After getting off of work I headed out on my motorcycle. Weather was cool and drizzly all the way to Kennewick, WA where I finally encountered some warm conditions. My first stop was in the Blue Mountains of Oregon where I had a snack/rest break near Meacham on Interstate 84.
Wanting to make as good of time as possible I continued eastward into Idaho before stopping for the night in Twin Falls. Traffic was somewhat problematic around Boise as there was construction east of the city, and lots of Boise State Football traffic.
I spent my first night on the journey at the Motel 6. It was comfortable.
Sunday, September 18th, 2011 - Twin Falls, Idaho to Hans Flat, Canyonlands National Park
An early start and I continued eastward on I=84 to Rupert where I stopped at the Wayside Café for a good breakfast of chicken fried steak and eggs. One of my favorites.
Continuing south on Interstate 15 I moved into the Salt Lake Valley. With its air pollution and congested roadways. I love Utah but I detest the drivers around SLC. It seems that tailgating is the norm and inconsiderate drivers were common. I was very relieved to again be heading east at Spanish Forks (US Highway 6) over the Uinta Mountains. The high country was already ablaze in color even though the daytime high was near 90 degrees. I spoke with Con on the phone and she informed me that it was raining in Seattle. I was sad to tell her that the sky was blue and it was hot here in the high desert.
I arrived at Green River and was faced with options. Stay in Green River. Move on to Moab, or??? Riding down the main street in town I passed a classic motel named “Robbers Roost”.
My decision had been made for me.
I refueled, and picked up a cold caffeinated beverage and headed to the nearby city park for a respite in the shade. Farm families were enjoying a Sunday in the park and they probably appreciated a break from the ongoing watermelon harvest. After a few minutes rest, a check of the bike and the map, I was mounting my steed to continue the route towards Robbers Roost. As I was preparing to leave two duck hunters on ATV’s came by. I looked in their direction as the trail rider (adorned in camouflage hunting garb) shouted, “Go back to LA!!!” I would have loved to have had a conversation with him as in the Pacific Northwest our real estate prices are exploding as Southern Californians bring their easily made money into our market. I thought to myself, “What is it about me that made me look as if I was from Los Angeles?” I am from Port Angeles NOT Los Angeles. Geez.
The vastness of the American West was exactly what I was seeking, and that is exactly what I found.
Over the next two days I amassed 190 miles (to and from Green River) and in that time I saw a grand total of four cars (not counting the numerous cars that were on I-70 between Green River and Utah State Highway 24).
The road to Robber’s Roost isn’t marked, and it isn’t on most maps. You have to know where it is, or you won’t find it (I learned of it from a NPS friend). Here’s the route:
Go east from Highway 24 for 25 miles to the “Y”. The left road goes to Horseshoe Canyon; the right road goes towards Hans Flat Ranger Station. Go right.
Go approximately 8 miles until you encounter another “Y”. Hans Flat Ranger Station is reached by staying left. You want to take the right “Y” towards Ekker Ranch.
Keep your eyes open at this point. A short distance later, off to your right, is a poorly marked, hardly noticeable spur road, County Road 0115 (BLM). Take it towards Robber’s Roost Canyon. You won’t see the canyon from the Ekker Ranch Road; you simply have to stay on this road until you reach a slickrock canyon. This is the upper portion of Robber’s Roost Canyon.
Stop at the head of the canyon to get your bearings.
Your goal is to make it down to the “green” area surrounding Robber’s Roost Spring. If you are so inclined, park here and simply head out on foot. But, the more desirable option is to continue on Road 115 about 600 yards until the road is intersected by a cattle trail. In the spring, this cattle trail can be followed in a 4x4 or a light off road motorcycle. Or, you can park here and hike down.
Move towards the spring. The cattle are. They are going there for a drink of refreshing water.
Once at the spring, continue on down the canyon. A short distance later you will come upon the remnants of the Cottrell Cabin. The cabin was destroyed by fire when the Wild Bunch Gang tried to clear the cabin of rats. They had hoped to smoke the rats out, but the fire got away from them and burned the cabin to the ground. All that is left is the fireplace.
But, it is the same fireplace that warmed the cabin and cooked the food that Butch and Sundance ate.
Me, I wasn’t looking forward to hauling the gear from my bike down to the cabin so since sunset was approaching I back-tracked the route to the Hans Flat fork. I then went to the Ranger Station and walked up to the door. That’s when I heard innumerable gun shots back towards the BLM campsites that I had just passed. “Geez, red-necks drinking beer and shooting up the desert.” So, instead of heading back to the camping area I decided to call this place home. I unrolled my ultralight brand spanking new sleeping pad and my ultralight sleeping bag. I cooked up a meal on the Peak One and by that time, night had fallen. So, seeing that I had started the day in Twin Falls, Idaho I decided it was just about time to call it an evening. So, after sending a text to Con about my whereabouts I headed towards the campground (er, not actually a campground but a smidgen of ground near the ranger station).
That’s when I heard the truck approaching. It was occupied by the Hans Flat Ranger and he said that he had been responsible for the shooting.
I said, “Sounded like .22’S to me, I didn’t think a duty weapon would have been a twenty-two, so I thought it was a red-necked beer drinking good ol boy.”
He said, “I see your point.”
I said, “How about if you let me spend the night where I lay. It has been a long day and besides I had intended to sleep in the designated campground, except I heard all of that shooting.”
He said, “Sure, I don’t actually see any harm in it.”
So, I slept beneath a brilliantly black desert sky. Watching the Milky Way progress east-west right up until the half moon rose and the bright reflected light of the moon drowned out the starry sky.
Monday, September 19th, 2011 - Finally in MOAB
The rest of the gang was scheduled to arrive today so it was time to head on to Moab.
