in no specific order, save for the first Buzzard listed.........the founder of
TEAM RUPTURED BUZZARD
Jimmy "Crane-Nuts" Craner
Cousin Jim is the inspiration for this website, mentor to me through some formative years (credit and blame go hand-in-hand) and the originator of the name "Team Ruptured Buzzard." You would think that for all of that he would have been knighted, excused from all income tax responsibilities and given a free Sam's Club membership. Sadly, even though he remains a great guy, an avid motorcyclist, an inspiration to his family and friends, an adventurer and a bench racer of the highest order - none of the giant accolades that are due him have come to pass. As many a true gentleman, he walks a quiet path in the cacophony surrounding a hectic life with family, work and business responsibilities, seeking not an earthly reward. Jim just takes every challenge in every day as it comes, with an outlook toward future adventures in mayhem and folley. I have to admire the guy for living so close to the earth and keeping a family life on track while simultaneously keeping the dream alive with such a sense of forward conviction. In the Seventies, he was a righteous player in 125cc/250cc Expert Class in the AMA, racing motocross like a man's man; early vintage, high speed/low drag riding and racing. A childhood idol to me, a semi-pro motocrosser for God's sake - Jim bought the worlds' first available production monoshock race bike, the Yamaha 125, and raced it like he'd stolen it. Maybe he did steal it, now that I think about it...... He and I plan to ride the desert WEST of the USA, Baja, and have even talked about AK to TDF. There's a fair chance we'll nail most of this before one of us has to say words over the other. Jim has served in the US ARMY, has a keen business sense and is a very talented artist in various mediums. His sense of humor is unstoppable, unless of course, you stop it.
Eric "Steiner" Edelstein
Eric was more than a fair hand at twisting the throttle of a motocross race machine, and was the fastest and most successful racer of our early Team Ruptured Buzzard "crew" as it was emerging back in the early-mid 1970's. Eric and his younger brother had a substantial race effort in place with support from his Dad, and together they accomplished great things during the ground-breaking era of American motocross racing. Always striving for the biggest competitive edge, Eric strode ahead of most of the pack as a 125cc Expert class racer, and dragged home a butt-load of trophies and some win money. Eric was offered a farm team sponsorship to race for Honda one year, and raced in Florida in the Trans AMA Nationals. He later raced 250's just like Jim. A successful family man today, Eric lives in Europe and still rides bikes and skis in the Alps on exotic and experimental ski industry equipment. He was of course, right in the thick of most of the shenanigans along with everybody else. Eric is trained in Forestry, and no trees have been killed as a result of his off-road avocation as a dirt-biker.
Johnny "Team Swine" Craner
Cousin John remains today a serious dirt biker and is no slouch as an off-road competitor. Why does he like pigs? I have no idea........... John is a trained photographer, has a daughter and still competes in enduros.
Dave "Stovebolt"
I am "Stovey" but you can call me whatever you want. I go by Dave, "Janks" and "Janko" too, and of course I didn't pick any of these names - they have been bestowed upon me. When I was a young motorcycle enthusiast, I lacked proper funds to support the motocross racing habit I desperately wanted to form. My weekly pre-race rituals included repairs with whatever nuts, bolts, tape and wire I could find laying around, and many an empty hole where a part had fallen off my Suzuki was stuffed with either carriage or stovebolts. Mystery gone there on that. I won't let any of the other guys write my bio, it's not happening here.... Some of them know way too much for my own good. Suffice it to say, I am a grand fellow, a supreme adventure companion and the humblest one of the group. I am also married to the only female buzzard so far, (only "female" so far, not "married" so far,) Dorothy. She says I am handsome, but that's only because I am. I have this website. I love my dogs.
Wyman
Years ago on a day in July back in Colorado, Wyman took a whipper off a rock pitch and landed at my feet after reaching terminal velocity when all of his protection failed. I remember looking down at him through the mushroom cloud created when he landed on his back in the dirt, his chalkbag having exploded along with both legs, an ankle and his back. He cracked his helmet too, went really big on that one, to be sure - impressive. It occurred to me then that the rest of our climb would be a total waste of time, so after giving him an official EMT primary and secondary survey of his injuries, and anchoring what was left of his mess to the side of the wall so I could leave and go get some high-angle SAR assistance, he looked up at me right then and said, "...I'll wait here." One of the best climbing partners I've ever had, and a true companion on many adventures along with Dorothy, Wyman remains one of my closest friends. A family man with a wife and two sons, he has given selflessly for decades in community service as a medic, SAR team member, trainer and coordinator, and for many years has also been highly regarded as a successful rescue canine handler. An avid hunter, skier and climber in remission, he has recently been visited by the Adventure Angel once again, and is the proud owner of a Kawaski KLR. It looks like the adventure continues, and the sky is still the limit.
Dorothy
"Mrs. Stovebolt" is a native of Delaware, and though I kid her about it, I've never really had occasion to hold it against her. She is trained in Journalism, but has held positions in the graphic arts, art and communication direction as well as a smattering of things here and there. Among her talents are creating wire sculptures, a propensity for which she must have gleaned from her father who still teaches classes in it at a university. Dorothy wrote satellite telemetry data analysis computer programs for NASA at Goddard Space Flight Center, has studied Spanish and performed community service in Panama, ran the General Motors Division for binding arbitration at the Better Business Bureau in Los Angeles and even helped manage a condominium complex at a ski resort. She used to be involved in Standardbred harness racing and liked horses, until she met me and I straightened her out on how dangerous those animals are, and would have no part in such tomfoolery. We met at a wilderness camp in Amish country where we came together as staffers for a youth remediation program. While living in teepees and counseling youth at risk (does murder, arson, rape and gang-banging sound "risky?) she decided I must be a person worth tying in with, and we hit it off. She has climbed big walls on rock in British Columbia with me, and she has been an accomplished alpine mountaineer, with several technically difficult peaks passing under her cramponed boots over the years. She skis nordic and alpine well, loves cats and dogs, shot top gun in a self defense class held by a police department and cooks some pretty mean brownies. Dorothy managed to be the first to look up at me from the dirty, rocky ground below, herself having achieved a righteous terminal velocity while falling off a cliff in Connecticut. A year to the week in fact, prior to Wyman's giant crater-creating impact. Her leg and an ankle were in ruins at that moment, and although we were only just dating at that time, I nonetheless felt compelled to package her up, carry her out, and get her to the nearest emergency room. She asked me to marry her in the ER, I said "Yeah" in the elevator on the way up to the operating room of Sharon General Hospital, and we were married in an older gentleman's backyard, under a tree on the top of a hill, 11 days later. Our adventure continues.
Berg
What can I say about Berg? (Seriously - what can I manage to get away with here........hmmmm) Berg is an adventurer of the highest order, and a true inspiration to many friends. And he has many friends, which is a great barometer of what kind of a character a person has. So, he has born the brunt of a few jabs over the years, jabs about how when you "go out" with Berg, you may not come back, or might come back in a body bag - so extreme the nature of some highlights of any given journey may be. And this is based in truth, because Berg's taste for adventure runs along the seriously varsity/professional lines. When you go out with Berg, you're "going out big" - no sitting home and watching TV, no mamby-pamby sitting in a corner and drooling while other people discover the far off challenges in distant reaches of obscure backcountry. Nope - Berg thinks big, lives big, helps big, and inspires big. Big Heart. Big Abilities. Big Berg. Big Friend. Really Big. Berg is the "go-to" guy for many adventure riders, in person and from coast to coast as a matter of fact, as he owns his own specialty motorcycle parts fabrication business and he is called upon daily (and nightly) to solve problems, give advice and help with routine (for him) matters of complex motorcycle repair and maintenance. Like Joe, he doesn't know how to quit when the going gets tough. Berg inspires the Team Motto to NEVER GIVE UP. If you get a chance to tie in with Berg, you are in for a special experience. So what if it might be your last - you wanna live forever?
Joe "JWats"
Joe is another fine character it has been my privilege to come to know and ride bikes with over the years, and I'm hard pressed to think of a finer adventure companion. When you ride off into the winds with Joe on the posse, you know somebody with the utmost ability and the purest form of tenacity has got your back. No matter what challenges you will face, and you will face them because by definition you are on an "adventure" and they don't come without challenges - Joe has enough left over from taking care of himself to watch out for the other guys. Always. He gives until it hurts, and in fact he is one of the few people I have ever known with the rare ability to simply override his own pain threshold and simply soldier on in the face of adversity. Be it a dislocated shoulder, a concussion or some other severe form of physical discomfort or mental stress, Joe stands up and shines on - taking others with him. He's the guy you want on your side of the sandbags when the Art'y calls it in "Danger Close", because he just doesn't give a damn if things get tough. He's a native Wyoming boy, forged tough. Tough with a heart as big as the Red Desert of Wyoming is empty. If you asked, I'm sure he'd lend you his last pair of Brown Pants, that's the kind of guy Joe is. Like Berg, JWats inspires the "Never Give Up" attitude in every aspect of his life, not just adventure riding, hunting, fishing, Boy Scout Leadership, rearing a family and running his own business. Words to end this on a funny note fail me, I just can't gig this guy; my friend Joe. (I'll think of something later though.......)
Joe ("Other" Joe)
I had a few roommates in college, and Joe was one of the best. In fact, I've stayed in no better touch with anybody else from school than Joe, and we have never lost touch in over 25 years.
Drew
"J.R"
What can I say about "J.R.?" Not much, I don't even know him. I don't know his background, save for his love for riding a motorcycle and his ability to do the same. And for his passion and spirit and downright tenacity. I don't know what he does for a living, if he's still married, whether or not he has kids. I don't remember if he told me anything about his family or if he mentioned any of his friends on the one ride we did together, and I couldn't say whether he was a liberal, a conservative or an alien from some other planet. Nope, I don't think I even have his phone number, but I do have an e-mail address, though we haven't kept in touch beyond a couple of e-mails years ago. Not much concrete to go on, this lack of basic facts, but I do know something about his cast-iron will, and a character like nobody I've ever met in my life. My tribute to his absolute drive, his sense of humor and his ability to "man-up" is my dedication of an entire chapter of my book to "J.R." I don't know all these things about this guy, who remains almost a total stranger to me to this day, but I know all I need to know about this man who NEVER GAVE UP. Salute.
