good job and had been considering early retirement so that she could change her life. She wrestled with doing it, finally deciding to work another few years since it was the “safe” thing to do. One morning as she drove to work in heavy snow, she stopped at a light and looked to her right. There, sitting in the snow, was a young man with his dog. He looked directly at her and smiled with a big smile. She said it hit her very hard, an epiphany of sorts, and as she drove away with his smile following her, she realized that though the boy would be considered homeless, in fact she saw how happy he was with nothing but his pack and dog. It was a moment that changed her life and her fears went away. When she got to work, she walked in and told them she was taking retirement.

She shared that she moved to Wyoming from the east coast, knowing from her first visit there it was where she needed to be. One of the next things she did was to take a riding class, face her fear and get a motorcycle license and begin to ride, joining the local Harley club on her newly acquired Honda Silver Wing. From there she branched out and now traveled solo wherever she felt to go.

Our conversation lasted a long time, but was one we all really enjoyed. It inspires the hell out of me to meet women who step out and face fears, especially traveling by motorcycle against the norm. We exchanged info and parted ways, watching her head north for Wyoming as we saddled up to find a nearby campground.

Wahweap campground was the answer, sort of lying on Lake Powell, but by the time we arrived the office was closed and a list of available camp spots was taped on the door. We grabbed one in the tree-less crowded campground and I began to set up the tent while Kim did other things. There were an abundance of spiders on the tent as I unrolled it, realizing that the wet camping area we’d stayed in must have been loaded with them. I flicked a few off before the Iron Butterfly returned, luckily.

Always a good sign...

The sun and temps were dropping but we had no wood for a fire so the evening was spent wrapped in blankets in our chairs, listening to the sounds of drunk teens playing beer pong a few sites away and the endless chatter of our neighboring three French girls.

The only excitement was a burst of winds which grabbed the Kelty Noah Tarp, tossing the ground stakes high into the air out of the sandy soil and flapping it like crazy in the dark.

The next morning was quite cold, and as I lay in my bag felt a tickle in my ear. As I reached to rub the ear canal, the tickle worsened and I felt movement down in the canal. Suddenly a spider came out of my ear and as it ran across my cheek. I grabbed it and crushed it between my fingers. Obviously, the tent was still featuring spiders from the night before and he’d happily made his sleeping area in my ear as I slept.

Next came the fear wave of wondering if somehow he’d bitten me in the night unnoticed and the poison would be going straight to my huge brain which lay just millimeters away? Or maybe my ear would rot off and ruin my modeling career? Whatever.

This was my second “spider event” of the trip, the first occurring in Durango, Colorado. Shall I tell you? Okay... So, Kim and I’s last evening at the campground in Durango was spent sitting in our Helinox chairs and staring at the stars through the pines, enjoying a fire and a few sips of vodka until we both fell asleep in the chairs. The next morning as we groggily packed up, the collar tag on my t-shirt kept bugging me and I kept messing with it. The day was a long, hard one and by the time we got into a motel we both just fell on the bed in our clothes and passed out.

The next morning I awoke and sat up in bed, the damn collar tag of my t-shirt again bugging me. I reached back to move it, only this time it moved on it’s own. Hmmm. I felt the tag move further towards my shoulder. Brain highly awake now, I reached back and felt the tag turn into a lump on my shoulder, which I instinctively mashed with my finger. Upon removing the “tag”, I discovered it was in fact, a very large spider who was now dead and sticky and wasn’t a collar tag at all. A shriek would scare The Butterfly who was still asleep, so I manned it down and placed the spider on the side table for analysis. Apparently, my little dead friend had crawled into my shirt the previous evening as we sat in the woods by the fire, had slept comfortably against my neck, eaten breakfast with us and then ridden a few hundred miles on my neck, avoiding my fingers trying to readjust him through the day. Dinner went well for him, as did another good night's sleep on my neck, only being killed before a good breakfast. Best I can figure, he was in my collar at least 24 hours and maybe 36.

When Kim awoke and I shared my little spider story, there was appropriate shrieking from her, as well as general horror. When things settled down, I scooped him into a little plastic baggie to keep just in case I died, so that my murderer could be identified and possibly stuffed by a taxidermist for display in a menacing pose. But I digress.

When Kim finally woke up in the tent, I told her my “spider coming out of my ear story” and to her horror, realized that meant there had been at least one spider in the tent she’d just slept in. I received no pity and frantically no stone was left unturned, nor any square inch of the tent, tarp, sleeping bags, air pillows, clothing or any other gear went unsearched that morning.

After things settled down, the plan was made to head for Antelope Canyon. There was such a lack of information online about the actual canyons and features, including a complete lack of signage in the area for such a well-known world wonder that we weren’t really sure what to expect or even where it actually was. In fact, we weren’t positive we were even on the right road and finally stopped at a gas station where the attendant pointed and said it was about another mile or two ahead.

With some fear and trepidation at the prospect of waiting for hours to get into the canyon as we’d been told, we made the call to visit Upper Antelope based entirely on the lack of vehicles in the parking area versus the rows of buses in the parking lot of the Lower Antelope canyon to our left. There are actually two Antelope Canyons, the Upper and the Lower as we discovered. We paid our toll and the lady in the ticket booth suggested parking near the toilets for the bikes. We did so and by the time we’d gotten our gear off, an Asian armada of buses had pulled in and the people were pouring out like a broken bag of Asian white rice.

