1 | Are You Out Of Your Mind??

In June of 2007, I decided to do something that seemed crazy, at least to me, and headed off for Montana from my home in the Hill Country of Texas on a used and untested motorcycle, even worse, with an untested rider. I'd grown up riding dirt bikes and briefly owned a street bike in the early 90's, but had never ridden more than a couple of hours on roads, much less for days or weeks. I had no experience in long distance travel.

The hill country of Texas has many beautiful, twisty roads, a rarity in the state, and I'd decided a motorcycle would be a great way to really enjoy them. Tentatively, I'd purchased a well-used 1998 BMW R1100GS that had been sitting for a couple of years covered with dust in a corner of a car repair shop in the Dallas area. I had a dealer replace a few dry rotted parts and took it home with intentions to use it for short rides until the motorcycle proved itself, and I got used to riding again. As time and work would have it, in several months of ownership I'd only been able to make a few minor rides of an hour or two, and found the year quickly slipping past.

One evening on a phone call with a friend in California, she mentioned her family lived in Montana and suggested I ride up, stay with them and see some of Montana. I'd always wanted to go to Montana, but the logistics, lack of experience and an untested moto all added up to a big "No." However, the idea rolled around in my mind for a month or so and I found myself looking at Google maps and the spectacular terrain on the way north from Texas.

With an equal mix of fear and excitement, I decided to do something crazy and ride the motorcycle to Montana.

My biggest fear was whether the motorcycle would make it or leave me broken down 500 miles from someone who could repair the German beast. But then again, if everything was safe and easy life would have no adventure and adventure is what I sorely needed at that point in life.

I began to read travel blogs and made notes about routes to take, all of which added up to between 2,300 and 2,500 miles to Missoula. I had never been north of Colorado, never seen Yellowstone or anything of the beautiful areas in Wyoming, Montana or Idaho. A route was formed, loosely, that would take me somewhat quickly through Colorado and Rocky Mountain National Park, then through Wyoming, Grand Tetons, Yellowstone, Beartooth Pass and Chief Joseph Scenic Byway before launching into Montana in earnest.

Since the decision was now made, next came the hard part, deciding what was needed for the trek: spare parts, clothing, camping gear and more. Trying to guess what might be required and assembling it in a form small enough to carry on a motorcycle would be a challenge.

2 | Trepidation Through Texas

As it was my first adventure, I really had no idea what I might need as to parts for the bike, camping gear and personal stuff. The plastic side cases didn't hold much and aren't waterproof, so tools and clothing were mainly in those, with camping gear and jackets in a yellow duffel and important items in the tail case. Since it was in the 100's already, I chose to carry 2 motorcycle jackets, one which was mesh for hot weather and another that was waterproof and warmer for the mountains. I took one set of armor to swap between jackets to save space and make the unused jacket pack smaller. It is very difficult to gauge what weather and length of time you will experience it. Will it be cold and rainy for days in the mountains? Hot as heck in the valleys?

Luckily, I had some existing backpacking gear to outfit my camping needs, but still needed to assemble parts, tools, clothing and the myriad other things necessary for long term travel, all in as minimal a size as possible. I had a mix of riding gear that had been assembled from clearance racks and Craigslist in a vain attempt to save money in my new hobby. The price of the motorcycle is just the entry ticket, which I knew from previous experience. It was mismatched, but I had chosen not to invest a lot of money into jackets and such until I had enough experience to know what I really needed. This trip would no doubt school me.

I'd begun my plan in May, hoping to leave in early June, however it was nearing July before I had it all together and I was feeling pressure to get on the road.

The plan was to leave Monday, June 25 and head north towards Amarillo - a goal since I had no idea how long my butt could last, so I figured if I made Lubbock at 350 miles I’d be happy. On the Friday before, I changed the oil, prepped and washed the bike then took a short ride. The BMW was running good, but the weight and bulkiness of all the extra gear revealed the worn out suspension of the motorcycle.

I spent the next day repacking my gear for the thousandth time and got the bike loaded again. At 5 pm I decided to do a final test ride with my latest iteration of packing and take some pictures of the rig. I slung a leg over, pressed the starter and cranked. It wouldn't start for anything. I tried and cranked and cranked. Nothing. I pulled the spark plug caps to test for spark and found none.

I can't tell you what a confidence killer that incident was. Just when I was ready to take off on the biggest adventure of my life, the motorcycle failed me. It was my biggest and main fear - taking an unproven bike on a long trip. I was sick at my stomach for many reasons. After a bit of moping and complaining, I chose to look at it as a blessing from God because at least it had died in my driveway and not in some godforsaken desert.

The closest repair shops were in San Antonio, an hour from me. The BMW motorcycle dealer was closed on Monday, but I found a listing for an independent auto repair shop, RhineWest BMW, that also listed motorcycle repair. Best of all, they were open on a Monday. I was there at 8 am sharp with the bike on the trailer and a sad story. The resident motorcycle mechanic, Hank, had pity on me and told me he knew what the problem was and had the bike running by 9:30 am. I was dumbstruck! It was a bad Hall Sensor, common for my year, mileage and model bike. They didn't have one in stock, but Hank removed one from another bike and installed it on mine to get me on the road quickly. He said they’d order another one and reinstall it on the donor bike.

While Hank was fixing my beast, I decided to see if I could get a set of Ohlins shocks for the bike before I hit the serious mountain roads in Colorado, Wyoming and Montana. The motorcycle was well-used when I bought it and the suspension was squishy and worn out. For casual riding it had been okay but the extra gear on the bike made it handle ponderously. It would be dangerous with quick maneuvers or on tight, twisty roads.

Rhinewest said they had to be made to order, so I called a couple of Ohlins dealers who said turnaround time was several weeks. My third call to Dan at Kyle Racing was a success. He gave me a good price, bent over backwards on assembling the shocks for my weight and style of riding, then said he could FedEx them ahead of me to Denver... all in just three days. It was another non-Christmas Miracle!

It was a great solution because I was planning on visiting a friend in Denver on the way north. I'd known I needed to replace the expensive suspension at some point, but it wasn't until there was a load on the bike that I realized I had no choice anymore. Now all I had to do was make it to Colorado on the stock shocks, which would be easy since I was basically taking highways and Interstates all the way to Denver.

Having lost a couple of days, the weather had turned crappy and the forecast was for storms the entire week from Texas to Colorado. The weather maps showed a massive rain front that extended from central Texas all the way to Wyoming with the forecast saying it would last for days. I noticed that the stationary storm line was fairly defined, with clear weather behind it. In my case, Junction, Texas, which was an hour west for me was clearing and the line of clear weather ran all the way to Denver. If I could get west of Junction, it looked like I could avoid the biggest rain front seen in decades.

With little sleep the night before from anxiety, I climbed onto the BMW I'd left loaded and pointed up the driveway under my carport. It was raining with heavy mist and I grumbled because I'd never ridden in rain and had I been able to leave the previous day it would have been in sunshine.

The motorcycle started easily, a relief. I looked around at my house, not knowing when or even if I'd ever see it again, then rode out into the rain and mist in a combination of fear and excitement - excitement for what lay ahead, cautiousness about the handling and concerns for the reliability of the bike.

The town of Junction, an hour or so west of Kerrville, Texas was my immediate goal as I hoped to clear the rain line that had formed. I-10 from Kerrville to Junction was wet and rainy, but slowly cleared to light mist and overcast skies. I got into the groove of the handling on the loaded bike and settled into a steady but somewhat ponderous ride. I exited for Hwy 83 in Junction and filled up at a Valero station.

The bike attracted a guy who told me he used to ride dual sport motorcycles and loved to ride in the Big Bend area. We wished each other well and I headed on for Eden where the mist finally let up and the skies began to clear. The little town of Paint Rock was interesting and just north of it I saw a sign pointing to "Indian Heiroglyphics" but didn't want to lose road time. To be honest, I had no idea what my final destination might be, because I didn't know how many miles or hours I could ride in a day, having never done it.

Approaching Ballinger, there was a gigantic steel cross appearing over the landscape. From the road it looked to be 20 stories high, a pure guess, and I was traveling too fast to take the side road that headed off towards it.

Nearing Sweetwater I passed through a huge field of massive wind generators that went from horizon to horizon. Quite an impressive sight to see. When I refueled in Sweetwater, the clerk told me there were several hundred of the wind generators and they were still building more. She shared that many of the locals had been hired and sent to France to be trained on the construction before coming back to assemble them for the company. If I had a cool million, I could have one installed myself, I was informed.

The rain long gone, the weather had gotten hot and I was wishing for the mist I'd ridden in earlier. Only three other motorcycles were seen on the ride, each one waving as they passed on the opposite side. One was a Suzuki V-Strom packed with gear like mine. The wind generators continued to pop up in clusters across the plains between Sweetwater and Lubbock, especially visible on the red dirt mesas.

Somewhere on a long stretch of road a few hours in, the reality of what I was doing hit home. The motorcycle was running like a top and my fears fell away in the wind. I suddenly felt a rush of excitement and joy with a huge smile and a shout following. After all the detailed planning and worries, it was now a reality and I absolutely loved the moment.

As mentioned, I’d wondered how my endurance might be having never ridden for extended distance, but Lubbock was nearing and I felt great. By the time I reached it, I’d have 350 miles under my belt. I’d planned on refueling and eating there, but I-27 from Hwy 87 north had no gas stations or restaurants. I finally found a Fina station in the town of New Deal. The somewhat grubby looking station had a small restaurant in it with great food and motherly attention!

From New Deal to Amarillo was flat slab with only the winds, heat, blue sky and white clouds to accompany me. I was feeling good, better than good actually, because the fears that had plagued my mind had been blown away in the winds and rush of riding. I was really enjoying the ride and incredibly excited to imagine what lay ahead. In fact, I felt so good I decided to get gas in Amarillo, 475 miles from home, stretch a bit and then push on to Clayton, New Mexico for the night. It was probably idealistic since that was still several hours away, but I was living on excitement.

It wasn't long before Amarillo rolled up and with it, a huge black cloud to the north. The Texas Visitors Bureau had free WiFi and I decided to check weather ahead. As I was asking the attendant about travel to Clayton, New Mexico, a weather alert came on warning of severe storms north of Amarillo up to the Clayton area. She told me I better forget traveling and get into a motel, because the storms that blew through the area were very bad. In fact, she told me the year before her brand new car had been totaled by a storm.

In the parking lot, the blackness of the looming cloud reinforced her words and I rode to the other side of the highway, pulling into a trucker's motel and getting a room just as the winds hit. I'd barely gotten off the bike when hard drops of rain began to hit and I shoved it under a staircase to soften any severe hail.

Just as I walked into the room, the severity of the storm hit and it was impressive. Huge winds with horizontal rain and much hail. I was sooooooooo glad I had stopped and gotten a room. I couldn't imagine enduring this on the roadside of the big flat landscape north of Amarillo.

I sat with the door open just watching the event when I heard the faint sound of a Harley, then two rumbled around and parked at the adjacent room. The riders were wearing only jeans, t-shirts and bandanas and were being pummeled by the hailstones and hard rain. I heard shouting and then silence as they slammed the door to their room. I couldn't imagine how much the hail must have hurt with no jacket or helmet.

My first day of travel had been fantastic, though hot, and I was very happy to have ridden 475 miles and still have energy. The rain continued into the night, so I skipped dinner and went to sleep with excitement for New Mexico, the Rockies and Colorado the next day.

3 | Rocky Mountain Hi's

From Amarillo to Denver

NOTE TO SELF: Do not stay at grungy motels adjacent to 24 hr truck stops...

The morning was a bit overcast but a welcome sight after the severe storm. I was groggy and cranky from little sleep due to airbrakes and big rig sounds all night. I also think adrenaline was a factor since I woke up wide awake at 4 am ready to go.

As I piddled with loading my gear, the two Harley riders who'd arrived in the peak of the storm the night before appeared from their room. I asked how they enjoyed the rain and they laughed, telling me they'd gotten caught out on the interstate in it and were being hammered by the hail. They'd ridden in from New Orleans and were on their way to Montana as well. When they saw my bike they stopped talking and knelt down to look at it. They'd never seen a horizontal twin engine, much less a BMW motorcycle and were highly intrigued. Silently I thought "You guys need to get out more" but of course said nothing. Just about that time the sun broke through and I could see the skies clearing to a bright blue. It was my sign to say goodbye to Amarillo.

*Honey, does this outfit make me look fat?*

Heading out of Amarillo towards Dumas, the flat landscape turned to rolling plains and became more interesting as I approached the Canadian River. The morning sun was nice, the air was cool and the bike was running great. I watched a train crossing a large trestle bridge near the river and the excitement of the trip really hit me.

By the time I got to Dumas, the temperature had dropped and I was beginning to get a little chill in my mesh jacket but it felt great knowing the Texas heat was slipping away behind me.

Riding on, the huge plains to either side were fascinating in their own way and it was interesting seeing how the hay was stacked high and in long lines in the field. I wondered if they were also used as wind breaks for the cattle... who knows.

Entering Dalhart, I had my first close call on the bike. On the main street, a small white minivan pulled out ahead of me and was cruising along at my speed for a bit. For some reason the driver suddenly stopped dead in the middle of the road - of course at the exact instant I had glanced to one side. I got the bike stopped just in time but man was I PO'd. Oh well. I've now bonded with the Beemer's ABS brakes.

I stopped for gas and zipped in the jacket liner to cut the cool wind. Boy Scout troops, van trains and cars with gear on top were strewn through the little town as they trekked to the mountains. I started feeling the rush of excitement and flew on to Texline, then hit the New Mexico border.

That first glimpse of volcanic mountains protruding up from the plains is always a rush.

*Note To Self - actually change your watch after reading the sign...

The little ranch town of Clayton, New Mexico came up soon and I circled through to get a feel. It has charm and looks like a good place to hang out for a day, though I suspect few do since the mountains to the west are calling. I pulled up to the light next to an old rancher in a beat up pickup truck with his window down. As we waited I smiled and he nodded and tipped his cowboy hat and then said slowly "Where you goin?" When I answered "Montana", he grinned and said "Good Luck".

Downtown Clayton...

Maybe he was wishing me luck because he knew I would soon pass the giant cattle feeding station just outside town. When I spotted it and the thousands of cattle ahead, I decided to stop and try to get some pictures. As I dropped into the valley and the invisible lake of stink from the place, it was all I could do to try and gun the bike as fast as possible and make it out of the valley before I passed out from holding my breath.

Having survived Sewage Valley Farms, I motored on towards Raton. The air was cool and the scenery was beautiful - huge plains of green grass with the volcanic mountains and plateaus jutting up from the massive open lands. The vistas are inspiring and I was engulfed in a sense of time and history. My mind wandered as to where the little ranch roads went and how long the families had lived there. Pronghorn antelope were spotted here and there, with the occasional distant windmill giving scale to how massive the area is.

There was much road construction on the road to Raton, much of the roadway posted at 45 mph. In addition, there was the "Safety Zone" for many miles with warnings of double traffic fines, so the ride was slow. That was good, because it forced me to enjoy the beautiful landscape, the smells of green grass, the blue of the sky and all those things we motorcyclists enjoy. I passed the massive extinct volcano at Capulin and debated detouring to the landmark and riding the tiny road that can be seen encircling the mountain. As usual, I was too excited to make the side trip and decided to do the volcano at some point in the future.

Speaking of excitement, I was feeling it in spades. Reaching this area is always a rush, because you know you've cleared the endless flats of hot Texas and ahead lies stunning scenery and cool temperatures, but doing it now on a motorcycle was a dream come true. Scenes seen through car windows in the past were now alive, and I felt more alive than ever. I was now on my second day of a new adventure and from the seat of a motorcycle, it was better than imagined.

I swung off the road at a sign for "Rocky Mountains" and snapped a quick picture of the motorcycle against the bullet riddled sign. It was the first signpost for what lay ahead!

I rolled into the sleepy town of Raton around noon and rode from one end to another. I'd "been" to Raton many times, but always just as a gas stop in a hurry to reach Colorado and now I'd determined to savor as much of what I'd always had to miss now that I was alone and had no true deadline.

I felt the need for coffee and decided to swing into the "Crystal Cafe" for a cup or three before continuing north. It didn't take much for the waitress to sucker me in to getting the olive oil and garlic pasta lunch special.

It turned out to be a great choice.

The waitress spotted the motorcycle out the window and said "Well that's just a gigantic dirt bike!" I chuckled and responded that it sure wasn't a dirt bike, but it sure was great for trips like this. Loaded up with all the gear and my big arse, I wouldn't be surprised if truckers weren't drafting behind me.

My garlic-laden lunch now resting in its proper place, it was time to continue on for Colorado and specifically Denver, where I'd hang with a friend for a couple of days.