Brents
I've hike and skied and climbed a fair bit across North America, and even done a few hard trips. Climbing Mt. Sopris in Colorado by myself, round trip in a day door to door was a good one. Front-pointing my way through the ice on a glacier in the Fisher Chimneys route of Mt. Shuksan in the Washington Cascades was cool; like other climbs on Mt. Baker and tours through North Cascades back country, big walls in Squamish, British Columbia and Yosemite. I could make it across the Tetons in a couple of days too, if I wanted to, on foot - and I have. Brents' idea of an afternoon "Hike" though, makes nearly all other human efforts seem like daycare for a preschool retard. He does mountain runs with little more than a few bottles of water and some really tough "sneakers" and will cut from one side of the Teton Range, 20 miles or so, in an afternoon, and get home to the dinner table then spend time with his family in Jackson. I've ridden with Brents off and on over the years in the Big Holes and in Moab, and he's also an animal on a bike. He's a varsity level fun hog as well, and an excellent adventurer, world traveler, risk taker, heart breaker and a well known spy for the CIA. I ride with guys like him, just so I can say, "I ride with guys like him...."
Brian
Brian knows the desert like a local, because he is a local. He's a competitive WORCS racer, and a success when it comes to stealing podium trophies away from the other top racers in the sport. I like to follow him through the desert because he knows where to go, he's wicked fast and a sporting fellow in this regard. I can imagine no finer tour guide to the technical riding in and around Moab. I just wish that, when he sees I am about to stop and park my motorcycle in quicksand, that he would say something. Say something maybe before I stop in it. Or maybe just mention something before I shut off the engine and swing a leg down off my bike. Maybe even tune me up a little better before I actually start to sink into oblivion. Anyway, Brian rides so damned good, I have to set my "wish list" aside, just to have another shot at following him at Mach2 across that desert floor. I just won't stop anymore, maybe just idle around the group in circles until it's time to get going again. I carry extra gas for just such occasions. So he gets a pass; after all, the guiding was "free" and as far as that goes, I got my money's worth!
Mike
The guys I ride bikes with have taken to calling each other "Mike" for some reason - everybody is "Mike." 'Hey Mike, can you hand me that tire pump......' and 'hey Mike, did you know you are a douche?'; or 'Cripes Mike - you just ran'd over a Thresher shark.' Stuff like that. I don't know where it came from or remember when and where the idiosyncrasy began, but it's just been going on for a few years, and everybody just refers to each other as "Mike." Even if there are five or six guys together doing something, we all seem to know who is talking to who..... it's uncanny. But there exists in real life to my adventure list of top players in the world of people whom I have explored serious mayhem and folley with, a guy named "Mike." We went to High School together and we climbed some Eastern peaks and wandered some trails and participated in teenage mishchief as comrades in misguided time management. Mike is a candidate for a tome dedicated entirely to his particular exploits, and I can hardly believe the stuff he has actually accomplished. But I do. I don't expect anyone else to, but here's an example off the top my head: one day he decides he's had enough of just flying over God's country on one his routine business trips from the Lower 48 to Alaska, and starts building a kayak. He straps a 12-gauge across the bow and paddles solo through the Inside Passage, and gets blow-hole close to killer whales and argues with brown bears over space to lay his head down on shore. An engineer in the nuclear industry, Mike has chucked the suburban rat race for a patch of dirt in the Rockies, bought land and built a cabin. When he has the time, he scares hell back out of the local mountain lion population with camo and a bow. Word among the grizzlies in his yard is that if you're going to poach from the elk carcass hanging from Mike's larder - well, don't. Grizzlies flat piss their pants when they find out why. Mike has an off-road motorcycle too, but we have yet to saddle up together in our adult lives, our past misadventures having been limited to the sporting concerns of foot-powered back country exploration and survival. One time, he pulled me out from under the ice formed over a frozen river in the Adirondaks while I was wearing a full pack and snowshoes. As the seriousness of the mistake I had made that had caused me to begin to see a white light at the end of a long tunnel started to set in, and I flailed if for nothing else than to go down swingin', there was Mike's giant paw from above reaching through the humongous shards and rushing icebergs to yard me out. A save by him and a near miss by me. And there was the time he stiff-armed some GUY in a bar in Syracuse who was trying to get my phone number, and I had my hands full with 6 pitchers of beer, and laughing so hard I didn't take his drunken advances seriously. But Mike recognized the situation for what it was, sized it up, laid the miscreant low, and got the path cleared for me to deliver the brew. Thanks Mike, for at least both of those saves...... I still owe you.
Zeke
Travis
Andy
Lincoln Jay
 
|
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Baja
10 days and 1621 miles on the
footpegs of a KTM 640 Adventure. A dislocated shoulder on Day 4, with some
bruised ribs for good measure. Nothing really quite like hammering into a
military checkpoint on the border of Baja California Sur and dropping the whole
show on the pavement and skidding to a grinding halt at the feet of an
18-year-old kid wearing a dusty set of BDU’s and sporting a clapped out Heckler
and Koch G3. Not to gloss over the Russian prostitute in San Ignacio or running
over a Thresher Shark (mouth with teeth, tail, fins – you know – a real shark)
in Laguna Manuela. I’ll never forget meeting Coco for the first time or hitting
a concrete culvert across the road at 80+ miles per hour just after crossing
checkpoint charlie Northbound out of Gonzaga Bay. In Baja, as far as adventure
goes, you get your money’s worth, pretty much.
Guidelines for How to roll through a military checkpoint (click here)
Book Tease - Buy My Book! (Coming Soon)
Bustedcompass.com has been going since 2005, published in
its present form – in one incarnation or another, since 2006. As a
non-commercial endeavor, it remains simply a labor of interest as an
augmentation of the passion for exploration and adventure; whether it has been
on foot, tied into a climbing rope, on two wheels off-road and dual-sporting,
or just running away from a grizzly bear.
Since the decision was made in
earnest to complete my manuscript and publish a hard copy anthology, I have
added Bustedcompass.com to the many vehicles for promoting the sale of my book
and will add a link here to allow people to purchase directly from my publisher
when I pull the trigger on that venture. All profits from the sale of my book
will go directly into my pocket as a way for me to earn a living. Straight up.
In the meanwhile, I hope visitors to Bustedcompass will continue to enjoy the
stories, adventures and inspirations that I share on the site, as well as share
their own campfire tales and bench racing exploits through the GUESTBOOK, e-mails and face to face, handlebar-to-handlebar meetups.
If you can't go big, PLAN BIG. Then, just go big. And always
come home. And never, ever give up!
Stovebolt
Team Ruptured Buzzard
Thanks for checking back
Buzzard Ruptures
Dislocated shoulders (innumerable occurrences)
Crushed ribs (multiple instances)
Torn medial meniscus, knees (multiples)
Fractured digits
Sprained ankles
Concussions
Monkey Butt
Bruised ribs
Sunburn
Tummy ache
Blown appendix and septicaemia
Blind faith (misplaced)
Shattered dreams
Fecal impaction
Stubbed toe
Scorpion sting in spine
Muffler burns
Severe dehydration
Lack of money
Lack of interest
Lack of vision
Lack of daylight
Concussion
Stubbed toe
“Squirting through the eye of a needle”
Concussion
Underinsured
Overinsured
Dead cell phone and low-pow GPS
Concussion
Where Buzzards Dare to Tread - Where they live, and where they ride
Idaho Arizona Idaho City Continental Divide Bone
Wyoming Nevada Some Swamp Goblin Valley Behind The Rocks
British Columbia New Mexico Hatfield McCoy The Sawtooth's Munger
New York Baja Oregon Trail Florida Algodones
France The Tetons The Flattops Cajamajue Wash Crater Lake
Virginia MacGruder Corridor Yellowstone Country Bonneville Salt Flats The Wasatch
Washington The Big Holes Salt River Range The Shenandoah's The Bitterroot
Montana Centennial Range Big Sandy Oregon Buttes Emmigrant Trail
Belgium The Gravelly's The Caribous Car Door Corner Appalachia
Utah Red Desert Five Miles of Hell Shackham Caliente
Colorado Moab Paradise Valley Lake Chapala Slickrock
What Do Buzzards Eat?
Clif Bars. Octopus parfaits (for real – I watched it.)
Fish tacos. A tortilla wrapped around just about anything. Burgers and beer.
Snickers and Doritos. Bottled water. Camelbak water. Creek water. Dirt. Bugs.
Blood – yours and somebody else’s. The east end of a westbound skunk. Pizza.
Repeat.
Do Grizzly Bears Bark?
Yes, apparently they do............
Object reference not set to an instance of an object.
Submarine Stories, Moab, Quicksand and Radioactivity
Do you really need
a mask and a snorkel to ride a dirt bike across the Utah desert? Probably not,
but there was a ride when that stuff would have come in mighty handy. Oh and as
an aside, quicksand is not a myth – the crap actually exists. Mask and snorkel
would only have prolonged the agony of a demise in this miasma, but luckily for
one intrepid adventurer (apparently blind to it prior to entering the mire,)
the solution was as handy as the problem. Also, for what it might be worth,
“yellowcake” is not a Twinkie that just fell out of some guy’s pack who was
riding ahead of you, so don’t pick it up. Radioactivity will only foul up the
ignition map on your CDI, and probably not improve digestion of the
mega-burrito you’ve been toting around for the past 18 miles, looking for a
place to snap that steamer.........
Six-Pack Hill
If you do 4 laps on it, does that make it a
“case?”
Tire Irons and Why "J.R." is one Cast-Iron Son-of-a-Gun
Yes, you can change a ratty old Dunlop D606 into a brand
new D606 with some irons, and they come in awfully handy when you get into an
ultimate fighting kickbox against a steel belted Motosteel Terraflex. But did
you know that a set of spoons also makes for a handy makeshift set of field
expedient surgical instruments? Neither did I..............
When faced with choking to death
or finding a way to clear an airway obstruction, and the only tools at hand are
a rock, a cactus spline and a tire iron, the mind races to fill the void. Since
nature abhors a vacuum, and J.R. wanted to get that nagging feeling in the back
of his throat taken care of, one man stepped up (while the other genuflected as
only a true desperado in that situation might do) and tried to get the job
done.
.........the “Doctor” will see
you now.........
St. Peter in a dump truck, can
this be for real?
Legends of the Fall
The 2nd Annual Legends of the Fall Trans-Nevada Whore House Hare & Hound Dual Sport to Area 51 for No Whimps Rally Raid
Prologue
Flash
back you movie buffs…… CADDYSHACK starring Bill Murray. Scene is when
and where Bill Murray is caddying the priest in the rain, and the priest
is having the game of his life. You know, where he drives the ball onto
the green, and it goes 2 feet long, stops – circles back and then sinks
it in the cup. Just one unstoppable lucky play after another. (Then he
gets struck by lightning, and dies….)
That was my ride, only no rain and I didn’t get struck by lightning. In a word, it was magnificent!
There
had been a few riders interested in the journey this year, and we had
at one time, 6 people going. But, as things progressed toward the
departure time, we lost all but us two same guys who rode it last year.
And so it was that Keith (950transalp) and I were the only ones left to
carry the flag to the top of the hill, and ride this monster ride – the
2nd Annual Legends of the Fall, Trans-Nevada Whore House Hare &
Hound Dual Sport to Area 51 for No Whimps Rally Raid. If nothing else,
we had a name for it….
