Tok and Chicken

We awoke to a very cold campsite and started prepping to leave for Tok.

Dave and Heather were going on to McCarthy and Kennecott, wanting us to go with them, but I wasn’t well and we decided to push on with Fanda and Kaschka. The cold weather and calendar were telling us it was time to start working south. There had been a few folks telling us the snow was a couple of days behind us, and the colder temperatures we had been experiencing were forerunners of the approaching winter.

I’d found out Ronetta’s birthday was coming up in a day or two and wanted to thank her for her generous hospitality while we were all still together. At the small general store across the lot, I found a pack of Hostess Ding Dongs and in a flash had opened the package, stacked them on top of each other like a tiny chocolate cake and stuck a match in the top for a makeshift candle.

When I got back to the campsite, everyone was hanging around the table so I called a meeting and presented Ronetta with a tiny double layer chocolate birthday cake. We all had a good laugh and sang happy birthday to her while she blew out the match. With that done, we said goodbyes to Heather and Dave, rehearsing our plan to meet them in Terrace, BC in a week or so and they took off in the cold morning air for McCarthy.

Shortly after, we 5 headed out for Tok. My bike had a lamp fault showing, though all bulbs seemed to be fine, and I had to add a few pounds of air to my rear Heidenau. It was now sporting 10,000 miles and getting a bit thin but I figured I could get a couple thousand more out of it. In my rear view I saw one of Kim’s auxiliary PIAA lights had popped a bulb as well.

The winds were high and intense as we neared Glenallen in some bitter cold, where we gassed up and did some grocery shopping. As we left, an older couple rolled in behind us on a Harley. Motorcycles have been seen substantially less in the last few weeks so it was noticeable to see a bike nearby.

A bit later we hit a roadside stop for lunch and the couple on the Harley we’d seen earlier rolled in behind us. We started talking to them and discovered they had run the N.O.L.S. School for the Pacific Northwest for many years. They were celebrating his 67th birthday by buying and riding a Harley, the last one he’d owned having been 50 years before at age 17. They were leaving Valdez, where they owned a fish tender and made extra money in the summers. They were excited to hear of our trip to South America, having ridden south America in a sidecar rig years before. They were currently planning to ride an old Vespa he’d bought around Europe.

In our talking about riding and weather, I shared about Kim’s high wind experience in Lander at the top of Red Canyon, they started laughing. It turns out they owned property at the top of the Canyon and knew exactly where we had the experience. They had run the N.O.L.S. school in Lander and loved the area. Small world indeed.

The winds towards Tok had died down a bit and the views were absolutely stunning. I felt so poorly I didn’t take the time to stop and shoot and regret it now, but the head cold was hitting me in earnest.

Rockin' her 1200

We reached Tok late just as a rain cloud was blowing in. F&K said they’d prefer a room, if possible, and I didn’t relish spending a night in low 30’s temps in a tent with a worsening cold. Kim found the Alaska Stoves campground and the owner allowed us all to share one travel trailer for $50. What a deal indeed.

It felt good to be warm, with Fanda, Kaschka, Ronetta, Kim and I, along with Ronetta's two big dogs Cedar and Starla all piled together in the little camper. The evening was fun, despite my hacking cough, until… The owner had asked us not to use the shower in the RV, which was fine. The place was cramped and Ronetta had brought in her bag of Canon pro cameras and L series lenses. To protect them from the dogs and for extra room, they were inadvertently set in the bathtub for protection...

Yep, you guessed it. About midnight Kaschka let out a shout and Kim ran in the bathroom, returning with a camera bag that was pouring out water, having been sitting under water for a while. Apparently the kitchen sink had backed up into the bathtub, the grey tank having not been drained by the campground’s caretaker. It was absolutely a devastating moment to see Kim carrying out a camera bag with water pouring out. It was dead silence and horror. We slowly lifted out body by body and lens by lens as water poured out of the lens caps. I pulled the rear caps off the L lenses and watched the water pour from inside. As a photographer I was sickened and can’t imagine how Ronetta must have felt. It was a terrible way for the day to end.

Ronetta tried to make the best of it but was in shock. I typed a list of all the gear so that we could talk to the campground owner about insurance. The evening was a bit less joyful after that, Kaschka wandered outside and spotted the Northern Lights forming. We all piled out into the freezing cold evening and stood watching a nice display through the pines. It was great to see them and sort of fitting, as we sadly knew it was time for heading south.

The next day I still felt very bad, with severe coughing and congestion and needed rest. Kim and Ronetta headed for Chicken in her Yukon and I attempted to find wifi both in the Visitor Center and Fast Eddie’s restaurant. Both sucked and the internet was so slow I was only able to upload 8% of one 900k photo in the entire day. I finally gave up.

Some pics from Chicken... where I didn't get to go :( but so glad Kim and Ronetta had some fun!

Kim and Ronetta returned from Chicken, where a party was planned later that evening for the close of the campground in the town. Fanda and Kaschka had rested and wrote for their blog much of the day as well. We were all pretty tired and fell asleep quickly that evening.

Southward Sadly

The next morning was a sad one, both for Ronetta’s camera incident and the fact that we were saying goodbye to her, she now as much a family member as a friend.

Ronetta produced bags of goodies and groceries from her trunk, stuffing our panniers and pockets with jerky, chips, food and anything else she could. She insisted I take an Alpaca blanket she’d brought and though I argued with her I lost, stuffing it into my ballooning duffle bag.

It was bitter cold and I dreaded another day of inhaling cold air with my cough and cold, but we needed to push south as the snows were right on our heels. Each day we were hearing of snow ahead of us and behind us, with warnings from gas station attendants, on-lookers and just about everyone to get south now or get trapped.

Kaschka had been telling us all she was ready to get to Mexico and do absolutely nothing for a couple of weeks in a warm and sunny place, free of responsibility. I was in complete agreement and as we’d talked around the campfire about it on a cold evening a couple of nights before, the Mexican Mañana Bug had bitten me in earnest. I imagined us in Real De Catorce or San Miguel, sunglasses and shorts on, lounging and dozing on some rooftop overlooking the town.

"Responsibility? On a trip where you’ve left all responsibility behind?" I hear you ask yourself. Yes, lemme splain… Fanda and Kaschka had worked very hard for 5 years in the Czech Republic saving and planning their trip. As Fanda explained, the wages are very low there and they worked to get sponsor's help. The sponsorship route does require regular articles and updates, which Kaschka handles as they travel. For them, it adds responsibility and some pressure. For me, it’s just trying to write, download images and videos, edit and output and then try to find internet that works. It’s hours and hours of time, and that time only comes after days of riding and camping. Your “rest” time doesn’t really exist since you are busy trying to catch up after days of camping. The stress level is not like having a job, but it’s there even if self-induced. Other low grade stresses relate to the work of camping, planning, hoping to find a place 250 miles ahead as the day gets late, the constant awareness required when in bear territory, keeping up with bike maintenance in less than perfect conditions, watching your budget take hits, the physical aspect of riding heavy bikes in inclement weather for days, and the list goes on.