This day the weather was absolutely perfect - sunshine, blue sky and puffy white clouds. Raton Pass was a beautiful and easy introduction into southern Colorado, flying along the interstate and absorbing the refreshing change from Texas. As all who ride can testify, everything is enhanced and you experience your environment with all senses alive. You smell the scents, feel the wind and sun and are encompassed in a bubble of vibrant life.

The drive up I-25 through the pass is nice and after crossing into Colorado you eventually leave the mountains and foothills and enter large plains on the edge of eastern Colorado, the Colorado no one mentions or knows about. The Interstate parallels the mountains to the west and allows for fast and easy travel north to Colorado Springs and Denver.

Somehow I was expecting the Rockies to be more impressive...

Getting toDenver was all I had to do for the day and I wasn't sure how long it would take. I pulled off at Colorado Springs and grabbed a Starbucks to relax and kill some time. I didn't need to be in Denver until after 6 and didn't want to hit the big city at 5 and get stuck in rush hour traffic. It was then I realized I was in mountain time and had an extra hour to kill on top of it. I spent quite a bit of time at the Starbucks, which gave me plenty of time to set my watch back an hour…

As is normal for the mountains, afternoon thunderstorms form and blow in and today was no exception. From the outdoor patio, I could see an especially big, black and powerful thunderhead coming fast for the city and I could tell it wouldn't be a "gentle rain" version. I decided it was a good time to beat it and race north, jumping on the bike and blasting onto the highway, only to realize I needed gas and had to loop back to find a station. The storm hit full force while I was filling up and a lightning strike hit a pole a few hundred yards away just to enforce the idea.

I waited under the overhead of the pump area until the initial force subsided, then a break in the rain came and I took advantage of it, racing north on the interstate. At least it was just the usual afternoon rains and though I rode through some short sheets of rain, it was not consistent.

Out of the rain, I rode in stiff sidewinds north until reaching Denver and my friend's home. The new suspension system was due in from California the next day and I was excited to get the shocks installed. Online wisdom about the motorcycle said that new suspension would transform the bike. My rear tire needed replacement, but it had been good enough to make Denver and the dealer for a fresh one for Montana.

The next day, my new set of Ohlins suspension arrived and I'd stayed up far too late catching up with my friend and woke up late, Fed Ex dropping a couple of boxes on the front porch about the time I finished my coffee.

The boxes contained a set of blonde-haired, blue-eyed Swedish beauties and my heart went thump, thump, thump. As with any blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty, there was a ridiculous price to pay and my wallet went kick, kick, kick on my svelte tushie simultaneously.

I needed a new back tire before heading further north and called BMW of Denver to see if they could fix me up in a rush. They said, "Come On Down!" (and Bring Your Wallet). Since they had to pull the rear wheel for the tire install I asked if they could also slap the rear Ohlins rear shock on at the same time, which would save me a bit of time in my friend's driveway. The service manager squeezed it into the schedule and they turned it around quickly. The dealership and staff were friendly and professional, ensconced in what appeared to be a squeaky new and stylish building.

When I walked into the parts area, I did a serious double-take. Behind the counter was my friend Jessica, the parts manager at my favorite Austin BMW dealer. My brain went weird for a second, like "Wait... wha?" I'd seen her just a couple of weeks earlier in Austin when I was picking up some parts for the trip. She must have seen my facial expression and laughed. Turns out she'd moved to Denver a couple of weeks before and of course the BMW dealer wanted her expertise. It was a funny moment indeed.

With the new rear tire and rear shock, the ride back to my friend's house was significantly improved despite the flabby and floppy original front shock still in place. By the way, BMW's large GS's use a front suspension that looks traditional, however it utilizes a large single shock, so there are 2 large shocks on the motorcycles.

Back at the house, I removed the gas tank and the old front shock, installing the new Swedish beauty. After reinstalling the gas tank, I swung a leg over the bike and did a test ride. The difference in handling was nothing short of amazing. The bike came to life, handling quickly and precisely, feeling lighter and aggressive as well as a couple of inches taller.

The suspension felt stiff in comparison to the marshmallows I'd been riding on, but Dan had set them up for my weight and gear. The attitude of the bike was more aggressive and it carved a tight line. Slow turning was much better and I couldn't wait to see how it handled both on and off road. I'd never seen such a substantial change in something that seemed so innocuous.

The only downside to the new suspension was the increased height of the bike. I'd developed a ballerina-like pirouette to swing my leg over the seat, which now sat 2 inches higher and each time I tried to get on, my boot would hit the seat, disrupting my smooth moves and making me wobble and recover. One thing most riders dread is the idea of falling over in front a watching crowd, and now my work was cut out for me...

4 | Into Wyoming

Denver to Wyoming

The next morning I was excited to continue my journey, my wallet now much lighter, and I couldn't wait to finally hit the mountains with what felt like a brand new motorcycle. After starting the bike to warm up, I noticed a whine from the gas tank and realized the internal fuel pump was beginning to complain. That was not a good sign, however my new shocks were on and I was chomping at the bit to get going.

Speaking of chomping, I grabbed a quick breakfast at Johnny's Diner and swung by the BMW dealer again for something I'd forgotten to pick up before heading out of Denver towards the mountains. My goal for the day was Rocky Mountain National Park, a place I'd driven through many years before in a minivan filled with my family and I'd fantasized of riding it on a motorcycle at the time. Now, I was going to make that a reality.

The weather was absolutely beautiful and I took Hwy 6 out through Golden Gate Canyon heading towards Estes Park on the Peak To Peak highway. It felt great to get into the mountains and the canyons were beautiful and fun to ride. The Red Pig was handling so much better with the new shocks and the weight of the extra gear had far less effect on the handling.

At a highway intersection, I pulled off to check my map to make sure I was still on the Peak to Peak route and there was a rider on a Suzuki Bandit with Vermont plates checking his map as well. He told me a rider had just left in the direction I was heading and I eventually caught up to him in Gilpin, a little town loaded with casinos. I tracked behind him for a while.

Had to stop at the first glimpse of the snow capped peaks and get a shot.

The road was good with a fair amount of traffic. In Nederland, I stopped to top off the gas tank and chatted with a rider who was touring around the entire U.S. I took a butt break and watched other motorcycles pull in. It was an obvious stopping point for motorcyclists doing a loop out of Denver.

While sitting, a local resident came over to admire the bike. We chatted a bit and he said "There's a guy just like you who has one of these funky bikes and rides by himself up to Montana and other places. His name is Udo and he has a car repair shop up the road. He always has old bikes he's redoing. You should go meet him and look at his bikes." Sounded good to me so I found Udo's shop "Peak to Peak Imports" and pulled up. In front was a BMW R1200GS adventure bike and a few dirt bikes here and there. I liked it already.

I met Udo and got the tour - his name seemed familiar and sure enough I'd seen his name on the adventure motorcycle forum on ADVRider.com. I met his crew and we talked bikes of course. I really enjoyed the visit and it was nice to just randomly be guided by a stranger to an interesting encounter. It was to be the first of many, I would discover, an attribute of traveling solo by motorcycle.

Udo and the Motley Crew

Udo the adventure man

I continued on to Estes Park and cruised through the heaving masses of sweaty tourists wandering about before heading for the Rocky Mountain National Park entrance. I needed coffee and a stretch, so I grabbed a BBQ sandwich at TapHouse. It was excellent and a good place to eat away from the downtown tourist herds.

Across the street there was an old Honda XR for sale: Somebody NEEDS this!!!

Park entry was $10 for the motorcycle and I asked about taking Falling River Road. I was told it wasn't open until July 1, so missed it by 2 days. Udo had suggested it as a good dirt road alternative up to the top of the park rather than the park road blacktop.

Riding the park was stunning of course. Breathtaking views around each turn and of course, the best photo opportunities were in areas with no place to pull off the take them. There was the usual caravan of minivans and SUV's, however it wasn't too bad.

Near the top I saw a few elk and once over the west side and back down into the tree line they were much more prevalent.

The ride across the range was fantastic and I really enjoyed the time I took crossing it.

From the west exit of the park I gassed up in Granby and from there caught Hwy 125 north for Walden, the last decent sized community before the Wyoming border. The westerly winds were strong and steady as I rode. The mountain terrain was more arid than the eastern side of the mountain range I'd just crossed.

Hwy 125 was a nice 2 lane blacktop that passed through the Arapaho Forest with almost no traffic. After the caravans of vehicles in Rocky Mountain National Park, the solitude of scenery was a welcome washing. The beautiful, open stretches were a good contrast as well.

After crossing the Continental Divide on Hwy 125, you drop down into valleys with huge vistas and not a soul around.

To me, this was almost the best part of the day, like having the world to yourself after leaving the tourist packed town of Estes Park and the people-packed overlooks in the park.

The day was waning when I rolled into Walden, Colorado, the "Moose Viewing Capitol" according to the sign. Looking at the vast fertile fields around the town and distant mountains, it was hard to imagine moose anywhere near this little place, but then again, I know little about moose. However, I can vouch there was not a moose in sight.

I gassed up and pondered how the little town looked like a good place to spend a night someday.

Continuing on, the sun was sinking low, the light was beautiful and the empty landscape was addicting.

It was with an emotional rush that I broke the Wyoming line, now able to claim I'd made it all the way to Wyoming on a motorcycle. The twin little communities of Riverside and Encampment were the first settlements one encounters after the border, which were interesting little places and I looped through them a bit before heading on to the larger town of Saratoga, making it right at sundown and snagging the last room in a little downtown motel.

I have to say that this day ranked as one of the best of my life. The weather was fantastic, I met great folks and the scenery was astounding. The contrasts of landscape and solitude were perfect. The bike ran like a top (granted, a big, heavy top). But it was a great day. I was enjoying the experience so much, I wanted to keep going until I reached Alaska!

My route had been Hwy 6 then Hwy 119 to Estes Park, across RMNP to Granby, Hwy 125 to Walden then into Wyoming on Hwy 230 to Saratoga.

5 | Wyoming Winds & Yellow Stones

The Snowy Range to Yellowstone

I awoke feeling good and planning to ride a nearby road into the Snowy Range mountains. It was with interest that I realized I had no idea what day it was, nor did I care. That was a first in my life and it came naturally with this new "vagabond" experience.

It soon became apparent Saratoga was known for fly fishing, confirmed to me by a couple of the locals. Breakfast was at a little place called Lollipops in downtown Saratoga. The waitress saw my riding gear and asked where I was headed. I told her I was going to ride across the Snowy Range and then return to Saratoga. She sternly told me that on her drive in this morning from the Snowy Range, she'd been delayed by a young moose who'd challenged her on the road. She said she'd ben forced to back up a fair ways and wait until he decided to leave. She adamantly warned me to watch for him, or any moose for that matter, and take them very seriously as they were dangerous. I appreciated her warning, since I knew nothing about moose and had never heard they attacked vehicles. I knew they had a foul nature but had only imagined an encounter face to face when hiking.

With my moose goggles on and antennae up, I headed back south to catch Highway 130 east into the Snowy Range and across to the little town of Centennial. I didn't see any moose, but I can testify that that highway is fantastic and leads into a set of mountains that are spectacular. It was in effect a miniature version of Rocky Mountain National Park and resembled the Grand Tetons on a smaller scale.

After peaking the crest of the range, the highway meanders downhill to the little gas stop of a town called Centennial. Centennial sits right at the edge of the mountains and overlooks a dry desert valley to the east where Laramie lies.

I stopped briefly and looked around before reversing back into the Snowy Range and a second ride through the awesome scenery.

As I wound down the west side and back towards the highway to Saratoga, I detoured onto a dirt county road that cut across to Saratoga. It was an easy ride, except for an explosion in the bushes near me on a tight curve where an elk suddenly burst out, miraculously turning alongside and then away from me. I had entered a narrow area of aspens about 40 mph and it would not have been fun to have collided.

I passed back through Saratoga and continued on north through the plains until Walcott and Interstate-80. It was getting hot and I had intended to take a suggested side route through Seminole State Park but it was getting late and the heat was rising. I decided to skip it since it would add several hours to my ride time. Instead I took I-80 West until Rawlins, then 287 from north towards Lander.

Though I regretted my decision to skip the ride into Seminole State Park, it proved to be a wise one as the heat during the day was very intense. Had I ridden alone in desert areas I think the heat exhaustion would have caught me.

The wide plains I now rode through were empty and seemed to go on forever. Dropping down into lower elevations, the heat would really soar. I blasted on, enjoying the massive vistas that lay to either side. The long road ahead disappeared into a shimmering mirage of heat waves and sky at times.

The long distances and steady hum of the engine gave one too much time to think... time to think things like "Who came up with the word 'chipmunk'"? And for that matter, why do they always run for your front wheel? If they sell deer whistles in Texas, do they sell moose whistles around here? And what's that new noise I'm hearing - is it something about to explode on the bike? Or is it just the wind?

It's easy to get mesmerized and daydream for hours when droning on, suddenly to catch something out of place, a pronghorn antelope standing right at the edge of the road rather than hundreds of yards away as is normal. Suddenly you grab the brakes hard and sure enough, he trots right across the road not 50 feet in front. He was beautiful and muscled, confidently trotting to the other side while you thank God you missed him.

The hours passed with subtle changes in colors and landscape, until I finally saw "Split Rock" and realized there was hope that the plains were nearing their end. The massive plains were beautiful to me, filled with subtle, variegated colors and gentle rises and falls.

Riding in the intense heat was tiring. It's hard to explain to folks that the wind doesn't cool you, instead it's like having a giant blowdryer on you for hours. The hot wind doubles the dehydration an my Camelbak was well worth its price that day.

Approaching Lander, I crested a plateau to a breathtaking sight of the huge valley it resides in below. Descending the long grade down the winds picked up dramatically as did the stifling heat. The winds were strong and buffeting, and for the first time in my life, was literally blown into the oncoming lane by a couple of huge blasts. I couldn't do much looking around, as I had to concentrate on the wind and road until almost into Lander.

Lander proved to be a nice sized town with plenty of gas and hotels. I was exhausted and stopped for a bit in a McDonalds before pushing on. My goal was to make Jackson, Wyoming before dark.

As I raced along, watching the incredible desert scenery change, I rounded a sweeper and down off to my right saw a Chili Red Triumph Tiger 900 "Steamer" loaded with gear and coming up a dirt road alongside a creek. It was the first adventure bike I'd seen on the trip. I grabbed the brakes hard then looped around and pulled up next to him at the road entrance.

Matt was from Laramie and was heading to Yellowstone to visit his girlfriend, camping and fly fishing along the way. He said I'd not make it to Jackson until well after dark and invited me to camp with him ahead at Brooks Lake, west of Dubois. Since I have no real sense of scale in these new areas, sometimes it's just a guess as to making a destination and I did not want to ride in deer, elk and moose infested areas in the dark.

We headed as fast as possible to beat the setting sun. Hwy 287 was torn up for miles and the gravel was tricky at times. In the oncoming lane we passed a few touring bikes, a couple of guys so white-knuckled from the gravel that I could read the fear in their faces. A ways further, a Goldwing sat on the roadside, a woman waving her arms and chewing out the man, I'm sure for the fear inducing sways and near drops in the deep gravel.

We finally turned off onto the campground road just below some incredible peaks with spires and fingers known as The Pinnacles. Shortly in, I couldn't help but notice the "Grizzly Bear Area" warning signs. I’d consciously ignored thinking about the realities of camping in grizzly territory, but now I had to face that fear.

The dirt road wound about 5 miles up through the woods and I was covered with white dust as well as blinded by the setting sun in the clouds behind Matt's motorcycle.

We finally found a spot and set up camp. Matt's altimeter said we were about 9000' in elevation. It was getting chilly and we got a fire going. We set up tents and then congregated next to the fire. Matt dragged out a steak from his cooler, deftly pouring out the large amount of bloody water collected in the packaging right between our tents.

Now, I'm no rocket scientist, but to me the idea of blood on the ground near my tent, as well as a steak cooking on a fire would be a grizzly bear's heaven. A bear has a sense of smell that is 2100 times more powerful than a human and they can smell things up to 20 miles away. By my calculations, that could put several bears right next to my tent just about the time I fell asleep.

I was sort of incredulous that he would be so lackadaisical with blood and steak in a "Grizzly Bear Area". Yes, I know it was a campground but it wasn't exactly a KOA in Florida.

I watched him eat his steak while I ate my Power Bar and pondered my imminent, horrible death at the behavioral hands of a stranger. Matt walked to his motorcycle and pulled off the bedroll he had strapped across the back and reached into the end of it, retrieving a .30-30 lever action rifle with the butt stock cut way down so it was short enough to live in his bedroll undetected. Having the rifle at his side no doubt explained his lack of concern as he slept with it against his side in the tent.