I was mounted on Casper the Friendly
Punkin, my new 2010 KTM 450 XCW Six Days machine. Keith would be on his
2001 Honda XR650R. Both bikes were reasonably well equipped, maintained
and prepped for a ride across the remote hinterlands of Nevada, and
ready to cross mountain range after mountain range; desert after desert –
for about a week straight.
GPS routes were laid in, all nine of
them, and transferred to Keith’s Garmin Quest and my own 60CSx – mine
residing in a way coolio hand-built “Buzz-Bomb” cradle manufactured by
Rogue Dog Communications for TEAM RUPTURED BUZZARD in Idaho. Bar Pack
was loaded with navigation paper, spare batteries to run internals on
cockpit instrumentation and my rubber thumb ‘windshield wiper’ just in
case. St. Peter in a dump truck already, time to ride… Area 51, here we
come.
Day 1 Twin Falls, Idaho / Jarbidge, Nevada
We
loaded up the small two-place bike trailer in Victor, Idaho and set sail
Swouthwest toward Twin Falls, Idaho where we had arranged with Jeff at
J&C Motorsports to park our rig for the week. (A sincere thanks goes
to Jeff for this mighty fine favor – it was a real help my friend!)
After a pit stop in Idaho Falls for Starbucks and a donut, and a spark
plug for the fanny pack, we continued on under bluebird skies across the
high-speed cage pavement. Arrived at Twin to our rally point jump-off,
and met Jeff. Unloaded, geared up and jumped off at mid-day, heading for
the Sinclair station across the street for a fuel up. This last-stop
landmark became significant a couple hours later, right Keith?
Off
we go, Southbound on Blue Lakes Road toward Rogerson, Idaho, where we
were to make a right turn for Three Creek Road, past Murphy Hot Springs
and into Jarbidge Canyon for the night. Keith’s bike failed to relight
with pleasure on a couple of occasions inbound to Jarbidge, but we
didn’t make too much of it…. Perhaps it was sensing some Nevada air and
was taking time to get readjusted. Maybe it knew beforehand some of what
it was about to be asked to ride over and through, I dunno.
A few coughs and sputters later and we
were in Jarbidge proper for dinner and a campground, replete with cold
beer to settle in to our first campsites for the journey. Ahhh, life is
good. Back at camp after dinner, and no Keith. Hell, he was right
behind me at the Trading Post, I wonder what could have happened? Too
early in the trip to lose a guy to a bear or a mountain lion…. Huh, I’ll
give him a few minutes before I go back to scan for his corpse. A
little time goes by, and then some more, and finally the
thump-thump-thump of the XR650 comes more loudly and distinctly into the
earshot of my wind-whistled noggin. F-shizzle, here he is – nice, now I
don’t have to drink a beer alone. Beautiful sunset is in progress, and
all seems right with the world according to Stovey.
Keith is
grimacing, however, and there is a lack of joy upon his freshly-fed
visage. “What-ho?” thinks I, and make an inquiry about his apparent lack
of joy.
“Bikey-no-starty” is the reply, and he is given over to
another cursory examination of the dilmma, looking here and looking
there, and there’s some immediate sign of trouble in the air bubbles
gurgling backwards through the fuel line under the petcock. Hmmmmpph…..
what’s that all about? Why is the bike gurgling fuel and air bubbles
upstream through the fuel system? I’m thinking, “perhaps there is a
stoppage at the gas cap vent hose” or something, and Keith is saying how
he thinks the fuel is charging right past the whole works and filling
his cylinder with gas….. Let’s take a look, shall we? Off comes the tank
bag for an examination of that damned gas cap, for starters. Ahh, there
we go, bag off… now where is that pesky gas cap? No – really; where is
the damned gas cap? Can’t really start looking for trouble with it until
we find it… nothing under the tank bag but a big hole where the cap
might oughta be… Hmmmmph. No gas cap. But, a really, really tight-ass
seal on the tank with the tank bag. Kind causing a big giant vacuum in
the fuel system; so tight it wouldn’t even leak gas to give any
indication of a missing cap, just a vapor lock it was so tight. Well,
half of the problem was solved – we found the problem. The other half
would be fixing it, short of riding 100 miles back to where we just came
from to the Sinclair Station on Addison Street in Twin Falls.
At
breakfast the next day, the local hero’s sallied forth and rallied
behind Keith with all manner of helpful strategies and equipment;
everything from old plastic peanut butter jar lids to a mason jar. The
mason jar lid did the trick! And it ended up working like a charm. For
1270 miles.
Day 2 Jarbidge / Elko / Cissilini Canyon
We arose in camp along the river and found a beautiful morning waiting outside our bivy’s.
Keith’s
bike needed a gas cap, and our bodies wanted some fuel, so we idled in
to Jarbidge after packing up and found ourselves back at the Outdoor Inn
for breakfast/brunch. It turned into “brunch” because we lollygagged
around with the natives who were friendly and helpful in the extreme!
They were all so pleasant and nice – it was a real treat to be around
them. They pitched in and got Keith back on track with a custom-fitted
Mason jar lid fitted with a vent setup, and we said our goodbyes after a
fine breakfast, and headed South outa town after a refuel at the 24/7
credit card pump serving the small community of Jarbidge, along the
Jarbidge-Charleston Road.
We made our way through a beautiful
canyon being careful to avoid oncoming hunter traffic, and on up to the
Bear Creek Pass at approximately 8400-8500 feet ASL. Downtown
Charleston, at rush-hour..... (best keep ambling along, as there were
signs of occupancy. I thought I could hear banjo music.... not a time to
tarry.)
The
riding was great for dirt roads, and the scenery was outstanding as we
rolled through tunnels of shimmering (“quaking” maybe?) Aspen; their
leafy yellow branches arcing over the passages of our once-again
legendary ride. Me likey. Casper just roared and purred.
We broke
out into some Palouse as we dropped down from the Jarbidge Mountains
and made our right turn on the route, and within a couple of miles I
managed to miss a turn to take us Southbound through the hills directly
North of and into Elko. So we proceeded onward toward Highway 225,
confident I could rejoin the route further on, and pick up some time we
left in Jarbidge retrofitting a gas cap and having a leisurely
breakfast. After slabbing it for a few miles southward on 225, we jumped
off and headed back into the bush, making a stab at another dirt run
into Elko from the North. We lost some time over a navigational
difference of opinion, but it didn’t do any harm – we recalculated on
the fly and put ourselves through a bunch of ranch fences on and through
washes and two-tracks to I80, about 20 miles East of Elko later in the
afternoon. The riding and scenery continued to be awfully good as we
purred and pawed through gullies, valleys, ditches, rivers and fences.
We made the interstate after a bit and hit Elko for fuel, water sleeves
and a couple of cold man-killers for the trail, and left town on the
next magenta line called up on the GPS, heading out shortly after 5pm
and a phone contact with my wife, Dorothy. My evening plop zone was
reconnoitered to be in the vicinity of the Bullion mines in the Pinon
Range, Southwest of Elko. So we needed to make time to get Casper bedded
down before I might have to face the folly of calling upon the dismal
rays of the stock headlight (“forward-looking-infra-DEAD”.) We snicked a
few gears as we followed my route and made two-tracks in short order. I
let the loud canon roar, made 85mph once or twice once we got back into
the bushes, and before sunset we had a camp in up Cissilini Canyon near
the Bullion mines. It was beautiful; camp was level, Aspen-sheltered
and isolated. The cold man-killers didn’t hurt either. Stovey was in
“happy-ville.”
Tomorrow
would be another great day, and Keith had a nice incline to roll his
Honda down for a bump-start if he wanted to take the edge off his knee.
If the lions didn’t get us, or a satellite fall out of the sky onto our
heads, we remained golden yet again. We would cross these hills toward
Railroad Pass, and be in Eureka tomorrow afternoon – a point where we
needed to take on serious fuel and begin the first committed leg of the
raid. Until then, we were still on Easy Street – so easy even a caveman
could do it… “All is well, safely rest… God is neigh.”
Day 3 Cissilini Canyon / Eureka / Pancakes
Dawn
broke like a glass rod snapping, and the early rays found me recently
un-entombed from a delicious slumber ensconced within my 0-degree
Gore-tex Feathered Friend with so-many ounces of 900-fill Polish down.
When the dawn-whip cracks, I can often crack back when I’m on these
rides… looking forward to those steamy, delicious blends of instant
orange mochachinos – freshly brewed and warming to my aging paws. I like
two or three of those bastards around me while I break my camps and
prepare for the daily fools parade down the paths to nowhere. Works for
me all over the place – this morning was no different, and I found
pleasure in every stuffsack packed, and each sip from three full
thermo-tumblers. The ride ahead looked good on paper and from the air
(‘Thank You’ Google Earth) and the papers had already been exchanged in
the Bar Pack, new route toggled to “navigate” the night before. No
satellites fell upon my helmet-haired head during the night, and not a
mountain lion too be found in my shorts – I looked. My checklist was
complete, and I was ready to roll. “You ready, Keith?”
“Yep!”
Off we
went, down the canyon from underneath of the “Raven’s Nest” 8710-foot
pinnacle that shielded us from the North, and off through a couple of
ranch gates to rejoin the route, and get back on “that purple line.” It
was no trick following my route, it was easy enough especially for
someone who studied the route ahead of time, and spent a goodly amount
of eyeballing the paper, software and Google Earth views. We had
navigation to perform at junctions with all manner of obliterated
two-tracks here and there, but it was pretty straightforward stuff. We
paraded through BLM and ranch tracts for miles, making good our threat
to rally and raid like legends in our own minds – each brain pan
collecting images to last a lifetime through our glasses and
faceshields. “Picturesque” doesn’t exactly hit the nail on the head, but
already my mind was searching for modifiers and superlatives – it was
just outstanding riding and scenery…. dry mountain mile after mile.
We
were Southbound to a place called Railroad pass, and approaching the
Pinon Range exit that would take us through and past the Red Rock Ranch,
and down into the Diamond Valley on the North end of Eureka. The
Diamond Mountains began to emerge from the South, and the Diamond Valley
alkali flats would greet us on our right as we popped down for a dirt
road cruise into Eureka. I remembered last year when Keith and I were
shit-stormed by a powerful dust devil on the Pony Express Trail between
Partoun and Gandy, Utah. It took the bars nearly out of our hands and
made puckers in our ‘brown pants’ – leaving both of us spun at 65-70 mph
along a gravel road, and with new respect for the ‘wicked witches of
the West’ after it passed. The same devil got us both, within seconds,
but neither of us went down for the dirt nap. As we came down out of the
Pinon Mountains, I saw those alkali flats, and knew it was a spawning
ground for those dust devils… and I respected it for the crucible that
it was. I thought to myself, “…I will serve as no dust for the Devil’s
pestal and mortar this day…” and rallied onward and downward toward the
alkali – both hands gripping Casper as we motored together over an
altogether abandoned two-track with baseballs, cactus and cobble in 1st
and 2nd gears.