I hot-footed it to the waiting shack where about 12 pickup trucks with seats in the back sat and a horde of tourists were clumped around a couple of card tables. I squeezed in and waited, eventually making the card table where I paid for the tour and got a receipt. Of the couple hundred people there, I can honestly say Kim and I were the only non-Euro or non-Asian folks. It was tempting to set up an impromptu ESL class to make some cash and help our budget.

It wasn’t too long before our names were called and we were sent to a waiting pickup truck for the journey to the canyon. They squeezed 14 in each truck, and like a herd of lumbering somethings the trucks all surged forward into the huge sand wash leading to Antelope. In short order we were all engulfed in fine blowing sand made worse as each of the trucks vied for position like racers in the Dakar. I eyed the suffering tourists in back with us, all trying to bear with the grit and exhaust. Sand was pooled on shoulders and hats as I looked around squinty-eyed and observed the two cameras in my lap.

It was a long bumpy ride made more fun by being tossed into the air a few times by the driver hitting bumps and ruts at fairly high speed, but at least it took your mind off the sand and grit in your hair and teeth. We finally stopped at the parking area, where there were at least another 15 - 20 pickup trucks already there. Our guide gave orders to stay with her and told us not to pee or poop in the canyon, as apparently it happened frequently and there was now a $20,000 fine for doing so. I was disappointed, as pooping in Antelope Canyon had been one of my dreams since childhood.

As we walked up to the entrance to the narrow slot, the line of people within were almost single file and we knew that the entire canyon had to be full from end to end with people. If I pushed hard on the person in front of me, someone on the other end of the canyon would have popped out. Walking in was no less than stunning despite the jostling people. Wandering slowly through was really a breathtaking experience and well worth the BS involved to see it. Our guide stopped here and there to offer photo tips and such. My cameras were now sporting fine sand in all the wrong places and I could barely get the On/Off switches to move but ended up shooting so many pics the batteries died.

Despite the crowds and low grade lunacy of the whole shebang, Antelope Canyon was certainly worth seeing and Kim crossed it off her bucket list. I can only imagine what it must have been like to wander through it alone, before its popularity soared. Worth the hassle for sure!

From Antelope the next quest was the North Rim of the Grand Canyon which lay back west. The afternoon was winding down and we made time for the junction at Jacob Lake and the turn south to the Grand Canyon. It was tempting to take some of the forest service roads south to connect with the main road but the sun was getting very low and I realized it would take us much longer. I didn't want to be caught out in the dark if possible.

Highway 67 South for the North Rim was a nice ride but the temperatures were dropping and it was beginning to get quite chilly. When we showed the park pass at the gate, the Ranger told us that all the campgrounds were full but we could camp in the national forest outside the park. That was the plan as we continued on for the north rim, passing many mule deer and a large herd of bison on the way, arriving to a full parking lot very late in the day at the lodge.

We wandered out to Bright Angel point as the sun was setting. The winds were very high but the views were stunning, especially in the golden light of the setting sun. What a beautiful place to watch the sunset.

It had gotten very cold and darkness had come so I told Kim we should try our luck at the lodge. I knew the chance of getting a room was nil, but neither of us looked forward to the cold ride back, much less finding a spot in the forest and setting up camp in the dark.

As it turns out our timing was perfect. The girl working at check-in told us they had just had one cancellation for a cabin and the price wasn’t as bad as I expected. It felt like we had won the lottery! The girl told us that the ride back that evening would have been difficult anyway, since the bison herd tended to gather on the blacktop road for the remaining warmth stored in it. She said we most likely would have been caught there and unable to pass by the herd anyway. We were doubly thankful for that blessing!

That evening it was nice to just be a tourist, having an all-u-can-eat brisket dinner in the lodge and then retiring to an old log cabin to listen to the winds howling in the pines above.

54 | Back To Zion

The winds the previous evening were very loud and lasted until the morning, the sound of things hitting the roof so much during the night I fully expected the bikes to blown over based on the noise alone. Indeed the parking area was littered with small branches and pine needles but nature's bark was worse than the bite, thankfully, and there was nothing damaged from falling limbs or such.

Getting a quick breakfast burrito took a while in the coffee shop as the park had sent the majority of staff home for the year and closing was imminent. The burritos were worth the wait and homemade, a good start for the day.

We geared up and headed back north, swinging out to Cape Royal and the overlooks there. There were a couple of other bikes in the lot as we parked, wandering down the trail to a lookout point on the side. It was nice to sit and watch the air blow by with the canyons as a background.

Eventually we wandered on out to the point, where we saw a couple of riders in their gear shooting pics. I struck up a conversation with Darrell and Jay, both from the Houston area and doing a loop out to Vegas and back for a convention or something (IIRC). We had a good time and wished each other safe travels and such before Kim and I retreated for the bikes.