Matt had lived in Cooke City, Montana just outside the northeastern entrance to Yellowstone for years and had lots of info on riding the region, as well as warnings, including "never camp without some serious firepower" - thus the shortie rifle in his bedroll. He also told me never to camp anywhere around Cooke City, because that area is where captured "problem grizzlies" were released into the woods. (As a side note, not too long after this trip there was a news report of a grizzly attacking 3 different people in a campground in Cooke City, killing one and mauling two others!)

Not a total fool, I knew I'd be camping in grizzly territory and had made the decision to bring a .44 Magnum backpacker's pistol with me, based on advice from the folks whom I'd be visiting in Montana. This seemed as good a night as any for a bear attack, so I retrieved it and fell asleep with it across my chest in the tent.

Today's Route:

Brooks Lake to Jackson and Yellowstone

Early light and birds chirping woke me. I checked to see if I was dead and wasn't.

The temp was in the high 30's and got the backpacker stove going, making a cup of hot chocolate with a 12 year old packet I'd carried for years in a backpack. FYI it was still good.

The fresh, cold mountain air tinged with evergreen scent was just like heaven after the heat of Texas and I was excited for the day, heading for the famous Grand Tetons, Jackson Hole and then Yellowstone! I really had difficulty comprehending that after a lifetime of hearing about them that I'd actually be seeing these areas.

Matt and I rode together on the unfinished road until Moran Junction and waved goodbyes. I would eventually learn that in the northern states there are 2 seasons, winter and road repair season.

He turned right and headed north for Yellowstone and his girlfriend who worked there, while I turned left and headed south for Jackson. I knew I'd soon be facing an expensive tourist trap, but I was primed and ready.

First glimpse of the Tetons!

After stopping to look at the Tetons on a glorious day, I passed a large herd of buffalo as I made my way into Jackson and it was indeed packed to the gills with tourists. At an area with numerous shops and cafes I squeezed into a parking slot near a coffee shop where I imbibed on caffeine and patted myself on the back for my achievement. It really was hard to believe I'd made it all the way to the Grand Tetons.

After a bit I decided it was time to move on and took a different route north to Yellowstone National, taking a road closer to the river and mountains for a few miles before connecting back into Hwy 287 into the park.

Jackson Lake

Yellowstone at last!

It was fun seeing the Yellowstone entrance, as all my life I'd read of the place but wondered if I'd ever get there.

Only one buffalo was seen on the ride into the park, and the traffic wasn't too bad. Entering from the south, there isn't much to see from the road since there are so many trees.

Exhaustion hit for some reason and I just didn't have the oomph to ride another couple or three hours to the northeast gate for the night as originally planned. I decided to inquire about a room in the park, but knew it was basically impossible without reservations at least a year in advance. My other option was to reverse back to Jackson for the evening, which I expected would be the next step. The plan had been to ride through the eastern side of the park and out the northeastern entrance to Silver Gate and find a hotel, but again it's easy to look at a map and make plans but realities are different. There was no way I could make it through the park and out before dark.

I stopped in at the Old Faithful Lodge, a beautiful place, amid throngs and busloads of foreign tourists. I walked up to the front desk and said "I know this is the dumbest thing you've heard all day, but is there any chance you have a room?" Shockingly, the attendant said "This is your lucky day. I just logged a cancellation and it's the only room available anywhere around here." I was stunned and did my inner "Thank you Jesus! Happy Dance".

Awesome.

Still doing an imperceptible jig, I wandered out to watch the eruption and then headed to Grant Village for my room.

Still faithful after all these years

After getting into the room, I decided to wander out in the dark to get some exercise and fresh air.

It wasn't very long before a "brown shorts moment" occurred in a dark area of the path I was on. In the near pitch black shadows, I'd walked up on an unseen elk, who snorted heavily just a few feet before I bumped into him. Frozen, I heard his breathing in the dark then his steps a few feet away as he came out into the starlight. Never having been within a few feet of an elk, I couldn't believe how big the antlerless beast was. I would have shrieked but I couldn't.

Since my heart had just gotten enough cardio and God only knew what else lay ahead in the darkness, I reversed back to the room, took a good shower and hit the sack.

Today's route:

6 | Beartooth, Buffalo Bill & Big Spiders

After the previous evening's cardio, I woke up feeling great and ready to ride.

The weather was perfect and the air was crisp, filled with the scent of conifers and freshly roasting bugs on the hot engine cylinders as I gassed up for the day and scored a muffin from inside the station for breakfast.

Gas for the bike and gas for the man

My route was to head up the eastern loop in the park and exit out the northeastern entrance, with the goal of riding over the mountains into Montana by way of Beartooth Pass. In my research, Beartooth Pass was a "don't miss" ride and I was determined not too.

The ride past West Thumb lake was crisp and uneventful, other than spotting the Loch Ness Monster. Either that or it was an overturned canoe with someone desperately waving a paddle. I waved back and continued on.

The rear end of buses and motor homes was the main thing I saw as I went north towards the east gate. Yes, I'm aware that Yellowstone is a major destination for travelers and vacationers, but I hadn't realized just how much so. In my musings and grumblings, I couldn't help but wonder why so many people felt the need to bring such massive amounts of gear and vehicles when traveling. Aside from the house-sized motorhomes and RV's, huge trailers or vehicles were towed behind them, and even secondary trailers were attached to those! One or two occasionally would not a generalization make, however I saw so many that it was shocking and I really couldn't conceive of why people felt the need to bring most of what they owned with them. Maybe it's just the excess of American's obsessive compulsive disorder, but I was mortified at the sight.

All carping aside and despite being trapped behind monstrous, fume belching, carnival-esque RV's, the park was beautiful. At distance and nearby, herds of bison grazed, or kicked up dust from inside little circles they'd made. Beautiful mountains lay in the distance. Acrid, sulfuric smells wafted from the beautifully colored formations alongside lakes or at random geyser pools.

I pulled off at an overlook to view a herd of bison and walked out onto the elevated walkway a few feet above them and watched for a while, surrounded by Asian tourists. As I walked back towards my motorcycle, I saw a large bison just a few feet away from the deck as I trundled past. It was a rush being so near one, but I felt safe being a few feet above him. I stopped to photograph him as he rubbed his neck on the wooden edge.

Suddenly, with little effort, he jumped the 3 feet or so up onto the walkway and stood for a moment. I and a few tourists on the other side of him bolted away, in shock at his huge frame suddenly appearing in our oasis of safety. For a moment we were all unsure what he'd do and whether he'd head either of our directions, but he jumped off the other side and back into the grass. He'd taken a shortcut. With newfound respect for the abilities of such ponderous beings, I clambered back onto the bike and continued.

Reaching the Canyon Junction intersection, where there is a road that cuts west across the park, much of the traffic disappeared. The scenery got much more interesting as I headed north. I had been advised the northeastern area was less touristed and more remote with big vistas, an area where wolves could often be spotted. In certain areas, several cars would be on the roadside with people using spotting scopes on tripods, I'm guessing in search of said wolves far away.

Due to the number of RV's in the park, my ride was extremely slow and often I'd be stuck behind one for long stretches. It became a frustrating game, because I'd pull off to look at something and the behemoth I'd spent much time trying to pass would inevitably lumber by just as I got back on my motorcycle and I'd be stuck behind them again. This process repeated for most of my travel through the park. "Stop sniveling", I hear you say, but after days of full speed freedom through majestic scenery, being stuck behind an RV going 15 mph and blocking the view of an amazing place, snivel I shall.

There were several herds of bison along and across the road and I began to notice that they took no notice of cars, trucks and RV's. However, I also noticed that they DID take interest in the motorcycle. They'd stop whatever they were doing, for the most part, raise their heads and track my movement. To my chagrin, I realized something about the motorcycle concerned them, which concerned me.

Several times I had to slow as they would be near the road, until a moment when a large group wandered onto the roadway directly in front of me. I stopped to wait, with a few cars behind me. One particularly large bison wandered out onto the blacktop probably 30 feet in front of me and stopped, turning to stare at me. I swallowed hard and waited to see if he was going to charge or do God-knows-what. Frustrated drivers behind me slowly crept around me and made their way past him and others on the roadside with no interest from the bison bros, however he kept watching me. After what seemed like an eternity, he swung his body to the right and slowly wandered off the road, following his companions as they took their time. I breathed a sigh of relief and when they were far enough away I rumbled on.

I knew there were bison in the park, but had no idea they had concerns about motorcycles. I'm guessing the size and shape is closer to them or a predator, but no matter what I was on guard for the rest of the ride. A few more minutes down the road, I pulled off to view a waterfall and then got back on the bike in the small parking lot. I pulled up to a blind right turn which was blocked by a large cedar bush, looked left for traffic and was just about to release the clutch and ease into the roadway in a right turn when suddenly a massive bull bison stepped out from the bush and directly in front of me. I hadn't seen him walking on the edge of the road and when he stepped directly in front of me, he couldn't have been more than 6 feet away. The top of my windshield is 5 feet high, and his shoulder and back were above that line.

Most of my wildlife encounters have been in the safety of a car or truck, but when you're sitting on a motorcycle with such a beast that close, it's a whole different thang. I made not a move and he continued his slow, rolling stroll past me and for parts unknown. Two brown shorts moments in less than 12 hours, setting a new record.

I motored on, pondering the idea that my choice of motorcycle travel left me with exciting new possibilities of one-on-one wildlife interaction, with the idea of a bear viewing me as a personal pizza delivery.

The scenery had gotten more grand the further north I rode, and heading through the Tower Junction area was beautiful. Turning right onto Highway 212 for the east exit only increased the beauty.

I was briefly delayed by a string of horses and riders returning from a trail ride and crossing the blacktop. Whereas the lower region of the park was flatter and more arid, with geysers and lakes, the northeastern area was more green, mountainous and featured huge vistas.

Hwy 212 towards Montana was breathtaking and would be a great way to enter the park next time. There were very few cars and people and the roads are smaller and less maintained - it felt like I was back in the 60's era of the park. Here and there were clusters of cars and people with spotting scopes but I could never see what they were looking at. Wolves I heard later.

As I neared the park exit for Silver Gate and Cooke City, I was enjoying the views of lush green valleys when I spotted a dark spot not too far off the road. I slowed down and stopped, only to see a black bear lift his head from the berries he was eating and briefly look at me before continuing his meal. I could see where he'd walked through the grass, a silvery trail catching the sunlight differently than the surrounding grass. This was the first bear I'd ever seen, and I stopped completely to watch him. I left the bike running however.

After a couple of minutes, he seemed to take some interest in either me or something my direction and slowly began to walk towards me. Though I seriously doubt I was his interest, just his movement towards me reinforced my open air access to him, and I snicked the transmission into gear, motoring off as he continued his walk towards the road.

It was a great moment for me to witness a beautiful, fat black bear so close and in Yellowstone National Park.

Exiting both the park and Wyoming, the road in Montana to Cooke City was an incredible ride and again, the scenery was astounding. I stopped in Cooke City for a cup of coffee and sat at an outside table to just enjoy where I was on a spectacular day. After enjoying cool air and sunshine, it was time to continue on for Beartooth Pass.

Outside Cooke City, the road dropped back into Wyoming. I saw a dirt road leading to Daisy Pass and decided I needed some dirt adventure.

A half mile in, the first section of switchbacks had me reconsidering my decision - they were rutted with lots of large, loose rock and sand. The bike was so loaded with gear I had my hands full getting up the rough sections. It was just pick a line, gas it and pray. Not a big deal for a smaller dual sport bike but the loaded BMW was a handful. The new Ohlins shocks probably made the difference between me dropping the bike or not. The handling was much improved.

After a while the road smoothed out to a well maintained forest road and I enjoyed to ride to the top of the pass.

Reaching the top, I was disappointed to find the road blocked with a several feet of snow which had not melted yet despite it being near July. Still, I was at the top of a mountain and it was beautiful.

Heading back down, I shut off the ABS brakes so that moto wouldn't break free and runaway, sweating out the rough last mile of rock strewn road.

Back on the blacktop of Beartooth Highway 212, I raced on, passing the junction for 296 and the Chief Joseph Scenic Byway to Cody, until the steadily climbing road passed the Top of the World Store, where I pulled in to check out the place. The road so far had been really beautiful and this was the only sign of humanity along the way. The owner told me the store is completely snowed in in winter and they are cut off from the world. The pass road gets so much snow it's closed all winter and many times is not completely open until July.

Red Lodge, Montana was my destination and it lay on the other side of the mountain so I continued on. Beartooth highway wound up above the tree line to the Pass and then re-entered Montana on the top. It was a breathtakingly beautiful ride.

The ride over the pass can be described in one sentence... Un bee leave a bull.

At the top of the pass, I pulled off into a gravel lot and walked to the edge, the cold high wind gusts pushing me as I viewed a spectacular vista. It was truly a trip worth taking.

After taking it all in, I rode on with the high winds keeping it interesting. On the mountain top, you cross back into Montana, where the posted speed limit sign changes from 45 mph to 75 mph. I chuckled inside and wondered if the folks in Montana tried to limit the influx of people into the state by encouraging the idiots to plunge to their deaths when they miss a corner. I liked Montana already.

I pulled over to take a picture of the crossing sign, and a lady wandered over and offered to take a picture of me, a rare thing.

The ride over to Red Lodge is astonishing. It is easy to see why it's called a "Don't miss" road and online the suggestions not to miss it were certainly accurate.

From the barren, windswept top the road slowly descended back into the forests as it wound down to the bottom and the quaint and cute town of Red Lodge, Montana. It was a little bit touristy, but still had enough rough edges and character to keep it interesting.

A waitress at a coffee shop told me that more and more bikers were coming to Red Lodge than in the past and they were now holding a rally each year, sort of a mini-Sturgis and the locals weren’t too thrilled about it. They didn’t want the town to become a biker place since it always brought drunken stupidity.

I spotted a Chinese restaurant which sounded great and inquired if they had wifi so I could post some to my ride report. The Asian lady said “Yes, we have fi wi.” Each time I said “wifi” she would say “Fi wi?” and thought I meant “fried rice”. I finally got tickled and said “Yes, fried rice” and paid for my lunch order.

Time was slipping away to make my final destination for the day, Cody, Wyoming. I saddled up and took Hwy 308 east for Belfry, where I could connect to Hwy 72 and ride south to Cody.

The temperatures were much higher on the arid rolling landscape, an unwelcome contrast after the mountains. The road to Belfry contained an old abandoned mine or two to break the rolling landscape.

By the time I reached Cody, I was pretty beaten from the long day and miles covered.

Much to my surprise, the town was highly festooned in 4th of July decorations and flags, with crowds of people. The sidewalks were covered with empty chairs and such. I sidled the bike into a motel parking lot and went in to inquire about a room. The lady said there were no rooms available anywhere, since the National Finals Rodeo was in town for the 4th weekend and Stampede Days. She said the town always filled up for the Rodeo and 4th celebrations. I had no idea of the event and it hadn't entered my mind that an entire city would be booked, but then again my mind had been on many other things concerning this trip.

I asked about camping and she told me they would all be at full capacity. My options swirled down the drain and I realized it was likely I'd have to ride hours away to find lodging. I was exhausted and it was getting late, so my heart sank. She must have seen it, because she said "Let me try one other place". In her phone conversation I heard her say "Hold it. He'll be right there." and hung up, telling me there was one room that had just opened up at the Grizzly Bear Lodge near the Rodeo Arena so I better get there fast. Yet another lodging miracle. I thanked her profusely and followed her directions, eventually finding the place. En route, "Grizzly Bear Lodge" had given me visions of a romantic log cabin lodge with a crackling fireplace and folks drinking mugs of hot chocolate as they sang songs by the fire.

"Derelict Hobo Hovel" would have been a better name for the place I pulled into. It was desperately run down but then again beggars can't be choosers so I creaked open the door to the office and bumbled out the "last room" story. The gravelly voiced lady said she indeed had one room left and I was lucky I got there so fast because she was leaving. I asked about wifi and she said the room was next to the office so I could probably pick up the signal some. That was one plus after my “fi wi” failure earlier in the day.

She led me to the room and pushed open the wobbly door. Inside wasn’t terrible, she handed me the key, took my cash and said goodbye. It smelled of mildew and other things, but at least it was a place for the night. I drug my gear in and laid it all on the floor, dropped my jacket and kicked off my boots, sitting on the bed with my back against the wall since it had no headboard.

As I searched for the wifi signal, some movement caught my eye to my right. Glancing over, I saw a very large grey spider, about 3-4 inches across on the floor by the wall. As if it felt my gaze, it suddenly and explosively darted really fast under the bed. I'm used to large spiders like tarantulas, who move slowly, but this thing ran so fast it freaked me out. I wasn't sure what to do, knowing a huge spider of which I knew nothing about was somewhere beneath me. It was also quite capable of running at me so quickly he'd be up my leg and on my face before I could even scream.