Keith
and I met the Diamond Valley floor through a couple miles of deep and
powdery silt beds, filling 6-inches trenches that served as either side
of the two-track. Hmmmmph. At least there were no baby heads rolling
around in the bottom of that silt - that would have sucked. “Glad I’m
on a dirt bike. Hope Keith is alright on his bigger XR650 behind me…”
He was, and we made good the transition from “technical two-track” to a
real dirt road. I heard that loud canon roaring once again, and 6th
gear put me into a meteoric trajectory toward a right turn onto our
connection at Railroad Pass, and down-bound to Eureka.
Passing
the Diamond Mountains to our left, and the ‘Devil’s Crucible’ to our
right, I was able to witness the dust storms producing as many as 6 dust
devils at a time as we roared down the valley toward the
still-actively-mining community of Eureka, where rough men toil daily in
a vast expanse of molybdenum mines. God bless each and every one of
those crusty, hard-working, brave bastards. "Soon, we will sit in one of
your cafés and buy some fuel from your local depot… and ride through
your mines."
We made town and gathered in fuel for the bikes and
food for our grumble-boxes, stuffing each to within an inch of
torso-bursting capacity. I poured in an extra gallon between water
bottles that were emptied into my two Camelbacks and sleeved into
Wolfman Water Bottle Holsters strapped to my Giantloop, and inside my
day pack. Keith found a big-ass jug to serve his purposes in the local
mercantile, and we motored away under dark skies with sucker holes in
them, and raindrops aplenty smacking my Arai XD faceshield. A new
magenta line bleeped forth on my cockpit TV set, and I knew with active
mining going on, the data vs. real ground might undergo a disparity, and
navigation around and into the mountains to the West and South of
Eureka might present challenges. We made good though, and we passed
through the Mountain Boy and Fish Creek Ranges on ABSOLUTELY STELLAR new
and old/abandoned mining paths! What a trail we blazed through the
pinon and cedars, “tunneling" our way through helmet-smacking branches
from junipers oh-so-ready to peel us off the bikes, or strip an unwary
Hero-cam from a helmet mount. Keith was back there somewhere, riding
like a champion, and refusing to give that helmet cam away to the demons
lurking in the hidden passageway we were forging. Coming down through
those last bits of mountain “two-track” (it was VERY single-track for a
lot of it) we now had a clear view of “home” and the Pancake Range to
the Southeast. A mad late-day dash across the Little Smoky Valley would
find us with the last desert underneath our wheels for the day, and into
the shelter of a mountain hideaway for the night; a place where we
might find comfortable lodging alongside our route, and underneath some
nice juniper boughs…. So close, and a mere hour or so away from the
viewpoint near the Fish Creek Ranch we approached from the Northwest.
I
asked Keith how he was doing – and it was all “thumbs-up” from my
riding partner, giving a grin as we rocketed off towards much easier
ground to cover before settling in for the night – ready to make camp;
and did I mention we got away from Eureka with a fresh load of cold
man-killers? We did, and they were going to be sore-needed come
tent-pitching time, and when I pulled out that Crazy Creek to plop my
fat ass down into. Throttle systems were still intact on each bike, as
it turned out, and oinking a mere ¼-twist to my 450 XCW gave amazingly
rapid results yet again…. Keith would have to fend for himself in my
dust for a moment, as I gave Casper some legs and we hauled the mail
down across that final valley for the day. I could “smell the barn” like
an old horse coming back from pasture, and it was a thrill to light
that bike up in 6th and laser beam my way from GPS connection to GPS
connection. It was straight as grizzly’s dick for miles, and a rather
wicked speed approaching Shuttle Escape Velocity and the point of no
return was achieved and maintained. (I was thinking how my dust trail
would likely be visible if SPOT or Google Earth was focusing during
those moments.) And the moments roared by quickly as we entered the
Northern terminus of the Pancakes, and home for the night.
After
a short bit of two-track high-speed meandering along that little purple
line on my TV, we came to rest at long last in a really cool little
valley in the shadow of Moody Mountain to the North of Brown Summit
which lies to the East of Duckwater. It was a beautiful hole-up to be
sure, and we dismounted under sunset-filled skies, the rainwater having
long since disappeared. We even managed a nice enviro-campfire under
stars so bright it could make your brain bleed after a day in the bright
dust trails of Day 3. A quick oil change gave Casper a late afternoon
orgasm, and the noodles and chicken with a cold man-killer nearly gave
me one. Another legendary day, glorious in its way-too-generous
offerings for tainted souls like us. I went to bed again, a truly, truly
happy man.
Keith
found fresh kitty tracks a short drop-a-steamer distance from where we
laid our helmet-haired heads. I hoped he was a friendly kitty, a stupid
retard of a kitty, or simply blind with no nostrils… I would be too
tired to fight, and too happy to care if a pounce was on his mind.
Goodnight, Keith. Goodnight “John-Boy.” Goodnight Kitty….
Day 4 Pancake / Lunar Crater / Nyala Wadi / Ash Springs
This morning was crisp – frost
everywhere. Bike seat and instruments were all covered in frosty
mini-feathers, but even though it was obviously sub-freezing, it hadn’t
been that much colder or been that way for long. The water in my
Camelbacks wasn’t frozen – just liquid and waiting for me to fire up my
stove and brew some Orange Mocchachinos. If I’d had a Pop-Tart I could
have been in training for the Olympics… and a bright Sun from the East
told me I was in the right place, and having the time of my life.
The
bikes were ornery this morning, both requiring a little more oomph from
the operator to get things lit. I even kicked mine to keep from
running the battery down, and she fired up nicely after a few strokes
from the Alpinestars Tech 6. (Bastards quit making these boots in favor
of the new breed of plastic hybrids….. DAMNATION! Best Boots I’ve ever
owned. You reading this ALPINESTARS?) After we were packed up and the
bikes lit off and warmed up, we faced South and knew we were on the
pivot leg of the journey – at day’s end, we would rest at the
Southernmost point on this ride, hopefully in Ash Springs. I was loose
and focused, because I also knew I had to stay on my game to keep from
losing track, and blowing our fuel somewhere and causing us to lie
stranded in some God-forsaken valley…. scorpion food, or worse. Well,
time to jet. Clear left – clear right, clear prop….. throttles up.
The dirt we were on in the Pancake
Mountains was great too, and there were twisties everywhere. Often there
were berms you could rail, but I had to choke my motor this morning and
run it like it was the last tank of fuel I’d ever have… and in fact,
that might possibly even come true if I pooched things hard enough. So I
leaned back and enjoyed a nice ride out of the mountains and through a
small pass joining Brown Truck Summit Trail, and onto the desert floor
on the West side of the Pancakes. We needed to follow dirt tracks South
to Black Rock Summit on Highway 6, and jump out of the Big Springs
Valley we were in, and fall off in to the Lunar Crater – where would
face “The Wall.”
As it happened, like Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart –
who was also proud of his work…. I was told I had “too many notes…” and
my route got cancelled by Garmin. Of course, I knew ahead of time I
needed to check each of them for complete translations, knowing there is
a memory limit. But I blew it off, and figured if something happened, I
needed to be able to navigate completely without a GPS at all, and thus
I was pretty much prepared to see my magical purple line come to a
complete stop out here underneath the disappearing shadows of Portugese
Mountain. “Too many via points” Captain Garmin said, and right in the
middle of my ride, he threw out my route, snickering at my folly I do
believe. My critical issue was fuel (and time) because I needed to keep
moving in the right direction, no mistakes. Time spent going in the
wrong direction meant fuel disappearing that I couldn’t get back, short
of the kind of luck you simply don’t think about – you can’t. It doesn’t
exist – you need to hit the nail on the head sometimes.
So, a few minutes with the kickstand
down to double-check my bearings and landmarks with my paper maps and I
was confident I knew where we were, exactly. I also felt I had to keep
focused and stay the course because the dirt road was an obliterated
two-track at this point, and there were criss-crossed same-sames
intersecting with us and running all through the place. There are many
tracks into the devil’s cauldrons! We just needed the one that would
take us out of this one, and into the next…. So, we relit and motored
down alongside the base of the Pancakes on the West side of the Range,
continuing South and toward our connection on the highway near Black
Rock Summit. I left the GPS on “Navigate” for entertainment value… it
would always read, “Head North to Road.” I thought of how funny it is
that some folks will take a message like that literally, even under the
same circumstances, and wheel off a cliff someplace, calling their
attorneys with their last dying breaths over a Blackberry, rapidly
losing its signal as their “Tom-Tom” blinked “….heading into a chasm…”
at them. Still funny.
Being a student of navigation, well, a
former student…. now more or less a reject from Clown College, I was
comfortable on this leg, even without my purple line. With the “TV” now
in use as electronic paper, and my rolling thunder beneath me, we just
thumped along that desert floor. At a point further South but above the
Black Rock Summit, I gave us a right turn instead of a left – a left
that would have kept us exactly on my route. My choice of the right was
based on the data I had in my head and it was actually a great choice –
it probably saved us a little fuel. But, when we reached the highway at
Black Rock Summit, old Stovey’s ‘Nav Center’ tricked him into thinking
we were hitting the nail on the same old head I had programmed on my
route, and not on the “new and improved” nail on the head I had just
developed. So, without much ado at the pavement crossing, and almost
while staring at my landmark features within the Lunar Crater we were to
travel directly into, I made the decision to make a right turn.
Thinking I was at a place literally a few hundred yards East of where we
were, we were actually a few hundred yards downstream, and needed a
left, and then a quick right. Ahhhh…. “too many notes” in my head for my
own good. When we made our turn off the highway a few minutes later,
and headed South at the sign for “Lunar Crater – this-a-way…” I felt
like I had us on track, yet something still didn’t feel quite right.
Throttle in and settle, the Paper and TV set on the handlebars are in
good agreement, and…. Uh-oh! What’s that?
A sign alongside the
road is reading “Easy Chair Crater – This a-way” and pointing to my
left. That smelled right away like a pantload I ought to be digging into
right away, since I knew that at this point the Easy Chair Crater needs
to be on my right hand side. Sure enough, the landmark feature we were
scoping called “The Wall” was easily viewable in the distance (not too
far away) to the East, across this crater floor. All this data
processing while rolling and down-snicking – no stinking mapwork
required at this point for my light bulb to go back on. (I like to think
that it stays on, just shines in the wrong direction sometimes….. times
like these for example.)
Anyway, 13 miles off-route meant 13
miles back to get en-route, ruling out the shortcut to The Wall. Having
sorted this wrong turn out and re-engaging our objective on the right
course, we proceeded to continue taking in the magnificent scenery in
and around this monumental crater. My pictures suck and my camera was
basically half Tango Uniform the entire trip – sometimes just not
working at all. But, it was a breathtaking spot with lots to look at and
glide through as we made our way up a gradual grade toward a passage
through a landmark feature guarding the Lunar Crater on the East side of
the Lunar Lake, known as and marked on the map as, “The Wall.”
The back side drop through The Wall was
instantaneously recognizable – we were apparently in Moab. Holy crap!
Nice view, but better stay focused as we pilot these whales down the
steep rocky cobbles and slickrock that will empty us, eventually, into
the Railroad Valley… and the Nyala Wadi. But man alive, what cool stuff!
I knew as my enjoyment meter started to peg with the addition of a
little rocky single track that Keith might have to summon enough effort
and chutzpah to navigate his heavier and tippier XR over this same
ground, and that I should be mindful of this and find places to stop to
get off and assist if needed. I was waiting at a flat spot below these
massive rock pillars when Keith rounded the corner on top of the
passage through The Wall, and made his right curving arc towards the
“Moab Impersonator.” His descent would not be as smooth and smiley as
mine was….
Anyway, to make the short story short,
he waddled down the hill, then high-sided. Full somersault on all the
sharp and pointy things… and then he bounced back up. He wasn’t far
away, and he was up and had his bike back upright before I was able to
get to him. So we had that going for us… A quick relight for the XR and
we were back underway, ¼ steam ahead, and down through more tumbly
slickrock and cobbles. At the bottom of this passage and after we made
the valley floor, we came by a butte with a unique rock formation at its
base. It was clearly a man-made object, and roughly 80 feet across or
so – perfectly circular. It was some kind of a wall, approximately 5-6
feet high and made of tightly stacked flat rocks all similar to each
other in size, shap and color. Tan, black and golden brown, the henge
was a real surprise, and begged for a picture. (This feature is
actually viewable on Google Earth.) But between my camera sucking and
Keith off ahead, I just kept motoring to get back in front so I could
keep the course through Nyala Wadi and up into the last navigational
challenge of this, our most seriously committed leg. We were approaching
mid-afternoon as we got onto the Railroad Valley floor on the West side
under The Wall (that place was sooo cool!) We needed to make some
miles, and stay off the throttles if we were going to make it. Already
fuel was at the forefront of both of our minds. Well that, and of course
I was concerned about being mistaken for a cow, and mutilated by some
unseen cosmic force from above. But, I digress….. Probably should sip a
little more brain juice outa this Camelback.
A few more zigs
and zags in 6th gear brought us around the giant triangle of a
connection we needed to nav through to get us across the valley and into
the only vestige of modern civilization in these parts – a small smudge
on the maps named Nyala Wash. Having scoured the area on Google Earth, I
knew there wasn’t much here to be expected by way of comfort or
salvation, but it was en route and we would soon see what this “smudge”
was all about. As it turned out, that took all of about 45 seconds to
shop through, and that was on foot going back and forth twice. Once we
made it through a stubborn ranch gate that forced me to unfurl my tool
pack for a crescent wrench to disengage the chain keeper that was
keeping us trapped inside this cauldron; like being in that stone henge
without any door, we entered the vicinity of habitation. Signs of life
and farmed irrigation pivots were sparse, but we rode through them and
came upon a small “ranch outpost” that was the Nyala Wadi.
Nyala consists of a half-dozen or so
mobile homes stacked side by side and a couple of shacks, along with a
bigger Morton building type of a shop, and about 20 or 30 empty red gas
cans scattered on the desert floor. Near as we could tell, the place was
a candidate for Hollywood location scouts for any B-movie you could
think of involving teenagers disappearing one after the other, all night
long on the big screen of a drive-in theater. We dismounted after
having passed through the only gate, then decided we might try for fuel
and water, while we were here. (And on the “other” side of the gate –
just in case…) Keith had managed to cook off his bike while letting it
sit idle, being distracted at the gate chain mechanical debacle just
previous to our unannounced arrival to Nyala, and we thought if we could
score fuel and/or water, we might hedge our bet a little, and make
better our chances to get through the Cherry Creek Pass ahead – and find
a friendlier passage across the Garden and Coal Valleys on the other
side of the Quinn Wilderness en route to Hiko, and the highway to Ash
Springs. God, we still had a long way to go, and limited fuel and
daylight to make it happen.
So we gathered up our nutsacks and
walked back through the gate into Nyala, hoping for the best. We found a
young man there, the only live warm body we saw, and he agreed to fill
water bottles, but could offer no fuel. He said they had run out, and
one of the guys had taken all the fuel cans somewhere back out to go get
some. (“Back Out” to where?) We thanked him openly for the water, and
went back through the gate after the long walk downtown, and I remember
thinking to myself that we could die any number of slow deaths out here
in this hamlet, or while trying to run away from it while being chased
through the wash by a maniac with a chainsaw in his hands. I needed
another sip from my Camelback, to get back on track and stay focused.
We
remounted after giving the XR a drink of water, and took off again,
setting sail North toward a right turn that would take us back into some
mountains, and over a pass into the next, and final, big valley
crossing on this leg. The “keeper” crossing on a big keeper valley, the
Garden Valley which lies North of Rachel, and Area 51. Off we went, and a
glance in my Highway Dirtbikes rearviews revealed dust, Keith and no
saw-wielding maniacs. It was still a good day!
The Cherry Creek Pass was stunningly
beautiful and the dirt was fantastic. The water truck had been out all
over Nevada the week before we left for this trip, and the roads and
tracks were in such awesome condition it was simply unbelievable!
Groomers and twisties and berms. It was tough at this point to not just
twist that handle and rail it – but fuel was going to be critical. Short
of digging an oil well and refining it ourselves, we were dicked. Plan B
was cannibalism, so I was conscious of not flat-tracking like Dave
Aldana, and just letting Casper sip along. I kept an eye on my TV and
the rear-views for Keith, and stayed frosty and focused, and kept
enjoying the ride. Who knows? It might be my last; I’ll be damned if I
ain’t going to have fun!
We made the pass up and down and I
decided to let Casper coast for a few miles on the downhill side to
conserve fuel. I was on my game and navigating on the fly, panning and
zooming in the cockpit while I had easy trails to divide my attentions.
Keith’s headlight was still on in my rear-views, and I was bumming to
think that his motor was still running when he had a chance to coast
like I was doing, but at that point it only strengthened my resolve
about “Plan B.” If it came to that, I was determined to just eat him,
and this would be useful if I flinched at taking that all-important
first bite. “You should be coasting with the engine off, Keith!” I
remember thinking to myself…. Rally on.
The Garden Valley
greeted us with a locked ranch gate where we wanted to keep going, and
Keith made time to reflect at that juncture while I simply said,
“…follow me – I can get us around…” and made tracks on an alternate. We
got our bearings well enough through a section of “many road jumble” and
faced the front fenders into the wind, and across that endless valley
of no return, toward Mt. Irish. Having successfully found our ways onto
the Mail Summit Road, we knew we were home free on the navigational
aspect of things, and the only thoughts were that we were going to get
low on fuel. I was still confident we had plenty to make the main slab
at Hiko, though, and was a joyful bastard inside my helmet as the
sagebrush, cactus and occasional cow skull whistled by. It was 5pm, and
it would all be over within an hour – we’d be at camp, or out of gas one
way or the other. I thought how that stark truth spun an entirely clear
perspective on things, and pressed on at 55-60mph atop my Friendly
Punkin.
A flag came into view on my TV, and I recognized the
immediate surroundings as we came by the site of last year’s “2009
Legends of the Fall, Pre-Halloween Havoc Dual Sport Ride For No Whimps
Tandem Bike Rally” http://www.spotadventures.com/trip/view?trip_id=180528.
We were getting close enough to really feel it now, and the critical
fuel “tension” was palpable – it was as though Keith and I could read
each other’s minds! What in the hell could either of us be thinking
about that would be more important. It was funny, because you could
almost see the words floating back and forth between his helmet and
mine, in mid air – like those little “thought bubbles” in a cartoon.
“Got gas?”
Mail Summit Road brought us in, and we made the slab
under our own power, finally! What a long crossing those last couple
valleys were, coming in toward and past Mt. Irish to the North of Rachel
and Crystal Springs. We made the highway, and had a home free run down
into Ash Springs! We rallied on under a very late-day sun, and a warm
wind.
We motored down the pavement, through Hiko (no phone, no
lights, no motor car – not a single luxury) and into Crystal Springs to
pick up the intersection of Highway 93. What, less than a dozen miles or
so to Ash Springs? Hot damn! As we cruised those last few miles into
the stable, and our camp and respite, I thought about the huge miles and
vast array of images that got jammed into my skull this day. This fuel
leg had us passing by and through so many stunning landscapes – rock,
sand and mountainous feature one after another for hundreds of miles… it
was dreamy. It was tremendous. And it was all mine – to savor forever.
What a blast! Aaahh, the Shell station is right here – right where we
left it last year! Cool… check the rearviews, and Keith is right here
with me the whole way – no doubt feeling the joy of a day well ending,
and great things accomplished on a motorcycle – it wasn’t all easy, and
we stayed hard at it all day. And…..ppphhhttt…. thump, grrrrr,,……….
Pppphhhhhhttt……..
WTF?
About 5 seconds before I would
have begun braking and downshifting for the right turn off Highway 93
into the Shell station parking lot, I flamed out. “You have GOT to be
shitting me…” I didn’t catch it in time to get it onto reserve safely –
I had a semi with a double pup right on my ass and instinct just kicked
in and had me pulled over as I waived Keith by me, smiling inside my
helmet at what just happened. The petcock turned after the truck and
Keith got by me, and Keith was looking over his shoulder at me as I had
the choke on and the bike refired. My smile turned into little giggles,
and I blinkered my way back onto the slab, and didn’t even make 4th gear
before having to brake, signal and downshift for my exit.
As I
pulled into the station and swung a leg off while the bike was still
moving, the laughter was echoing inside my Arai, and I just couldn’t
believe it! I had the helmet off, my dry lips cackling this no-doubt
maniacal cackle, and I was grabbing Keith by his shoulders and laughing
and yelling, “..I ran out of gas – I ran out of fucking gas! Can you
believe it?!” And he was laughing as we stood there in front of
“civilians” parked at the pumps who were apparently just staring at us –
knowing Area 51 was just over the hill from where they decided to stop
and get gas in their cars; they must have been convinced that they had
stopped in the wrong place, at the wrong time. “I don’t know what these
nuts are going to want with us, but I’m pretty sure I know where they
came from… quick, take a picture and call The Enquirer…”
I just
propped the kickstand down, and with my helmet in my hand I raised my
arms up in a sign of “Victory,” and like Maxximus I remember thinking
with my eyes skyward; “…are you not ENTERTAINED?!” If I’d had a sword
in my hand I’d have flung it into the audience, and walked back to my
gladiator chambers….
So it happens, “gladiatorial chambers” were
just across the street from the 24-hour Shell station/convenience
store, and on BLM land where we would be momentarily pitching our tents –
a place approximately 200 foot paces from the city park hot springs.
That’s right; fuel, food, lodging and hot springs to bath and replenish
in, and all within walking distance from where the leg of my kickstand
rested. And, as the sun would set within the hour, we had ringside seats
to whatever show might be on the skychannel over the Pahranagat Range
to the West. Food, a soak, and a Crazy Creek chair facing Nellis with a
cold man-killer in my lap would round out this 248-mile fuel leg pretty
nicely. If lightning struck, it would not have been a life wasted, from
just this one day alone. The game of my life? You bet.
Day 5 Ash Springs / Pioche / Baker
Time
to pee….. I get up in the dark and find a thirsty prickly pear. My ICO
tells me it’s 5:30 in the morning. Hell, may as well stay up and grab me
a nice sunrise. After my leisurely recharge last night, and the flying
circus we got to witness over the Groom Lake vicinity with military
formations, countermeasures and one particularly fast moving aircraft
the likes of which neither Keith nor I had EVER witnessed, and the nice
dip in the hot springs and food and all… I was already a pretty happy
camper. But, I thought I would sprinkle a little sugar on top and go for
the big one…. I walked over to the Shell station and commissioned
myself a cup of freshly blended mocha jojo and grabbed a nutritious
athlete recharger in the form of a donut, and wandered on over to the
hot springs for an early morning riser.
I found
Keith there already, steaming around in the dark with some trucker. I
hoped they weren’t capturing a special quiet moment under the stars, but
either way I was cannonballing my way into Day 5 of this Raid, coffee
in one hand, my yeehah in the other. The springs were great, and we got a
nice long soak again – me with my mochajojo poolside; and called it a
nice way to start the day! This place was built for Stovey – walking
distance to and from your camp (BLM, free.) Springs under the shade in
the day and starry views in the dark (free.) Dumpster nearby to offload
your refuse (free.) Super access to 24-hour convenience store and fuel.
It was an adventure rider’s heaven, I swear. But, after scraping all
the barnacles off from the journey through every desolate valley, trench
and wadi that Satan ever manufactured, and convinced that we’d
frightened off more tourists at that truck stop to shut the entire
community right down to the ground for about a week, I figured we might
as well start the SPOTcast and get underway. There were bound to be a
few more trails to run and berms to rail, and we were just the
superheroes to do it! (More on this coming up…)
Keith
and I were fueled up and resleeved with water and some morning body
fuel and coffees. Camp was packed and the new purple line was blazing
away on another route toggled to “navigate” on TV. Time here was well
spent, but too short. I neither saw no Aliens, nor felt no probings but
met some nice people and thoroughly enjoyed a starlit evening with some
cold man-killers, and watched a good show with my friend as we sat fat
and happy at the end of a long day. Now, after spring soak number two,
it was time to rally on, and make for Pioche through the desert across
the Delamar Valley. But first, a short cruise through “Hells Half Acre”
just to the South of Ash Springs. “Kick ‘em and snick ‘em….” We’re off
on the northbound return legs toward home, and the beginning of a long
Day 5!
“Hell’s
Half Acre” is on the maps, and it was a really stunning cruise (short)
through some good dirt road alongside and through shallow canyon country
to where we intersected the next dirt road and headed more Northerly
through the Delamar toward Caliente and Pioche. Caliente was not on the
agenda this trip, but we ran a nice bypass on through some great rollers
back toward the Highland Range over Bennett Pass. We had a great run
meandering alongside the Comet Road and into and out of lots of washed
out two track and some single track in the Silver State OHV Trail
system, and on into Pioche, up over Zero Pass. We made good time and
under perfect skies again we rolled into Pioche for a nice lunch and
fuel stop in this once-thriving Silver mining town. The mines played out
and were shut down in 1975, and when I asked the nice lady at the café
what people did in Pioche (pronounced PEE-Oh-She according to the
locals) she replied, “Nothin.”
A
nice lunch with plenty of water to drink would hit the spot, and the
only market left in town was right next door, so while lunch was being
burned according to my request, I walked over to buy a few liters of
water to sleeve up and save for fuel bottles later. Once we made Baker
at the end of the day, I was going to want to have another salvo of
auxiliary fuel on board, stashed in my pack and into Wolfman Water
Bottle Holsters for a calculated “iffy” rattle Northward from there to
Wells, by my route. So, I wandered into that store on a mission, and the
lady at the counter just stared at me then smiled. Another lady filed
into line with her meagerly-filled cart, and she was smiling too – and
the first lady at the register asked, “….are YOU a SUPERHERO?” and
started giggling. The other lady was starting to giggle too – they had
me bracketed, and so I just smiled back at both of them and said, “Why
Yes – Yes I am! Can I sign something for ya?” We all cracked up just
standing there in the market in the middle of Pioche on a nice day in
October. My Six-Six-One Pressure suit was still a-dangling off me like a
cheap suit, but with all the crash armor and riding pants and boots,
and my face that must have looked like a ripped sneaker, I must have
just looked like Halloween come early. It was a funny moment, and I was
grinning broadly as I beamed back through the doorway as I left; “I’ll
send my sidekick in – in just a few moments, I sense that he too will
need water. It’s what we run on!” We were all still giggling as I walked
back out the door, and went on my way down the sidewalk to finish off a
nicely charred burger. We ‘superheroes’ run on them too.
(For more on what “Team Ruptured Buzzard” eats, visit my website for details here:
http://bustedcompass.com/Ruptured_Raids.php#buzzard_food and feel free to peruse the rest of
my site, should you be locked in a bathroom with a laptop at some point in your life.)
Anyway,
we met a little 3-year-old boy, “Kaden” at the local gas station, and
he wanted to see my motorcycle. Being a Superhero, I told him he could
come outside and see it if it was alright with his Mom, and she was
smiling and nodding her head. There was still nothing to do in Pioche at
that time, so it seemed like a good idea, and we all three wandered
back over to where Casper sat waiting for me, and we got that little boy
up on top of the seat as soft as a rusty girder, and he was thrilled to
death. Even got to beep the horn and everything. “Bye-Bye Kaden,” be
well my young friend. We must be off, to patrol the desert and keep it
free from fiends and boogeymen. Adieu!
The
route out of Pioche led us onto some slab for a short time, until we
got off onto some dirt roads leading away from the things of man. We
spent the rest of the afternoon loping through foothills on great dirt
roads to the North and East of Pioche, heading up Camp Valley toward the
mining town of Atlanta where we passed through last Fall. We would
skirt to the East of Atlanta on this run, cutting through the Wilson
Creek Range and staying to the East side of those mountains and through
the endless expanse of Hamlin Valley. The Granite Peak (elevation 11,218
ft.) was visible for almost a million miles from the South, as we
headed North toward it, and the Great Basin National Park. (The “Great
Basin” per se is a huge land area, encompassing a big part of Nevada,
Utah, Idaho and Oregon. They make it a National Park within a small part
of that all-encompassing land mass, with a visitor center in Baker,
Nevada – which lies North of Garrison, Utah, right on the State line
smack dab in the middle of nowhere.)
We
wicked it up in the late afternoon, knowing that we had a great
campsite waiting for us up ahead and I for one was looking forward to
another great starlit night around a campfire and a cold man-killer. Our
thought earlier in the day was, if we made it to Baker with no trouble,
and didn’t get any vultures or anything tangled up in our Superhero
Capes, we would go for the same campsite we held last year up Snake
Creek to the South and West of Baker. After a short stop in town for
water and cold ones, and a bag of chips for the road, we waved “Hi and
Goodbye” to a passing solo Adventure Rider on a new KTM 990 who was
pulling out of a café across the street from the only store in Baker,
and headed back out of town. The sun still had a few good rays left in
it when we made camp, and I used them to air a sleeping bag and my
riding clothes from the day. Keith took “his spot” from last year, and I
claimed the same spot I had previously as well. This time, Casper took
the place of the bike I was on last year’s “Legend” – my partner Keith’s
very own XR650 that he was riding today. Son of a gun flat gave me his
motorcycle to ride, because my 640A had a water pump go Tango Uniform on
me two days before we left, and I had no time to fix it. We simply
performed a “New York Reload” and threw the bad one down, and picked up a
fresh one, worrying about fixing the bad one later. His XR was a good
bike for the ride we did last year, and it was a better bike for this
year’s route than Keith’s other bike, a bigger KTM 950 Adventure. Still,
this route took us over and through some more difficult ground than
last year’s ride, to be sure. And Keith did well to jockey and course
that XR through it. My hat is off to you Keith, and a sturdy nod in your
direction for all you did to keep yourself aloft on a sometimes very
challenging set of tracks! Good man. Salute. Shut up and give me my
beer then….
Back up high in “cat country” again, we spent a
little bit around the campfire after I made another quick oil change in
Casper, to keep him purring and happy, even if a mountain lion should
get me in the night. At least this way, if somebody came to repatriate
my corpse, my bike would be ready for come what may. That’s how I roll.
;-)
I set another “Mark” on my GPS, for “LOF2 – Camp5,” and
enjoyed another good evening of dinner, campfire and Colorado Cool Aid.
The Big Agnes mattress was going to do its magic once again, and I
reflected on the days’ journeys – rocky canyons, groomed dirt (did I
forget to mention the motor grader in front of us when we made the left
turn out of Hell’s Half Acre through the Delamar?) and some single track
and high-speed rollers. The compressions were so huge coming into
theHighland Range South of Pioche, that I had to drop a gear a few times
for fear of a catastrophic collapse of everything I held dear. We G’d
the bikes out for miles along that section that was straight as a
grizzly’s dick, but full of both fun and trouble for the unwary. Good
times…. Good times… We had good food, kept hydrated and had no mishaps.
I got to be a superhero to a couple of ladies who could use a good
laugh, and knew how to use one. And I got to be a little more of one
again to a 3-year old kid, holed up in a mining town gas station with
stars in his eyes when he saw two motorcycles rolling by. All this after
having my morning cappuccino poolside in a hot springs with pea gravel
on the floor that was so soothing to aching feet. Precious gems in
another perfect day sent straight through from above.
When
in the hell was the first shoe going to drop!? A nervous man would have
been dying of the jits at about this point, but I was just happy to
take it all in, and count my lucky stars. Thankful for my good fortune
and for all the good things that led me to be able to make this ride, I
drifted off again in my downy cocoon, content in another Nevada canyon,
juniper scents on the breeze.
Day 6 Baker / Currie Hills
Sure,
I had a sinus headache last night, and I had to get up to take some
Tylenol to try and get ahead of the beating crush behind my face. But,
there we were a long way from home with miles to go before we slept
again, and the pills would help take the edge off. They did, and after
packing up and saying goodbye to our Snake Creek campout once again we
glided down out of the canyon beneather Wheeler Peak, and on into Baker
for fuel.
We opted for gas and go this morning, and jumped onto
the little purple line heading Northwest out of Baker, and into the
Snake Range of the Mount Moriah Wilderness on dirt roads. The route
looked good, but I wasn’t sure if my purple line would skirt the
Wilderness boundary or dead end somewhere out there. There are lots of
ways to find that out, and we were going to use one of them. Face-time
with some fence posts; in an hour or two – we’d know. But first, it was
time to field test the Bridgestone M59 front and the D606 rear, both
with Bridgestone Ultra Heavy Duty tubes…
I’m barking along the
county dirt and I see my purple line heading off to the left, on a
super-obliterated two-track. A dude should have known better – it was
not my first time in the desert. My brain simply pointed “that-way” and
like a dog panting at a freshly painted fire hydrant, I just followed
the track into the scenery, content to be facing the mountains with
desert under my wheels. Then came 3rd gear as I was ramping up to take a
stronger position in the cockpit and play Andy Grider in Dust to Glory
across this section towards Silver Creek Road, when all of a sudden….
WHAM! “Holy Mongolian Butt-Clutch, Batman!” THUMP! POW!
Phhhhhht….. “Mayday – Mayday – Mayday”
With less than zero
time to react, I just slammed into and through a Prickly Pear colony
about 18-20 inches tall and the size of a laundry basket. My front wheel
literally exploded the colony and the rear bumped its way through
behind – both wheels, and thence both tires, went cactus smashing before
10 O’clock in the morning. “THAT is gonna leave a mark…” I thought to
myself, and turned the bike around, motioning to Keith that this was a
bad call and we needed to get back on the County Road. That would be a
good place to find a rock or a ditch to replace both tubes too…. And so
between the sinus meds in the Tylenol taking my personal RPM’s down a
few hundred, and the moccahchino’s adding some replacement revs; the
early morning frost slowing things down and the scenery mellowing things
out….. this here cactus whack brought things more or less back up to
level. I was now pretty much wide awake.
On the harder surface of
the county dirt road I was able to eyeball the running rubber a little
bit and all seemed well enough, but everyone knows how a flat develops –
either immediately, or slowly over the course of minutes, hours or
months. So I knew all I had to do now was wait. I decided to ride while I
waited, and we continued onward to the Silver Creek Road, up Silver
Creek into the Humboldt National Forest. (Keith posted a helmet cam
video of some stream crossings on good two-track up in this section.)The
riding was truly fabulous up this section as we motored under arching
canopies of oak and pine branches, inching our way further and further
along my little purple line into the woods up a canyon. I thought this
was another legendary stretch of trail, and enjoyed every minute of it
during each meander and throttle blip around tight corners, boulders and
a few submarine surges through the creek. The leaf colors were also
stunning and the senses were once again filled with all good things of
the Fall. It was why we were here, and I was reminded of something my
Wife has said before, quoting a term from a book she had read many year
ago – the idea of “Green-song.” It was like floating through Brigadoon…
We
passed a party of hunters who were disembarking from a Jeep that had
obviously come from the opposite direction, and they just looked at us
as we thumped on by on our adventure bikes and waved to them in 2nd
gear. A short few turns later and we came out of the woods along the
creek and found ourselves up against a USFS sign in front of the path
that the little purple line went through, and got denied for
non-motorized restrictions into the Mount Moriah Wilderness Area. Oh
well, this is where this path detours and we find our way out of here in
another direction. We had two options – go back exactly the way we
came; 23 miles down the canyon to the highway, or try and proceed up a
steep Forest Service Road right there, that switchbacked like a confused
meth addict straight up out of this basin. The map and GPS advised it
was a “go” for this option, and climbed out of the basin and made a run
through the mountains toward Miller Basin Road and Old Highway 6 toward
Sacramento Pass. It was a neat ride with eyeful after eyeful, and good
views of snow-covered Wheeler Peak in the Snake Range to the South where
we had just camped, where the National Park gives tours to Lehman
caves.
A few
miles of slab on Highway 6 got us to a dirt two-track cutting across the
Spring Valley floor, and we railed some berms along that to make it to
Route 893 on the West side of the valley, and turned North to get back
on route. We bumped into a road construction crew on the way, and the
fella with the STOP sign told us there was fuel ahead at both
Schellbourne and Lages – music to my ears. So we punched through the
Schell Creek Range further up ahead and made for the sprawling
metropolis of Schellbourne. We found the place consisted of a ramshackle
saloon with a broken gas pump, but they had a bag of chips for sale,
and a root beer for me, something else wet for Keith. We asked about gas
at Lages, and they said sure they sell fuel, but word on the street was
that somebody hit a power pole in their car, and the power was out. So,
we had that going for us. I reckoned that a guy could get a whole lot
of fouled up in that bar with just a ten-spot, and we waved goodbye and
headed North on dirt two-track that paralleled Interstate 93, into Lages
Station.
At Lages we not only found the power on, and fuel
running, but were able to get water and cold man-killers for the
evening, as the day had gotten long in the tooth, and the rays were
beaming more horizontally at us. After a few more tan lines on the GPS
which could mean either a road or a wash (a few were indeed washes) we
made our connection back on my route, and headed off into the sagebrush
through some gates. Route-finding was interesting as everything here was
almost completely obliterated, and our path forced considerable hunting
and pecking to stay on course. We did that though, and motored through
some rough two-track, no track and washes to navigate through the Currie
Hills and make a camp to the South of the Dolly Varden Mountains. Our
last camp out on this legend in the making.
The
knoll we found to make camp had everything, as usual – Juniper shelters
and flat spots to share with the creatures of the ground. So we shut the
engines down with plenty of light left to do housekeeping and collect
up some dead branches for another conference under the Milky Way. I
killed my last freeze-dried dinner in a bag, and Keith handed me his
Verizon bars to chat up my Wife while sitting warm around the fire
glowing; a cold man-killer nearby. Having made fuel at Lages was a
stroke of good luck, and I was more than pleased that both tires stood
round and firm at this point in the raid. Would I be changing them cold
bastards the first thing tomorrow morning? I’d have to wait for dawn for
the answer to that, and the answer would come for sure. For now, I was
in my Crazy Creek eating M&M’s – not a cloud in the sky.
Day 7 Currie Hills / Wells / Twin Falls
Morning
brought some sunshine, but not before I had a chance to wake up on my
own and view Orion hunting his way across a perfectly starlit sky while
answering the call of nature, and obeying the command to hose off a
dusty rock or two. Some time before all the stars had vanished, I stayed
up and began scooping nearer the bottom of my coffee can, and enjoying
another hot thermo-tumbler of go-juice to accompany a Cliff Bar and some
oatmeal. It wasn’t long before I heard rustling inside of Keith’s nylon
castle as he contemplated another metamorphosis from slumberjack into
legend-making adventure rider. The seeds of our last day on this trail
were being planted while long shadows raced across the tan rocks and dry
washes of this moonscape.
With Day 7 about to make some
progress, I thought I’d rub a cold hand across an even colder tire, and
try to give one a squeeze – just for fun. A couple of rubs, squishes and
push-downs on both ends of Casper’s rubbery bottoms yielded some useful
data – the tires were both still fat and puffy. Nice! A respectful
glance at the rear wheel that I paid a million dollars for got me a
sturdy nod back in return, and the black Excel Superlaced to an orange
RAD hub with a cush drive just sat there in the dirt, all round and
rugged looking. It would take much more than hitting a few trenches at
Mach 1 to even get that Dakar-ready wheel’s attention, and my continued
thanks to Woody at Woody’s Wheelworks remained staunch on this Friday
morning. Someday, when I am particularly flush with greenbacks, I’ll buy
the front wheel with a Superlaced A60 rim, and drive this bike straight
down the crack of Satan’s ass with not a care in the world. Might not
even need tires at that point – his wheels are that good.
After
packing camp and a map reload in the Bar-Pack, I was about ready. Keith
was administering to our “green needs” and giving the fire site the
once-over for a Leave No Trace exit, and I sighed a little sigh thinking
this was our last day on this tremendous riding adventure across
Nevada. My comfort here comes from day dreaming the dream that future
rides may still come true, and I’ll be able to continue exploring on yet
another rolling journey in the Silver State, and beyond. For now, as I
spied the skies to the North and straddled Casper, I thought of the
goals for the day and wondered if the building clouds I could see in the
distance would gather in force and add to the treasure of challenges
yet to come. “Where will my head rest tonight?” I got the bike started
after a few kicks to clear and a spark on the button, and hoped that the
buffet at the truck stop in Wells would be in full force. Keith pulled
out ahead and we motored off, leaving no fire trace and only a hint of
having recently stayed – but you’d have to dig for that. It’s off for a
mountain range or two, and a couple more valleys for this morning.
The
route gave us nice riding through two-track that hadn’t seen much
traffic in a good long while it seemed, and we could continue enjoying
the pleasure of having the entire land to ourselves. In six full days so
far we hadn’t seen another off-road vehicle on our journey, save for
local traffic in and around the immediate vicinities of major towns and
cities we passed through. We were “it,” as if starring in a
post-apocalyptic motorhead feature – riding away from one zombie-attack
after another. But, since I’ve seen my share of zombie-attacks, I knew I
couldn’t let my guard down because as soon as you do, they are right
there to get you. Better to stay frosty, keep my wits, and rally forth
with some focus like I mean it, just in case.
The riding was
excellent on the West side of the Dolly Vardon Range and I was having a
blast in the twisties on great two-track . Jumping in and out of washes
in lower gears was fun on this dirt bike, and for me it was perfect
riding for a long-range trip where luggage needed to be hauled. Without
camping gear, it would be fantastic but hell – even with saddlebags
there was no real suffering. I’d hate to do this kind of ride with zero
survival equipment – it would be doable, but stressy. Nope, things were
rolling great, and the tires were full of air and Keith seemed happy to
trail behind and wasn’t sucking too much trail dust and the weather was
good. So we continued around the Dolly Varden Range on our right as we
headed northbound, and made a left across the first valley of the day to
make a connection at Indian Creek. This would be another pipeline
across one more Nevada mountain range.
The desert was flat-out
and we took full advantage of the lack of speed limit signs, and left
some dust trails for an hour as we navigated our way in the Goshute
Valley to the hook up at Indian Creek. The turn was right where it was
supposed to be, and as we made our entrance into the Pequop Range the
two-track quickly began to take on new character – we were losing one of
our two tracks for sure. As we continued West and got some canyon
country alongside us, the tracks shared some deep washout back and
forth, until there was only a thin line to ride above a four-foot deep
channel that had been chiseled from a fast moving watercourse. Flash
flooding had made this trail a hazard – but only if I crashed into it,
so my take on this as I’m coursing upstream through the dry washes and
sagebrush is to keep my eyes on the thin tan line, even if it is only
imaginary at some points. Best not peer too long or hard into these
close-by chasms…. “ bike follows eyes… I follow bike….” can end in
tears!
A few turns in the sage-mazes while
checking for zombies kept us on route and got us onto the trails above,
and as we climbed higher off the valley floor, we got away from the deep
trenches from washouts below, and really enjoyed the ride to the top.
There we found great views of the Steptoe Valley below and the Cherry
Creek Mountains to the left – and got a peak at the line that would
shortly bring us into Wells. It sure beat slabbing it on I-93, off to
the left and parallel to our course North. We can end this morning with
some high-speed dirt roads, looking forward to a truck stop buffet, and
an afternoon coup de grace to the East of the Jarbidge Wilderness as we
head back to the truck. It was nice to not have to worry so much about
fuel on this leg after finding gas in Lages yesterday, and with all
pleasant things like this inside my helmet, I dropped down from this
last perch of the morning and found the valley floor waiting for big
wheels and big legs. Keith joined me in twisting his handle all the way
to the stop and we maxed the bikes out for a short bit like Johnny
Campbell. It wasn’t until we came to within ¾ of a mile of our
connection with Highway 93 that we encountered anything but fast
hardpan. Then, it was time for Keith to face the demon silt beds once
again.
There was a breeze coming directly at us
from the North, and so nothing to blow my dust trail out of Keith’s
way. At the speeds we were running, I was glad to see Keith had taken
the option to hang back rather than go for the close proximity formation
to try and keep out of the dust trail I was leaving. But as I looked
back a couple of times to check my partner, I was astounded to find his
headlight visible in my rearviews! He was back there in it, a few
hundred yards, and keeping pace. I hit 88 mph across this section, and
he stayed right there with me – unbelievable! As we came to the silt
beds though, and I waddled my way through them in 2nd and 1st gears, I
realized that his XR was going to be more of a challenge – more like
trying to park an oil tanker with tugboats, only without the tugboats.
So
after waiting a short bit, I went back and found my friend righting his
bike in the midst of the talcum sea – a splash of gasoline covering the
far right bank of this powdery man-trap where the impact of a low-speed
tumble ejected some fuel from the custom mason jar lid we were field
testing. Keith managed to keep good control and got his bike set down
nicely, and kept from getting hurt and kept his bike from any damage –
skills only a good rider could pull off in this silt bed. After a deep
breath, we motored through the rest of the beds, and out onto the
highway for Wells. We made the Flying J by noon exactly.
I
grabbed extra fuel for this last leg, thinking it would come into play,
and we both had a good meal for the road. My thinking at this point was
that we were within striking distance of the trailer parked in Twin
Falls, but we had to plan carefully and keep mindful on the fly the rest
of the afternoon, because this bike goes down at twilight, no matter
where we are. That headlight ain’t gonna cut it, and my recent
night-time sojourn into a herd of cattle a few weeks prior to leaving
for this trip is still on my mind.
Crash thread here on ADV Rider forums:
http://www.advrider.com/forums/showthread.php?t=621710
If
we’re going to make the trailer, we’re going to have to stay on course,
ride smoothly and keep a steady pace. And we need to not hurry, but
rather leave time and space to keep focused and stay loose during the
witching hours of an adventure ride when you tend to let your guard down
and make foolish mistakes. “We’re not home yet – Ride my own ride.”
It’s like I have these words taped to my handlebars or something, which
is good!
Brunch was good – I had one of each from the menu,
gobbling all the breakfast menu items I found like a condemned man.
After getting a call in to my home base in the parking lot, to let my
better half know I was okay and still under my own power – not an
ambulance or helicopter in sight (no small relief to her ears….) I lit
that bike up and moved off. It was the last purple line on the GPS to
try and follow, and we were soon on the Upper Metropolis Road headed
North from Wells toward Jarbidge.
We screamed along on a major
thoroughfare kind of dirt road, and came up alongside the Jarbidge
Wilderness to the East, and went through places like “Dixon’s Ranch” and
“Choke-A-Man Draw.” The Fall colors were stunning in some of the
canyons we had to switchback up, and as the skies were building with
storm clouds the further North we rode, the contrast between the yellows
and oranges in the leaves were stark against the gray backdrop that
continued to develop throughout the late afternoon. The only “incident”
we had on this final leg that brought us to home-plate was being lit up
on the HUDS of two F15 Eagle pilots.
It was easy to spot the
aircraft pointing in on me as they exited a canyon somewhere near the
“Choke-A-Man” draw; the ominous black squares of the jet engine intakes
the size of me and my bike on either side of the streamlined fuselage of
the first Eagle-driver really got my attention as I crested a knoll on a
twisty. As soon as I saw him, I knew he had already seen me, and he was
still turning hard at me to point in and train up – guns or missiles –
it wouldn’t matter… Since I was on friendly soil, he was just using my
bright yellow jacket as a training target of opportunity, and I was glad
to oblige him in his teachable moment. Love to help the troops. Just
gladder still that he and his wingman didn’t go ‘rocket’s hot’ on either
me or Keith when they both pointed in on us, and flew over fast and
low; turning sharply then up and out to the West. A squeamish ninny
might have browned out…. But not two “buzzards on a legend” like me and
Keith. “Tally ho!” my friends, and good hunting….
A few more hours of riding on dirt roads
put us back on the Three Creek Road, only instead of yarding it around
to the West and heading back into Jarbidge, and starting this great ride
all over again from the beginning, we veered hard to starboard and made
for Rogerson on the little slab. As we rolled underneath the few
raindrops that would splatter on my faceshield over the course of the
whole trip, the clouds got thicker and the wind got stronger, but
nothing ever came of it. What few drops there were blew away, and the
clouds did nothing but puff their chests at us, and we got closer to
Twin Falls near the magical 5 o-clock hour, and shut-down time for
Casper and his stock anemic headlight. We passed a sign indicating “TWIN
FALLS – 12 miles” and we rode in formation back up along the Blue Lakes
Road that took us south a week ago, and the rolling hills and farm
country were giving way to view of the city off ahead on the Northern
horizon. Just then….. another “phhht,” cough and sputter, and a slight
“brrrrrrrpppp” came from beneath my tank. Without missing a beat this
time, I had my hand on the valve and kept the flames burning underneath
that spark plug. Eight miles South of the city limits, I ran out of gas.
Coming in on reserve – it’s the only way to fly.
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A
few corners inside the City Limits and we found our way through the
streets to the truck, still parked at our spot Jeff had arranged for us.
Tired, happy, relieved – I dismounted with the melancholy familiar to
all of us who put great rides in the can. A sweet farewell to another
legendary ride.
Pics and Epilogue to come…
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Epilogue
Here’s the route from an alien’s point of view: (looking from North to South)
Page 4 data from Garmin 60CSx:
Max Speed - 89 mph
Max Elevation – 8608
Total Ascent – 72,639
Moving Time – 33 hrs 09 min
Stopped Time – 19 hrs 40 min
Moving Average – 40.5
Total Distance traveled - 1342
Pros and Cons of the week-long ride
Pro’s
I
guess the short list would have to include the fact that the weather
was great! These tracks simply could not be laid under rainy or wet
conditions – silt would have been slicker than eel snot, impassable
altogether. Had it rained on us while we were on certain paths, we’d
have been pooched – still be out there.
Not a single flat tire – unbelievable!
No major crashes. And I had zero of any kind.
Route finding was close enough, no navigational debacles.
Hot Springs was a total plus!
No alien probing, that either of us can remember.
Met good people along the way.
Got to explore tons of prehistoric country.
Did not have to eat Keith.
Witnessed cool show at Ash Springs, got my IDAHO UFO License.
Water truck and groomers were out on the course just before we rode it.
Eagle pilots were in a good mood, or they were out of ammo – or both.
Makeshift gas cap held.
CONS:
...this ride has ended, and it's back to work. But...
Next
year’s ride is already being planned, but this one will be hard to
beat. After all, this one had a little of just about everything. Made
for a good story that included high-rev cross-country machines, desolate
places, mountain lions, cannibalism, UFO’s, Superheroes, abandoned
mines, zombie attacks, dust devils, an ancient stone henge, maniacs with
a chainsaw, and aliens.
Gunny Highway said, “You can beat me, and you can starve me – just don’t bore me….”
This ride was anything but that. Until next time,
Rally On….
Stovebolt
Buzzards Ride Unadilla
That’s correct – the REAL Unadilla.........
Captain Fur-illo
Captain came to me one
day in 2003, and he got his name from the way he rode a motorcycle.
Five of us were riding dirt bikes across the Northern prow of the
Bighole Mountains in the Targhee National Forest when I came to a stop
at an intersection on a dirt road. I was waiting for the rest of the
posse to catch up with me and then make our turn toward the Hot Springs
where we were all headed for burgers. As I shut my engine off and sat
there, this little puppy came running
across the dirt road toward me. He was pretty small, but took many
strides, as big and as fast as he could, coming out of a steep and deep
canyon, heading straight at me. There I sat in the saddle, wearing
my full battle rattle, and this little dog ran up to me on my bike and
jumped right onto my seat, and fell, or rather bounced back off. He
tried again, and this time I leaned down and caught his attempt as he
clambered and crawled into my arms and sprawled himself across my tank,
his furry little butt in my lap. As the rest of the posse rode up,
there we were on the side of the road, together. He had a flea collar
on so tight he could hardly breath, and he was wagging his tail
something fierce, and just licking me and wagging and smiling a little
puppy dog "smile." He put his paws up onto the crossbar and hunkered
down on that tank and looked up at me. We tried putting him inside
Andy's backpack which he had emptied out and swung around Biafran style
across his chest, in the hope he might stay inside it while we rode
down to the Hot Springs, where we hoped to drop him off and
find his owner, if he might have one there who was missing a cute
little pup. Once he got inside the pack, he just jumped back out and
tumbled down onto the road, and ran back across to me and jumped back
up into my arms and placed his paws onto my cross bar, waiting -
and wagging. And smiling and looking up at me through my goggles and a
black full face Bell Moto6. He couldn't even see my face! With his
paws on the bars like maybe the way a ship's captain might lean upon the wheel of his
ship as he steered across a distant ocean toward foreign shores, the
little pup stayed put while I held onto him with one arm, and I got the
bike re-lit. I couldn't work both the dog and the clutch, so Travis
stood alongside me and ran the clutch and got me into gear and shoved
us off, and I rode off one-handed down the road; dog on the tank, paws
on the bars, little furry ears flapping in the 50-mph wind! I'll make
a longer story short by ending here with; we've been together ever
since. My little Captain.
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