Upon the return to the lot, there were a couple of Katooms parked nearby and both riders came up as we milled around the bikes. One of them, a big, suspicious looking guy came over and introduced himself - what was cool was it was “dave6253” from Advrider. He’d posted a great rider report a couple years back about the border roads in South Arizona and inspired me to go ride them. Was very cool to meet finally and one of those odd coincidences. Dave told me there’d been a raven sitting on my bike when they pulled in and he got a shot of it before it flew away. As cool as that was I hoped it wasn’t a portent…

Thanks Dave ;D

Dave and his buddy (whose name I can’t remember) were doing a loop through the dirt roads in the Grand Canyon and took off in earnest.

Kim and I mosey'd out to the road again and despite the sunshine froze our tushes off in short order. It was just damb cold and especially when the cloud cover came in. A stop for gas at the North Rim Country Store gave us a chance to get the electric liners out and on, the clerk telling us it was in the low 30’s not including wind chill. We were lucky cause the store closed the next day for the winter and we’d timed it just right.

From there we rode on to Jacob Lake, heads pulled down into our collars like a turtle to keep the cold wind out. As we got back to lower elevations the sun returned as did some warmth and by Fredonia, we decided to get a motel so I could get caught up on the report a bit as well as wash some clothes and gear.

The Grand Canyon Motel looked promising with its rustic cabins and $40 a night sign. It took a while in the cat urine laced lobby for someone to show, and by the time the owner walked me out to see a cabin I was blue from holding my breath. Man it was stanky and disgusting. The owner was a cool old guy who’d had a stroke but took care of the place as best he could. The cabin was very old and run down, definitely one of the funkiest we’d stayed in and I mean that in the worst way - it was a place where you just wanted to stay in all your motorcycle gear, including helmet and boots, while you slept. Anyway, after holding my breath and going back into the lobby, getting the owner’s wife to eventually reset the modem before I died of asphyxiation, internet was back in our lives. The owner’s wife had had a stroke as well and wasn’t functioning at 100% either. I felt sorry for both of them, as I’m sure the motel was overwhelming to handle but there appeared signs of progress on the exterior so hopefully they get some help updating the place.

The next morning Kim got medieval with the car wash for her bike and the laundromat for our riding gear while I frantically wrote and edited pics, staying past the checkout time by a couple hours while the room cleaning dude sat outside under a tree. I finally hit “send” and got on the bike, heading for the laundromat for the Butterfly and clothes folding. I dreaded putting the knee armor back into our BMW pants, which can take longer than the entire wash process.

Free from Fredonia, we motored back towards Hurricane and La Verkin, our goal for the day to finally hit Zion National Park. The park was slammed with people getting last minute vacationing done, but we found a decent place to park and caught the bus for the interior.

I left the cameras on the bike, just wanting to enjoy the park without feeling a need to document it. A place as grand as Zion can't really be captured, much less from a tour bus late in the day, so I just punted...

The day was getting late so we went straight for The Narrows, a wise choice as there were fewer folks there. Wading into the frigid water was fun, having to use the discarded limbs left by others as walking sticks in the rock filled river beds under the water. Blue lips were smiling as we went back as far as we felt we could before losing the light. The nice thing is that your feet go numb quickly and the walk back on the path is the only miserable experience as the feeling returns.

We caught the last bus ride back to the parking area and ate a couple of granola bars for supper. By the time we finished and got going the lot was empty and it was almost dark. With some trepidation (trepedaciousness? trepidaciosity? trepidancing? trepidarting? trepidating?) we rode east through the park and tunnels towards Mt. Carmel Junction.

Even in the low light the landscape was fantastic and bizarre, and as Kim said, it would have been nice to be a passenger with a swiveling head to take it all in. But instead we concentrated in the fading light, trying to get as far east as possible before pitch darkness.

Riding after dark is a cardinal sin in my book and especially with the level of deer in the region, but we had no choice. The usual routine is to ride slow until a car passes then stay on their tail to let them take out any deer that race across. It’s a pathetic plan that sounds good in theory but it’s all I gotz. In this case, it worked well as a passenger van got in front of us, slamming on its brakes multiple times for deer.

It was a long ride, as tense as we were, but we finally made Mt Carmel and found a motel with a room. Kim’s nerves were shot and the solution seemed to be a good glass or three of wine. The hotel manager suggested the gas station across the street for a bottle or a 30 mile ride to Fredonia. Not. The station had just closed when I got there, but the attendant was walking to his truck and laughed when I asked where we could get a bottle of wine. “Dude, this is Utah man! There's no alcohol around here. You can go to Fredonia about 30 miles away.”

Not.

55 | Beautiful Bryce

It was a crisp morning but the sun soon warmed things up. The bikes were loaded and we left Mt. Carmel Junction, riding north on Hwy 89 for Highway 12 east and Bryce Canyon, my ears still ringing from the hotel manager’s heavy cursing at someone on the phone from a back room as I quietly dropped the key...

The tourist village of Bryce came up sooner than expected where we took a break, searched for stickers and watched the bus loads of Asian tourists perusing the gift shop. It was a busy place indeed, as was the park. Initially I thought best to head for Rainbow Point on the southern tip but instead wheeled in at Sunset Point, a good move in retrospect.

From the viewpoint, the hudu’s and spires were impressive as was the view, needless to say. It wasn’t long before Kim was wandering down the path for the bottom, me traipsing along behind, somewhat leery of the long hike we might be getting into since I was in my riding pants and boots. She’d changed her clothes after getting off the bike whereas I was lazy and didn’t.