All of these can slowly accumulate to a point of low-grade fatigue and you find yourself just wanting to lay around somewhere a few days doing nothing. That’s hard to do when a hotel is costing you money or you are in someone’s home and feeling like a burden to them. F&K have been successfully couch surfing most of their trip including Russia and Mongolia, but sleeping on the floor and the host having 4 am work hours isn’t the easiest either.

None of what I’ve just said should be taken as complaint, sniveling or whining, as I wouldn’t trade this for the world (well, maybe) but I’m sharing as much reality for you guys as I can. You can run along for many days but you will hit a wall of fatigue occasionally. My choice to add the burden of doing a ride report and blog adds to this, but it’s who I am and what I love. I do it so that when life changes and I can no longer live freely, I can look back and read and remember what true living was. Having a plan and doing hotels would be the best way to minimize fatigue and maximize one’s time on the net for updating, but then we’d lose all the incredible camping experiences we’ve had. Besides, we ain’t rich baby...

Now where the hell was I? Oh yeah… ride report The plan was to make Haines Junction that day and then Whitehorse the next day. As we raced on in the cold temps and sunshine, we blew past a roadside pull-out and saw two GS’s parked there, only to realize it was, in fact, Dave and Heather! We all screeched to a stop and made the U turn back to see them.

It was a real surprise for all of us and we started laughing. Since we’d been in Tok longer than expected we assumed they’d gone on from McCarthy already and were long gone. We all joined up again for Haines Junction and Whitehorse. I can say it’s been a lot of fun riding along with both couples and we’ve all enjoyed the time together after being solo for much of the trip.

We rolled along until we needed a stop for coffee, but Dave and Heather had already had their butt break and wanted to keep going so we decided to reconnect at the Canadian Border Crossing a few miles ahead.

The weather was cold and grey, and the green mountains we’d passed when heading north now had fresh snow on top, obviously only a day or two old and drawing a near straight line across the mountains.

The national pastime of Alaskan summers

Kaschka and Fanda had been under some pressure as to their U.S. visas and were feeling the need to get into the U.S. as soon as possible to be able to get to Mexico if need be. They had come under a special program which allowed travelers from the Czech Republic to visit the U.S. for 90 days with no visa. Having shipped their bike from Asia to San Francisco, the clock had started ticking on arrival but they had then left the U.S. and gone into Canada then Alaska. They were unsure as to whether leaving the U.S. had qualified them to return again for an additional 90 days upon re-entry or if the clock was still running. No one, including the Czech Government, could answer the question and Kaschka was very worried they wouldn’t have any time left in the U.S. when they got back to the lower 48.

When we passed the U.S. Border Inspection station a few miles before the Canadian border, I told F&K to go on ahead and we’d ask for them. Kim and I pulled over and waited at the guard window a while until a frazzled officer finally came over. I explained their situation to him and he said that the language was written so that if a “significant” amount of time had passed with F&K out of the country it was possible to get another 90 days, however the interpretation of “significant” was entirely up to the individual officer at the border. Not much help but at least it was more than we’d known before.

When we finally made it to the Canadian crossing, the wait was short and the officer friendly, which was sort of a surprise. Pulled over to the side in the inspection area we saw Dave and Heather’s bikes parked. We pulled in next to them and waited, watching a Canadian officer spreading a grizzly bear skin on a table next to us. We hopped off to look at it and saw the pickup truck it had been removed from ahead, the two occupants standing next to it. The officer was nice and interested in both our bikes and trip and told us we could look at the bear skin. He held it up with the head and paws which were massive. Apparently the two guys were taking it back for their son who’d killed the bear and was a few hours behind them. He’d failed to give the drivers some paperwork and they were all waiting for his arrival.

Kim texted Dave to let him know we were outside. He responded not to come in, as they were being questioned about Heather’s new bike. Heather is Canadian, Dave is a US citizen and the bike was in her name with Alaska plates and they wouldn’t be allowed in. Dave said it was intense and we should move on quickly... and definitely not come in.

We took off for Haines Junction, worried for them and what they might have to do. Dave had originally considered putting the bike in his name as he has dual citizenship in the U.S. and Canada, however he felt that would cause serious issues in the other countries they were heading to in their worldwide trek.

It was cold and late when we hit Haines Junction. F&K wanted to see if we could find another RV to split rather than camp due to the cold. Kim texted Dave and Heather to find out their status and we started Googling motels in the town. Shortly after, Kim got a text from Dave that they were just rolling into Haines Junction! We were stunned, and sure enough they rolled in behind us. It turned out that the customs officer had agreed to give them 6 days to get the bike out of Canada, after a lengthy investigation of their story. The original bill of sale was attached to Heather’s old bike at the Fairbanks dealership where it was to be shipped back to Washington and they were finally able to prove purchase by showing an online bank statement of money transfer to the dealer. The officer believed them and bent the rules a bit to let them in, but at least they weren't refused entry.

However, that changed our plans to meet them in Terrace, BC and ride dirt to Vancouver. Now they had to race through Canada as fast as possible and get out, or have the new bike seized. We were all shocked at the results, as well as how fast they’d ridden to catch us that night.

No accommodations were found that were reasonable, despite the fact tourist season was over, so we headed for Pine Lake Campground a few miles away for a very cold night of camping.

Goodbyes and Hellos

It was early in the cold morning when I rolled out of the tent (literally) and began pulling things out of the bear box provided by the campground. Dave and Heather were already busy with breakfast and making plans for their ride south for the U.S. border. Fanda and Kaschka began making noises and I could hear Kim stirring in our tent as well. It was a bit grey and chilly as we each made our breakfast and prepared mentally for the day ahead. As we got the bikes loaded for the day, we all took a group photo and said our goodbyes before Dave and Heather took off in earnest for Whitehorse and further south.

The Hole in the Head Gang (courtesy of Heather)

At the road junction out of the campground we stopped to take a pic or two and sat longer than Kim’s battery liked. She’d been checking her messages and left the key on with her PIAA blasters and headlight on. F&K had pulled out and ridden on, assuming we were behind them but Kim’s bike just did the “click, click, click” song. I got on the bike and luckily had a slight downhill slope, finally getting it bump started in 3rd gear on the last few feet of slope.

We raced after Czech twins and found them sitting by the roadside waiting, as we’ve all done on this trip. It’s been really nice being with such a cool couple. The ride to Whitehorse was uneventful, save for the cold air and fresh snows on the mountains ahead.

The F&K team had a couch surfer set for their arrival, a guy they’d stayed with previously, and Kim had texted Mike, the rider we’d met at Bell 2 Lodge on our way up through the Yukon and BC. Mike had told us to contact him when we came through as he had a place for us to stay and luckily he was in town. Mike is an avid motorcyclist, a fervent animal rights activist and drives a fuel truck between his motorcycle trips. He is a really nice guy.