There was no way in hell I would ever go to sleep, then suddenly realized the mattress was against the wall. The headboard was decorative and simply screwed to the wall above the bed, not that it would have mattered. If he decided to crawl up he could get straight into bed with me. I jumped up to pull the bed away from the wall and grabbed the pillow, pulling it away from the edge of the bed. There, beneath the pillow, lay another large grey spider about the same size. He suddenly ran down the gap I'd opened between the wall and bed. I was horrified to think a huge spider had been beneath the pillow I'd just been leaning on and I leapt away from the bed over to my pile of gear near the door.

I had no idea what to do, now trapped in a room with at least two Olympic speed spiders who could be poisonous for all I knew. My first thought was to pack and leave, but then knew I had no place to go. I was desperately weighing my options, of which I had none, when I spotted my tent amidst my pile of gear. The light bulb went on and I quickly put it together, laying it on top of the mattress. I was quite proud of myself for thinking of a solution. After all, I hadn't ridden 2000 miles to get bitten by a spider. A wolf maybe, but not a spider.

I eventually tired of standing and watching the bed, so I climbed into the tent in my clothes, zipped it up securely and laid there until who knows when, when the fatigue of a long and exciting day took me to dreamville.

The Cody Hilton, aka Grizzly Bear Lodge. If you like spiders, request Room 1, previously or possibly also known as Room 19.

The Route:

Cody Wyoming to Dillon, Montana

In the morning, I slowly came to consciousness, remembering the previous evening with my grey, fast-footed friends. It was with some trepidation that I slowly opened my eyes, fully expecting the mesh tent to be covered with spiders, panting and with their tiny fangs protruding through the fine mesh. I was happy to see none, though I took my time to thoroughly scan every inch of the tent walls and was painfully aware they were still somewhere hiding in the room.

I carry a tent for emergencies mainly, I just didn't expect to have to use it in the middle of a motel. Anyway, the bed made a very good sleeping pad.

When I crawled out, the morning sun had illuminated a big gap beneath the door, no doubt the entrance for the spiders and God knows what else.

When I went to brush my teeth in the bathroom, a black beetle fell out of the faucet just before I turned on the tap. I tried to wash him down the drain with hot water but he was unfazed and gave me a dirty look. I washed him down the drain several times with hot water but he'd come zooming back out each time. He obviously wanted the room far more than I did and I left him to it.

Needing a shower badly, I stood outside the nasty thing, fully expecting baby snakes to squirt out the shower head instead of water. Thankfully the shower was creature free, but it was a fast one I can assure you.

It was time to load up, and I stood looking at my gear which had spent the night on the floor. I couldn’t help wondering if my grey and speedy friends had infiltrated it somewhere, only to come racing out and up my arm at some unexpected moment. I'd put my jacket in the tent, but had left my boots out, so I beat the hell out of them making sure I wouldn't feel anything when I slipped my foot in.

It felt damn good to ride away from that motel, though I admit to feeling imaginary bugs crawling on me throughout the day in my gear. Breakfast was had at Granny's in downtown Cody and folks were lining the streets early to see the Stampede Days Parade.

After breakfast I hit the Buffalo Bill Historical Center, with parade vehicles forming up on the street adjacent. The museum was absolutely great! The gun collection is immense and interesting as are the other areas.

There were many Indian artifacts and much of Buffalo Bill's things including a silver saddle.

When I came out, the parade was still staging from the museum parking lots. A senator from Wyoming was there (whose name I don't remember) and he and his assistant ended up standing right next to me. He was courteous and seemed like a nice guy.

Senator is in the blue shirt...

Cody Sheriff's Department

As I waited, the parade entrants leaving the staging area were slowly winding down, so I sat on the bike and waited. Two police cars formed the tail of the parade, so I pulled out and got behind them. Thinking about my destination for the day, I found myself following them down the main street parade route. Though they were the official end, I noticed that people were still watching and waving at me as if I were part of the parade. I did a Queen Elizabeth wave for several blocks. It was a lot of fun and I can now say I was "almost" in the Cody Stampede Days Parade.

Behind the pooper scoopers, a fitting place for me

As an aside, I was posting my trip on the advrider.com forum and was contacted by a guy who said he and his family had seen me in the parade. I laughed out loud and it made my day.

Eventually I tired of the huge crowd of my fans waving and cheering and felt it was time to reduce the size of my big head and head for some beautiful country.

North of Cody sits Hwy 296, also known as Chief Joseph Scenic Byway and yet another road not to be missed in the area. I reversed back north and found it, catching it westward towards Beartooth Highway and Cooke City.

Chief Joseph did not disappoint. It's less dramatic than Beartooth Pass, but is the most beautiful road I've yet ridden. It sweeps through scenery that is hard to believe and I thank God I didn't miss it. It's definitely a must see road. If one traveled Beartooth Pass and Chief Joseph, you’d be hard pressed to ever find anything comparable in the U.S.

I didn’t take more than a couple of photos, unfortunately, but I just wanted to ride and enjoy it.

Rollin rollin rollin, keep them dogies rollin, rawhiiiiiiiiiide!!!!!!

I'd been overwhelmed at the scenery surrounding me for the last several days and it was sad to reach the end of Chief Joseph near Cooke City, but I knew even more lay ahead.

I stopped in Cooke City and grabbed a coffee before continuing on back into Yellowstone and Montana as my destination. The next day was July the 4th and my friends were hoping I would be there for a celebration they had planned. Dillon, Montana was the ultimate goal for this day, as that would put me at my friend’s on the afternoon of the 4th.

Cooke City

After a caffeine break and continuing on back into Yellowstone, I looped around the top of the park and out through the west entrance. The traffic was heavy which made the ride long and slow and by the time I got out of the park I was ready. Luckily, I saw another black bear, lots o' buffalo, elk and a bald eagle on the ride.

The northern and western side featured many thermal areas with formations and small geysers.

West Yellowstone, just outside the western park entrance, was another packed tourist town. I got a sandwich there and headed on for Dillon, Montana.

Going north on 191, I caught 287 west past Hebgen Lake and Earthquake Lake towards Ennis. Earthquake Lake was aptly named, as it was formed when an earthquake brought down a mountainside and blocked the river, creating an instant dam.

Highway 287

Earthquake Lake

The scenery changed and the mountains looked different than in Yellowstone, eventually falling away to rolling hills and wide open valleys between the ranges. Still, it was a beautiful ride. Somewhere on 287 I passed a KLR 650 and a blue and white R1150GS heading towards Yellowstone. They were loaded with gear and we waved. It was good to see some other adventure bikes. I have seen very few so far.

On the way north to Ennis

I wish I had five bucks for every Goldwing with a trailer I'd seen - I probably could've paid for the Ohlins shocks. I didn't realize the popularity of them and only later found out there was a huge Goldwing rally somewhere nearby which explained the massive numbers. Harleys were the second largest group and the rest were a smattering of BMW's with a handful of sportbikes.

At the little town of Ennis, I turned west and traveled on through the quaint Virginia City, then past the old ghost town of Nevada City just a few miles away. Virginia City appeared to be an old mining town that has remained relatively unchanged. The buildings are old, aged black wood like you see in ghost towns but have going concerns within them. The little town was hopping and I went through without stopping or taking photos. I wish I had but was brain-dead at that point and forgot to.

A couple of miles down the road was Nevada City - smaller but with very old buildings and several abandoned rail cars that spoke of the wealth that was there at one time.

Nevada City

Both places looked very interesting and I made a note to come back and spend a day or two there some day.

The day was fading fast and I raced on to Sheridan, where I stopped for a break but got a very, very bad vibe. Don’t know what it was, but just after that, the local cop drove past wearing sunglasses, slowed down and really stared at me. Whether he was the reason I had the premonition or not, I didn’t wait to find out and left as fast as possible.

Twin Bridges was the next town and I was fading with the light, catching Hwy 41 south to Dillon for the night. I found a motel, then went looking for a cheap meal but everything I could find was closed, other than a “Dinner Club” where I had a meal for the night.

No tacos tonight

The next day was July the 4th and I had a party to make with my hosts in Montana. Having left later in June than intended, I'd bumped up against the time frame and unfortunately had to rush through a couple of places but I wasn’t complaining.

It had been a very long day to get within striking distance of the Bitterroot Valley of Montana.

I’d been on the road only 8 days, yet it seemed like a month, having seen such incredible sights and experienced so much already. My head was swimming from the saturation, but also the realization that I’d never felt so alive or experienced so much life as I had in that week plus one day.

The Route:

7 | The Bitterroot & Fireworks

July 4, 2007

Dillon, Wyoming to Stevensville, Montana

It had been a long ride from Cody to Dillon and with the exhaustion had come good, spider-free sleep at a Super 8 Motel. The night before I'd spent a while talking to the manager and her husband, an ex Army Ranger, before heading out for a pretty good steak at a restaurant I'd seen.

Morning coffee

The morning air was brisk beneath a cloudless sky when I headed south on Interstate 15 to catch 287 west towards Bannack and then Wisdom.

The endless crystal blue allowed me to really appreciate the "Big Sky" of Montana. It's been interesting as I’ve traveled by motorcycle to sense how regions and states have a "feel" that is their own.

287 towards Bannack flowed over rolling hills with sweeping vistas and long, long stretches without seeing another person or vehicle. It's amazing to be able to ride long spells and see no sign of humanity. It also triggers those little fears of breaking down in the midst of nowhere.

Don't miss Bannack if you're near. It was the frontier capitol of Montana and a ghost town not to be missed. The state maintains it as a park, with what looks like a great place to camp also. You can walk through the buildings and read the stories of gunfights and wild west adventures. I'd like to return and camp there, then spend a day exploring rather than just the hour I had.

While in Bannack, I met 2 riders from Canada who’d stayed at the same Super 8 as I - I'd seen their bikes there the night before.

The ghost town was really an interesting place and worth a visit.

In my brief time in Montana, I’ve felt like I’ve stepped back in time a couple of decades. It’s hard to explain. You see people driving 30 year old cars and there are old buildings and structures strewn here and there. Not only that, the people are friendly and I feel tinges of the feelings I had as a child in the 60's - remnants of an America that I miss.

I continued on to Wisdom, taking a tush timeout for a quick lunch, before tossing on a jacket liner in the nippy air. There was a great trading post and old-fashioned hardware store that carried everything one might need. The usual Harleys were parked in rows, beneath the watchful eye of the sheriff in his car waiting for a speeder to come through.

From Wisdom I headed on 43 west and swung into the Big Hole National Battlefield. This was where Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce had fought a battle with the US Cavalry as he had moved his nation east towards Yellowstone and Cody. There is nothing like old battlefields for sensing the power of history. Once again, a place I'd love to return to with more time.

I'd learned that "Hole" means a big valley, as in "Jackson Hole" means the valley the town of Jackson sits in. Having heard "Jackson Hole, Wyoming", I'd always just assumed it was the name of the town itself. Same with "Big Hole Battlefield"...

Getting back on 43 west, I headed up Chief Joseph Pass, a beautiful road with nice sweepers and of course, great mountain views. Hwy 43 exits Montana for a brief time and enters the tip of Idaho, before re-entering Montana and connecting with Hwy 93.

Coming down the pass, the winds kept the switchbacks "interesting" and I almost overshot a couple of corners. I still would forget the extra weight on the bike at times.

Finally reaching the last leg of my trek, Hwy 93 north into the Bitterroot towards Missoula, I hung a right and went north. I must say I loved riding in Montana, not only for the scenery but for the ability to have roads and highways alone as if no one else exists. Being able to commune with the moment, free of tailgaters or other distractions makes the wonderful scenery even better and truly enjoyable.

The Bitterroot turned out to be a beautiful valley lying between eastern and western mountain ranges. It was a joy to ride, as I was both excited to be approaching my goal, yet unexpectedly felt a tinge of sadness. Sadness because I’d gotten so addicted to each day being a whole new experience and a whole new world, and just the fact I’d be stationary for a week or so in one place made me realize how being free had affected me. It sounds silly, but true.

The Bitterroot had the feel of a place in the infancy of becoming another Jackson, Wyoming. The population was growing and wealthy folks are moving there from California. Actually it's sad to me and I feel for the locals who will slowly be pushed out by the wealth of outsiders. Nonetheless it is a beautiful valley.

I continued on to Stevensville, where I would be staying for a few days and exploring the area. There were lots of folks on the river for the 4th. After arriving, greeting the family and dropping my gear, my friend and I headed out for a barbecue bash and fireworks frenzy at one of the family's houses.

Several folks had gathered on the back deck and I plopped down next to a couple from California. In the chitchat it came out that I had ridden from Texas to Montana, having arrived just this day. The couple, Kelly and Kay, asked what kind of motorcycle I rode and I said "Well, have you ever heard of a BMW GS?" Big smiles erupted and they burst into laughter. Kelly informed me that they had just ridden in from California on BMW GS's - he on his R1200 GSA and Kay on her F650GS. What a hoot! In the middle of Montana at a family BBQ I bump into a couple of GS riders.

We ate fantastic bbq ribs, had some good wine and played Red Neck Horseshoes with washers until the darkness came. Which is when the party began... I'd never seen such a stockpile of fireworks in my life. These guys were serious.

The neighborhood consisted of 10 acre plots of fields, with fireworks erupting all over the valley. Our hosts had prepared for the event with large launching tables, buckets of water all about the place and a field of tall grass prepped with mown firebreaks and prepositioned water hoses.

The kids were launching rockets to the cheers of the household, when sure enough, the field got a hot rocket. Fire blazed up and we raced around throwing buckets of water to no avail. The designated "fire marshall" finally got a hose to it and doused the blaze. Neighbors across the way cheered loudly and toasted us so we did a victory dance.

Needless to say this pattern continued until late. We'd start an accidental field fire and then the neighbors would start accidentally start a fire. Each was successfully doused, but it was always a rush.

We finally won the contest, starting 5 field fires to the neighbor's paltry 3.

I have vivid memories of this 4th of July... the cool evening air, silhouettes of the mountains with shimmering stars in a clear sky and a valley filled with thousands of fireworks from homes all through it. America the beautiful lives on in hidden places...

What a way to celebrate my 2,761 mile ride.

The route:

8 | Montana Mementos

One surprise on this trip was just how hot it was in Montana. It was murderously hot with temps around 107 for a few days. I’d left Texas in it’s sweltering heat with visions of crisp morning temperatures and smoke from the chimneys of log cabins in the mountains of Montana, where I’d sit and snicker at my fellow Texicans suffering in the heat of the Lone Star state almost 3000 miles further south. For God’s sake I was almost in Canada and it was hotter here than in Texas. Something just ain’t right about that.

The reality that much of the colder weather clothing and gear I’d brought was never going to be used had become clear, so I decided to reduce the bulk and weight of my things on the bike. I pulled a few things and found a UPS store to ship them back to Texas. I struck up a conversation with the lone lady who was running the place and I asked how long she’d been in Montana. That led to the history of her and her husband, who’d lived in a travel trailer in Alaska when he worked on the pipeline. She said they’d been happy there, with the trailer allowing very little in the way of possessions. After he’d finished his work, they decided to return to the lower 48 and ended up in Montana, where he became a police officer and they bought a house. She said over the years they accumulated things but had realized they were far happier living in the travel trailer than being buried in the things that inevitably come with “successful” living. They were about to quit normal life and head back to Alaska. I wished her luck and shipped some of my accumulations back to Texas.

Spending some time in Stevensville, I began learning some of the history of the region. Lewis and Clark came through, of course, but I didn't realize there were missions and forts in the area. The folks were friendly and I really enjoyed the time.

That evening my friend and I were looking for food and found the only bar/restaurant in a little town south of Missoula. As I walked in, a man who appeared seriously drunk staggered past with difficulty and out the door. Waiting by a pool table to ask the bartender about getting some food, I looked out the front window and saw the man lying on the concrete sidewalk. I ran outside and helped get him off the concrete and onto a bench under the window awning. It was then that I realized he wasn’t just drunk, but had had a stroke in the past and was unable to speak and could barely walk. I told him to sit there while I went back in and tried to find out if anyone knew him. When I turned around, the man had attempted to walk away and had fallen again. I ran back out and picked him up, a passerby staying with him this time. It had begun to rain and he had gotten wet.

The bartender said he saw the man frequently and didn’t know him, but thought he lived nearby since he would struggle into the bar with great difficulty. We went back out, and I half carried him the direction the bartender had pointed. There was an old duplex about halfway down the street and I got him over to it, helping him sit on the swing before knocking on the next door. He couldn’t communicate in any fashion, so it was unknown if this place was his and I hoped whoever lived in the house might know more about him.

A young guy came out in tattoos and cut-off jeans, surprised by my knock. Then he saw the man in the swing and I asked if he knew him and he said yes, he was his neighbor. He helped me get him inside his house and we dried him off with towels, setting him in a recliner and covering him with a blanket as I knew he was cold and wet.