At this point, I’d like to briefly discuss the road conditions that I encountered. It had rained heavily on Friday and that left the sand wet, with low spots containing standing water. Not a big deal if you’re a JEEP Rubicon, but on the heavily laden motorcycle (probably somewhere around 100 pounds of gear and extra fuel) the bike was a bit “squirrely”. Then on the high spots of the road the surface was pretty much the quintessential washboard. At one point I was surprised to see a semi truck with a tanker trailer approaching me. The kind driver waved me on (there was essentially one lane of travel even though it was a two lane road). As I passed I said, "Thanks!" and thought to myself, the guy must be taking water to livestock tanks on the BLM open range. But, a couple miles later I found out that I had been mistaken. The guy was flooding the washboards sections to flatten out the roadway. I had never seen this before as most folks would accomplish this with a road grader, but alas, it is what it is. The bike trudged forward nearly buried up to it's axles, turning 6,000 rpm in 1st gear and making all of a half mile an hour through the quicksand. Now, natural obstacles I take as they come, but this obstacle was man-made and it was a bit disconcerning.
Back to the Highway first entailed 46 miles of dirt roads (actually no dirt at all, but sand which was sticky when wet).
About five miles from the Ranger Station (and after negotiating the most difficult sections of the road) I encountered a Mitsubishi Montero rental coming the other direction. I thought they might be going hiking into the Maze but when I passed, a gal (wearing a Virginia Tech sweatshirt) yelled out, “Is this the right road to Horseshoe Canyon?” I stopped, and said, “If you’re an experienced 4x4er you can get there, but I don’t think that’s your goal. Are you headed in to see the Great Gallery?” “Yep” was the reply. “Follow me, it’s about 15 miles back to the turnoff. You guys somehow missed it.”
Here in the remote desert southwest I am somewhat dismayed that one doesn’t find more human remains here and there. The NPS has a challenge. To allow people access to this marvelous land, but at the same time to do what they can to minimize injury and death. Hmmm.
A tough road to hoe.
I bid ado to the two gals in the rental SUV from Phoneix and headed on, uneventfully to Moab.
It was still early morning as I approached from the west and the lighting was great to see the maroon cliffs west of town. I thought to myself, “The rocks are deep red, I must be close to MOAB”.
Checking in to the Moab Valley Inn (a great facility) I unpacked, dusted off a bit, and headed to the pool for some R&R.
Eric joined me early in the afternoon and we explored the Moab townsite and all was well in the world.
Steve and Alec arrived after nightfall with word that Patrick (the last member of the group) had stopped in Helper, UT for the night.
Folks, it is a long way from Seattle on two wheels unless one doesn’t have any time constraints. And, we did. So, it’s just a long way. Period.
Tuesday, September 20th, 2011 - Arches National Park
The challenge with so many people in a group is the different paces that everyone wants to go at. I’m a morning person but most folks are night owls. I’d rather get going early and watch a sunrise, but others would rather watch the sunset and stay out late.
Ho hum.
Anyways, after a Continental Breakfast at the motel (done at our own paces, not en masse) we got moving and headed on our bikes towards Arches National Park.
Arches, in itself is enough of a reason for me to make the pilgrimage to Moab. I love the place. A visit to Arches includes one of the most scenic drives in all of our National Parks. You don’t have to leave your car to enjoy it, but for me I can’t go to Moab without hiking in the Fiery Furnace. There, the scenery changes practically every 50 feet and it is difficult to do anything but snap photos non-stop.
Unfortunately, over the years increased visitation has resulted in the NPS to regulate the number of visitors that enter the “Furnace”. Back in the day, Con and I, or Bill and I would drive up to the trailhead and “walla” we’d be exploring on our own. Being considerate of the ecosystem as we explored and never getting into a situation that we couldn’t extract ourselves from. But, not all visitors were hikers from Montana, and the inevitable city folk got themselves lost and had to be rescued, or trampled over the vegetation and/or cryptobiotic soil and destroyed centuries of growth. The park was between a rock and a hard place. To allow visitors into the Furnace, or to protect the ecosystem by keeping visitors out. They compromised. There were a few years where you could only go in accompanied by a ranger. Now, there is that option, or every member of the group can watch a 7 minute slide show presentation, take a verbal quiz afterwards, and discuss the fragile ecosystem and rules to protect it with a ranger. We opted for this, with one catch. Only Eric, Alec, and I were present. Steve and Patrick were attending to logistical needs back in the motel.
The three of us left the Arches Visitor Center and cycled up to the trailhead. As we were getting ourselves and our gear ready to enter the Furnace Steve and Patrick pulled up, all ready to go with us.
That was the problem. WE had a permit with the three of us on it, and not the five (I had tried to persuade the ranger to allow this, but to no avail). Steve discussed the rules with a ranger that was at the trailhead and she stuck to her guns.
Steve and Patrick reluctantly left for other sites at Arches (there are plenty, believe me).
Eric, Alec and I entered the playground.
If Disney were to construct an adult playground for those of adventurous spirits, they would construct something exactly like the Fiery Furnace.
It is amazing.
A labyrinth of maze like canyons. Narrow slot canyons that tower hundreds of feet above your heads with the most amazing views that changes with just a few steps. Narrow ledges sometimes are the only route, and at times you have to squeeze between the rocks.
The main color is the red of the sandstone, but even in the desert there are pockets of green. Yucca, cacti, and juniper trees that are hundreds of years old.
The Fiery Furnace is a place that simply makes you smile.
After nearly four hours of exploration we reluctantly exited the canyons to see a few more of the Arches NP offerings.
We rode to the end of the road at Devil’s Garden. Stopped by Skyline Arch and Sand Arch, and then cycled past the Wolfe Ranch to the Delicate Arch Viewpoint.
Alec and I spied a 4x4 road and headed out on our bikes. After less than a mile we encountered a gate that we went through into the Cache Valley Wash. Not wanting to end up hours down the trail and on the wrong side of the Colorado River, we retraced our route to meet up again with Eric and continue our explorations.
Riding around the Windows Section of the park is rewarding as one passes numerous Arches from the road, including Double Arch, made famous by the Indiana Jones Episode where the Young Indy was a Boy Scout.
Dusk was approaching and we saw a great sunset over Courthouse Towers, and watched the lights come on in Moab as we exited the Park for an evening meal.
Moab, is still a magical place.
Wednesday, September 21st, 2011 - The White Rim Trail
You do the best you can.
But, like so many things in life this day would be a day of mixed emotions. Some good, some. . . not so much.
Such is life.
My biggest mistake on this day was in making decisions based on my past experiences. Of being on a bicycle, with a friend who I could trust to be tough as nails. Jeff Chikusa is simply a guy who looks forward to a hard day, with great challenges. He realizes that the more difficult a task, the greater the reward. We sought "hard things" in order to reap a greater reward from our efforts. Unfortunately, Jeff was probably playing softball in Geriatric Arizona.
Additionally, I didn’t consider the impact of recent weather and the effects of all of the popularity that Moab is getting these days. A summer drought had left the sand deep, whereas the rain from last Friday had left low spots sticky and muddy and tough to negotiate on heavy bikes. Heavy use had also torn up the trail, making it soft and loose and akin to quicksand. Basically, our trail, the renowned “White Rim Trail“ was going to be tough. For a lot of reasons.
Because of its toughness, we should have gotten an earlier start. My bad.
Instead of a leisurely start with a great breakfast, we should have been on the trail at first light. But, we had the breakfast instead.
Then there was the conflicting information.
First, there was the JEEP guide at the Colorado River Spring. We had stopped there to obtain water for the ride (one can never have to much water in the desert). We told him of our day’s plan and he said, “There are only a couple of places where you need to be in 4 wheel drive, piece of cake for you guys.”
Okay, I get it.
Then there was the National Park Ranger at the Islands in the Sky Visitor Center. We had stopped there to check on trail conditions and she said, “The road was in great shape, except for one little section down here near the gooseneck. A mile of mud that a week ago was a foot deep. But, other than that, you could take your Mother.”
Alright, I get it.
So, we decided to forego the clockwise route beginning with a descent of the Shafer Trail. Instead, we’d do the “hard” section first and get it out of the way. If it proved to be insurmountable, we’d simply turn around and retrace the 10 miles that we had already came.
Piece of cake.
The counter-clockwise route began with the descent down into Mineral Bottom and the Green River.
Uneventful for the most part. Yeah, my rear brakes did overheat and caused the 5.1 DOT synthetic fluid to boil, but hey, this is the desert after all. I still had first gear and the engine to help me slow down. I still had the front brakes; and, I still had the Cliffside to turn into if I really needed to slow myself down.
Besides, there were only three Jeeps rusting down at the bottom of the cliffs. Three out of how many??? The odds were definitely in our favor.
All you had to do was stay away from the edge and you’d be fine. What's the big deal???
Strangely, the Islands in the sky Ranger seemed to have been a bit confused, or the conditions changed overnight and she wasn’t aware of it, because she had told us, “The road was in great shape”. But, as we got to the bottom of the descent there was a short fork to the right to a boat ramp (rafting is popular in the two rivers found in the park) and even an outhouse. But, that fork also entailed a dead end. What we intended to do was head south, along the River, but strangely, inexplicably, there was a sign that read, “Road Closed”.
We headed towards the boat ram and the restroom to discuss our possibilities.
The group’s decision was to continue on.
As we retraced our steps back to the fork in the road, the sign had been knocked over by Rangers (presumably) who decided to leave it in place in case it would ever be needed again. A prudent thing to do. That made sense to us. So, our worries were unwarranted after all. The road may ahve been closed, but in the short time when we went to the boat ramp it had been reopened.
Off we went.
Only about 100 miles to go and we’d be done with this little ol' ride.
In a short while we crossed what we thought was the muddy section that the Ranger had mentioned. We all made it and afterwards I thought to myself, “That wasn’t all that bad.”
Then Eric came up to me and said, “Where’s the muddy section?”
What the heck was he talking about? We had already been through the muddy section.
Actually, Eric was right as we had only been through a warm-up to the muddy section. The muddy section was actually further on a couple of miles at the indiscernible Mineral Bottom Section of the Trail (The guy I later rented the Rescue Jeep from said that Mineral Bottom was definitely the most difficult section of the trail, as the route finding is difficult if not impossible. As in, the route always changes with the flooding. So the trail disappears, then has to be remade over and over and over again. But, that is later in the story, not for right now. Did I mention “Rescue JEEP”?)
Somehow I kept my nearly 500 pound steed upright through the “more than a foot” deep quicksand like mud known as Mineral Bottom. (A word of advice is needed here: when in the desert beware of anything called a “bottom”) No, there was no mud, just quicksand that sucked at your bike and messed with your mind as you conjured up visions of Tarzan groping to keep his head above the quicksand as Cheetah (his beloved chimpanzee) saved him. I kept thinking to myself, “I don’t have a chimpanzee to save me. I’m in deep doo doo".
But, already the hard part was behind me and I felt a great weight lift (prematurely) from my shoulders.
I smiled to myself as I recalled the Ranger’s comments of the hard part of the trail. And, that was behind me already.
Smooth sailing ahead. Raise the spinnaker!!!
Glory be! What a marvelous day.
That was when the frequent “Moab” feeling came upon me. I lost all control over myself. You see most of my excursions to Moab have been on mountain bicycles. And, on the mountain bikes I have always felt it prudent to “push the envelope” sort of speaking. On a mtn. bike you’re in mountain biking Heaven in Moab and it would be an absolute waste if you didn’t “test your skills”. I usually fell once a day while mountain biking because I was simply “pushing the envelope”.
Faster. Further. Funner.
Might as well be the same on the ol’ KTM. Vrrooooom Vrrooooom Vroooooom. Off I went at an increasing rate of speed with a huge smile on my face.
That smile lasted right up until the rear end got all squirrely and I found myself flying through the air with this 500 pound behemoth of a machine landing smack onto my right ankle, pinning me to the ground, with (I was sure) rattlesnakes waiting nearby for their deadly strike.
Fortunately, nobody was around to see this embarrassing episode in my life. And, being me, all I had to do was reach down with my left hand and yank the stupid ol’ KTM off of my ankle.
I yanked, and a cannon went off in my left elbow. Actually, it wasn’t a cannon, it was merely my biceps tendon tearing. An excruciatingly painful experience if you haven’t had the pleasure. Imagine a red hot steel rod being pushed into your elbow, that would be about the same feeling as what I experienced out in the middle of "nowhwere".
Geez. It wasn't winter, mistakes weren't supposed to have deadly consequences here. Merely, a few inconveniences. If you slip and fall into a creek while snow camping you could potentially freeze to death, but if you slipped and fell in the summertime you simply smiled and said, "That was interesting".
I wondered if this bum arm was going to be deadly or merely interesting? Hmmm.
I was glad I was wearing my new KLIM desert riding jersey, with long sleeves. That would hide the ball of a muscle that was near my shoulder, instead of on my arm like it was supposed to be. But, alas nobody would know about my stupid mistake.
Time to “suck it up”.
I’ve had experience at sucking it up. I’ve played football with two broken fingers and a broken hand. I’ve had a 3rd degree tear (complete) of my hamstring. I’ve blown out my anterior cruciate ligament (it’s still missing). I’ve put my head through the windshield of a Ford F-250 and most recently, I’ve even had a heart attack that required the placement of two stents.
Sucking it up is a piece of cake for this boy.
It's part of life.
A little old ruptured biceps is a piece of cake for this guy.
When is the pain gonna start? Er, I mean "stop?"
Alright, about this time I decided that lifting 500 pounds with an extended arm wasn’t all that good of an idea, and I decided I would dig myself out of the sand.
About that time Eric came up on his bike. He parked it. Dusted it off. Sang a song to it. And looked for the wheel blocks.
Then he came over and yanked the bike off of my ankle. I said, “Thanks for pulling the bike off of me.” Then the two of us righted the bike and prepared to continue on as Steve and Patrick came up (Alec was up there somewhere, not behind us). They arrived with my bike upright and Eric and I standing around, catching our breath. Steve told me that he had dropped his bike in the quicksand known as Mineral Bottom. But, being the positive person that he is, this didn’t dismay him in the least bit. In fact he had had fun in this “different” kind of riding. Jeff Chikusa would like this guy.
On the ride from pavement to the top of the canyon, the road had been relatively straight, graded, and fairly fast. At that point I had seen us separating into two groups, Patrick and Alec, and then Steve, Eric, and myself. I surmised that we’d get together from time to time as the trail group caught up to the lead pack, but that was what I thought would happen. To my discredit, I didn’t verbalize this.
Eventually, we moved on, and according to the Jeep Guide and the NPS Ranger, we already had the hard stuff behind us.
For some strange reason, it wasn’t much further and my bike toppled over a second time. Fortunately for me and my arm the group was there to right it (less Alec, who was “up there” somewhere). Actually, on this second fall I had been hugging the right wall of a trough when my highway peg caught a rock and the bike was knocked over by this less than sandy object.
Hmmmm. Strange stuff happens in the desert.
I got going in an effort to catch Alec and in a half mile or so I came upon a hill where midway up Alec was standing next to his bike. I didn’t want to stop at that precarious location so I motored past, telling him, “I’ll wait at the top”. Alec said something to the effect of, “I doubt if you’ll make it.” He had a bit of a sour expression on his face.
The hill had toppled our most experienced dirt rider, Alec on his 650 cc Suzuki DS.
Patrick, a talented rider on his brand new Triumph 800 slugged up the hill behind me with barely a hiccup.
As did Eric on his red International Harvester tractor (actaully an Aprilia Capo Nord 1000 cc bike). Eric said that he had fallen about ten feet from where I had and we now realized that this desert riding was somewhat challenging for these dual sport bikes (unlike, light off-road motocross bikes).
Steven looked like a ballerina on his bike and the hill posed little difficulty for him. He was looking forward to more challenges. Jeff would definitely like this guy.
Alec was soon caught up with the group and we regrouped for the push forward.
We came upon a mountain biking guide and he said, “Well boys, you’ve got plenty of time to make it today. You’re through the tough section and what lies ahead are a couple of hills and terrain that I usually ride in my big chain ring. You've got 10 miles down and 90 to go. You’ll be fine. Have fun boys.”
Alec, upon hearing the mentioning of 90 miles to go was off like a slingshot.
Patrick was hot on his heels.
Then I tore out.
We never were actually together for the remainder of the day and when I came upon Patrick about a mile up the trail he had just descended a steep section and was standing with an off-road cyclist. I approached the steep descent without reconnoitering it properly and as I made a sharp left turn I toppled off a rock and the bike had fallen for the third time.
I was thinking to myself, “This is going to be a long, long day. Night. Week.”
Patrick and the solo cyclist came up and assisted me in righting the bike. I straightened it out by leaving it in gear and using the clutch to allow gravity to do its thing. Eventually, I mounted the steed and rode it to the bottom of the hill where I waited in anticipation for the rest of the group to negotiate the hill.
Eric led Steve down the steep section and the off-road rider was in dismay as he saw what he called a “Gold Wing” coming at him. As it turns out the off-road rider (unfortunately I have forgotten his name) and his wife had rode two bikes for 10 months to Nicaragua. They spent 5 of the 10 months south of the US Border. What an amazing experience that must have been.
Eric didn’t earn any style points for his descent, but hey, he didn’t have to have his bike picked up either.
Steve came down, and just above the rock that toppled me, he went down (that rock was intimidating).
He righted the bike all by himself and I took note of his technique (back to the bike, both arms on the bike, and legs doing what was more or less a dead lift).
At this point, the discussion was less of “This place is beautiful” and more of, “Do you think we should be stopping as much as we are?”
Off we went.
Alec was out there, somewhere. Hopefully not at the bottom of some vertical canyon.
Eventually, we regrouped one last time and I resolved myself to the fact that Alec was “gone” and the rest of the group was more or less staying together.
Alec, had just suffered a huge lost in his life (his brother had died unexpectedly) and I TOTALLY understood his desire to have time to himself. His brother was an avid cyclist who also loved the Moab area. But, I also understood the challenges of the desert, and of 100 miles of fatiguing, very tiring, very demanding riding conditions. I resolved to “catch up” to Alec in the event that 1. He fell and injured himself, or 2. He fell and injured his bike to the point that it was inoperable.
Off I went.
Probably ten miles later I came upon Alec who was taking down his tripod after stopping for a photo at the mouth of one of the countless canyons. He asked me how I was, and I decided not to mention my arm (I wasn’t going to be a whiny baby) but instead I said, “This is fantastic!” Because, actually, it was. I stopped to finally get my camera out and Alec was by that time gone.
Then I continued my riding. Sand. Compacted sand. Loose deep sand. Rocks. Steep climbs. Steep descents. Slickrock. Loose rocks. Trip you up rocks. Passing nearby vertical cliff faces that led to oblivion.
This went on and on and on and on for countless miles. Through some of the finest desert scenery that we have to find on the planet. The confluence of the Colorado and Green Rivers. Countless finger canyons with 90 degree faces that go down to oblivion. Red, Maroon, and Whitish rocks (hence the name the “White Rim” Trail).
Unfortunately, interspersed in this fabulous scenery were countless ascents and descents in sand, loose sand, slickrock, and broken rock. Hills and climbs and descents that tried the soul and the machine.
Finally, we (my bike and I) opened onto a large plain beneath the Islands in the Sky and Grand View Point. It was here where I was finally able to get into second, and even third gears and actually moved along at a blazing 35 mph.
I began to feel the pain in my left arm, my shoulder, and my hands. But, on this plain I was able to relax a bit and put some distance beneath my tires.
Right up until the back end got all slushy and whammo bammo I went down for the fourth time. Alec way out there somewhere. The rest of the group way back there somewhere.
As in my first fall, my right foot was pinned beneath the right pannier mount. Unlike the first fall, I didn’t have Eric coming up on me in any quick fashion. So, I dug out my foot and extricated myself. Then I offloaded the rear saddle bag, the spare gas can (1 ½ gallons of petrol) and the tankbag. I intended to make the bike as light as practicable.
I dug out two pits for the tires and slid the bike into them and in Bammert fashion, up righted the bike.
Fortunately, this was the LAST of my falls during the excursion.
No sounds ahead of me or behind me and no visible dust devils from any bikes.
I was off again.
More beautiful scenery, astoundingly beautiful .
But, the impending night caused me to not stop for the countless photo opportunities and to simply instead keep on going. The pain in my left arm was worsening and I was resolved to not spend the night in the desert with a bum arm unless it was the absolute last resort.
I thought of “Finding Nemo” where Dory just keeps repeating to herself, “Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.”
I swam in the sand aboard my KTM.
Let me say this at this juncture. The bike was great. She never let me down. I merely dropped her. The drops weren’t a good representation of the bike, but rather a result of the rider. The result of my limited off-road skills. She was resilient and tough and never once complained. KTM did a great job in making the Adventure 990. Which I describe as the “Swiss Army Knife” of motorcycles. Not great at any one thing, but able to do it all. Ride her thousands of miles on the highway in relative comfort (but not like a Goldwing) and then head off into the desert (but not anything close to a KTM 450 EXC). All the while packing a ton of stuff. One great bike.
We saw no 4x4 Jeeps while on the trail. But, we saw perhaps a dozen bicyclists who were part of a formal, guided bicycle tour. They were making the route in two (or three) days and all they carried on their backs/bikes were camelbacks with fluids to replenish themselves. It’s tough to ride a bike here even if you are supported. My hat/helmet is off to those riders. Who happened to be male/female/young/and older than even me. They were all deeply tanned from their desert riding.
Well, for those of you in Seattle imagine riding your motorcycle up hills, down hills, in loose sand, in compact sand, and over rocks from Seattle to Ellensburg.
Now, imagine doing it 40% of the time in 1st gear, 50% of the time in 2nd gear and only 10% of the time in 3rd. Never ever getting into 4th, or 5th, or 6th gears. From Seattle to Ellensburg.
There is nothing that I have ever done that can compare to this ride, in one day.
A couple more times I caught up to Alec and as I did, he was off again. At one point he said that he had seen rooster tails that he assumed were the rest of the group.
After a long while I passed a NPS Ranger in a 4x4 Ford Pickup. I knew where I was and I was aware of the time of day so I didn’t stop and merely told him, “Thanks for being there for us.” I later caught up with Alec and he told me that he had seen the same ranger and had asked him how much further? The ranger told him, “58 miles).
Let’s see. 42 down. 58 to go.
Better get going.
Those of you who know me know that I hate to wear wristwatches, and when I’m in the wilderness, I don’t want “time” to be the governing factor in my life. So, I can’t tell you what time it was during any of this.
But, shadows started to fall over the trail and I found myself seeking out the light as to avoid what was lurking in the shade.
Then that wasn’t possible.
Then the 90 degree temperatures started to cool.
Then the shadows of the imposing rock known as Islands in the Sky began to cover the terrain.
Then all warmth started to dissipate.
Then the colors started to fade to gray.
Then the headlights started to leave shadows on the trail. Strangely, other than the route finding, I found the shadows to be an aid in navigation. Small shadows, small rocks. Large shadows, large rocks and something to be avoided. The problem was with the slickrock. Vast expanses of it. You knew where the trail entered, but in darkness (and in some instances, during daylight) it was difficult to discern where the trail exited this particular slab of slickrock. Over here? Over there? Where?
Now, I normally shun technology in the wilderness. Such devices distract from the “wild” feel of the place. Can you imagine Lewis & Clark checking their GPS??? Or, Sir Edmund Hillary phoning home from Camp 5 on Everest to say “Tenzing is a bit edgy today.”
But, alas here we were in 2011 in a place that was becoming dark. Now, I knew where I was, but I didn’t know how far I had to go to get to my destination.
Enter Garmin Zumo 550.
I entered our motel’s address in Moab as a destination and said, “Find route”.
In a matter of seconds it showed me on the White Rim Trail with my next turn to be in 29 miles. I surmised that it was 29 miles to the base of the Shafer Trail. There the White Rim Trail veered northeast to meet up with the Potash Road. The thing is, I had been on the Shafer Trail. It had exposure, was intimidating to those who were a bit uneasy with height, but the road was well maintained by the NPS. It was even graded. My 1993 GMC Suburban had negotiated it years ago, rarely needing to back around the switchbacks, but easily doing so when needed. The 29 miles to me meant it would be shortly afterwards that I would be on pavement. Civilization. A gas station a few more miles (at the campground where Con, Audrey, Hannah and I had stayed at in 2008) and ultimately my comfortable bed.
I trudged on, and then the GPS read “19 miles to next turn”.
Then “9 miles to next turn” and even though it was pitch dark, I could see the goal line.
Then, about a mile from the turn I passed a couple in a JEEP. I knew where I was and where I was going so I merely waved at them. No need to interrupt their evening.
As I made it to the next turn, I saw Alec Emerson waiting next to a pit toilet. A smile on his face, and a comment that he had talked with Claire on the cell phone a bit earlier, just not here.
I told him we had made it and at the top of the Shafer Trail was pavement.
He said that he had talked to the couple in the Jeep and the guy said the Shafer Trail was doable, especially on motorcycles, but the gal had suggested going down to the Potash Road. He asked what I thought, and I said, “I’m going up. I have never been on the trail to the Potash Road and I have no idea on its condition. I’ll head up the Shafer Trail and if I don’t return, follow me. If it’s tougher than what I want to do at night, I’ll simply turn around and come back down. But, if not, I’ll wait at the top for you guys for an hour before heading on.”
I stayed in first gear, and simply crawled up the trail. I had intended to stop at the switchbacks in order to rest, but I didn’t need to, and simply trudged on, non-stop to the top. It probably took somewhere around a half hour, but it was probably the best “road” conditions that I had encountered since leaving the top of the Mineral Basin road, all of those hours ago. No loose sand. No rocks. No slickrock with a “where’s the trail” look to it. Yes, there was exposure (blackness beyond the edge of “almost blackness”). But, I simply stayed on the uphill – cliff side of the road, far away from the edge.
Near the top, I encountered a bushy tailed fox in my headlight glare. The fox was coming down the trail as I was going up. He saw me and turned away, keeping about 50 feet in front of me for perhaps 200 yards until it came onto an open spot where it could scamper beneath rocks.
At the top, I turned off my headlights, and for the first time in a long, long, long time was able to appreciate the beauty of the desert. In the form of a brilliant starry night (the moon had already sat in the west). A couple shooting stars flashed by.
I called Connie (yes, there was cellular service at the top of the trail) and told her of our predicament (without telling her of my hurt arm).
An hour passed, and I was still alone. I shouted for Alec, but there was no reply. I could see no lights on the Shafer Trail or on the White Rim.
Either Alec was still alone and the others had holed up somewhere along the route (every ten miles along the trail is an official NPS camping area, equipped with an outhouse). Or, someone was injured. Or, a bike was broken down. Or, Eric’s tractor was out of gas. Or?????
I sent text messages to the group in the hope that there would be sufficient service to get the texts through when voice messages weren’t possible.
I returned, uneventfully back to the motel. There I was able to contact the NPS and inquire as to whether they had heard from any motorcyclists on the White Rim Trail, and to gather the particulars for requesting a rescue. Of importance, was there were no known debilitating injuries to anyone in the group, and there hadn’t been a sufficient amount of time to transpire for the members to be “over due”.
Read about the remainder of the White Rim trip in tomorrow’s entry, since it was now “tomorrow”.
Thursday, September 22nd – Out of the Canyons and a day of Rest
Time to implement the rescue. . .
Alright, here were the possibilities as I saw them:
1. Someone might be injured, so I needed to take first aid supplies and a vehicle to serve as an ambulance.
2. They might be out of gas so I needed to get as much fuel as I could carry.
3. There might be a breakdown. So I gathered all the tools that I could find.
4. They would be hungry and thirsty so I went to the grocery store to obtain sustenance and fluids.
Then, I simply waited for the Jeep Rental place to open. My first stop was Canyonlands Jeeps and was promptly told that there were no Jeeps available; they had all been rented out. So, I went with Plan B, the Rental place next to the car wash. There I was able to obtain a slightly modified 4 door Jeep JK. I loaded the supplies and off I went.
Before crossing the Colorado River I was passed in the opposite direction by Steve and Patrick.
So, I did a “U” turn and pursued them. As I did, I received a text message from Eric. He was back in the motel with Alec.
No rescue needed.
The story as conveyed by the group goes more or less as follows:
45 minutes after I left Alec to ascend the Shafer Trail Eric, Steve, and Patrick caught up to Alec.
Unfortunately, they had first stopped at the couple in the Jeep. The couple was kind enough to offer them water as their supplies had been depleted (Steve had given the last of his water to Eric). This time the gal was a bit more adamant in her spoken concerns of ascending the Shafer Trail in darkness. This spooked Eric and he became resolved to not go up the Shafer Trail. He more or less conveyed this to the remainder of the group, and all, including Patrick who wanted to go up the Shafer, reluctantly went along with Plan “B”; which was to ride out the remainder of the Trail to the Potash Road.
They made it about a mile before deciding that negotiating the slickrock was becoming very problematic. They simply stopped and bedded down on the slickrock. Eric had an emergency blanket with him and was thankful for it. All the rest simply bundled up in their riding gear and left their helmets on for warmth. From what I could discern I don’t think they enjoyed their night in the desert. Except for Steve, who was talking about the “adventure” of sleeping out in the open. Yep, Jeff would like that guy.
When they awoke in the morning they realized that had been sleeping amidst an area frequented by Big Horn Sheep (Desert variety. There was sheep feces all around them.
They gathered their stuff, mounted their bikes and were off for an uneventful descent. Alec and Eric somehow became separated from Steve and Patrick, but eventually they all made it back.
Albeit, a bit tired from the ordeal and some (but not all) with broken spirits.
The remainder of Thursday was spent first napping in the motel, and then heading out in the Jeep to Eddie McStiff’s for a bit of lunch (the first real food since the previous breakfast). Patrick had been staying at the motel in his own room and he joined the group for lunch before departing towards the northwest.
Then, since we had the Jeep (which could have seated five but for four it was very comfortable) we headed back to the Islands in the Sky district of Canyonlands NP. There, we stopped at the Shafer Trail Overlook (which was further south than what I remembered it to be) and the gang could see where they were last night. The fork in the trail (Shafer Trail and route to the Potash Road) was visible as was the outhouse and the location where the couple in the Jeep had spent the night.
Then we drove to the end of the pavement, which has to be one of the most spectacular views attainable on pavement. The “Grand View” overlook. Again, from this location you could see the White Rim Trail far beneath us. From this vantage point it didn’t appear to be much different than an Interstate Highway. Deceptive.
Then it was back to the motel for further recuperation and I headed off to turn in the Rescue JEEP.
Oh well.
Time to soak the arm in the hot tub and gobble down some more vicodan (which I had with me all along in my first aid kit).
Friday, September 23rd, 2011 - A Visit to my Favorite Spot
As it was becoming more and more apparent to me that the trip was going to be altered by my busted arm, I thought of what I might be able to do, instead of what I couldn’t do.
One thing that I wanted to do was “escape” from Moab. This was the tourist season and the place was now crowded (with elderly folks on bus trips, Europeans on holiday, and a few adventurers here and there). With the weekend upon us the place was even going to get MORE crowded as folks came here for the weekend from Salt Lake City.
I concluded that in a worst case scenario I would simply park the bike somewhere and catch a flight back to PA. But, that was a “worst case” scenario and I wasn’t there just yet.
So, after breakfast I bid ado to the remaining adventurers (Eric, Alec, and Steve). I loaded the bike and headed south. Through Monticello, to lunch in Blanding (at the same place I had shared a meal with Con, Audrey, and Hannah). I called Con with my plan: to spend the night at the Anasazi Ruin on BLM land. Off I went.
Traffic was non-existent as I made it to the non-descript turnoff for the site. I opened the gate, went through, and in about a half a mile I ran into a Toyota Minivan coming the opposite direction. Two ladies had been at my “secret location”. This was the first time since I had been coming here in April, 1985 that I had encountered people other than my own family/friends.
I negotiated the Jeep Trail to the head of the canyon and dismounted my bike. The temperature was in the low 90s, it was sunny, with cloudless skies. I smiled at my desert solitude.
I loaded my daypack with the ten essentials (I was a Boy Scout once and I learned that it is better to have it and not need it, rather than to need it and not have it, a lesson that has served me well, BTW: I think I'll take another Vicodan), some climbing gear, and my camera. I headed over to the canyon and looked at the easy access point that I had taken so many times before. Even, with Hannah when she was all of 11 years old. This time, with my aching arm I looked over the edge and decided, “No. Not this time.” I decided I needed a bit more practice of being one armed before rock climbing.
So, I hung out for an hour and a half or thereabouts and decided to head on. It was hot and actually, I was missing the wind cooling me as I rode the bike.
I continued on past Lake Powell and north along Highway 24 past the turnoff for Hans Flat (I had circumnavigated Canyonlands National Park as I did).
Green River was soon in my rear view mirror as was Price.
I was hoping for something different for a change and I headed north on US 191, aptly named the “Dinosaur Diamond Prehistoric Highway”. That sounded about right, unfortunately, it was autumn and daylight soon faded to darkness.
I tried to find a motel bed in Duchesne, but none were available (the next morning was opening day for the Utah State Hunting Season and hunters were everywhere in their Ford, Chevy, and Dodge trucks (not a single Toyota in sight).
So, I headed west on US 40 to Heber City and then north on US 189.
It was cold as I turned west on Interstate 80, pass the more famous Utah Ski areas (fireworks were ongoing at the Utah Olympic Park near Kimball Junction).
I made it back to the Salt Lake Valley and headed north on I-15.
Finally, I headed off the highway in Ogden and spent a few hours in the Comfort Inn before deciding on my next move.
Saturday, September 24th, 2011 – Onward Towards??? Or, Mr. Murphy tags along
My arm was what it was.
Yes, it hurt, but yes the pain was tolerable when I self medicated (better living through Chemistry).
The likelihood that I’d be this way on a motorcycle again was somewhat slim to nil so I decided to make the best of it.
I decided to head north into Idaho on the Interstates and then head north on Highway 93. My ultimate goal was to be in Missoula and visit with Kelly and experience one of my favorite things, Montana in the fall. Golden Tamaracks. Red huckleberry bushes.
So, off I went.
At my Flying J Refueling stop near Twin Falls, I had my refreshments at the picnic table and then did my bike check before heading on (as I do EVERY time I get on the bike).
To my dismay I found a flattening rear tire. The tread was bare in an approximately 6 inch section along the midline of the tire (where the steel belts were exposed). I dismounted the tire, took out the tube, patched the inside of the tire and replaced the tube with a new one. After putting everything back together again, I headed on, but not towards Missoula. The tire was in bad shape and I needed to replace it so I called Con and asked her to do some research on the internet. I told her that I would be moving towards Boise in the hope of finding a motorcycle shop with a replacement tire(s). She got right on the task while I headed west on the Interstate.
I plugged along at or below the speed limit with both hands firmly on the handlebars just in case my patch job went south. About 60 miles later I stopped at an Idaho State Rest Stop and examined the tire. The six inch bad section had grown to an eighteen inch bad section and I knew I had made the right decision to get the tire replaced instead of continuing on as a tourist. I phoned Con who told me that she and Hannah had identified 6 motorcycle shops. Five of them could have a tire delivered to them by Monday (strangely, they were open on Mondays as most motorcycle shops operate on Barbershop hours and are closed Sundays and Mondays) but she found one that had the tire in stock at Cliff’s Cycle in Boise. She gave me the address and I plugged it into the Garmin. Off I went.
I arrived at Cliff’s Motorcycle Shop at 2 pm. The parts guy told me that yes they had the tires in stock, but no, they wouldn’t be able to free up a tech to change them (until Monday). I asked him if I could dismount the wheels and bring the wheels in for a tire change. He said that would be possible and I headed out to the parking lot to take off the rear tire for the second time in two hours. They were able to change the rear tire for me and balance it. When I picked it up at the counter he told me that the tech had identified a flat spot in the rim and that it needed to be trued, but they didn’t have the time to do it. So, I mounted the new tire and crooked wheel back onto the bike without incident.
Then I removed the front wheel to have it replaced as well. And, the bike fell over. For the fifth time on this trip. But, this time it hit pavement instead of soft sand.
Geez.
And, to top things off it was near 90 degrees, I was tired, and my arm was aching. Actually, aching wouldn’t be the right term. My arm was hurting like h__l.
As I was working on the bike, countless patrons to the shop came over and wanted to converse. These folks all meant well, but I was trying to get the wheels off/on before the shop closed at 3. It seemed the staff was looking forward to their weekend of good weather and they weren’t going to let a guy from Port Angeles alter their plans.
More curious patrons, friendly folk as they were.
When I got the front tire back I mounted it with the bike lying on its side and then a nice fellow helped me right the bike. It seemed as if the KTM simply needed a nap.
The guy was friendly enough and he suggested a scenic route north on Idaho State Highway 55. I took it, hoping to salvage some scenery out of the day.
The route went through an attractive canyon through the Boise National Forest, along Lake Cascade and Payette Lake to the town of McCall. I knew from my Missoula days that McCall had a jump base, but geez, this was one scenic town. Absolutely beautiful.
Northwest of town I recognized that darkness was approaching and I elected to camp at “Last Chance Campground in the Payette National Forest. I had a serene evening and peaceful night of rest. But, I couldn’t contact Con by phone or text.
Con had been able to follow my ENTIRE trip by checking my American Express account. She was able to see where I charged gas, stayed in motels, bought the tires at the Boise Motorcycle shop, etc. It was an effective way for her to keep track of me when I was in an area without cellular service. That was a "good" thing.
Sunday, September 25th, 2011 – Home Finally
Alright.
I awoke to a pleasant Idaho mountain morning. Temps were hovering around 40 and that is pleasant to this boy. Just about perfect. No humidity. No mosquitoes. Clear skies. Just about right.
I enjoyed my outdoor breakfast (my favorite meal anytime, but especially in the great out of doors) and then loaded up the bike.
I hadn’t quite made my mind up as to what I’d be doing today but I did know that it entailed heading north towards Highway 12 and then from there, well we’d figure it out.
So north on US 95 through New Meadows, Pollock (yes, that’s its name Uncle Les), and Riggins (where I refueled). The ride was along the Salmon River and it was quite scenic. Fishermen and cattle ranches were abundant. Frankly, I didn’t realize Idaho was so scenic. It is.
Then I climbed out of the valley towards Grangeville where I was told most of the nation’s peas are grown. And, finally I made my way down to Highway 12 east of Lewiston. It was decision time. To head east towards Missoula since I had new tires or, west towards home?
I conferred with my arm and my arm said “get home”.
West it was.
But, along the way to Lewiston I recalled Eric saying that he had read about a great motorcycling road known as the “Staircase”. I knew where it started north of Lewiston off of US Highway 128. The Staircase is also known as the “Old Spiral Highway”. It was a wonderful twisty, perfect motorcycling road. Heck, it even had new asphalt.
After meeting up again with US Highway 95 North I snacked, adjusted my clothing (rain looked imminent) and again headed off. Except this time, for the first time during the trip the weather looked very ominous ahead of me. North of Uniontown on Highway 195 I encountered wind that blew me from just to the right of the center line, to just to the left of the edge of the shoulder. Geez. This had to of been the gustiest wind that I had ever ridden in and it blew up dust that obscured the roadway and the countryside. I continued on towards I-90 at Moses Lake and then headed west towards Ellensburg. There I stopped for supper at the Dairy Queen. Heavy traffic was on I-90 returning home and heavy rain was near the summit of Snoqualmie Pass. But, the finish line was near and that just made me dig deep.
It was a quick descent to Seattle and my familiar crossing of Puget Sound on the WSF Puyallup.
Darkness set in on the west side of the sound, but who cares? I had ridden the White Rim Trail in one day and this was a piece of cake in comparison.
Home and my beloved family (even Cocoa) were awaiting me in PA.
Con looked at my arm and said, “You blew it. It’s gone. You knucklehead.”
Yep, I was home amongst my loved ones and all was well in my world.