He met us on his bike and led us to his cabin home that was unoccupied at the time. He got the wood stove going and after a while of conversation headed off. We appreciated his hospitality and agreed to meet up later that evening.

Mike is well known in the region - both loved and hated - but so loves wildlife and animals it was touching to hear of his efforts to save animals...

After a fantastic Chinese dinner we hit the sack, exhausted.

*** No animals were harmed in the making of this report***

(Some animals were harmed in the making of the Chinese meal however)

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

Kim and I awoke to the warmth of the wood stove, though with a bit of dry sinuses as the hot water kettle steaming on top had not lasted the night. We were to meet Fanda and Kaschka sometime in the morning before heading for the Continental Divide Lodge in the Yukon Territory.

Since F&K have a non-working cell phone we have to rely on getting messages through FaceBook from them, and since we don’t always have cell or wifi available and we don’t know if they do at their host’s home, things can be sketchy. Our last communication had been to give them our location in the neighborhood but as the time slipped away and they hadn’t appeared we began to wonder. As we waited with loaded bikes well past our meet time, we assumed they had had an issue, so we got on the bikes to hit the last place we’d parted, a McDonald’s where we’d gotten wifi previously.

Just as we donned our gear to leave, they rolled up with big cheery smiles and greetings. They needed to hit a Walmart, since Kaschka’s sleeping pad had sprung a leak and they were going to look for another. We trekked over to Wally World and they went in while we raided the grocery store adjacent.

When we came out, F&K were engaged in conversation with a well dressed man who was excited to be talking with them. As we got closer I could hear them conversing in Czech and laughing. Turns out the man was from the Czech Republic as well and was happy to see some compadres.

The bikes were loaded and we squeezed in as much food as we could, dumping the packaging and combining things in the eternal quest to fit things on the bikes. It was grey and chilly as we topped off with gas and left Whitehorse in the grey and cold. My mind wandered to thoughts of Mexico, and Kim and I laughed at the thought of staying in a small village and eating street food south of the border somewhere... which was still a helllllll of a long ways away...

The sun finally burned through and illuminated the beautiful countryside as we neared Johnson’s Crossing and the bridge over the Teslin River. About 20 miles or so beyond the crossing, we blew past a van parked on the roadside with a couple standing nearby. As many of you know when you’re in the groove of making miles and in the flow you tend to be an observer and it takes a moment to connect thoughts. Kim and I simultaneously said, “Wow we need to stop and check on them” and slowed quickly, watching for trucks as we did a U turn on the Alcan and rode back. F&K saw us and followed a couple of minutes behind.

As I pulled up to the bearded guy and asked if they were okay, he responded in broken English trying to describe a problem under the van. As I repositioned the bike to park and get off, Fanda pulled in on his bike and the man looked stunned and then turned to me speaking something in a foreign language. Fanda laughed and they began speaking in Czech to each other. He'd seen the Czech license plate and it was like a family reunion of slapping palms and laughing. Turns out the couple were from the Czech Republic as well and had been traveling in the U.S. and Canada for a while.

They crawled under the van and diagnosed two broken U-joint bearings before coming out with the broken pieces. We asked if they needed us to give them a ride or take them to the nearest phone, etc., but finally we decided that Fanda would take a broken bearing back to Johnson’s Crossing about 18 mies back to see if he could locate anything, and I would take the other to Teslin about 17 miles the other away and do the same.

Kim and Kaschka stayed with them as we split as fast as we could to scavenge parts. The agreement was for Fanda to call me from Kim’s phone and let me know what he’d found and vice versa. I rolled in to Teslin and went into a small store to see if there was a garage or mechanic in the little settlement. The clerk told me to find the junk yard a ways down the road which I did. I banged on the closed door to no avail and then wandered through the pile of cars and trucks to see if I could spot a similar van. I waited and waited, debating just grabbing my tools and trying to pull a u-joint and see if I got lucky. Then I thought about the owner with his angry junkyard dog and decided I’d better wait.

As I got back on the bike to leave I saw a shaggy man with a 6-pack of beer walking up the road and acknowledging me. I got back off the bike as he walked into the lot staring at me a bit warily. I explained the situation and he told me he’d gone for beer because he had to rebuild a transmission and needed some calming force to help him through the tedious complexity. He was agreeable to helping find a couple of bearings but as we poked around the shop, similar to a hoarder’s heaven, I began to have serious doubts.

Opening a grubby cabinet door and reaching under some paper he pulled out a single bearing matching the broken one perfectly. All we needed was one more. Another 15 minutes of digging produced nothing but a complete rusty unit which he then disassembled, destroying the needle bearings and then discovering it wasn’t the same size after all.

Next we hit the junkyard looking for an F-350 to scavenge and finally found a burned and rolled one, of course being complete EXCEPT for the rear end. I finally gave up, paid him for his work and took the lone bearing with me. I raced back in the hopes Fanda may have produced at least one on his end, figuring it was a lost cause but one never knew.

My fears were founded as everyone’s excited and hopeful faces fell when I produced only one bearing. Fanda hadn’t found anything. The couple thanked us profusely for trying and began preparing to hitchhike back to Whitehorse to find the parts. We wished them good luck and travels and sped on for Teslin, where we took a break for coffee and to peruse the little museum before crossing the long, metal grate bridge we’d come across in the rain a few weeks before.

Kim was a bit nervous after her memories of the crossing and the rising wind didn’t ease her mind. Sure enough when we got going for the bridge the damn wind came up in heavy gusts and we were blown around in addition to the usual "tire wandering tango" the grates produce. When we finally were across I started laughing at the chance that each crossing would be weirder than usual due to inclement weather. The Iron Butterfly didn’t think it was funny and told me so.

From Teslin our goal for the night was to meet someone F&K had been contacted by at the Continental Divide Lodge and we hoped to get a tent spot there for the night. At a beautiful lake, Fanda slowed and turned in, The Iron Butterfly and I following and wondering what was up. When we pulled in there was a beautiful view of the lake and some hunters setting up camp for the night. They had bagged a caribou the day before and were finishing up the butchering as we arrived.

We talked with them a bit and then Fanda told us that he and Kaschka had camped there in the same spot on the way north. More importantly, it was the spot where he had dropped to one knee and proposed to Kaschka a few weeks earlier. Despite the current bloody caribou head, it was indeed a beautiful place to have proposed to his love. We stayed as long as we could before feeling the need to beat the fading light to the Continental Divide Lodge.

When we finally arrived, a young guy walked over and introduced himself to us. Jacob was from the Czech Republic (What the heck? 3 different Czech encounters in one day!) and was in process of traveling around the globe on his older Africa Twin. He’d found F&K on the internet and when he realized they were in Alaska he’d contacted them and asked them to come by.