The young guy and I went outside and I asked him who took care of the man and who we needed to call. He said that he checked on him daily, as well as a visiting nurse and meals on wheels. He then told me the man had no family, because when he had the stroke his wife and kids left him. They left no numbers or anything and had completely abandoned him. The man could not speak and could barely walk, but went to the bar every day to try to drink himself drunk - I can imagine to dull the pain. It was heart-wrenching to hear and I went back inside to check on him. We said a prayer over him and made sure he was covered up and warm enough. By the time we walked back to the bar, the kitchen had closed and food was no longer being served. The waitress apologized but thanked us for helping him.

Uncle Leo - a real Montana character - adventurer/philosopher/gardener

My friend and I were invited to spend a day and night with a couple, Regis and Marilyn, who lived far back in the mountains and were homesteading in a cabin while they built a larger log home. They lived off the grid with solar and generator power, felling trees and milling lumber for their house - almost entirely self-sufficient and hard working. I really enjoyed the time with them and their hospitality.

Regis and Marilyn lived in their workshop while building their home, so guest quarters was the little tiny travel trailer they'd originally lived in while building the workshop. After touring around their property and hearing stories of bears, wolves and life in the winter, the day had passed and night was falling. Regis led us down to the little camper and after getting it opened up, said "Don't go out after it gets dark, there's a grizzly and two cubs who come through here frequently."

Being a Texas boy, the concept of having to live in fear of being eaten is not something I'm used to. Initially, I thought he was kidding until I realized he was most definitely not. I decided to retrieve the .44 Mag pistol and keep it with me.

Darkness came and our conversations covered many things in the little camper, that is until my friend said her little Yorkie needed to pee. "Too bad" I said, as it was well after dark and we'd been warned not to leave the camper. She kept complaining about how the little dog had been trained not to pee indoors and got up from her end of the camper to open the door. Great.

Climbing out of the berth on my end of the trailer, I grabbed my flashlight and went to the rescue, cracking the flimsy aluminum door about two inches and shining the flashlight out a few feet into the blackness, illuminating the bark of a couple of pine trees. I listened and then opened the door almost all the way, pausing again and peering into the black forest. My friend squeezed past me to the first step and set the tiny Yorkie down on the ground. Rather than peeing, it ran off into the dark with her calling after it. At that moment, Darwinism seemed appropriate. Of course the little fart didn't come back and I sure as hell wasn't heading out into a pitch black forest to find it.

Luckily my friend remained rational and didn't take off looking for her baby. I was about to close up the camper and write a short poem about the death of a dog, when it came running back up to the steps. She grabbed it and we closed the door, each retiring to our end of the camper. We talked about the incident for about 4 or 5 minutes, when the conversation was interrupted by a loud scraping sound on the textured aluminum camper door. I can only describe the sound as big claws dragging down the door. In the silence, I could see my friend's eyes as big as silver dollars. Suddenly the entire camper shook and bounced, as if something very was jumping on the steps of the camper.

I had never known that women could fly until that moment, when my friend exited her berth next to the door and somehow landed in mine in the blink of an eye. A good 12 feet of airspace was covered in a flash and I do not remember seeing her feet on the floor. My heartbeat shot through the roof and I grabbed the 44, standing up with it and my flashlight pointed at the door. It seemed like a dream, my heart pounding and holding a 44 magnum waiting to see if a bear was about to rip off the door and try to come in. I simply could not wrap my brain around what I was doing.

There was total silence, only the sound of my heartbeat and heavy breathing for what seemed like 15 minutes and maybe it was, but there was no further shaking or clawing. We remained silent and looked at the windows and wondered if the bear was planning something else. It was at that moment I realized just how flimsy and thin campers really are. We were just two Pringles in a Pringles can.

We whispered for a while, as if that would make a bear not know we were inside, until enough time passed that we felt reasonably safe. Neither of us slept the rest of the night. I was so incredulous that I decided Regis had done the entire thing as a prank, setting me up with his warning then sneaking down and shaking the trailer, getting a good laugh in the process.

When the sun was up and high, we slowly exited the trailer with swiveling heads and headed quickly for their cabin. Regis was drinking coffee and Marilyn was making pancakes. They asked how we slept and I responded "not so well after your prank". Regis looked at me in confusion and I could tell he really had no idea of what had happened. Then I had to face the reality that a bear really had inquisitively tried to get inside the camper. We told them the story and he said "I told you not to go out after dark down there. I wouldn't kid about bears." I believed him.

That launched a series of bear stories that had occurred in their lives as well as the lives of friends for the next hour while we drank coffee and gorged on pancakes with huckleberry syrup.

The next day was spent in Missoula, exploring the town and getting to meet up with a fellow Texan rider named Buddy. Buddy had followed my travel posts on advrider.com and was coming through Missoula on the way back to Houston after a trade show in Oregon.

I swung by his motel in town to meet him and since he was heading south the next day, we agreed to meet and ride together for a distance. I was going to follow him for a few hours then reverse back to Stevensville. The previous day Buddy had ridden up and through Glacier National Park on his most excellent Moto Guzzi.

Buddy and his Moto Guzzi

Missoula Farmer's Market

Bicycle powered scroll saw

Buddy was heading for Texas the next morning so we hooked up early and went south on 93 until Hamilton. From there we headed east over Skalkaho Pass towards Anaconda. The morning was cool - so much so we each had to don our warmer jackets - and headed into the pass.

The narrow road turned out to be a great ride. It was hard packed gravel, twisty and climbed up through tall trees high into the mountains. The actual pass road was about 40 miles and at the midpoint we hit Skalkaho Falls, a beautiful waterfall that sits right on the road. We hung out there for a few minutes in the cool air - Buddy's temp gauge had shown 51 degrees at one point - then continued on after the obligatory pics.

Buddy at Skalkaho Falls

Eventually we dropped out of the pass and back onto blacktop, catching Hwy 1 to Anaconda. There was good scenery and I enjoyed watching Buddy flick the “Gootzi” through hairpins and sweepers as I chased him down the road.

Anaconda was a copper mine town with huge slag fields on the east side, the point where we found Hwy 569 / 274 and headed south. It was poorly maintained but a neat ride with few cars and excellent scenery.

We eventually hit 43 and went east towards I-15. The scenic road was torn up with loose piles of gravel to keep the ride over "interesting". Yet another beautiful area following a large river. We reached the interstate and stopped for a breather. Buddy suited up for the heat and the southern route towards Idaho. As we were about to part ways, Buddy spotted my rear turn signal hanging down by the wires. It had vibrated loose and bounced against the funky low mudguard for a long ways, turning the orange lens black and wearing a spot on the guard. Grrrrr. Got it put back in place and we took off - Buddy for Idaho and me back the route through the pass.

I was merrily riding back for Stevensville when I realized I had ridden farther than expected and wasn't sure if I had enough gas to make Anaconda where the first fuel stop would be. I slowed to conserve fuel and wondered if I'd make it. There was almost no signs of habitation in the region I was in.

Eventually a set of old buildings appeared, but the least derelict one looked to be the only chance of human activity. It said "Bar" but there were no cars. I pulled up and walked in. From a tiny back room, an older man came up and asked what he could do for me. His eyes were bleary and red, and it was obvious he was half drunk. He looked terrible. I asked him where the nearest gas was, to which he answered "Anaconda", not what I wanted to hear. By this time he realized I hadn't come in to drink and since he'd make no money, no longer was interested in conversing.

I stepped back out, disappointed and continued on, thinking of how sad it was that an obvious alcoholic would own a bar. Many are the reasons people drink, some of them good ones, but it was hard to see someone whom you knew probably wouldn't live much longer.

The road back to Anaconda and the fuel I desperately needed was plagued with concern, but I made it to gasoline and breathed a sigh of relief. I carried a couple of fuel bottles in my side cases, however I’d left the cases off the bike while running around the Missoula area and had assumed there would be gas at the intersection of an Interstate and another highway. Being in Montana, I’d assumed wrong…

The route:

The next day, the weather was beautiful and my friend wanted to explore, so we jumped in the truck and took off, going from Missoula up to St. Ignatius and passing the National Bison Range. We didn't get a chance to go through it however.

Clarks Fork River

The route from there to Thompson Falls was beautiful following the Clarks Fork river. Excellent area. Got a piece of peanut butter pie and coffee that was to die for at a little cafe in Thompson Falls. The waitress told me they had a lot of grizzlies in the area. From there it was on up to Trout Creek.

The next day continued to Ross Creek and "The Cedars". The Cedars is an ancient forest of massive cedar trees that you can walk through. The trees are so large they almost rival the redwoods.

It has an almost magical feel and is a beautiful quiet area with brooks, moss and ferns flowing amongst the trees.

After the walk through the massive cedar trees, it was hot and I needed a cold Coke, stopping at a local bar and cafe. The front door to the bar was freshly painted and intentionally blocked by a bench, so I went to a screen door on the side and entered into a dusty, junk-filled storeroom. On one wall there was a glass cooler with canned drinks, which I opened and grabbed a warm Coke. Looking to my right I saw a very stern woman glaring at me through a small doorway. "What are you doing?" she said bluntly. I stammered a little about needing a Coke and stepped through the little doorway where she'd appeared, only to find myself standing behind the bar. Four crusty locals sat directly in front of me across the bar, shocked at the sudden appearance of a huge man with a ponytail behind the counter. A long silence ensued as they unblinkingly stared, unsure of what to make of me. In the pregnant pause I jokingly said "Well, since I'm here, can I get anybody anything?"

"Free beer" was the quick response.

"OK, free beer for everybody!", I said laughingly, to which the old bartender lady to my left said "You do and I'll kick your ass" in her gravelly smoker's voice. She reminded me of a piece of jerky, small and with dark, leathery skin from a very rough life no doubt. Now I'm 6'4 and 250 lbs, and she was about 5'2 and 95 lbs, but I had no doubt she could have kicked my @ss.

I sheepishly paid for my Coke and a cup of ice and left.

At least the Montana Department of Transportation is honest...

Humiliated by a little old bartender lady but glad to still have my ass attached, I continued on up through grizzly country to Kootenai Falls. It was an awesome set of roaring rapids off the main road with a suspension foot bridge over the water. I was told this is where they filmed "The River Wild". The wind and cold spray off the roaring river was refreshing in the heat. You could sit there for hours and watch the massive power of the river.

What an awesome place.

After staggering around the trails and over the bridge in the sweltering heat, it was on to Libby and then Kalispell. From Kalispell it was 83 south to Missoula.

Libby still had a working drive-in movie

The exploratory drive had been nice and the choice of a pickup truck in the heat was a good one!

Though I had no desire to, I knew the time was approaching where I had to head back for Texas. The trip had been a life changer and what I wanted to do was stay in Montana much longer. Hell, I was ready to move there permanently. Nonetheless, I had a home and many other responsibilities almost 3000 miles away.

One of the best things about the ride had been the people I'd met on the trip. Some were riders who’d followed my postings online, and this day I'd been contacted by Steve from Florence who'd followed me online. He'd returned from a business trip before I had to leave and wanted to say hello.

We agreed to meet in Florence and Steve rolled up in a beautiful black Mustang. Not that I was jealous.

We grabbed a cold drink and talked bikes until he had to leave for his son's baseball game.

I continued on north to Missoula and dropped the GS at Big Sky BMW to get a new fuel pump installed before heading back to Texas. While there I checked out all the GS's in for service or just parked around. There were 1100's, 1150 GSA's, 1150's and 1200's. Tony in sales told me GS's were the main bike of choice around Montana.

After dropping the bike off, we hit Ft. Missoula and timed it such that the Vietnam traveling memorial - the "Wall" - had just opened for exhibit at the Fort. I've seen the real one in D.C. and this was a really moving experience to see as well.

While resting in the shade from the heat, one of the workers from the came over to chat. His name was John and he was from the Aspen area. John was a Viet Nam vet who had taken a year off to volunteer to travel with the exhibit. He said there are so many requests by cities for the traveling memorial to come through that it's years on the waiting list. They were about to have a ceremony in which the governor of Montana and other dignitaries would be speaking. It was a great experience to see the memorial and talk with John.

From there we headed up to a cabin being built in the mountains by Regis and ended up working on the cabin, of course. Installed a little rough cut siding and stained a wall, but mostly enjoyed the incredible views over the Bitterroot valley. From the gorge below I heard lots of gunfire and steel plates being rung by the bullets. After a bit, I heard a 4 wheeler fire up and in a few minutes a Can Am 4 wheeler pulled up to the cabin. It was a V Twin 800cc that sounded fantastic!

We were invited down to visit and after finishing up at the cabin stopped in to check it out. We met Randy the property owner and got a tour of the place. Randy was a 3 Gun Master shooter and firearms instructor and we talked shop for a long time. His buddy Dave was visiting from Alaska and they had been sitting on the porch enjoying a few beers and plinking at targets and steel plates.

Randy was selling his place, a 20 acre tract with all the buildings, including an original settlers log cabin and running spring. When I asked him why, Randy told me his story. He'd worked in Manhattan for a large company and one day, a floor above them painters had been repainting offices. After this, Randy and all his officemates began to get sick and some died. Randy was very ill and upon investigation, the painters had used some highly poisonous chemicals and not properly vented them. The air ducts had poisoned the entire department. Randy survived but was permanently disabled and had ongoing issues, with the knowledge he would eventually die. After a lawsuit, he received monies and bought a fifth wheel to travel in, eventually living between Montana and Arizona. His health had deteriorated to the point he couldn't continue the Montana upkeep.

I asked about Dave, who'd wandered off to the old settlers cabin soon after our arrival. He said Dave had been a sniper in the Viet Nam war and when he returned, couldn't integrate into society so he moved to Alaska and built a log cabin, living alone in the woods. He said Dave wasn't too comfortable around a lot of people and not to be offended by him retiring. I wasn't. Randy went into his trailer to show the others something.

Robert came back out of the old sagging cabin and walked over, sitting beside me at the shooting bench. I started asking questions relating to shooting and Dave engaged easily. We ended up shooting some together and laughing. Dave told me a story about Alaskan grizzlies. He said he and 3 others had been hired to build a big cabin in a remote area and when they set up camp, they found that grizzly bears would frequently come through, ignoring the shouts and even gunfire of the men who were attempting to scare them away. The number of grizzlies motivated them to quickly fell enough trees for a large one-room cabin to live in while building the other. He said the grizzlies continued hanging around their cabin.

Dave then described how they had a rope hanging inside the cabin that went out a hole above each door at each end. He said, "You never went out that door without first pulling on the rope a few times." He laughed and said they'd discovered that the only thing that scared the grizzlies away was banging rocks in a coffee can, so they'd hung an empty one gallon coffee can with rocks in it above the doors at each end and before you opened it, yanking on the rope rattled the can and scared away the bears.

I'd read many accounts of American military snipers, enough to realize how rare the man was who could do all the things required, far more than just being an extraordinary shot. I said "Dave, I just want to thank you for what you did in Viet Nam, and also wanted to let you know how much respect I have for you, you're a rare man." From deep within him came a sound I can only describe as a howl of pain and he quickly staunched it, unable to speak and unable to look. He got up in silence and walked away to the cabin. Unknowingly, I had touched such a deep wound that it almost scared me. Yet, I hoped that somehow he had heard my appreciation and could know that someone respected him. How many others bear such things silently, carrying weights we never see.

I have to say I have met the most interesting people in Montana. Folks are friendly and the common thread that seems to run through is the desire for freedom and independence with common sense and a desire to live a good life left alone.

A couple of days before leaving, Regis and Marilyn decided to show me a bit more of the area. We all piled into a car and headed out for Philipsburg to check out the town and an old mine. Philipsburg had a cute little downtown with souvenir shops where we scored some chocolate and other things before wandering over to the Granite ghost town.

Mine outside Philipsburg - aka Granite Ghost Town

There were a lot of abandoned buildings and equipment in the area and we had a lot of fun playing in the ruins of the huge place.

The last day before leaving Montana had arrived, with Regis and Marilyn inviting me to a huckleberry picking party near their cabin. Knowing that bears loved berries, I wasn't entirely thrilled at the prospect. Even less so when Regis handed Marilyn a revolver and strapped his on. I shoved my 44 in a fannypack and decided it would not leave my side. Ever.

We all piled in a pickup truck and rumbled our way up the mountain on the clear, sunny day, thankfully cooler since we were high in elevation, and picked our way down a trail to a large clearing. Following along, I looked more like Arnold Schwarzenegger carrying a machine gun through the jungle in Predator, slowly spinning and searching for bears.

We were each handed metal pails and they showed me what the berries looked like and proceeded to spread out over the meadow, bending down and picking them right and left. When we all assembled a little bit later, their pails were half full while I counted about 8 or 9 berries in mine. I'd spent my time watching for bears.

As the picking continued, I wandered a little ahead and then found an old stump torn open. A few feet away was a pile of poo that looked like what I'd imagine was bear poo. My senses went up for dang sure as did the hair on my neck.