It was really a great experience wandering down, down, down the switchbacks into the orange bowels of the narrow canyons. Ever so often I’d look back and pause, mentally preparing myself for the climb out, as well as waiting for the lone Asian tourist ahead with his camera to move out of the pictures. The scale is hard to comprehend from the top and can only be appreciated from the bottom, especially when bathed in the molten orange of the light bouncing off the canyon walls.

The soft clay monuments were in various states of fragility and looking up at the massive blobs which had separated and could fall at any time kept it interesting. I suppose to die under a collapse in Bryce Canyon would make an imminently better epitaph than “Killed by a Spider Under His Collar” or worse, “Killed by a Bear Cub at a Children’s Petting Zoo”.

As we got out of the chilly shadows of canyon, the sun positively got roasting hot and I regretted being in my boots, the BMW City Pants heavy enough with all the full pockets of keys, camera batteries, cell phone and a lens or two.

Still it was great to be down in the canyons and seeing it from a far different perspective. Eventually we found a sign directing us up the Navajo Trail which led back to a different set of switchbacks.

The great thing about calling yourself a photographer is the ability to stop and take a break "for a shot” to disguise how out of shape you are. At the top, we had a simple lunch on a split log bench, waving off cigarette smoke from a couple of Asian men, before firing up the twins and heading south for Rainbow Point.

Rain was coming from the north in our direction, but the sun stayed with us as we stopped and checked out overlooks until reaching Rainbow Point. By the time we wandered around out there, the sun was getting low and the rain clouds were threatening.

Kim entertained herself by tossing cashews to the two black ravens guarding our bikes, who were quite picky about eating, but eventually went for a few nuts. They seemed terrified of the bikes despite having been hanging out so close to them, trying to sheepishly grab a nut while looking up at the bikes as if they were some large creature waiting to pounce. Had to chuckle. Where I'm from ravens are rare as bucktooth chickens, but I have to admit these guys are big and could kick some Texas crow ass.

Kim had gotten a text from our friend Ronetta in Alaska a few day before, that she, her sister and boyfriend were going to be in Utah on vacation and it turned out to be the same week. They had set up an RV at the KOA in Cannonville which was right where we were.

As we left the park the storms were just ahead, with beautiful plays of light on the clouds from the setting sun. Kim captured a little of it on her headset cam, which does it no justice, suffice to say people were pulling over to capture it with cameras.

Luckily the rain never hit us and we made our escape to Cannonville, arriving about dark.

Kim's phone was stuck on ZZ Top's "Hey Mr. Millionaire" in case you hadn't noticed...

Ronetta and her partners in crime were no where to be found, even though their 5th wheel was there. We were unsure from the texts if they wanted us to stay with them or not, so we waited rather than trying to grab a tent site.

The wait went on for several hours as the temperatures dropped. We sought shelter in the KOA laundry, sitting still so the motion sensor light would go out. Inevitably, a guest would come and open the door, only to see two crazy looking people in riding gear staring blankly at them as the light flipped on. We knew we creeped out a couple of people, especially a French woman who had to return a few times, tension and mild fear on her face. I stuffed down the childhood prankster that lives deep within, forlornly missing the opportunities to scare the hell out of people. In retrospect, we were probably scary enough.

At some point very late our friends showed up, having taken a “shortcut” that took them hours to get out of and having no cell service were unable to let us know what was going on. Luckily we were invited to stay and slept on the couch and floor of their cool toyhauler.

56 | There Be Goblins

Though our hosts wanted us to stay, we needed to move on. It was great getting to see Ronetta, her sister Leola and boyfriend Scott. In fact, they were heading to Moab the next day and we figured we’d all meet up once more before we made it out of Utah.

It felt good to be on the bikes again, as they’ve become such a normal part of daily life. I’m not sure we’ll ever feel at home in a car again. A short stop for gas at the Cannonville gas station brought a conversation with the previous owner who was filling his car, having retired recently after selling the gas station and hotel combo. From there we continued on Highway 12, one of my favorite roads in America. The southern Utah landscape never stops amazing me and I was glad Kim was getting to experience it. The highway through Escalante and on to Highway 24 into Capitol Reef is just great - killer scenery, few cars, and plenty of curves.

The brilliant yellow aspens waved and cheered us on as they have since Alaska, contrasting beautifully against the rich blue skies in the higher elevations. The air was brisk and the sun was crisp as we climbed, stopping for a walk in the trees to a view over the valley towards Escalante.

Using the binoculars she's carried for the trip

After the turn onto 24 for Capitol Reef National Monument, we stopped to look at the native American petroglyphs along the roadside.

From there we entered the twisting canyons for awhile after passing Fruita, until coming out into the flats near Hanksville. In an attempt to get wifi and do some updates, we decided to try for a motel.

Of the two in town, the nicer one was booked of course, and our options fell to a run down one across from an RV park. My walk into the “lobby” was all I needed to both see and smell, opting immediately to camp in the RV park. Instead, we were given a great rate on one of their brand new cabins and couldn’t pass it up. We found out the heat didn’t work and our calls to the office went unanswered. The next morning Kim hit the office to tell them of the issue and they refused to charge us for the night. It was just a faulty breaker and we weren’t trying to get a refund, but the clerk insisted.