Turns out Jacob had stopped in for gas a month or two earlier and walked out with a job, staying and working to earn some money for his trip. He introduced us to the owner, who made us a deal to stay in his RV for the night since it was getting very cold now. We jumped at the chance to have a warm spot and then ate a home cooked dinner in the little cafe. Events had turned such that Jacob’s job was ending just as we were coming through and this was his final night there.

A big bash was planned for the evening for his going away party and we sat around a roaring fire hearing stories from the locals as the night waned away. The next morning brought hot showers and repacking gear for the road. Today was to be a sad day, as Fanda and Kaschka would continue on the Alcan for Dawson Creek and then Alberta, joined by Jacob as they all wanted to ride together.

Our route was to take the Cassiar Highway south again for Vancouver and the lower 48, having enjoyed the beauty of that road immensely. Since Dave and Heather were no longer going to be able to meet us in Terrace, we weren’t sure which route we’d take home.

As we packed up, an older Swiss couple driving one of the European expedition campers came over to visit. As we talked with them, Kaschka came out to Kim and I and handed us each a tortilla wrap filled with goodness for breakfast. She had been finishing up some of their food to lighten the load and had made us breakfast burritos. As I looked down before biting into it, I saw peanut butter oozing from the end and then disturbingly saw a kernel or two of canned corn mixed in the PB. She was staring at me so I took a big bite, only to discover that as well as peanut butter and canned corn, there was tuna fish and chopped up hot dogs in the mix. My mind shouted “HURL!”… but amazingly my refined palate said “Hmmm not bad”. Again my mind shouted “HURL!!!”, but my mouth continued eating, overruling my mind as usual.

I looked at Kim, who wore a fake smile but I could tell had spotted the tuna, peanut butter, corn and hot dog mixture well before me. Amazingly she bit into it and then said “Wow that’s good.” Kaschka was happy and then started speaking in a form of German the Swiss use, to the woman. She broke into a big smile and they conversed while Kim and I struggled emotionally with what we’d just eaten.

We were invited into the Swiss expedition camper and then they wanted to take pictures of us as we got ready to leave. Kaschka brought out another peanutbuttercorntunahotdog burrito for us, having used the last of their extra food and I struggled emotionally again for a few moments... Hurl? Ask for another? Decisions, decisions...

We all rolled out together heading east on Highway 1 for Watson Lake and the upcoming parting of ways, but we saw a gas stop at the junction of 37 and the Alcan and pulled in. We said our goodbyes and did our huggies, getting a final shot before they took off for Watson Lake. Kim and I hung around the gas station a bit, getting ready for the long trek south and feeling a bit sad for the leaving of Alaska, the Yukon, and some of the best memories one could ever have.

Kim played with the station owner’s dog while I conversed with him about our trip. He told us over and over to get south as soon as possible because the snow was a day behind and there had already been snow ahead. He also warned us that some gas stations would be closing soon since tourist season was over.

It was with sadness that we turned south for the long ride on 37, the Cassiar, having been told by an RV’er that it was the most beautiful he’d ever seen it in 20 years of fall driving. Indeed the brilliant yellow colors and shimmering leaves against the mountainous backdrop took the mind away, but the silence in our headsets betrayed the sadness in leaving. After a lifetime of hearing about Alaska, frankly a place I never expected to see, I can only say that it is a repository of some of the greatest moments and memories of my life. To the south lay more adventures and ultimately more civilization, but my heart and soul had been captured as no where else.

Our goal for the afternoon was to camp at Bell 2 Lodge, one of the few gas stops on the way and still far enough south to make us feel like we’d made some progress that day. Bell 2 Lodge was where we’d met our friend Mike from the Yukon, who’d told us on his ride down he’d counted 14 bears along the road. That same day another couple had told us they’d counted 19 along the same road.

Kim was miffed at the lack of animals we’d seen on the trip and as the darkness was falling we were talking about it when suddenly, to my left I saw a moose and two calves running away from the road in a clearing. Another couple of miles down the road a black bear sat in a roadside clearing, probably hearing Kim’s shout of excitement and turning away. Not much further down the road sat another black bear on the roadside and as we slowed to watch him a car came around from behind us and stopped next to him, blocking our view and frightening him away. A bit further we were rewarded with yet another bear sitting on the roadside and this time we had a few moments to watch him waddle along, until we finally had to get moving and he ran into the brush.

It turns out we were just a couple miles from the lodge and had finally seen some wildlife. It was sort of a fitting goodbye to the area. We decided to get a room rather than tent camp as it had gotten very dark and cold and we were needing some real rest.

Rainy Prince Rupert

We were awakened from a deep sleep far too early by a loud knocking at the door and a voice yelling “housekeeping!” at 7:30 in the morning.

We were pissed as we’d been up late and knew checkout was at 11:00 am. Kim went for coffee to the main lodge and returned with an apology from the manager, as well as a free breakfast in the lodge restaurant. Woohoo!

Indeed we chose some excellent selections from the menu and were treated like kings and queens, including a gift of fresh baked pastries for our trip south. Pretty cool, as usually management doesn’t give a rat’s arse about customers, and one of the benefits of having a beautiful head knocker as a partner. She ain’t called “The Iron Butterfly” for no reason.

We loaded the bikes in the grey and headed south for the next gas stop at Meziadin Junction. On the way we discussed our options as to heading for the lower 48. Since Dave and Heather’s Canada exit issue, our plan no longer existed. One option was to continue back to Prince George on 16 from Kitwanga and work down to Vancouver, or, ride to Terrace and then Prince Rupert and catch the ferry to Port Hardy on the north tip of Vancouver Island. The ferry would be an overnight trip and cost a bit, but would save a few days of travel and maybe get us ahead of the snow hot on our tail.

We stopped at Meziadin Junction for gas and caught a cell signal. The call to the ferry brought bad news of being booked solid. We’d already warmed to the idea of the ferry and the news wasn’t good, so we decided to take a back road to Terrace through the lava fields and then back east for Smithers.

At the turn for the lava fields, the weather ticked up a bit with the temps dropping and heavy black clouds of rain ahead to the west. We headed down the dirt and gravel road, wet from previous rain but in decent shape other than sections of muddy, water-filled potholes. We’d gone about 20 miles or so when Kim noticed her insulated water bottle was missing. I’d had to move the mount to a different spot on her 700 and the mount had shifted downwards, dumping the Hydro Flask somewhere along the way. Ahead the rain clouds looked dark and heavy and behind the pricey water bottle lay somewhere on the road. We decided to ride back until we found it and then reverse back. However, our ride took us all the way back to the Cassiar highway with no luck finding it. We passed a pickup on the way and made the assumption the driver had picked it up

Kim was not a happy camper, having grown attached to the dang thing, and I admit to being impressed not only with its durability, but with its ability to keep beverages cold or hot for extensive periods of time. Bummed, we started back west but I had a bad feeling we’d get into some serious weather and mud. We stopped to discuss our options since the day was waning and the weather wasn’t looking good.

We’d had luck on standby for the Skagway Ferry, so decided to head for Prince Rupert and try our luck. If the ferry didn’t work out we’d have lost a day but we’d have been able to see the town. We reversed back again to the Cassiar and eventually made the junction at Kitwanga, where we grabbed some coffee and a piece of pie for a butt break. It was funny being in the same spot where we’d heard such bad reports on heading north, and having forged ahead now had some of the best experiences of our lives.

Topped off with gas and coffee we rolled west for Prince Rupert and hopes for a nice evening before trying the ferry early the next morning.

As the time rolled by, the terrain and road still amazed. We enjoyed the ride though the rain and gray slowly enveloped us. The ride reminded us of the road into Stewart BC and Hyder AK, but even more interesting. The light was fading fast as hard rains came and it was getting dark much earlier than usual. A big front was moving in, and sure enough the rains intensified, the temps dropped and it started to get dark.

About 40 miles from Prince Rupert I began getting flashing “gale” warnings on the BMW Nav GPS, surprised to realize my cell phone was getting signal and the Garmin app was getting weather info. The hard rains continued, but luckily we didn’t get much wind as we rode along the water’s edge, but I still feared what gale force winds lay ahead. The road was stunning but offered no turn outs or roadside areas where one could seek shelter if major winds did hit. Our heated jacket liners were worth their weight in gold this day, not to mention our waterproof boots and jackets and pants.

As we approached Prince Rupert, complete darkness came, the heavy rain didn’t lighten, with thick fog and low clouds making the final few miles a real stressful time. In the sheets of rain we finally saw some lights ahead, including the glowing gold of McDonald’s arches. Hot coffee sounded great, as well as wifi to look for a motel, since the pouring rain ended any thoughts of camping for damn sure. We were beat from the long day and weather induced stress the last few hours.

I Googled "Prince Rupert” only to find it was the rainiest town in all of Canada. I chuckled, as we’d had nothing but rain at every port city we’d gone to in Alaska, and had been hoping for a beautiful, sunny ferry ride. A motel right behind Mickey D’s proved to be the cheapest in town and it was only a block away. Kim had surreptitiously brought a couple of cans of food into the McDonalds and we dined on canned green beans and an Angus Burger, washed down with hot coffee.

Finally dragging into a room in the curry-scented motel, we spread our soaking wet gear from one end of the room to the other and turned out the lights, listening to the heavy roar of rain out the windows and thoughts of the uncovered bikes getting drenched.

Whales, Water and Wellwishers

The sound of rain was the first thing heard in the morning as I came to life in the darkness of the musty room. Amazingly all our gear had actually dried out, but it was a shame to put it all back on and walk out fully dressed into pouring rain. The bikes started and warmed up, the BMW purr such a now comfortable part of our lives.

We found the turn to the ferry backed up with cars, a disheartening sight and sat in the line for a few minutes until I saw a way to squeeze out and into the terminal lot.

Kim stayed in the line until I finally figured out where to go, parking alongside the entry and walking in to stand in the interior line dripping wet. Eventually I got to the window where the stern acting lady behind the counter suddenly warmed, telling me there’d be no problem going standby with the two bikes. In a few minutes we had our tickets and made the line, only waiting a short time before rolling into the ferry hold first in line! Woohoo!

As they strapped the bikes down, Kim bailed and grabbed our sleeping bags and mats, taking off to find a spot before the rest of the crowd could. After making sure everything was kosher with the bikes, I wandered up the stairs and eventually found The Butterfly with a couple of window seats reserved. We left our gear and wandered about, waiting for the ferry to get going in the rain and mist.

The time spent on board was fun, wandering out on the decks until the wind and cold drove us back in, sitting in the cafeteria and drinking coffee, lounging in the chairs and watching the mist shrouded mountains slide past in our socks. It felt great to know we had nothing to do except to do nothing.

Twice we spotted a whale, a first for each of us and it was exciting to see.

As I walked up onto a deck, a door opened in front of me and I almost walked straight into a guy. He smiled and said “I’ve been following your ride report on Advrider.com and recognized you two.” We shook hands and officially introduced ourselves. “AKJerry” was his Advrider handle and I told him we’d get a coffee or something later on. (Unfortunately it didn't happen :( Jerry if you read this I owe you a coffee bro!)

Kim wandered into the movie theater with a glass of wine, while I went back to the car deck for something. A huge guy was near the bike and began talking to me about bikes and riding, telling me of his many trips to Ecuador where he would rent a motorcycle and travel the mountain roads. He had a heavy British accent and size-wise he dwarfed me. Inside his old Land Rover sat a huge St. Bernard who dutifully watched us talking. We talked several times that evening, sharing that he was a mortician on Haida Gwaii island and escaped to Ecuador as much as he could for motorcycle adventures...

I wandered back and found myself in the theater with Kim, watching the remainder of a movie about Stephen Hawkings life.

Eventually we found the upper floor deck to be open and set up our sleeping pads and bags for the night. A few others eventually came up as well. As we finally laid down to get some sleep, the ferry began pitching side to side enough to roll me off my side sleeping position. Kim had fallen asleep but I got up and stared out the windows into the darkness, barely able to see whitecaps on the water below until I got sleepy again and laid down.

It’s not much, but we call it home

The night was a fitful one, sleep constantly interrupted by people wandering up and loudly setting up to sleep or just talking. It was a difficult night to say the least and I dreaded waking up and I dreaded trying to sleep.

Somehow Kim ended up on the other side of the ship from where she started. I was afraid to ask why.

I finally couldn’t stand it and went for coffee, but the cafeteria was closed until 7 am so I wandered around a while and upon returning found a line of about 50 or 60 Germans waiting dutifully at the door. I gave up and headed back to start packing up my sleeping gear. After doing so, I returned for coffee to find the line even longer. I gave up again and woke up Kim to get our gear together. After packing a bit more I went down and found the line gone, excitedly grabbing a coffee cup and pulling the handle to fill it. Yep. No coffee and none in sight. Just then the loudspeaker came on and announced that the car deck was open and for everyone to begin loading. Life sucks.

Anyway, we got downstairs quickly and as we were loading the bikes, several German tourists began gathering around Kim. They were supposed to be loading onto the bus next to us but instead were excited to see a woman riding a BMW. They talked with her in broken English and it was a lot of fun. One woman began to tell Kim what it was like to have been in East Germany and how much freedom meant to her how. Tears came to her eyes as did they to Kim's. They all wished us well and wanted to take pictures, so I told them to group together for a shot for us to remember them.

We were dressed and ready to leave, but the bikes were still strapped down and I was wondering if we were to unbuckle them ourselves when a worker yelled at me to go ahead and undo the straps. I did and we fired up as the doors opened, riding off onto the ramp and into Port Hardy.

Emotions were mixed, as in one overnight trip we had left one amazing world, only to re-enter a much more mundane and crowded one...

Vancouver Island

There was a case of early morning crabbiness due to lack of sleep, but it felt good to be on the bikes again, if for nothing more than a couple or three miles to the downtown area to find breakfast and get our heads on straight for the ride down Vancouver Island.

Riding off the ferry at least it wasn't raining and that was good!

In the Yukon, we’d run into a couple who were in an RV about 3 times and at our last encounter they invited us to spend a night with them in Sidney on our way through to the lower 48 so that was our goal for this segment of the ride.

At a little breakfast spot in downtown Port Hardy we planned the route south for Sidney, whose location was a nice surprise since we’d had invitations to visit from friends in Anacortes, Washington and Orcas Island in the San Juan Islands. From Sidney it would be a short ferry ride to Orcas and then over to Anacortes.

Breakfast was as good as home-made by the shop proprietor, and we had a few questions from folks about our trip while waiting inside. Outside I saw a guy ogling the bikes and shortly after came in to ask if we minded him taking a picture of them. After gearing up, he again came over with his wife and another couple. Turns out they were on vacation from California but rode Adventure bikes as well. We had a good convo for a while and then headed off south.

Always a good sign... and we've seen so many rainbows on this trip. (I also saw a unicorn and a pink elephant but Kim said I probably shouldn't mention that)

As we rode, the rain came again, our constant companion for the last few days, but I can’t say I missed him...

The countryside and some of the towns were quaint and charming, a bit more refined and Martha Stewart-y than seen in our previous travels in Alaska and the Yukon, but that was OK. Coming back to culture made me feel a bit squirmy though, as I knew the land of Petco, Bed Bath & Beyond, Chili’s, Home Depot and more lay just over the horizon.

The rains finally cleared somewhat as the end of the day came. We stopped at the beach in Parksville and took a walk along the water in the sunset. Residents walked briskly past along the waterway, evening strolls and weight loss programs in full swing as the sun set. Kim and I sat and watched the sun’s rays streaming across the eastern sound and listened to the slow lap of little waves hitting the shore as darkness slowly fell.

Nanaimo

The next morning we were dragging a bit, and after stuffing ourselves (and pockets) on the free motel breakfast, got slowly packed and organized in the warm sunshine. We missed the 11 am checkout deadline but I told the clerk our clocks were still set on Alaska time (technically true).

Goal for the day was Sidney, with a stop in Nanaimo for a break on the way. Sho’ nuff, Nainamo eventually rolled under the wheels and we made our way to the downtown section near the bay.

Twas a cool and hip little town and after a few circuits looking for parking and a coffee shop we got off the bikes to the sound of bagpipes playing. Even cooler.

We wandered over just as some guys in skirts finished playing the pipes and we noticed a conglomeration of men dressed in suits with necklaces and other paraphernalia across the street. Apparently a small parade was forming up. I told them we were honored to have arrived in Nanaimo but having a parade in our honor really wasn’t necessary. They didn’t think it was funny (the bastards!) and informed us that it was to honor the new Bishop who was a Mason and about to lay a new Masonic cornerstone at the cathedral. I’d prefer to have seen him lay a golden egg so we could witness a miracle, but I kept my mouth shut.

With impeccable timing we looked up the street to see the new Bishop wandering towards us dressed in his white caped-crusader outfit. Before we knew it, a couple of Mounties in red outfits were there, as well as the bagpipers and the suited up Masons. It took a lot of milling around pointlessly but eventually the parade began. The crowd swelled to at least ten people as they marched past and up the street the two blocks to the cathedral.

Seeing the bishop walking down the street towards us unleashed the Monty Python monster in my head and I couldn't think of anything but this…

The parade moved quickly past, complete with Pythonesque silly walks...

In keeping with the retro TV show theme, Bo and Luke Duke (looking much older) peeled out around the corner...

Boss Hogg was a no-show but I did get to see another sweet Mopar monster that brought back memories of my 1969 Dodge Coronet RT with the 440 magnum engine. Sigh.

Kim and I wandered back over to a small plaza for our lunch of boiled eggs and pastries lifted from the motel that morning, then found our way down to an open air market on the water. There were hand-made wool sweaters, pottery, jewelry and other artisanal items, Kim picking up a pair of earrings since she had room in the cases. One good thing about motorcycle travel has been the inability to buy extra crap like souvenirs, chainsaw log carvings of bears and such. My cases are so tightly packed they almost qualify as a black hole. I only have room for small thin items like bumper stickers...

We talked to several artists there who shared our desire to live minimally and it’s been surprising how many people we’ve met who’ve had it with life and are planning on selling it all and living in Sprinter vans and such. Hmmm.

Anyways, we finally got back on the bikes for the trek to Sidney but were distracted by the ships docked as we left town - especially one loaded to the gills with logs. Kim spotted an open gate at the Port Authority and we rode through, finding our way down to an old and dangerously derelict looking dock.

It was fascinating watching the logs being loaded, workmen standing on them as they floated in the water by the ship, catching cables from the cranes above and attaching them to the logs before hopping to the next as the lift began.

This went on for a few moments until, as expected, a rent-a-cop came screeching down in his little car to tell us to get off the dock. I’m sure his pulse was pounding at such a terroristic moment, and it likely made his year to have actually gotten to tell someone what to do.

From the docks we rode south until a traffic jam outside Duncan slowed us to a crawl. Amidst the traffic we’d traded spots back and forth with a couple of KTM 950’s, until they fell far behind. As we sat, both KTM’s passed us on the side of the road and waved for us to follow, They seemed to know a shortcut so we jumped in and left the traffic jam behind, weaving through neighborhoods and side roads until we reached the downtown area of a village, where one of the riders yelled to me “Would you like to get a coffee?” I nodded and we sped off again, eventually ending up back on the original highway with little traffic until they pulled into a roadside coffee house.

I’ve always been a fan of the 950 series KTMs and there were two versions produced that I always wanted, one being the blue-ish silver 2004.5 and the other, the candy blue with orange frame. As would happen, both of those bikes were the ones they were riding. Dave was on the blue and orange and Johann was on the silver.

Johann and Dave

Our timing wasn’t good for coffee, as the skies were threatening rain and Johann was anxious to not get caught in it, having discovered his new riding gear was not waterproof earlier in the day. The coffee shop was closed due to a power outage anyway, so we geared back up. Dave and Johann said to follow them to Victoria and they’d signal where we needed to exit for Sidney. We rolled on, a bit anxious as our hosts had asked us to be there at 6 since dinner was being made. The bad traffic had slowed us and because my GPS showed Sidney to be relatively near, I wasn’t too worried… until I realized the GPS was routing us to a ferry going directly across the bay and not showing the longer land route’s mileage. When I finally got it sorted, we had much further to go than expected and the pressure was on.

As we followed J & D, the traffic began stop and go on the highway. I punched “shortest route” into the Garmin and decided to exit early. I couldn’t really communicate with them and saw them frantically waving to follow as they saw us take an exit. Felt bad, but the decision was the right one to get off the main freeway and we made it to our hosts Dave and Shan’s home just a few minutes late.

Dave and Shan in Sidney

We spent a nice evening with them, both adventurous, self-sufficient souls who’d lived in many places. Shan made a wonderful meal and we talked over dinner and an evening walk before retiring for the night.

Anacortes, Orcas and 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.

The 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.

The Loneliest Road

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 tattoo. 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 again lifted his shirt sleeve to show me the tattoo of his name, the tattoo artist having terribly misspelled “Portuguese” as “Portagee”.

Vasco laughed about it and said “that is why I am ‘Vasco the Portagee!’ He lifted the other sleeve to reveal a tattoo of Christ on the cross, the image shrunken on his now withered arms. 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…

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.

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.

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.

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.

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]

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.

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.

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.

Mexico!

So, a lot has happened since we returned from Alaska, including multiple bike upgrades and rethinking our gear for southern travel.

A big decision was made in regard to bringing camping gear for Mexico and Central America… neither of us wanted to carry duffle bags on the bikes, both for security when walking around towns, and for the additional hassle of more shite to deal with. We dropped the camp chairs and brought a simplified cook kit, air pillows, Klymit sleeping pads, sleeping bags, and our small tent. We figured with hotels being in the $12 range, budget would be okay until we learned the camping rules for Mexico.

We ended up being in Austin and Dilley, Texas a couple of weeks getting the suspension and some other details done - much longer than expected. From there we headed south to McAllen to see friends before crossing the border at Reynosa, a new spot as I typically go through Laredo.

It was almost 3 pm by the time we got out of McAllen to cross the border, but the Reynosa Aduana and Inmigracion were empty so it didn’t take long to get the paperwork done, and we were on our way to Santiago for the night, just south of Monterrey. The Aduana was vacant!

A few miles out of town on the highway, Kim’s rear tire began making a noise each time we hit any sort of road bump. We pulled off at a truck stop and found the culprit - the rear tire hugger brace was hitting the rear tire. It was odd, as there had never been an issue before, even after fitting the Mitas tires which were a higher profile. Nonetheless, I pulled it and tossed it in the trash can and we were on the way again.

By the time we arrived at the hostel in Santiago it was evening, having had to ride through some lonely, shabby roads after dark - something we hated to have to do but there were no issues.

The next morning we walked the little town and had breakfast before loading up for our destination, Real De Catorce.

This time we took the road for Cascada Cola de Caballo (Horsetail Falls) and eventually Los Lirios. The ride was absolutely awesome, the road climbing fast with tight switchbacks up into the mist. Kim was having a blast, as was I. It’s a great ride through high forests narrow canyons.

As we left the high mountains and entered the altiplano, apple orchards began to appear. We stopped at a lonely church for a break and to shoot a couple of photos. A local man untied the string to allow us to enter the church yard, then pushed the heavy door of the little church open. A black rabbit or "conejo" as he said, sat at the front of the church, pausing to look at us before running through a crack in the side door. We wandered around inside for a bit then came out to find a burro wearing a saddle of wood.

We still had several hours to go to make the little town of Real de Catorce before dark. It was exciting to see Kim riding her BMW in Mexico for the first time. Both bikes purred at 80 miles an hour until the turnoff for Cedral. The stretch of road to Cedral has a lot of shepherds and goat herds, so we had to be extra careful. We gassed up at the Pemex, noticeably pricier for a fill up than previous trips since Mexico had raised gas prices.

The turn for the old 12 mile long cobblestone road came up quickly. Kim was a bit nervous, but in short order, she settled into the rhythm of the wandering wheels. The road cuts through the valley, eventually winding up the mountainside to 9000 feet or so.

We stopped at an overlook before reaching the entry tunnel for the little town, then paid our toll and headed into the old mine tunnel. All was fine until about three-fourths of the way through, then we began smelling heavy diesel exhaust and came up behind an old dump truck belching black fumes and going approximately 5 mph. The stench was caustic and he was going so slowly, that the last 700 yards were torture.

When we finally emerged, my eyes were burning so heavily I could barely see and my voice was cracking. Kim was not fairing much better. After waiting a few minutes to recover, we rode on into the town with its steep streets made of slick stones.

Kim had been to Real once before on the back of my bike and vividly remembered the steep downhill street that eventually required a very sharp uphill turn, followed by a few other rough, steep and tight turns before one could stop. She was pretty nervous on the 1200 and I told her we could try to avoid it by driving between the stakes that kept vehicles out of the pedestrian area and ride down through the vendors. It was not to happen. A policeman was posted there and stopped us, inquiring in Spanish which hotel we were going to. He then pointed to the same street she wanted to avoid and said “go". I knew her heart sank, though she said nothing. I told her just to remember to keep her speed up once she made the sharp uphill turn. Aside from having to dodge two guys with a wheel barrow, she rode like a pro, until we stopped in front of our target hotel.

Getting off the bike as we parked, she laughed but said she was shaking like a leaf. We wandered in to attempt a room rate negotiation with our translation apps and eventually a price of 200 pesos each was clarified. We carried gear to the third floor room which was pretty good for $20 US. I normally stay in a different hotel, but it’s pricier and since we might be in RDC for a week or two, needed a cheaper place. Finding a hotel, or even a parking spot, where a bike can be parked is a real challenge in the town, since the streets are generally steep and narrow, not to mention rough. We were flagged away from our initial parking places by a policeman, but I was able to finally wrestle them onto a narrow sidewalk in front of the hotel.

If you’ve read any of my other reports on Real, you know I’m enamored with the place and Kim is as well. It’s a great place to enter a different world and time, and though beginning to change it has a charm that’s hard to resist.

For the next few days, I had to learn what it was like to feel free again. Naps in the hot sun with a cold breeze on a park bench, wisps of wind blowing white cotton curtains on the open windows of the room, the distant sounds of roosters, laughter, and rumbling trucks. It was good to feel care-free after so much stress trying to get everything done for this next leg of adventure.

Days blended together as we walked the same tiny streets each day, stopping for breath on the steep cobblestones at 9000’ elevation. The days were sunny and filled with bursts of cold wind, fantastic handmade gorditas and endless people watching. For such a tiny place, we both laughed at the incredible amount of fascination one finds in the activity and people. We never tired of sitting on the streets for hours, meeting folks and watching the random tourist, Huichol Indians, and street peddlers.

Nights were cold with high winds, and since the rooms have no heat it was a bit of a challenge climbing out of bed each morning.

Kim was adopted one day by a beautiful collie-like dog while on a hike. She returned to tell me of her new friend, who’d seen her and come out of a yard to greet, then spending the next few hours hiking and dozing with Kim on the mountain.

The next day as we wandered down a side street to watch a big pot of meat being cooked on the street, a young guy asked us in English if we needed help at the Farmacia we were standing in front of. We struck up conversation, only to find he lived in Dallas very near our family, but was a native of Matehuala and had spent much of his life in Real De Catorce. He was in process of buying land from a local farmer to build a small home, and invited us to tour the town with him and show us his property.

Luis led us out near the old church, with a detour to a lone wall standing like a monument near the old bull fighting arena. He said for years he thought it merely a ruin from a long gone building, but then discovered it was the firing squad wall. Bullet pockmarks covered the wall and spoke of a lot of history in the old mining town.

Luis eventually had to leave us to spread some money around with the powers that be, but invited us to visit his home in Matehuala before he left for Dallas. We exchanged information and continued our wanderings.

Kim’s new friend Lassie spotted us on the road and came running to greet. She certainly had personality, as we were to discover even more.

She walked in front of us down an old road, almost as if leading us, as she would run ahead and stop and wait for us. The road withered away and she continued ahead, calling us forward with a wagging tail until we crested a ridge and saw an old stone building ahead. Wandering to it, we spent time inside fantasizing about creating a great home inside it. Lassie found something dead to roll in and then showered us with love. Honestly, the dog had personality like I’ve not seen before.

Dog heaven - something dead in the dirt and cow patties!

Outside, we discovered a mine entrance and debated wandering in. I waited till my eyes adjusted and wandered into the opening a ways, using the camera to see further into the darkness. It went far back and showed signs of visitation, but I only went so far. I told Kim it was safe to enter, but the dog absolutely refused. Despite our calls she would only sit at the entrance and watch us.

From the mine we headed back for town, Lassie happily trotting along and looking back at us. She’d bark and chase old trucks but was a happy camper in general. As we walked along she would explore and watch as people came by, as if our guardian and guide. We passed vendors and workers, children and dogs as she merrily trotted with us, until at one point she saw a man passing on the other side of the street and ran at him, snarling intensely with a warning. He kept his head down and walked quickly past.

She adopted us the entire day, lying beside our table and watching the street as we ate tacos, refusing to even beg for food.

She stayed with us downtown, sitting on the sidewalk as the center of attention for passersby, who walked over to pet her. Multiple times she would pose for people with a smile and then return to my side and lay loyally. As the day turned to night, we wondered if she would leave for her home but she didn’t. We tried to lose her but she faithfully would find us. Tourists and locals assumed she was ours, even telling us we had no choice but to take her with us.

I sat watching 3 motorcyclists trying to ride down the main street, when she lunged at the loud cruiser and I held her back, then launching for each of the other two as they passed. Eventually, we gave up trying to lose her, so she followed us into the hotel and up the stairs to our room and spent the night, quietly and faithfully lying by the door. It was truly an odd thing happening.

The next morning she continued with us, though we expected her to go home at some point. It seemed we had an angel assigned to us for the stay in the town.

The locals in Real were friendly, if not a bit cautious, but we met several people who exchanged information and wanted us to stay in touch, even offering the names of friends we could stay with as we journeyed south.

Each day brought an interesting picture of life and we really enjoyed the time spent on the little streets.

Though the downtown section has an old cathedral, the old original church on the outskirts of town is by far my favorite, much older and featuring beautiful crumbling frescoes. We were accompanied on our visit by the dog, who refused to leave our side, finding us any time we tried to escape her presence.

On previous trips I’d met the humble caretakers of the church and cemetery, Alejandro and his wife Margarita. The first time I’d visited, Alejandro had sat with me as I admired the old place, smiling and nodding. Though being unable to communicate we had a connection. In subsequent visits he always remembered me - no doubt as a football player sized gringo with long grey hair was a rare sight in this little town. This time Alejandro was not there, but Margarita was and smiled until she noticed Lassie.

Of course, when we tried to enter the church, the dog ran for the door with us, almost as if knowing she wasn’t allowed but determined to stay with us. Margarita grabbed a rock to chase her away but Lassie knew and hid between our legs. Kim pulled her outside and we attempted to get her to stay, but again she tried to go with us, this time upsetting Margarita so much she grabbed a piece of water hose to whack her with. Again she ran between our legs for protection and we gave up, taking turns holding the dog while the other went in to look around.

Margarita watched over us as we wandered the graveyard, then said “Coca Cola” to us wanting one of course. We were hungry for some street food and said “Gorditas? Tacos?”, to which she smiled “yes”. It seemed Alejandro was still in the town and had not brought lunch. Either way, Lassie, Kim and I walked back to town and found some homemade gorditas on the roadside for lunch. Lassie lay beside us, good mannered enough to not even beg. After the meal we ordered three more gorditas and returned to the church, grabbing a Coke on the way. The food delivery was made by Kim, returning to say that Margarita happily took them, shouting “Rico!” loudly to Alejandro who had apparently returned.

Back in the old downtown section, I heard guitar music and singing, coming upon a blind man playing and singing with a beautiful voice in front of a little cafe. I remembered him from past trips, watching him slowly feel his way along the rough streets with a cane, never suspecting he could sing with such a hauntingly beautiful voice.

On Sunday, we visited the “newer” cathedral in downtown to see the service. After watching the proceedings we sought fresh made gorditas and a doze in the sun.

After food and a nap, we started back up the steep hill past the cathedral. A band was playing music loudly at the church entrance and we were drawn back to see what was happening. Inside, a service was still going on, despite the songs and music echoing loudly inside from the entrance.

In the back corner of the church, Kim noticed a small crowd gathered around an old man in a wheelchair. As we drew near, it was apparent the old man was dying, his face as gray as stone and seemingly asleep. His wife, an old woman in a scarf, held him tightly with tears as the somber family watched.

I don’t know if it is a tradition to bring a dying person to the church, or if it was his or her wish, but I realized the band outside were probably playing some of his favorite songs. It was raw, sad and beautiful

I wanted to photograph the moment, but couldn’t out of respect. As they wheeled him out, the band followed behind, still playing as the others struggled his wheelchair up the steep street to an old, white Chevy custom van.

As we wandered down to the street below, the sound of music slowly faded and my mind wandered to the bigger questions of life. Still, it was this extraordinary mix of life and death, rich and poor and so many other dichotomies of Mexico that brought a sense of life and living. It’s hard to put into words but it seemed I got a glimpse of what Mexico is about… something hidden to most I feel.

As I found a bench on the street, the sound of the band came louder again until slowly the old van carrying the man came down a steep side street and turned away, the band of men playing behind them. From the restaurant beside me, several waiters and others came out to stand in the street and watch the procession slowly move away.