Regis, who was an experienced outdoorsman was a ways away, so I looked ahead at a batch of trees. About the time he caught up with me, all the birds who'd been chirping away in the batch of trees went totally silent and when they did, his attention suddenly went to the wooded area I was watching. I hadn't had time to show him the bear sign or even speak to him, but he turned around and said "It's time for us to leave." Didn't have to tell me twice.

As much as we enjoyed the fresh huckleberries over ice cream, I had begun to wonder if they really were trying to kill me using a bear for an alibi - I mean first the camper incident and now the berry picking?

9 | Westward Ho Idaho

Stevensville, Montana to Grangeville, Idaho

The day of leaving Montana had arrived and I was sad for it doing so. The motorcycle was ready to be picked up at Big Sky, so I headed to Missoula to grab the beast with its new fuel pump. As expensive as it was to replace, I felt good about it as it's one of those parts that fail from sitting and my bike had sat for almost three years before I purchased it.

Big Sky had also found 2 of the 5 studs stripped that hold the pump sealing plate, somewhat common, and since they couldn't guarantee it would seal they'd taken it upon themselves to search for a used gas tank for me in case I wanted. They hadn't found one so they'd stacked washers on the studs for the nut to catch the last few threads. I wasn't too worried and was thankful for their efforts to find another tank.

After the trip up to Missoula for the moto and back, then packing, it was a late afternoon start for Texas. Originally I'd planned to head back south to Idaho through the Bitterroot Valley, but I kept getting suggestions to take Lolo Pass into Idaho because it was a beautiful ride and river valley. My concern was that it would spit me out on the far western edge of Idaho and I'd have to loop back east to the Moab, Utah area. There are no roads in the central region of Idaho, only rugged mountain terrain.

At the last moment I decided to go ahead and ride Lolo Pass, based on the fact it might be a long time before I ever got back to this area and it was in close proximity at the moment.

The Bitterroot Valley was shrouded in smoke and haze from multiple forest fires as I rolled north from Stevensville. I could barely make out the mountains through the haze as I rode through the heat and turned onto Hwy 12 for Lolo Pass. I have to admit the heat had been oppressive in Montana and my fantasies of escaping from a Texas summer to a cooler climate had been squashed. However, I'd had a blast, getting to have a few adventures and a lot of fun in the process.

Lolo Pass was beautiful as I swept through the turns early on. I'd been warned of the moose in the area and had heard on the news a rider had just been killed by a moose on Lolo Pass a couple of days before I left. When I'd picked up the motorcycle, someone at the dealership warned me to watch for moose, as not one but two riders had been killed by moose in a two week period.

Each blind corner of the twisty road brought a beautiful view and also a sense of concern, knowing the narrow road could instantly be filled with a deer or moose from the brush at the sides. I entered one blind curve, only to see in the midst of it, scraped asphalt and skid marks from both directions, a large stain of oil and two large stains, surrounded by orange spray painted investigation marks outlining the path of the crash. I can only assume it was where the rider had just been killed by a moose.

As I rounded another bend, a large helicopter came lifting out of the river with a huge water pouch beneath it, dripping as it flew away to attack a fire somewhere nearby, the mist and spray of the water hitting me as it went overhead.

The pass is truly a beautiful road, but also one that keeps you on your toes. It's filled with blind corners and no shoulder, so you stay busy and alert. Each corner seemed to be a challenge this day, with a huge tandem trailer coming around the curve halfway in my lane - each of us passing only an arms length apart.

These guys are not your friends...

The road had a fair amount of traffic with winds high and gusty. The loaded bike kept me busy with the log trucks adding waves of turbulence to the wind gusts. In addition, road crews had been dumping asphalt on the inside of corners and about every 5th turn I'd suddenly find myself on loose gravel.

Huge thunderheads were building and by the time I reached the community of Lowell it had gotten very dark in the middle of the afternoon. I stopped and put on my rain gear, timing it perfectly as the rain hit as soon as I got back on the road.

It rained steadily all the way to Kooskia where it finally stopped, as did I. Parking the bike against the curb, I meticulously laid out my gear on the seats to dry, then grabbed a cup of coffee in the cafe. Of course, as i sat watching, a sudden massive downburst of rain suddenly hit without warning and I ran out to try and grab my gear. It was too late, as it was soaked and I was as well. I went ahead and got the bike and gear up on the curb and under an overhang. Sopping wet and dripping water, I carried my soaked gear into the bathroom, undressed and wrung out as much water as possible in the bathroom before returning to finish my coffee.

Eventually the rain slacked off and I slipped back into my wet gear, heading south on 13 towards Grangeville. The rain returned in sheets and I could tell Hwy 13 was a gorgeous ride, but in the rain and fogged visor I couldn't see much. A few miles out of Grangeville the rain became sporadic, but thick fog came rolling in, covering the high switchback areas as I climbed out of the canyons onto a plateau.

I finally hit sunshine to warm my soaked Levi's as I cleared the mountains and approached Grangeville.

Ragged from the rain, the ride and the late start, I decided to spend the night in Grangeville. By the time I got checked in and my gear drying, it was about 15 til 9 pm and I rode downtown to get a bite to eat. All the restaurants closed at 9, however one let me in just a minute or two before 9, much to the chagrin of the teenage waitresses who were anxious to go home.

The manager, Kathy, ran her mother's place, Barb's Cafe, and she rode herd on the teen girls. We chatted a long time while they made me an outstanding BLT with fries. She discussed the heat wave and the best route to Boise, as well as some other great riding areas around the region.

It was a nice gesture to keep her place open for me, and one I was highly grateful for.

The Route:

South for Twin Falls, Idaho

The next morning was sunny and hot. I left Grangeville on Hwy 95 south towards Boise. My lovely Idaho mountains and river valleys had now become flat plains covered with crops from horizon to horizon, still bathed in the smoke of distant forest fires.

A couple of miles out of town, I saw an official state sign for a “Woolly Mammoth Discovery Site” and turned off onto gravel roads in search of the place

I guess the state decided not to put a sign at the site because I never found it and ended up looping back to 95 after a 7 mile long detour.

It wasn't too long before the flat plains disappeared and the road became much more interesting, with rolling hills and valleys. The smoke of many forest fires obscured the stunning views, but it still was a great ride. Highly suggested route!

I raced on due south to White Bird and saw signs for an Indian war battlefield. There was some fabulous scenery on this ride and I was wishing for clear skies so I could really appreciate it, however I'd come to understand that this was a normal occurrence in these states. I detoured to the battlefield on some side roads.

Battlefield where the Nez Perce tribe defeated the U.S. Cavalry

White Bird community

Stopping for a Coke at the local souvenir shop, the Pig was viciously attacked by a fiberglass grizzly.

The twisty road took me through a few small towns and finally Riggins, where there were a lot of river rafting companies. It looked like a cool place to stay the night. Next time.

A bad to da bone river boat

Idaho and its rugged landscape are known to contain some "independent" folks. I now call this road "Route 666"

More road construction

I finally reached the junction of highways 55 and 95 at New Meadows and pulled in to top off the tank. To the side I saw an old blue BMW parked under a tree with the rider sitting at a picnic table. I pulled over and introduced myself. "Rouch" shook hands and we started talking bikes. He lived in the area and was in New Meadows checking out an old Harley panhead for a friend. Rouch had recently bought the 1974 R900 with 80,000 miles on it. He'd mainly ridden Harley panheads previous to the Beemer, but was enjoying the bike and planned to take it on a ride from Idaho through Canada and down to New York City in the late summer.

Rouch and his 74 R900

He suggested some rides and also that I continue on 95 instead of 55. A waitress had suggested 55 to Boise but Rouch said it was congested with trucks and construction and 95 would be a better ride. I finally let him get back to his half eaten hamburger and headed south on 95.

Hwy 95 was pretty and it too had road construction in spots, but overall was a great road. Eventually it played out into flat open landscape, sweltering in the heat. At the junction of 95 and I-84 in Payette there was a great surplus and military vehicle sales lot. Military trucks, Humvees, Huey choppers and even Abrams tanks were for sale. Man toys for sure.

How in God's name do you dent an Abrams tank?

I was very near the border of Oregon, so I detoured west across the Snake River to Ontario, Oregon just so I could say I'd been, then looped back over the river on I-84 for Boise. The highway had just recently been prepped for a new blacktop layer, so it was about 15 miles on slick, fresh nasty tar.

The ride was flat, hot and boring, with long stretches of 45 mph single lane road while the highway was being reworked.

When I FINALLY reached Boise and found Big Twin BMW for a breather and a T-shirt, I spotted two suspicious and gnarly looking guys hanging around a somewhat dirty R1200GS. My instincts were correct and sure enough they were adventure riders who frequented the forums at ADVRider.com. The 1200GS belonged to "Bonebag", and "Nortwoods" was on a 2000 Triumph Tiger. Nortwoods was one big dude, 6'9" and made the Tiger look like a kid's bike. They were getting new rear tires put on and heading for northern California. They'd ridden from Twin Falls and informed me it was flat, hot and boring. As I was leaving, another rider pulled up on a 1998 R1100GS and we talked a bit. He suggested I take Hwy 30 to Twin Falls instead of I-84 for a change of scenery.

Bonebag and Nortwoods

Bonebag was a photographer and was courteous to take a couple of shots of yours truly. Thanks Bonebag!

Bonebag and Nort were right on. It was "flat, hot and boring". I motored on as fast as possible in the hot, high and gusty winds until the exit for Hwy 30 at Bliss appeared - the "Thousand Springs Byway".

Hwy 30 certainly was nicer than the interstate and followed the river through valleys and fossil beds. I had run out of water in the Camelbak earlier and finally got so dehydrated I had to stop. I sucked down a frozen drink and liter of water as it began to get dark, the orange glow of the skies beautiful and acrid from the forest fires.

A side road to the river

I reached Twin Falls at dusk and found a decent hotel for the night.

Today's Route:

10 | Moab On My Mind

Twin Falls, Idaho to Moab, Utah

The free breakfast at the motel got me going and while packing the motorcycle had a conversation with a Canadian loading up his 1985 Goldwing. He'd been making a loop from Canada through the western U. S. and was now headed back north. He said he could barely talk from the smoke of forest fires he'd ridden through. I'd had a sore throat all day for the same reason. We wished each other well and headed off in opposite directions.

Egg-like substance and coffee

Leaving Twin Falls, I crossed the huge, high bridge often seen in stunts and similar shenanigans. It was an impressive span.

I-84 from Twin Falls towards Salt Lake City was just like the previous day... flat, hot and windy... so I just pegged the throttle and leaned into the wind gusts.

Nearing the Utah border, a few mountains began to rise on the horizon along with telltale wisps of smoke from forest fires within them.

There's a far over thar...

Further south near the border there were multiple fires, so I pulled off the road and headed up a farm road to try and get closer. A large chopper was dropping water on the flames but the road through the fields began to get very deep in powder dust - about 8 to 10 inches and the motorcycle became a real handful. I decided to give up and turned around, just as a forest service truck came racing past and showered me in dust.

After my “smoke break” and back on the highway to Salt Lake, crossing the border into Utah the scenery became pretty nice, considering it was an interstate. The heat increased, as well as the wind and I made Salt Lake around noon. The traffic was "intense" - fast, congested and full of jerks going 95mph. I was dehydrated and needed a break so I grabbed a burger at a Fuddrucker's and cooled off for about an hour.

Forming my evil plan for world domination... or the best route to Moab. I'm never quite sure.

The goal was that mythical place called Moab so Hwy 6 at Spanish Fork just south of Provo was the road.

Moab was a place I knew nothing about, other than hearing for years that it was a mecca for outside activities, mentioned here and there on the internet and referenced as a name of hiking gear and other such things. When I’d seen it was generally on the way back to Texas, I had to see what it was all about.

A huge plume of forest fire smoke was rising like a mushroom cloud from the mountains south of Provo as I turned into the canyon onto Hwy 6.

Hwy 6 was a fun road with lots of canyons and scenery. The red sandstone was a new look after the mountain terrain I'd spent a couple of weeks in.

At Price I pulled off to find a cold drink and more water. I really went through a lot of fluids on this hot and dehydrating day.

From Price, the road leaves the red stone canyons and formations and drops into desert flats and arid mountains - very dry and hot.

The narrow highway was filled with cars and trucks traveling at high speeds of 80 to 90 mph and would get right on my tail. I finally got pissed off at the aggressiveness of the drivers. As a motorcyclist, it's dangerous to have someone in a car right on your bumper and adds a huge amount of pressure, since any sudden stop or variation means being run over from behind.

Hwy 6 ended at Interstate 70, which I took eastward until the Moab cutoff. That stretch of 70 has some interesting views to the north of the desert mountains. The sun was dropping as I exited south on 191 for Moab.

The terrain changed dramatically as I neared Moab, with high buttes and intense red sand and sandstone formations.

The highway began descending into a massive rift in the mountains and I found myself surrounded by red, high cliffs. It was an amazing sight to me and my smile was the largest bug catcher around.

It was almost sundown when I rolled into Moab, passing Jeep rental places and outdoor activity centers, a good sign. I checked into a room hurriedly, dumped all my gear in the room and zoomed off to ride through Arches National Park as the sun was setting.

I was pleasantly surprised that the fee booth was closed and in short order had my breath taken away by the dramatic landscape that unfolded before me. The red sandstone was beginning to look like molten lava as it combined with the reddening light of the setting sun.

At each turn I was mesmerized by the scale and beauty of the place. At the end of the day, there were no cars to speak of, only solitude and stunning scenery for this Texas boy.

As I stood at one of the stopping points to shoot a few pics, suddenly I was hit by rain out of a seemingly clear sky. It was the only cloud over the park and the last thing I expected was rain. It became an instant downpour and I'd left all my gear at the hotel so I had nothing for the rain and there was no place to shelter. As I scrambled to find something to cover up with and realizing I was going to be soaked to the bone in a minute, a small white pickup pulled up right behind me and honked. I saw a hand waving for me to get in, so I grabbed my helmet, tank bag and sheepskin seat cover, diving in the cab just as heavy wind and rain burst on us.

The cab was filled with pot smoke and the Moody Blues were jamming on the CD player. Sopping wet, I looked at the driver and said thanks, not sure what I was getting into. The woman behind the wheel laughed at my predicament and said "Boy, aren't you lucky I was here!" She was a free spirit, an old hippie who told me her life story and why she was in Moab. She'd visited years before and had fallen so in love with the park that she moved to Moab with no job, then became a DJ at the local radio station and got a house where she could see into the park each day.

This pretty well captures the atmosphere of the cab

She told me she'd give me a driving tour while it rained on my bike and we drove off. She loved the red sandstone and had spent years exploring the hidden areas of the park, old trails and caves, and said there was much more interesting things deep within the canyons than were visible to the public.

She'd seen the rain cloud forming and had driven into the park to catch "blood falls" as she called them, where after a rain, the red sand filled the water pouring off the cliffs to create red waterfalls.

The motorcycle is over there under the rain

Since it was raining she drove me around a large area of the park. She was a great tour guide and told me the best spots for images. It was getting dark and the rain cloud had moved on, so she dropped me back at the bike and went on with a wave. It was dark by the time I got my gear back on the bike.

I stood there for a while in the silence and watched the moon rise over a peak.

Still damp from the rain, the air was cold as I slowly rode back through the park and into the town. A nice cheeseburger at spot called McStiff's filled the bill and my stomach.

It had been a long, hot ride, but Moab was worth it for sure.

The Route:

11 | Moab to the Million Dollar Highway

Moab, Utah to Ridgway, Colorado

Moab was an interesting town to me, filled with Jeeps, motorcycles, kayaks and other sporting accoutrement. There are two National Parks there, Arches and Canyonlands, as well as miles and miles of jeep. hiking and mountain bike trails. It is a mecca for such things and sits on the Colorado River.

After checking the bike over for tire pressure, oil level, and yada yada, I headed back into Arches Nat'l Park to see it again and even in the rising heat and flat midday light it was stunning.

On my out, I spotted a gravel road to explore and it felt good to be on dirt and heading away from tourists. Eventually I reached the bottom of a wash where the gravel ended and the road became sand. It looked pretty soft but I decided to go ahead. Famous last words.

About 50 yards into the wash, the sand got so deep that I was getting seasick from the wallowing motorcycle and decided to turn around. For those unfamiliar, the big adventure bikes are quite heavy and will not steer in deep sand or gravel, usually resulting in a fall. With the oil tanker turning radius of the BMW, I attempted to turn around in the road as the sides were much deeper. Knowing the turning radius of the moto was far too big to make a small turn, somewhere in the recesses of my brain a memory of youthful dirtbike riding came forth as a vision, a controlled donut powerslide in which I could spin the rear tire and power the moto around. It seemed like a great idea.