Our goal for the morning was Goblin Valley, a bizarre wonderland of goblin-like formations a few miles north of Hanksville. Riding through the plains north, the sky was a lifeless, overcast gray. Paying the entrance fee and rolling into the parking lot, we found the place packed with cars and kids. My trips through Utah in the past always were absent of people but this time we hit cars and people the entire time. It was a Saturday and guessed a lot of people drove down from Salt Lake for the weekend.

The valley was as fascinating to me as the last time I’d seen it, resembling some sort of fantasy set from a movie. Kim was surprised at the size of the hoodoo’s as we walked down into the valley and climbed around and over them.

It was a lot of fun as we worked our way back into the park and away from the others. It’s truly a crazy place for visuals.

"Wait - those weren't raisins in the oatmeal????"

Eventually, we got back to the parking lot for a fast lunch - made faster by the shrieking kids we wanted to get away from - and mounted the bikes for our trek south towards Natural Bridges and the Monument Valley area. Highway 95 was the road, and the Utah terrain continued to amaze. There was little traffic and it was nice to be able to ride and look at the scenery more than usual.

A stop at the Hite Overlook as the day was ending was a great break. We walked out onto the high cliffs overlooking the Colorado and the valley floor below. It was such a great place we were tempted to hide the bikes and tents and camp up high but eventually thought better of it. Far below we could see a boat ramp and a building or two, near Hite, making it our next objective for camping. Indeed there was a campground near the concrete boat ramp that now lay a thousand yards or more from the water. Obviously, the water level of Lake Powell was extremely low in comparison to the time the ramp was built.

The camping area was basically just a bleak area of rocks with three or four picnic tables and rock pile fire rings. A lone camper van sat at one of the sites, it’s owners’ dog rocketing out from under the van and going for Kim’s bike as we rolled in. Luckily the dog responded to his owner or Kim might have been cooking it for dinner

It was beginning to get cold and there wasn’t a stick of wood in sight until I saw large piles of driftwood beached way above the water line toward the river. I made a wood carrier from a couple of bag straps and headed off while The Butterfly got the tent up. The walk to the wood was a long one and when I arrived I was excited to see a lifetime supply of dry driftwood covering so much of the rolling rock formations.

After a bit, I’d collected a heavy bundle and was trudging the long way home when Kim arrived to help. We both joked about how nice a glass of wine would be by the campfire… but we had none and were bummed. Damb that Utah!

As we walked up to the campsite, sharing the load, the man from the lone camper van walked up to us and said, “I have a problem and wondered if you guys could help?” Secretly I thought, “Oh God, I just want to get the fire going, get out of my boots and relax and besides, your dog is an asshole”... but I smiled and said “Sure. What’s up?” He responded, “Well, I have this bottle of wine that I just opened and I have no one to drink it with.” We all burst out laughing and Kim told him we’d just been thinking how good a glass of wine would be. He laughed and said he’d come back later after we got situated and walked back to his camper. Gee Toto, dreams really do come true!!

The fire finally roared to life and we sat bundled in our sleeping bags after a quick meal. Our neighbors came over with the wine and some fresh bruschetta she’d made. We talked for hours and had a great time.

[IMG]https://photos.smugmug.com/Galleries/The-Trip-October-2016/i-bDMGC44/0/X2/20161008_190144-X2.jpg[/IMG]

57 | Monument Valley Magic

The next morning we awoke alone in the gloomy chill, our neighbors having slipped away early. Natural Bridges, Mexican Hat and Monument Valley were the goals for the day.

We lingered at the campsite a bit, packing gear and looking for water to replenish the Nalgene bottles and insulated thermos bottle The Butterfly carried. It was found at a nearby campground bathroom facility which featured a large, stainless steel fish cleaning station complete with built-in oversize garbage disposal. The water was sourced from an outside tap and tasted of iron, but it was doable. From Hite, Highway 95 flowed through continuing fascinating landscape as we made our way south to Natural Bridges National Monument. If you can ever get the chance, ride Hwy's 95, 24 and 12 through Utah - always one of my favorites.

The sun had finally burned through the morning haze by the time we turned into the park and the usual “no hassle” entry with the National Park Pass was a hassle this time, the attendants being a bit rude and demanding to see our ID’s. Chalk it up to newbies…

After a couple of conversations in the parking lot with passersby, we made it to the hiking area and enjoyed the climb down into the snake-like canyon and cliffside overlooks. We hung out in the shade of a cliff wall for a while, imagining it as a marvelous campsite. Only the wisp of winds broke the deafening silence.

I think the months of riding and camping have been imperceptibly tiring us as we tend to linger longer in places than we did early on.

Nevertheless, our friend the sun dictated our leaving as we still had to get to Monument Valley that afternoon. A few stops at overlooks on the way out of the park finished our time there and we swung due south for Mexican Hat on 261. Ahead lay Moki Dugway, a series of dirt switchbacks from the high plateau down into the valley with a spectacular view from the top. My last trip up, the road had not been maintained and was pretty rough, and unfortunately, my warnings to Kim had her envisioning an “Ophir Pass” experience despite my best efforts to convince her it wouldn’t be bad.

At the sign, we stopped for some adjustment and water then headed on down. The view is superb and the road was in good shape. In short order Kim was ahead and enjoying the ride with the vista of the valley far below.

The bottom came soon as did the blacktop road to 163 and Mexican Hat where we gassed up. An old pickup truck next to the pump carried a threesome of Native Americans, a grandfather who looked as iconic an Indian warrior as he could, with what I’m guessing was his son and grandson. I’d have given money to have been able to photograph him, but they were gone quickly, never acknowledging our presence. We were starving and a burger sounded good, the only option being the motel and restaurant at the bridge crossing. It was getting late in the day and I knew there wasn’t enough time to make Monument Valley so I checked with the motel and they had a room available for the night. Showers and a so-so burger felt good, with long conversations in the parking lot with other riders and travelers.

The next morning was crisp and clear as we rode for Monument Valley. The classic view of the sentinels soon appeared at the end of the long straight road, always an impressive sight to see. At the pay station for the park on the reservation, I asked the attendant about riding motorcycles through the park, to which she replied they were not allowed on the roads. We parked outside the main buildings and went in to scavenge stickers and take a whiz. The views from the monuments were a taste of what was to come.

Despite the motorcycle ban, we geared up and took off past the waiting touring vehicles and idled down the road into the valley. It was anyone’s guess as to whether the sand would be deep on the roads, which were rough from the rock ridges and wheel ruts from the tour jeeps but The Butterfly did well in the loose stuff.

We stopped at the main overlook to take in the views so often seen in John Ford’s famous movies, before continuing on the loop through the park. The views are grand and memorable, something not to be missed if you’re in the region.

The sand wasn’t too bad, just enough to keep you on your toes - literally - with the unexpected front end wandering when least expected.

We wound our way slowly through the park, stopping to take in the sights and enjoy the feel of the valley. It is a sacred and holy place for Navajo, and if you take the time to sit and listen, you can understand why.

We finally stopped at Inspiration Point and sought some non-existent shade to make our lunch of mac and cheese, complete with grit from the blowing sand. There was an abundance of tourists at the point, so the solitude I’d experienced in past visits was missing, but the view is indeed inspiring and best savored in silence and thought.

Since on the trek we were approaching Colorado and nearing the van we'd left 5 months ago, the circle of this trip has been slowly closing. The weather and our desire have been pushing us south, to see family, get caught up on some business bs and reboot for the next chapter. Kim’s family was having an event that she really wanted to make, so we’d made the decision to get going for Colorado and then Texas. Threatening weather and the general sense that we had been pushing our luck with snow in the higher elevations made the decision to shorten our time in Utah a bit easier.

Moab was the next destination and we’d received a text that our Alaskan friends were encamped in the KOA there. We wanted to see them once more, as well as Canyonlands and Arches National Parks. Our initial destination for this journey had been to hit Utah first and explore as much of the back roads and jeep trails as possible in the Moab area. However, circumstances delayed us leaving Dallas until June, and it was already in the 100’s in Moab when we started our trip. Instead, we’d headed for altitude and cooler temps for the rest of the journey. Now that we’d finally made it to Utah, it was bittersweet that we weren’t going to have the time to stay and explore as planned. But as always, Utah will be there and it’s a great excuse for another trip.

That said, we headed out of Monument Valley on the sandy roads for the entrance, wavering here and there in the sand along the way. The Butterfly handled the 1200 well and I’ve been impressed with her abilities. 5’5” and 125 lbs on a heavily loaded 1200 in sand, mud and rough stuff. We’ve endeavored to keep both bikes as light as possible, but it’s a conundrum when you have to carry enough gear to live off the bikes for an extended time. You find that there is almost nothing left to leave or lose except things like clothing, already pared down to the minimum and the lightest and least of your weight concerns.

As we wound our way out, passing slow moving vehicles and avoiding deeper sand patches, a final stop was made at one of the main overlooks. The parking lot was crammed with tour vehicles and we had to wait for a clearing to get the bikes up to where we could see. As usual, the folk on the buses were craning necks to see a woman on a big adventure bike. Before I could get off my bike a man walked over and asked if he could take a photo for his brother. He sounded Scottish to me, but then the various lingo of the British Isles has made me pause as to whether they are Irish, Welsh or Scots. Anyway, he said I looked exactly like his brother, who also rode a 1200 GS and he wanted to send him a pic of the rig from Monument Valley. Kim said her knees were shaking from having ridden in the sand for so long and was relieved to be off the bike.

Eventually, we rolled the bikes down to the viewing area and got another tourist to grab a shot of us. From there we hit the parking lot for Kim to powder her nose and met another rider on the lot. He was a pastor from Houston and had a lot of questions about the GS’s. I’m not much for cruiser bikes, but his was a nice one and he wanted to hear our take on the BMWs since he was seriously considering one.

After much chat, we headed north for Moab, the day again getting late. Plans to ride through lower Canyonlands were laid aside and by the time we made Blanding the mac and cheese we’d eaten hours before was gone with a vengeance. A Subway sandwich in the downtown was our salvation.

We had to make time as darkness was coming, so we hit the throttle north for Moab, enjoying the terrain. The massive “beehive rock” (as I call it - not sure what the official name is) at the entrance road to Lower Canyonlands was fun to see again and always a great visual, especially in the setting sun. By the way, does anyone know if that rock is the symbol used on the Utah Highway signs???

As we rolled on, the clouds came in with the cold and threatening rain. We made the KOA park in the dark, cold, tired and thankfully un-wet as the rains had missed us. There were no tent sites available, only a lone cabin which we snagged for the night.

58 | The Long Road Home

It was a cold morning and gray.

We took our time in prepping the bikes, slowed by the weather and the prospect of leaving the area for Texas again. We’d been too tired to visit with our friends the night before but hung out with them for breakfast and some quality time before saying our goodbyes and heading for Arches National Park.

My first visit to Arches by motorcycle years before had been timed perfectly, dropping my gear at a motel in town then heading into the park late in the day as the setting sun skimmed the orange sandstone. The effect was as if the massive cliffs and monuments, impressive as they are anyway, were made to appear almost as living lava in the orange glow of the sunset. If you time the light right, the color of red and orange on the rocks is indescribable, appearing false in photographs but just as intense in real life.

Unfortunately, our visit didn’t include such effect as the skies were gray and overcast. Yet, the park and its formations are no less impressive to see.

We stopped frequently for short hikes and views, staying for a long time under one of the arches we’d climbed up to, eating a Power Bar and people watching at times, contemplating the ages involved in forming the stunning formations all around. Nothing has given me the sense of the eons of time passed than travel by motorcycle through canyon after canyon across America.

Our goal for the day was Grand Junction and the Sprinter van we’d left behind, what now seemed like years before. The gray skies had broken up a bit with patches of dull blue amongst the haze and finally some pure sun as we left the park for Highway 128 north.

The road was great, again a favorite from past rides, as we twisted and curved our way towards Grand Junction along the Green River. Highway 128 is a magnificent ride, I think one of the better motorcycling roads in the US and not to be missed when in the area.

Allow me to opine, but if you don't have the time or resources to do much traveling, I suggest grabbing your tent and heading for southern Utah. You can do no better for scenery and roads. There are lots of places to camp free on the land, and the scenery is astounding. In the off-seasons of late spring and fall, temperatures are perfect for travel and there are very few people around. Several years ago when I finally got the opportunity to visit the area, it captured my heart and has never let go. Of the few places I've been, Alaska and Utah are my favorites for sheer scenery, perfect contrasts with each other. Just go my friends...

By the time we neared I-70, the long shafts of sunlight were gone and darkness began it’s slow creep over the sky. It felt strange and surreal for some reason, traveling at 80 mph and slowly passing trucks and cars as we head towards the Colorado border.

Our speed reduced as the darkness came, finally rolling into Grand Junction in cold air and a pitch black sky for a late arrival motel.

The next day dawned clear and crisp as we headed for Silt and the waiting van. Interstate 70 between Glenwood Springs and the Eagle area is an amazing ride, both for the scenery and the engineering of a highway through it…

Our arrival in Silt and rolling up to the van brought a lot of emotion. In ways signaling the end of an amazing chapter, mixed with the down to earth reality of what might be facing us in the van. Dead battery? Mouse infestation? Burglary or damage? Thankfully, none of the above other than mouse droppings, a spider infestation and some mud smeared by hand on the van - probably by a kid but possibly someone who dislikes Texans as the plates were obviously and heavily covered with clay.

We pulled out our base camping gear and extras we’d left in the Sprinter and gave it a good cleaning inside before assembling the ramps and loading the bikes. When we’d initially left Dallas the Sprinter had carried an F700GS and the R1200GSA, but now I wondered if the two 1200’s would fit in the allotted space, the 700 being bit narrower. Other than adjusting the stagger of the wheel chocks a few inches for the heads and bars to clear, the bikes fit like a glove.

After packing the bikes and putting the camp gear back in, we had a couple of pieces of indoor/outdoor carpet left over that we decided to toss. I looked around for a dumpster and saw a man with long, gray hair and beard sitting in a wheelchair down the way, a dirty canvas tent flapping in the breeze next to him. I carried the two pieces of carpet with me and walked down to speak with him, thinking he could possibly use them.

As I walked up I could see into his tent which had just a dirt floor. He was older, with long, gray hair and beard, deeply tanned and wrinkled from the weather. He was a paraplegic and wheelchair bound. As we talked, a woman stuck her head out of the tent and then came out, standing behind and making silent signs with her hands and mouthing “He’s crazy” to me. He seemed to sense what she was doing and twisted to give her a look.

They both were happy to get the carpet pieces to cover the dirt floor. He told me he was wheelchair bound now after spending his life traveling by foot and bicycle over much of south and central America. He looked at me and said, “Do it now and don’t wait." He shared that he had no money and would probably live in this tent for the rest of his life. It was heartbreaking to see yet another man unable to care for himself and destined to live the way he did. As I shook his hand and told them goodbye, turning to walk away, the lady shouted: “God bless you!”. I turned and smiled, and said “and to you as well!” The lady pointed at the crusty guy and shouted loudly “He don’t believe in God”, to which he turned and started yelling “Aaaaw yes I do, I just say that to make you mad woman!!!”.

I walked away to the sound of a huge argument occurring behind me, laughing all the way to the van, sharing the story with Kim as we drove out and onto the long, long road back to Texas.

59 | Southern Border Bound

It was great to spend some time with family, rethink some gear and packing, repair and upgrade the bikes and get the new horizon mindset. As the prep work for the trip has been winding down, we had a randomly cool encounter last night...

It was rainy and gray most of the day and after church we headed to downtown Dallas for some Middle Eastern food, then grabbed some coffee and talked for a while. There was a Kinko's across the street and we needed to copy some documents, along with make dummy driver’s licenses for our dummy wallets, so we walked over to the deserted office and proceeded to hog the print station.

As I waited, a lady walked in and I immediately thought "she looks like she'd ride motorcycles." We finished copying our stuff and walked out, to see the lady along with a guy wearing a Klim jacket and smoking a cigarette. We walked over and I said "You guys look like you'd be riders". He laughed and said "Yep - we're both instructors for Rawhyde BMW Academy". I laughed and said “I definitely understated that”. He introduced himself as Trev Richter from Colorado. They were both friendly and we chatted about our trip south. He said he had some connections he'd share with us for the trip into South America, and then pulled out a business card and told me to contact him. He then pulled out a card for the lady and said he wanted to brag on her a bit...

As soon as I saw the picture on her card, it dawned on me why I thought she looked like a rider… she introduced herself as "Erin Sills". I was a bit dumbstruck and laughed out loud at meeting the 20 time motorcycle landspeed record holder in person. She was very friendly and we talked about bikes for a couple of minutes, both of them inviting us out to Rawhyde for a class. I tried to grovel but was not allowed. Erin said her background of course was sport bikes and speed, but had recently gotten into riding adventure motorcycles and was enjoying it, despite the learning curve.

It was a fun chance encounter and seemed like a good omen for our leaving! We didn't think to get a pic together so I stole the images of them from the appropriate sites...

Erin Hunter Sills

Trev Richter

A couple of days later, after finalizing paperwork and saying goodbyes, Kim and I rolled out on a crisp sunny day towards south Texas. We had a few people to see and a few things left to do to the bikes before crossing into Mexico, but the adrenaline was pumping.

We rode south to Austin where we've been catching up with friends and staying with riding buds Tom and wife Mary Stewart, both long time riders in the Austin/Hill Country area. In addition, Kim decided she’d had enough tiptoeing the 1200, and an Ohlins specialist in Austin said he could shorten the rear enough for her to feel comfortable. Tom lent us his garage for the suspension work as well as letting us stay and hang around.

As it turned out, the suspension guru Roger Albert of Onroad/Offroad, had his shop nearby so that worked out well. Kim rode over in full gear and with the bike loaded, so he could do measurements and check the specs of the existing Ohlins before doing the rebuild and height adjustment. He is an engineer and true to form, I was dazed and confused after less than a minute into his explanations of the physics and voodoo of it all.

We returned to Tom's garage to tear the bike apart and pull the front and rear shocks, reappearing at Roger's place an hour or two later to drop them off. Having the bike torn apart at Tom's place guaranteed we wouldn't be booted out as quickly, and we got to spend some time with them and my long time friend Steve.

Steve let Kim use his schweet F800GS for a couple of days which allowed us to visit with our friends in La Grange, Texas while the shocks were being worked on.

It was peaceful and relaxing at their place, with beautiful weather and Kim got a chance to shoot some steel...

Our dearest friends Dan, Helen and their son Marc and dog Bella

Upon returning to Austin in the evening we rode around a bit, strolled Hipsterville (aka S Congress) and then hung at 6th St for some blues guitar and a slice of street pizza.

We picked up Kim’s thoroughly rebuilt, shortened and tweaked Ohlins from Roger (On Road Off Road Cycles in Austin) on Wednesday and began reinstalling them on Thursday morning. Our friends Tom and Stewart graciously allowed us to spread out in their garage for 3 hours. Thanks again Tom & Stewart for your wonderful hospitality and friendship.

The Master

The rear shock on the BMW is the easier of the two to install. The front requires removal of the gas tank and a lot of finagling, however the shortened shock made it a bit easier as well.

While Kim worked on her bike, I made some needed adjustments on Steve’s 800.

Our good friends and fellow riders in Austin, Tom, Stewart, and Steve.

Kim’s first ride with the rebuilt shocks and her feet are flat on the ground...... happy day!!

From Austin, we hit the road south to meet our friend Hank (aka Motohank) for a nice evening at the Pearl Brewery in San Antonio with a beer and burger.

Hank had a visitor at his shop in Dilley… he definitely had feelings for Kim’s motorcycle.

Mexican Stand-off

The buzzard wasn't the least bit interested in our Czech-inspired turkey & peanut butter soft taco, so I had to eat it (really missed the tuna and corn).

After the 18,000 mile trek to Alaska and back, my bike had accumulated mileage around 50,000 miles and the stock BMW suspension had worn out, surprisingly lasting longer than suspected. Hank is a Touratech dealer, tester and factory installer, and after my trip with him to Mexico testing Touratech’s new suspension system, I decided to go with them rather than Ohlins as on my previous motorcycle.

After a major ouch to the budget, they arrived and I was swept away with man-love immediately…

They were quite bit harder to get installed on my GS Adventure, especially the front, being longer than stock but after an hour or two I had them on the bike and was racing around the neighborhood. The bike sat taller and handling was much snappier, a major improvement in handling as well. Suspension wears out slowly and is hard to notice until you get on a bike with new suspenders. I was pretty happy despite the economic hit.