I planted a foot, rolled on some power, dropped the clutch and started spinning the rear tire wildly as I leaned over to begin the donut. In retrospect, I should have thought about how many years had passed since I'd done this sort of thing, not to mention on a 200 lb motorcycle rather than the nearly 700 lbs that now sat beneath me.

Just at the point in the arc that the moto was pointing to the edge of the road, the rear tire got traction and launched all of us across the road and into the bushes on the other side, burying itself in sand that was much, much deeper than on the road. I suspect I looked like a bull rider in a rodeo, but thankfully I was far away from any witnesses, alone and with my 700 pound machine sunken in sand.

Adrenalin fueled, I jumped off the bike and started pulling all the gear off, tossing it behind me and the bike. After losing about 80 lbs of cases and bags, I got back on to see if I could miraculously walk the bike backwards - I'm not sure why - and ended up spending a long time trying to yank the bike back an inch at a time. It was hot, and I was alone in the small wash so I did it the old fashioned way - I lifted the rear of the bike and swung it back into the 5" deep sand on the road and after about 15 minutes of yanking back on the bars, sweating and moving the bike rearward an inch at a time I finally got the monster back on the road. I powered on and rode it our of the deepest stuff and back onto the roadway. Hot, sweating like a pig and thirsty, I sucked the Camelbak dry and then loaded the gear back on the beast.

Free at last, free at last…

Having learned my lesson about middle-aged cockiness and now exhausted, from Arches I rode north to Canyonlands National Park. The road into the park was a great ride in itself and the higher altitude meant it was a couple of degrees cooler. In the park there are a lot of small S curves and it was fun trying to wear the square edges off my tires.

The road to the park

Once into the park, I had no idea what to expect. The park itself is a loop road on top a plateau with overlooks into the massive canyon below. Having never been to the Grand Canyon, I can only guess Canyonlands is similar, because the canyons are absolutely massive and the scale is stunning.

There were a couple of dirt roads that descended a few thousand feet in steep switchbacks down into the canyon. They called my name but would need some research and more time than I had available. Moab was a fascinating place for me and I marked it as a definite place to return and explore, hopefully many times.

My explorations had burned a lot of daylight and I debated staying another night, but I was all geared up anyway so I headed south on Hwy 191, eventually catching Hwy 46 east towards Colorado and the Telluride area. Hwy 46 was yet another a great road, scenic and very little traffic.

A few miles into 46, I could see rain and darkness ahead so I stopped in the little town of La Sal and swapped the armor out of my Triumph mesh jacket into the Belstaff, my waterproof and warmer jacket. I knew the mountains of Colorado lay ahead with inevitable rains and chillier temps.

It was still warm but I soon hit small showers and the temps dropped. The ride got better and better as it neared Colorado, renamed Hwy 90 as it crossed the border. There were still some long stretches but the road was great with long twisties and canyons.

The road dropped down out of the hills into a long valley with a beautiful view of the escarpment to the east.

San Miguel Valley

I veered off briefly in Bedrock, Colorado to check out the lone store, which happened to be for sale. I had a brief fantasy of purchasing it and becoming a grizzled, old, bearded mountain man who sold bullets, Twinkies and whiskey, but then remembered I didn’t have enough money to even pay off my credit card balance for this trip and motored on.

On the horizon I could see black storm clouds over the Telluride area and knew I was heading into rain. I stopped at the intersection of 90 and 141 to check my map and in a couple of minutes a rider pulled in next to me. He was returning to Denver from a trip out to Phoenix and he'd come up 191 just a few minutes behind me. He said 191 in AZ was a great road with excellent mountains. While we talked another rider on a Harley stopped and asked the way to Moab. We directed him back onto 46 and then each headed our separate ways.

The temp dropped to 50º and a dark cloud lay just ahead so I knew rain would hit any moment. I stopped to put on my rain pants and warm gloves, choosing shelter in a camping toilet to get dressed in case it started pouring. The unbelievably horrible smell of the toilets was a major factor in getting my gear on in record time. All while holding my breath until purple.

My plan had been to spend the night in Telluride, a place I'd been through briefly a few years before, but at Placerville the road towards Ridgway looked less threatening than the deep black cloud over Telluride. I wasn't in the mood for a death defying rainstorm ride so I chose to head for Ridgway and then Ouray. The rain came in sprinkles and bursts (sounds like a name for candy) but wasn't as threatening as the clouds I bypassed near Telluride.

Rain over the mountain range between Telluride and Ouray

Inevitable road construction stopped the traffic for a while, sitting in steady rain for what seemed like hours as the daylight waned away.

I pulled off for a pic and was passed by a couple on a Harley, both wet and freezing. As I pulled out behind them he suddenly locked the brakes and swerved, barely missing two deer who had bolted across the road in the low light. He drove much slower after the close call and I passed him, trying to make Ridgway before dark.

The road was wet and it was just at dark when I came down the pass into town, relieved to see gas stations and potentially a motel or two. I said a short prayer to find a room this late and found a lodge on the main highway.

The girl behind the counter told me they just had a room cancellation and I could have it. Woohoo! Three times a cancellation happened and I got the last room. I love it when God smiles on me :)

I dropped the gear and headed back into the little town to eat, finding a great Thai restaurant called Siam. The food was superb.

What a day it had been. 100 degree temps in hot, sunny Moab and 47 degrees with rain three hours later in Ridgway.

The Route:

A Day in Ouray

The morning began the 26th day of my travels on the road, hard for me to believe as in some ways it felt like a week, and in some ways a year. For some reason hadn’t slept well. It was one of those days when one can’t seem to wake up and I needed to get some laundry done, so I decided to take a day off from traveling and hang out in Ouray.

A few years earlier I'd spent a couple of days there and I loved the Swiss-like town nestled in a bowl of mountains. I saddled up and rode the short 10 miles from Ridgway into Ouray. There seems to be a debate about the pronunciation, as I’ve heard it spoken as “Oo-ray” and also as “Your-ay”. More locals told me it was the latter, so that’s been my choice though I have been chastised for it.

The treacherous 10 mile ride to Ouray…

Ouray was the quaint and colorful little place I remembered. I hung out at a coffee shop, watching people and motorcycles come and go through town. There was a lot of variety - GS's, KTM's, dirt bikes and the usual mix of Harleys.

I went in search of a campsite for the night and found one (supposedly) at the Amphitheatre Campground which sits above the town on a mountainside. Though the site was listed as available, the site was still occupied with no one in site, so I assumed they were running late and rode back to town to get more coffee.

Outside a gaggle of dirt bikers assembled by the coffee shop. I wished I had a dirt bike to go with them in their mine roads mountain pass explorations. Ouray is the base for exploring many high mountain pass roads, all steep and rocky. It has a lot of Jeep rentals as well.

I’d had several conversations with riders, one on a Kawasaki KLR650 who was riding from Seattle to the Southwest. He'd been behind me a few miles through Idaho and Utah and even Moab. He liked the KLR but said in Utah with the strong headwinds the bike it was hard to maintain 75 mph and it burned a lot of oil. He said that was the only oil the bike had used.

My GS burned oil on that leg as well and it was the first I've had to add on this trip, about half a pint. The GS handled the winds fine as far as power - it just motored along as usual - but that's the difference between a dual cylinder 1100cc engine and a single cylinder 650 for highway travel. The single 650 can go places the 1100 can't however.

A few minutes later I saw a legacy red and white BMW R100GS Paris Dakar with a couple taking pictures of each other. I volunteered to shoot them together. They were from Dallas and had flown to Idaho to buy the 1993 PD and were riding back to Texas. I love that particular motorcycle with its larger tank and paint scheme and I tried to buy one in 1991 but it sold before I could get to the dealer. I ended up with a black and yellow standard version, but that's a different story.

About 3 pm I went back to the campsite to find it still occupied, so I made another run to town for laundry duty. My life just couldn't possibly get more exciting...

Laundromat at a private campground…

Guess which machine I was using…

After a lengthy discussion with a lady from Louisiana in the laundromat, I headed back up to the campground again and found the host, who explained the campers in my site had been mountain climbing and had gotten back late and tired so he was letting them stay another night. He said I could pitch my tent on his friend's pad at 1/2 the camping price so that was cool with me. I asked if I needed to do a bear bag and he said "No, the only bears are in town."

I thought he was joking and said I hadn’t seen any bears in town, only two heifers in a candy shop, then realized he was serious. Bears had been spotted around the hot springs pool area just the day before. I should mention that Ouray has a large public hot spring pool as well as some local spas using the thermal waters.

It had been sunny and hot much of the day, briefly cooled down by showers, so I decided to go for a swim at the hot springs. I know, it doesn't make sense to go to hot springs to cool off on a hot day, but trust me there is cool water as well.

As I finished pitching the tent and rode down to town again, the rains came and by the time I got to the town springs they had closed the pool due to lightning. Bummed, I rode back to the town center in the rain and ate at a slightly upscale Mexican Restaurant there - can't remember the name but it's the one with all the dollar bills stuck on the ceiling.

The rain had brought cool temps which felt so good I sat outside the coffee shop, posting the report from the sidewalk and enjoying the town.

12 | Silverton, Cinnamon & The Black Canyon

Ouray - Silverton - Cinnamon Pass - Lake City

The Amphitheatre campground was a nice one, nestled high over the town with great views of Ouray. My originally designated camp site had a magnificent view of the campground dumpster, so it was fine with me that I pitched my tent at the host's campsite.

Ouray from Amphitheater road

Laying in the tent at night and listening to the various sounds and conversations of others around the campground can be "entertaining". This night, to my right I heard someone laughing continuously and talking with a terrible British accent. It sounded like Mike Myers from Saturday Night Live when he'd do a Keith Richards imitation. In fact, I was convinced Mike was camping next to me for quite some time, until it sunk in that this was a real person's accent. I like hearing Brit accents and his laugh was infectious... for about 15 minutes. An hour later I was trying to figure out how to murder him. He was obviously drunk, but never stopped laughing until the wee hours.

My thoughts were interrupted by the late arrival of campers to my left and a sudden horrible ripping sound, followed by the giggling voice of a woman saying "I told you barking spiders were indigenous to Colorado!" Maybe they are, but the one she had with her was big enough to be on a leash.

The next morning while making my breakfast of champions, my host came out and we had a good talk. I'd noticed his license plate showed "10th Mountain Division" and I mentioned what I knew about the elite unit from WWII. He was a WWII vet, in great physical and mental condition and told me his background of having been a mountain climber and ski jumper in upstate NY before joining the unit. He said his father was Oliver Perry-Smith, a renowned mountaineer who was highly respected in Europe for his climbs. He brought out a book and photos of his father's climbing experiences and told me to Google his dad for more info.

We talked of the experiences his unit went through in WWII and he mentioned a movie was about to be released on the story of one of the battles. I really enjoyed listening to him and was honored to meet him. He looked to be about 80, but his eyes were as sharp and clear as a young man. He said he wintered in Steamboat Springs but skied all year. He winked and said "Don't ever get old" as he walked away. I always enjoy meeting and talking with older folks - so many treasures that are overlooked.

As I headed out of the campground I saw "Brian" who'd also invited me to share his campsite earlier. He was loaded for bear with a truck and trailer hauling a Toyota FJ and a KTM dirt bike, as well as lots of other goodies. Brian was from Gainesville, Texas and heading up Engineer Pass for the day. We wished each other well and I headed down for caffeine in town.

After a great cup of coffee or two, the plan was to head to Silverton, the next town at the end of the famous Million Dollar Highway, and then take the rough, high mountain pass road over to Lake City. I decided to detour and took the forest road up to Yankee Boy Basin to see how the bike might handle the pass roads loaded. The road to Yankee Boy was a well maintained forest road, with a few rough sections, but it was no test for what I'd be facing later in the day, but at least I could stretch my legs a little.

Entering the pass road to the basin

Reminds of that motel in Cody

The ride up was beautiful but had some challenges with all the water from the recent rains and some of the areas were tricky. Loose rocks and heavy, slow moving bikes can be a handful at times. Speed and momentum are your friends, however there were a lot of rental Jeeps on the road, driving very slowly and meeting each other, which made for several stops and lost momentum for me.

I reached the top area with about 1/8 of a mile from the absolute end of the road. I had to stop for a breather and walked up a bit further. I could tell there was no way to reach the last section, as the road now had a stream running down the width of it and there was loose rock at a very steep incline just out of the water. Without the gear, I'd have tried it but since I had a long ways to go this day it wasn’t worth the risk vs reward.

There were a few ATV's there and I talked with three guys from Missouri who had been doing the mountain passes in the area. They concurred with my decision not to go the last little bit of the road, saying they had had difficulty even on their four wheelers.

These Missouri boys spotted some mountain goats high on the cliffs

The ride back down was a challenge with the wet rocks, made even more so by the occasional jeep stopped in the middle of the road. At one point I crested a rise on a really tricky section to find a crew cab diesel parked dead center in the road. I managed to squirt by it with only one choice of travel, only to find a fat tourist woman in little white tennis shoes teetering and wobbling like an oversized ballerina right in the way. There was no other line to take and I had to lock it up and almost crash to miss her.

Further down the pass, I saw a gaggle of dirt bikes and riders having come down off Imogene Pass and consulting their maps. In a show of bravado I flew past, getting major air and doing a full lock cross-up on the BMW, simultaneously shouting "Posers!" and flashing the Hook' em Horns sign in midair before landing full throttle and showering them with roost.

Actually that's a lie. But I did get some looks when I passed them on the heavily loaded bike. I think they took it as somewhat of a challenge as they all raced after me and passed me further down. It was fun.

Back on the blacktop, I headed down the Million Dollar Highway and had only gone a short distance when a Harley biker passed in the other lane motioning "down" with his hand. I rounded the next bend to see an accident on a sharp curve. EMS and police were there having just loaded the rider into the ambulance. Looked like a Harley with ape hanger bars had hit a car. Guessing the bike either slid out or couldn't make the sharp curve, or the car had come into his lane. I said a prayer for the rider as I went past for Silverton.

The Million Dollar Highway outside Ouray - so named as its cost was staggering for the time it was built

The Million Dollar is a classic, amazing road through the Western Rockies, cut on the edge of cliffs and winding high into the mountains. It’s a really great ride or drive, roughly an hour to Silverton.

The Million Dollar lived up to its reputation, as it always does, with amazing views, perilous drop-offs and high mountain curvy roadway. I picked up an R1150GS with Jesse cases and rode behind him for a ways, enjoying the beautiful highway and scenery.

Silverton was a fun town. Hadn't been there in years and forgot how much I liked it. It was relatively tourist free and I found out later the train from Durango had been blocked by a rockslide, which explained the lack of tourists.

I searched the little shops for a new lighter, since my fancy little survival torch had decided to fracture and dump the butane - nothing like having a survival lighter in your emergency kit only to find it dead. A Zippo came to the rescue until I found a better one.

Next to one of the shops, I saw a couple of KLR's and riders so I struck up conversation. Ken and Ben, father and son, were from Austin and heading up Engineer Pass over to Lake City. I had decided to take Cinnamon Pass to Lake City as I'd heard differing accounts of the condition of Engineer. A loaded R1100GS is not the appropriate tool for riding the mine road passes, so I knew a real challenge lay ahead for me. Aside from the weight, the bike is made for highway travel as well and has mushy steering compared to a light dirt bike, so maneuvering is hard amidst loose rock.

Having bought some pricey elk jerky and found a cheap Zippo, I headed to the bike to stuff in the tank bag when saw a biker couple sitting on a bench looking at the BMW. I overheard them talking to someone and mentioning they were from Lubbock so we started talking. In the midst of conversation, an SUV did a fast screeching donut in the street and pulled up behind my bike. The driver rolled down the window and asked if I wanted to sell the GS for "cash right now". I laughed and waved. He smiled and burned out.

Back to my conversation with the couple, they were hardcore bikers who were now in Christian motorcycle and prison ministry. That is near and dear to my heart, having worked in homeless and street ministries myself. A group of them had ridden up from Lubbock for a couple of days and were having a good time. A couple of other guys came up and we had a good conversation. Before I left, they gathered around and prayed a great prayer over me and for my protection on the rest of my trip.

My new buds - "Mountain" is the little guy in the flag bandana

I grabbed lunch at the Brown Bear Cafe and checked my maps, enjoying the food and dessert - hot blueberry cobbler covered with ice cream and whipped cream!

Coming out of the cafe I found a KTM rider hanging out near the GS and we talked for a while. Tom was up from California and had a shiny new KTM 525 he was planning on getting dirty in the area.

A final pic in case I died on Cinnamon Pass

I realized my Camelbak was empty and went into a shop for a few bottles of water to fill it. When I came out and was filling the pouch, a guy walked over to look at the bike and we started talking. He looked somehow familiar and in conversation mentioned he was from Terlingua, Texas. It was then I recognized him as "Uncle Roger" from ride reports on the internet. He rode motorcycles and was well known in the dual sport community who gathered out in the Big Bend region yearly.

I mentioned a friend who rode to Big Bend frequently and it turned out Roger knew him well, so well in fact he pulled out his phone and called him while we were talking. It is a small world indeed.

Roger from Terlingua aka “Uncle”

He'd been up for the Horizon's Unlimited event, a gathering of adventure riders, then had gone to the BMW event at Paonia and was now camping and hanging out around Silverton. It was fun meeting a guy from my favorite Texas town. Roger asked where I was headed and when I said "over Cinnamon", he pointed and said "On this? No thanks!" and walked away.

It was clouding up as I headed away from the Million Dollar Highway, through Silverton and out the dirt road for Animas Forks and Cinnamon Pass. The temp began to drop, passing old mines and rotted remains of wealth from yesteryear.

The further I got from Silverton, the more the road got a little more challenging until I reached the entrance for either Cinnamon or Engineer pass. I stayed on the Cinnamon section and the road immediately got steep and rocky but the BMW took it in stride. The first thousand feet in elevation was a workout on the rough road, with no stopping until I found one small section of a switchback turn wide enough and smooth enough to stop, where I looked back down the valley for a last time.

That was the point of no return, and from then on, the difficulty had me sweating and working hard to keep from dropping the bike. I had to really stay focused and concentrate. It was serious work almost all the way to the top, wrestling the bike over and around rocks and ledges covered with water drainage. I was sweating profusely in the cool air and breathing hard from the workout.

All things considered, the big bike handled the tough stuff surprisingly well - certainly not like a dirt bike, but considering the load I was carrying it did well. I couldn't really stand up on the pegs because the bucking rear end would toss the tent and pad forward under my rear and then I couldn't sit down. I finally had to do the ride sitting down, which is much more difficult in rough conditions.

As I neared the top of the pass, the road improved some which I was grateful for and I was able to relax some. The pass roads deteriorate very quickly being above the tree line being exposed to the storms and snow. When the snow melts, the road then becomes a river bed for runoff and the lower switchback sections usually become very rutted and filled with loose rock. Sometimes repairs have been done, which are often quickly destroyed, but luckily for me the top was in good shape. Usually it's by far the worst.

Entering the barren scree fields near the top of Cinnamon Pass

Cresting the top, I was met with a blast of cold air and high wind from the Lake City side. Black clouds were ahead and I hoped and prayed the rain would hold off until I got further down. I didn't relish the thought of going down steep rocky areas covered in water. I took a break at the top with a group of ATV riders up there. A woman offered to take a picture of me by the sign which I appreciated.

Poser

Turns out they were a couple of families from Oklahoma and had all ridden up on ATV's. Three of the riders were 10 year old boys and one had come over to see my bike. He was beaming proud of his ride up and the helmet he was wearing, but he also wanted me to know he was wearing a Camelbak too. I gave him a "high five" for his accomplishment. His father wanted to know more about the Beemer as he had been wanting an adventure bike to do trips like mine.

As we talked a red Toyota FJ crested the top and I heard "Hey Joseph!" - it was Brian from Amphitheatre campground. He'd done Engineer Pass and now Cinnamon in the Toyota. We said our "seeya's" and I thanked them for the pics and headed on down the mountain to try and beat the rain.

The ride down was good, with some iffy spots for sure, but on the way I began to really appreciate this bike. No, it's not a 250 lb KTM or 300 lb XR, but the beast handled decently considering all the gear on it and my riding weight.

BMW had done a great job of creating a motorcycle that could travel thousands of miles at highway speeds comfortably, and then take the rider to some out of the way places on dirt rails. Jack of all trades and master of none? Maybe, but it's a hell of a bike if you ask me. Undoubtedly the Ohlins suspension made the difference on this ride and they earned their (or my?) money on these pass roads.

The Lake City side of Cinnamon was far easier than the way up, something I was happy about now that I'd had a workout and some serious butt-clenching moments.

Heading down to Lake City

As the road improved nearing the base of the mountain, the rain started and I rode the last miles to Lake City in a gentle rain.

The cold rain on my face as I wound down the mountain is something I'll remember for a while.

The tiny quaint town Lake City was wet and rainy. Passing through I saw nothing but "No Vacancy" signs. Wondering if I'd have to press on to Gunnison, I saw the Quiet Moose Lodge outside of town and pulled in. I was greeted by "Bruno", who was dressed in chef whites with a French accent. He had a room available and put me down for 7 pm reservations in the little restaurant.

The rooms were older but decent and I found out why I needed reservations for the restaurant. The food and atmosphere were great - but what would you expect from a French chef? His wife and daughters served the food and treated the diners as if we were in their own home. It was a great meal and a great day!

The Route:

The Black Canyon of Gunnison

I woke up feeling nauseated - possibly from a small bird I swallowed between Ouray and Silverton. Feeling sluggish, I spent the morning in Lake City though my plan was to head north for Gunnison and the Black Canyon area.

Morning over Lake City

Downtown

Posting from the library's wifi

I caught Hwy 149 North towards Gunnison and - wait for it - it turned out to be a beautiful road and a great ride. The scenery was good, the road a wide and fast one with big sweepers as you got further north. The sun was out and it was an awesome day to ride.

My speed brought me up behind a BMW R1200GSA who was following two women on Harleys. I tracked with them a while until the intersection at Hwy 50 and 149 where I turned east to Gunnison and they went west to Montrose.

I wandered downtown Gunnison for a bit then headed west on 50 towards Montrose. (By the way, it's pronounced "Mont Rose" by the locals, so say that when you're there for brownie points)

A Gunnison local

Behind the trailer that’s behind the mud dragster, there’s a BMW rider removing his Touratech panniers. He was attempting to remove a broken side rack to have it welded at the shop behind the trailer. Sorry I didn't get a pic so you'll just have to use your imagination

A view from Highway 50

I took Hwy 92 off of 50, since it looked twisty and interesting. It led across the dam on the Gunnison River and into the mountains.

Hwy 92 turned out to be one of the better roads I've ridden. I know, I’ve said that about many roads on this trip but it's true. I’d have to put it in the Top 10 and probably the Top 5 so far.

It follows the Gunnison river canyon and twists and turns as it goes on the edge of cliffs higher and higher. No guardrails until you get very high up and then only a few. The road winds through aspen groves and lots of S curves only to suddenly swing out to the edge of spectacular views of the canyon. The pucker factor was high at times.

The canyon is spectacular and just gets deeper and deeper

I rode Hwy 92 for about 25 miles before reversing back towards Gunnison, enjoying every mile of it.

Back on 50 after coming off 92, I spotted a dirt road that said "Lake City Cutoff". I couldn't resist the gravel road and had a ball riding it for 16 miles over to 149. It was rough in a few spots but a great ride.

Back on blacktop and heading south on Hwy 149 to Lake City again, I could see rain ahead and finally ran into it for the last 10 miles of twisties through the canyon.

Though I’d been queasy all day, the rides were awesome. I'd never been to the Gunnison area and Hwy 149 was a great ride. Hwy 92 topped it by a mile and ranks as one of the greats on this trip.

The Route:

13 | Towards Taos

Lake City, Colorado to Taos, New Mexico

It was time for the next phase of my return to Texas and Taos, New Mexico was in my sights.

It was a sparkling clear day and temp was in the 60's. I still felt queasy and was dealing with allergies as well, so I wasn't feeling great.

What's this? A 1200GS at the same lodge...

Grabbed breakfast in town and uploaded the last ride update before heading south on Hwy 149 towards Creede and Pagosa Springs. Of course I'd just gotten in the groove when I realized I wasn't wearing my motorcycle jacket. In my prepping the bike, I'd forgotten about it hanging in the closet and had to make a quick return to the motel.

The ride south had great views, clear weather, nice big sweepers and S curves. The terrain began to change, as the mountains took on a more arid feel than around the Silverton area.

I stopped at Freemon's General Store to grab a Coke to try and get revved up a little, then zoomed along until Creede.

Mt. St. Helen's was erupting... not

The little town of Creede had loads of character and was bustling with tourists. I continued on through downtown towards the sheer canyon behind the community and was pleased to see the road continued on up into the hills.

The road rose sharply through a mine area, with sheer drop-offs down to a creek filled with tourists panning for gold in the little river. After buying the Ohlins I was tempted to pan for gold myself to try and recoup some money for this trip.

The road continued to tighten and steepen which filtered out most of the the tourists who were hesitating and reversing their Lexus' to avoid any chance of dirt contamination.

The road continued up through the mountains, passing through several mines and aspen groves and up into the high country where it eventually became a two track through the mountains.

A handful of mountain bikers and a couple of hikers were all I saw near the top. I rode up high through some small streams and rough spots, eventually stopping near the top.

I hung out for a few enjoying the mountain beauty until the tapping thoughts of making Taos made me leave.

Shot a couple of one-handed videos on the way back down to Creede:

Once back in Creede, I continued on south to Pagosa Springs and made the turnoff onto Hwy 84, then crossed into New Mexico. I felt a tinge of sadness knowing I was entering the final phase of my journey and would no longer be in such beautiful country and cool weather.

The incredible New Mexico skies took my attention as they always do. The color of the sky in New Mexico just seems to be a different blue than I've seen anywhere and I always remember it.

In Chama I gassed up and bought a souvenir - first one of the trip.

I just HAD to buy something at a place like this

Next was Tierra Amarilla and Hwy 64 for Taos.

I descended from the mountains and hills into the flats.

About 20 miles out of Taos there was a cloud dumping rain and I caught the edge of it as I rode through the plains. I'm glad I only caught the edge because the wind was so ferocious that the rain hit me sideways. I had to lay on the tank and slow to about 20 mph just to stay on the road.

Along the way I saw several earth homes built into the ground - some with bizarre fantasy like facades. I began to notice the number of them spread over the valley. Eventually I passed the Earthship Center where alternative off-the-grid energy efficient home building methods are shown.

I crossed the deep Rio Grande Gorge and stopped to go out on the bridge and snap some pics. Below, on the side of the canyon was a crumpled white object which appeared to be a jeep that had gone over the edge. The canyon is quite impressive.

The white spec seemed to be a destroyed Jeep

A gaggle of pseudo-spiritual ethereal artists hawked their new age crap by the roadside.

No, I don't need authentic Indian dream crystals

Tired, tatty, tourist traveler in Taos

Checking in to a Super 8, I talked with two Texans on Gold Wings who had been to Los Alamos and were hitting Colorado for an event. They were interested in the dirty GS. We had a good talk then I grabbed something to eat and crashed.

The Route:

14 | Stretching The Final Stretch

Taos, New Mexico to Snyder, Texas

The next morning, I received a call that my mother in Dallas had been diagnosed with bladder cancer and wasn't doing well. Plans changed and I needed to head for Big D to see her. Thankfully I wasn't in far north Montana and was only a couple of days away.

Leaving Taos for Las Vegas, Hwy 518 south was a good road with lots of twisties, great scenery, mountains and rivers with some old adobe buildings. That is until about Cleveland where the land begins to flatten out.

There were a lot of trucks on the highway

It was depressing getting back to the flatlands!

At Las Vegas I caught I-25 to 84 south. It was just flat, hot and boring. At Fort Sumner I filled up and was approached by a funny little man. Turns out he was from Switzerland and in the midst of traveling the circumference of the world. He'd left Switzerland for Moscow, then took the train across Russia, a ferry to Japan, a container ship across the Pacific to Long Beach, CA where he rented a car to cross the U.S. He had been to the Billy the Kid museum and was now heading to Roswell. He was excited to see the BMW and told me in broken English that he had a BMW R1100RT.

Road construction was frequent - sitting in the heat was brutal.

Next came Clovis and finally the Texas border at the little town of Texico.

It was really hot through Lubbock as the sun began to set.

My goal had been Abilene, then as the day waned away, it was Sweetwater, but I finally called it quits in Snyder when it got dark. I grabbed a cheap hotel that smelled of curry and was noisy as hell all night with oil roughnecks rolling in at all hours in rumbling diesel pickups.

The route:

Snyder, Dallas, La Grange, Houston and Home

The ride from Snyder to Dallas was totally uninteresting after all the beauty of the previous weeks.

I lost a couple of hours in the morning waiting for the Pizza Inn to open where I'd eaten the night before. I'd left my riding jacket on the seat in the booth and didn't realize it until about 7 am when packing the bike. I had no idea why I suddenly started forgetting my jacket.

While waiting, I had breakfast in a little cafe and got plenty of looks from the locals. Snyder is a typical west Texas town and a guy with a bug covered jacket and ponytail was a new sight to see.

At 9 am someone had finally shown up at the Pizza Inn, so I rang the back doorbell for a while to no avail. I then banged on the front door for a while and still no response from inside. At the drive-through window on the back I pressed my face up to the glass and saw two girls inside ignoring me. Since they’d been spotted and had to acknowledge me. I shouted through the glass about my jacket. She still acted like I wasn't there, finally wandering to the window with an attitude. Eventually she opened the window and we got it sorted out, handing the jacket through and I was able to get on the road.

Low cloud cover stayed all the way to Dallas, keeping the temps reasonable. Approaching Ft. Worth from Weatherford, the traffic thickened and became a solid high speed river of semis and pickups. I took the I-30 split and did my Matrix motorcycle ride through the insane traffic. This was the first real fear I'd felt on the entire trip!

Dallas arrived with its traffic, malls and ubiquitous Best Buy / Petsmart / Office Depot / Chili's / Old Navy strip malls. After what I'd seen it was depressing as hell.

The route:

Dallas to La Grange, Houston and Kerrville

It was good to spend time with my mother and she seemed to be doing well, considering the diagnosis and the fact they would be removing her bladder. God does miracles and I prayed for one.

While in Dallas, I got to connect with a couple of riders who'd followed along online with my travels, which was nice. After the adventure of Montana, it was hard to face getting back home and into the routine of life again. I'd fallen in love with motorcycle travel and the world it opened and I just didn't want it to end. I decided to detour and see a couple of friends before finally making it home.

As I was leaving Dallas on the freeway in heavy traffic, a pigeon flew up from the roadside at about a 45º angle and came right between my windshield and left mirror, hitting the face shield of my helmet dead square at about 70 mph. The impact was so hard my eyes crossed and I almost blacked out. Thankfully I had my face shield closed or it would have knocked me out cold and I have no doubt I'd have been run over, as the traffic was thick and fast all around me.

The impact had flexed the clear shield in, hitting my nose and upper lip like a fist punch, making my eyes cross. Luckily the plastic hadn't broken and had flexed back out quickly. My upper lip was numb and my eyes watered for quite a while afterwards.

Anyway, I continued south to catch I-35 to Waco and then cut off on Hwy 77 to La Grange, Texas to visit old friends, who'd faithfully followed my travels online. They'd spent many years traveling and had plenty of adventures themselves.

My friends Dan, Helen and Sparky the Wonder Dog

Double trouble…

From La Grange, I headed for Houston by way of Brenham to visit my friend Robert. Robert had followed my travels as well and we'd communicated online but hadn't met or ridden together. It was a good excuse to visit Houston and avoid going home for another day or two.

Following Robert through Houston

Robert's toy box

Robert and I decided to ride around Houston the next day... and so did the rain. We had breakfast at the 11th St Cafe in the Heights, watching the rain pour down on our bikes before heading to Wild West Honda / KTM / BMW in the post rain spray of crowded highways. It was a lousy, disgusting muddy experience, made worse by the fact that I was embedded behind a semi for miles.

At the dealership we fondled as much gear and as many bikes as possible, but the ultimate surprise was the new KTM 950 Super Enduro. It looked to be a perfect motorcycle for Colorado mountain passes, a relatively lightweight dirt bike-inspired monster with a 950 cc engine.

From the dealership home, we got caught in another downpour and got soaked to the nether regions. Our shortcut was under water so we went around, eventually reaching his street which had loose sand washed onto it from a previous storm. Who says you can't have adventure in Houston?

After tossing my soaked clothing and gear into his dryer for a while, I said goodbye and headed out Hwy 290 for Austin in the rush hour traffic, arriving about 7 pm. The rain had stayed in front of me and the highways were wet with water, but I never actually got into the rain. It kept the ride cool and continued with me on 290 all the way through Johnson City, Fredericksburg and then Kerrville.

I rolled into the Shell station at the junction of Hwy 16 and I-10 about 9:15 pm and filled up the GS. My trip odometer turning 6,845 miles.

The adjacent Cracker Barrel was still open and I hadn't eaten since breakfast, so I treated myself to a meal for accomplishing my first real motorcycle adventure.

I was tired from the long day and I'll admit to sadness to be back near home. I'd left with trepidation, unsure of what lay ahead and now weeks later I'd returned to the same spot, a different person than before. It sounds trite to say, but I would never be the same again.

Finishing my glass of ice tea, I headed out in the night for the last 11 miles to my home, riding slowly due to the ever present volume of deer that accompany life in the Hill Country.

The route: