The idea of riding the Continental Divide Trail popped into my head before I even took delivery of the F800GS last October. A friend of mine had done it on his R1200GS several years ago, so I knew that the lighter F800GS wasn’t too cumbersome for it. In fact, from what I had read on several road reports posted here, it seemed pretty much like the ideal bike to me.
So once I took delivery of it, I set about farkling the bike for the journey, studying maps, and reading up on anything relating to the trail that I could find.
And then, on the morning of June 27th, I was ready to go. I had my Caribou panniers loaded with camping gear and tools, a duffel bag with some clothes was slung across the back rack, resting on an empty 2-gal. Rotopax canister that was going to be needed for a couple of stretches on the trail that exceeded the F800GS’s tank range. My GPS was loaded with BigDog’s track, and my Spot device was blinking away, allowing my wife to keep an eye on where the hell I was each day. And my trusty iPhone, with which I hoped to use to take pictures and keep a blog going, was in my front jacket pocket.
But it was inauspicious start.
I made it all of about six miles from my home in Ashland, Oregon. Didn’t even make it as far as Medford before I noticed the bolt holding my right hand guard about to fall off. I pulled over and tightened it. But this little incident only served to remind me that I had neglected to pack the little tube of blue Loctite that I had pulled from my toolbox and placed ever so prominently on my workbench, so I wouldn’t forget to pack it, you see.
The blue Loctite is not an optional item on this kind of a ride. There would be miles and miles of washboard ahead of me, and I expected that the bike will be ejecting parts like an out of control Kenmore washer on spin cycle if I didn’t stay on top of all the bolts and screws with the magical blue Loctite.
Clearly, there was to be a stop at an auto parts store in my immediate future.
The first day was all about getting to the start of the “real” ride via the most direct route possible. That meant riding up Highway 97, and I hate riding up Highway 97.
Heading for 97 past Mt. Thielsen
Don’t get me wrong, it’s a fine highway. But the State of Oregon, in its wisdom, has decided that all rural, two-lane roads should have 55 mph speed limits. In some places this makes sense. But east of the Cascades, where Highway 97 runs, it makes no sense at all. East of the Cascades is high desert country, with roads as straight as a Mormon missionary, and views up the road ahead stretch on for miles and miles to the horizon. You can see obstacles in the next time zone.
Every adjacent state has 65 or even 70 mph speed limits on their rural roads. But in Oregon our state motto is “We Love Dreamers.” And reality-based thinking is just too bourgeois for us (see Oregon’s gas dispensing laws).
So even though most motorists on 97 drive at a reasonable and safe 65 or 70 mph, there are always some Taliban-inspired drivers who feel it necessary to exert their control over the rest of us. And these true believers are easily identified by the line of 8 or 12 cars (and me) strung out behind them. When oncoming traffic makes it impossible to pass them, the only thing that keeps me from morphing into Mr. Exploding Head is my full-face helmet.
But I made it past the rolling roadblockheads on 97, and down to the Columbia River. There I veered east on I-84 and followed the once mighty river, now reduced by the Army Corps of Engineers to a chain of flaccid, but barge-friendly lakes, to Umatilla.
Wind Turbines down by the Columbia
Crossing over into Washington, and blazing across the Palouse, my GPS informed me that I was within a half-day’s ride of the Canadian border. So I decided to call it a day once I got to Spokane. But my research for this trip hadn’t uncovered the fact that there was some sort of huge basketball tournament in town, and every motel room for a hundred miles was booked.
Thus I found myself staying well north of Coeur d’Alene, and well beyond where I wanted to end the day’s journey. Ah well, it would make for an easier 2nd day, I hoped.
Total miles, Day One = 605.2
Day Two — Coeur d’Alene, ID to Kalispell, MT
And on the second day, the bike got a little dirty.
I was still 200 miles from the border that morning. But the dawn brought clear skies, and the states of Idaho and Montana provided twisty mountain roads. Made me very happy.
I decided to cross over into Canada and get a stamp in my passport to make the start of the ride official.
Canadian border guard: What is your destination in Canada, sir?
Me: Oh, about 20 meters up the road.
That got his attention. So I explained the purpose of my visit, got the stamp, and turned back to the U.S. of A.
American border guard: How long was your visit to Canada, sir?
Me: Oh, about 30 seconds.
Another explanation. Another stamp. Then I was on my way!
At the border
The dirt portion of the trail didn’t start for about twenty miles. But once it did, it was suddenly clear to me just how isolated I was going to be for the next 2450 miles or so. All signs of civilization disappeared, and I felt completely cut off from the modern world.
At the start of the dirt.
It was an illusion, of course. I had only traveled about fifteen miles from the nearest town. I had a GPS to help me navigate. I had maps. I had a satellite tracking device. But all of a sudden I felt like Meriwether Lewis on a motorcycle. That was so cool!
The first dirt roads weren’t that difficult. I knew that this was the “easy” part of the trail. But I was heartened by how well the bike tackled the few tricky obstacles that I encountered, and how comfortable I felt during the ride. It was a great warm up for the more difficult sections ahead.
Near Glacier N.P.
Red Meadow Lake
That night I ended up in Kalispell. And for Day 3 I was headed back into the mountains towards Helena and Butte. I had no idea how far I’d get. But this wasn’t a race. Slow and steady. Doh dee doh.
Total miles so far: 935.9
Miles, Day Two: 330.7 (about 100 in the dirt)
Day Three — Kalispell, MT to Butte, MT
Another beautiful dawn greeted me, and by 7:30 I was on the road, heading for the mountains east of Kalispell. The climb was pleasant, a fine gravel road. But at the ridge the road narrowed to a single-lane jeep track, hemmed in by trees and bushes on either side. It occurred to me that I’d have little chance to avoid any wildlife crashing out onto the trail, so I covered the clutch and brakes.
The Narrow Road
Rounding a curve, I spied a large, dark object sticking out of the undergrowth down the trail a ways. It looked like a big log. But the log (which was considerably larger than any of the trees nearby) suddenly raised its head and looked at me. It was a bear, about 50 yards away! Even if there had been room to turn around, that bear would have been on top of me before I could have gotten half way around. But he (or she) took off into the bushes before I even had half a chance to shit my pants.
Yikes!
It was “only” a black bear, not a Grizzly. Didn't get a picture, though. Sorry! But I decided then and there not to be doing any solo camping until I got out of bear country.
That bear wasn’t the only wildlife to cross my path that morning. I saw two deer, an elk, some grouse, a pheasant and her chicks, and lots and lots of bunny rabbits.
A few miles after the bear encounter I managed to get good and lost. Yes, even with a GPS, I got off track not just once, but twice! And then, a after backtracking several miles to a known point, I regained the trail only to discover that it had been gated off by the Forest Service.
And this is when a GPS is really handy. I just punched in the name of the nearest town (Condon) down in the valley below, and it navigated me by the most direct route down to the highway.
It turned out that I only missed about 6 miles of the actual trail, because it gets routed down onto the highway near there anyway.
But following this trail through the maze of forest roads was trickier than I thought. Forks in the road don’t present obvious choices. Each road looks the same, and the one going off in the “right” direction often turns out to be the wrong choice. Not helping me was the fact that I was traveling in a southerly direction, and my GPS was set up with its map oriented to the north. So every “right” was really a “left” and I kept getting turned around. It was only late in the day that I changed the orientation to adhere to my track, and suddenly following the course it gave me was much more intuitive.
Duh. I seem to have to learn everything the hard way.
I stopped for gas in Lincoln, of Unabomber fame, and then rode up and over Stemple Pass. It was the first crossing of the Continental Divide of this trip, and I was to recross it four more times on this day. Four down, twenty three to go.
Stemple Pass
The trail got much more rough and tricky after Stemple. Deep ruts, steep descents over loose rock, pot holes, mud holes, and a few deep gullies across the road that I managed to hit hard enough to make me fear that I’d bend a rim. But the bike (and I) came through without a scratch.
It was much steeper than it looks here, and it was much rougher than this in places. But I wasn't stopping for pictures then.
I bypassed a particularly hairy part of the trail at Lava Mtn., but even the bypass gave me some trouble. Piles of deep, fresh gravel had recently been dumped at the top of the bypass, and I have had my share of scary moments in deep gravel. Not this time, though, as the bike rode up and over it with ease if I gave it a little throttle. When in doubt, gas it, a well worn motorcycle aphorism says. The often unsaid second part is: It may not help, but it’ll sure remove the suspense.
By 3:15 I was within spitting distance of Helena, a good stopping point for the day. But Butte seemed reachable, so I crossed up and over one more range before finding a place for the night.
The next day the trail heads up onto a high plateau, and there would seem to be an opportunity to rack up a few miles. Maybe even reach into Idaho. But it’s also supposed to feature some of the most scenic parts of the ride, so I may be lured into stopping to take a bunch of photos. That’s OK. As I said, I’m in no hurry.
Total miles so far: 1239.4
Miles, Day Three: 303.0
Day Four — Butte, MT to Teton National Park, WY
Well, Day Four started out more exciting than I had intended. The trail took a brief climb up from Butte over a small range to the southwest before descending steeply down to I-15. But I stopped to take a picture at some point, and forgot to turn off the ABS when I started up again. It was only during that very steep descent that I suddenly realized that I had almost no brakes at all! Only some engine braking and a lot of luck saved my bacon.
I really should have some sort of off-road checklist.
Just South of Butte
After the descent the trail stays on pavement for a while, and follows the Big Hole River. The sweeping curves and Montana’s 70 mph speed limit brought out the hooligan in me. Someone ought to come up with a “Montana’s River Roads” book. I’d buy it.
The fun didn’t stop as I turned south again and started to climb. For about 25 miles the trail winds its way up through aspen forests populated with all sorts of wildlife. I saw elk, a moose, two wolverines, and raptors galore.
Finally I emerged out onto a broad plateau, and after another brief swing eastward onto pavement, I turned south again onto the Bannack road.
The Bannack Road
Bannack was briefly Montana’s state capitol during its heyday as a mining town. It’s a well-preserved ghost town now, and well worth the 4 mile detour off of the trail.
Farther down the Bannack road I met my first bicyclist. He was slumped over his handlebars as I came up behind him, so I stopped to see if he was OK. He was just resting (I don’t blame him!) and it turns out that he came all the way from Switzerland to ride the trail. And his home town is Breitenbach, just down the road from where I used to live when I was a boy! We chatted for a while, and I got the chance to use what little remains of my once fluent Schwyzerdütsch.
About five miles farther I met my second bicyclist. Only this one was sitting alongside the trail next to his wrecked bike and trailer. Seems he had taken a bad spill on the rutted trail (which had been giving me some trouble too), and had pretzeled his front wheel and banged up his knee so bad that he couldn’t put any weight on his leg. Even if it hadn’t been 30 miles to the nearest town, he wasn’t walking out of there.
I asked if there was anything I could do to help, but he said his buddy, who I later passed farther down the trail, was riding to get help.
It took me another hour to ride out to civilization. His buddy wasn’t going to get help before nightfall. So once I got back into cell phone territory, I dialed 911 and notified the sheriff. I hope they got him out of there.
Bicycles. You gotta be crazy to ride those dangerous things!
After gassing up in Lima, I started a long, flat section of the trail that took me back into Idaho. It was well groomed and easy to ride, and except for the few sections where they had “improved” the road by dumping piles of deep gravel on it, my biggest problem was just trying to keep from going stupid fast.
East of Lima
Nearing the Idaho Border
That all ended at the Idaho border, where the trail winds its way around the northern edge of the Teton range. About 30 miles of nasty, steep, rutted, and muddy road finally wore me out.
There were no cheap accommodations in the area, so I opted to camp at one of the concession camps in the Teton Nat. Park. Bad idea. Not only did it cost $26.50 for a camp site, but my site was wedged in between a family with lots of noisy small children on one side, and Herr und Frau Bickermeister from Germany on the other. Plus, the place was swarming with mosquitoes.
Campsite in Teton N.P.
So I decided: from now on I’m only camping (if I camp!) in National or State Park camp grounds. My neighbors may not be any more congenial. But it’ll be a hell of a lot cheaper!
Total miles so far: 1606.1
Miles, Day Four: 366.0
Day Five — Teton National Park, WY to Rawlins, WY
Day Five was the day to rack up some miles. And it was probably my last chance to do so, as I had been told that the trail gets more difficult as it heads up into the high passes in Colorado and into the deserts of New Mexico.
I escaped the camp site as early as I could, and headed past the Grand Tetons before swinging east up into the mountains again.
The Tetons
It had rained during the night, and I very quickly ran into a section of slick mud. Fortunately, I managed to stay upright, and just as fortunately, there was an easy exit back onto pavement, which I took, bypassing about five miles of the trail.
After a short stretch on the highway, the trail heads up over Union Pass, a long section of dirt road. I was more than a little worried about getting stuck in the fresh mud up there, so I inquired at a gas station about what to expect. I was told that it was an “all weather road” and that I should be just fine on my kind of bike.
Union Pass
And so I was. Another beautiful ride over some spectacular terrain.
After coming back down the south side of the pass, I stopped in Pinedale to gas up, and to fill my Rotopax gas can for the first of two sections of the trail that exceed my bike’s 200 mile fuel range.
I was heading for the big empty, a 215 mile crossing of southwest Wyoming where there isn’t much of anything but a few scattered ranches, some dirt roads, and sage brush.
After the previous night’s rains, I thought it prudent to check in with some locals about the roads, so I stopped in at the General Mercantile in Atlantic City (the little town at the Big Empty’s westernmost end) to see what they could tell me. The old geezer behind the bar (the General Mercantile serves many purposes) opined that as it hadn’t rained out there in two days, I "should" make it across just fine. But, he cautioned, thunderstorms were forecast for the next few days.
The skies didn’t seem too friendly to me, with billowing thunderheads sprouting up everywhere I looked, but I decided to go with the old-timer’s wisdom. And so I set out.
This section of the trail is well-known for the opportunity to cover a lot of ground quickly. And it sure seemed well-suited for that purpose. It was nicely groomed, flat, and mostly straight, so I was up in 4th and 5th gear most of the time, and moving comfortably across the gravel and dirt at 55-60 mph.
But dark thunderclouds and rain showers loomed in every direction, and though I was in sunshine for most of the early part of the dash across the empty, it seemed only a matter of time before the rain reached me.
I had read numerous admonitions about staying out of there if it had rained recently. And here and there I came across 6-inch deep ruts in the road that showed just what kind of a quagmire I’d find myself in if I didn’t get out of there quickly enough.
So I was intent on moving fast. But there were just enough obstacles out there to really keep me on my toes; muddy patches, mounds of gravel, sand, and the aforementioned ruts. Sometimes I felt just a little too close to the ragged edge. But there were these huge, dark clouds that kept egging me on. And the road just kept leading off toward the horizon.
The Big Empty
I had made it across about two thirds of that section when the first drops pipped against my face shield. And right about there the trail goes through a series of long changes in direction. First you head east for about 10 miles, then south for 10 miles, then east again, and then south. And at every turn east a large, black thunderhead with a huge squall line underneath it just kept coming closer. There didn’t seem any way that I was going to make it back onto pavement before I got caught in a downpour.
Hitting the Pavement Again
But I did. About four hours after entering the big empty, my tires touched tarmac again. And I just about bled relief. I didn't even need the extra gas, hitting reserve just before riding into Rawlins. And I didn’t get wet on the final 33 miles into Rawlins, either. Though for once in my riding life I actually stopped and put on my rain gear BEFORE the rain hit me.
There were thunderstorms forecast for the next three days along my route. But it looked like it would be fairly easy to bail out onto pavement, should the need arise. And after this day’s experience, it wouldn’t take much for me to pull the trigger. I think it’s safe to say that I got away with one on this day, big time!
Total miles so far: 1990.3
Miles, Day Five: 384.2
Day Six — Rawlins, WY to Dillon, CO
After the race to get to Rawlins on Day Five I was shooting for an easy day. And it almost turned out to be one. But instead, I found myself dodging thunderstorms again, and going through the roughest section of the ride so far.
Still, it was a good day. I rode south out of Rawlins under a mostly cloudy sky. And I knew I was going to hit bad weather by the afternoon, so I left before 7.
I had been running into a lot of wildlife during the previous few days. And this day was to be no exception. It may seem an obvious point to some of you, but you get to see whole lot more wildlife if you get off of paved roads. I can’t begin to list the species I had seen on this trip that I’ve never encountered anywhere but a zoo before. Antelope, for instance, which I’ve only caught fleeting glimpses of from afar out in eastern Oregon, were in such abundance alongside the dirt roads out there that it was almost hard to escape them. I even raced with them a few times. The previous day near Pinedale I saw about 40 of them in a herd. If you were inclined to hunt them, it would be like shooting cows.
And speaking of cows, they have to be the stupidest creatures in the known universe. Much of the country out there is open range, so I’d been encountering cattle every day. Now, I’m not stupid enough to go blazing past them. You never know which way they’ll decide to run once they determine that you represent a threat. But it takes them an eternity to make that determination. They’d stand in the road, placidly staring off into space, until I was literally 4 feet away from them. Then it’s: Oh My God!!! Danger!!! Run Away!!!
And my only hope was that they didn’t run toward me.
Anyway, I climbed through sage brush country into aspen forests on smooth gravel, heading towards the Colorado border. Just before leaving Wyoming, the trail passes through a cathedral of aspen trees called “Aspen Alley.” It was one of the sights I was most looking forward to seeing, and it didn’t disappoint.
Aspen Alley
By then the thunderheads were starting to build in the south, and I knew that the first part of northern Colorado was an unmaintained dirt road. Confronted at the turnoff to the dirt road by a sign saying that the road was closed in 16 miles, I had already pulled out my AAA road map to see about an alternative route when a young guy in a pickup truck drove up from the opposite direction. He stopped, and I asked him if the road was really closed. No, he said. It wasn’t. So what if it rains on me out there, I asked, will I be able to get through? On that thing, he said, pointing to my bike, sure!
My confidence restored, I headed off.
Judging by what I rode over on that stretch of the trail, I’m not so sure it would have been as easy as all that if I had been rained on. But nary a drop fell, so I’ll never know.
Rolling on, I passed through the tourist mecca of Steamboat Springs and then continued south on some fairly rough county roads, one of which had a sign at its beginning reading: Impassable When Wet. I took note of that, but again made it through unscathed.
After cresting Lynx Pass, the trail crosses a highway and then continues for four miles before hitting the deepest water crossing on the trail. I recognized the stream immediately from pictures I had seen on ride reports here, and this crossing had been lurking back there in my fear box ever since I started this trip.
More than a few riders have dropped their bikes attempting this crossing, and I wasn’t eager to join their ranks. Being alone, it would have been a real bitch getting out of that drink. And backtracking to the highway and bypassing the stream was an easy alternative.
But I wanted to at least check it out, and if it looked feasible, at least give it a shot.
I dismounted and roamed along the shore, trying to judge the water’s depth, and find the best route across. The glare from the sun, and the somewhat murky water made this difficult. There seemed to be some sort of sharp ledge in the underwater gravel, about half way across with a deep pool before it, which I figured could grab my front wheel and throw me down real easy.
But the ledge seemed to smooth out a little ways downstream. I just couldn’t see it very well. And I just wasn’t sure that I’d make it. There was really only one way to find out.
I stood there for a few seconds staring at the water, and then said: Oh, the hell with it! I can just stand here, trying to talk myself out of it, or I could just go for it. So I got on the bike and went for it.
Besides, the bike needed washing.
Well, wouldn’t you know it? All that anxiety, for what turned out to be no problem at all. I powered across with ease and rolled up the other bank, and then let out whoop that they probably could have heared all the way over in Denver.
Now, you might think that the rest of the day was anti-climactic. But if you did, you’d be wrong. Soon thereafter, with the glow of success still shining, I was confronted with the hairiest section of the ride so far; a very rough descent down to the Colorado River. It combined all of the worst sections of my ride down into Copper Canyon in Mexico a few years back, with some deep, muddy ruts thrown in for good measure. First gear and standing on the pegs time. But I made it down (and back up the much easier east side) unscathed. The motorcycle gods were being benevolent, to be sure.
The rest of the day was spent racing ahead of the oncoming thunderstorms into Dillion. The pavement started again just before Ute Pass, where I got into full hooligan mode again, screaming around delicious curves at full tilt.
The weather held off until I was bringing the last bit of gear from the bike through the front door of my motel, when it started to hail. I tell you, the weather gods were kind to me too.
On Day Seven, the plan was start the day by ascending the second highest pass on the route, 11,481 ft. Boreas Pass. But it follows the old railway grade, so I didn’t expect serious difficulty unless the weather gods decided to get grumpy.
Total miles so far: 2253.8
Miles, Day Six: 263.4
Day Seven — Dillon, CO to Del Norte, CO
Day Seven was a day of highs and lows. The highs, three passes of 10,000 ft. or more were fairly easy. The first, Boreal Pass, at 11,481 ft., follows an old, abandoned railway grade. So the ride up and over, even though the gravel road’s surface was still wet from last night’s thunderstorms, was fairly easy. There are a few remaining relics alongside the road from its railroading days, including a water tower for filling the steam locomotives, a big, stone roundhouse on the east side, and at the summit, the old station, which used to house the highest post office in the country.
Boreal Pass Summit
After descending the south side and gassing up in Salida (and checking the weather radar on my iPhone), I rode up Marshall Pass (10,842 ft.). It was a bit more difficult. The road was wet and muddy in spots, and I encountered a horde of 4th of July ATVers screaming around blind corners, which added considerably to the difficulty.
Descending into Salida
The final pass, Cochetopa (10,032 ft.), was a gentle climb and descent. This was a good thing, because the weather gods finally chose to smite me with a downpour. Fortunately, the rain was brief, and the road surface drained quickly. So I was barely affected, other than getting a little wet.
But things turned south in both meanings of the phrase thereafter. There are two routes from Cochetopa into Del Norte, an easy, straight one, and a not so easy one that takes you by a natural arch. I wanted to see that arch, so that’s the way I went.
Well, I never found the arch. It was right there, plain as day on the screen of my GPS. But it wasn’t there in the physical world. I cruised back and forth trying to find it, but if it exists, it’s very small and well concealed.
After finally giving up on the arch, I followed the GPS track onto an execrable jeep trail that wound its way up and over a small mesa. It got so bad that I began to wonder if the GPS track was some sort of sick joke on the part of BigDog. The bike was apparently not amused though, because it suddenly decided to take a nap right in the middle of a particularly rutted sloping corner.
Time for a Nap
Damn! I had hopes (probably unrealistic ones) of completing the ride without dropping the bike. Well, so much for that! But it was a slow speed dump, and I managed to get out of the way of the bike as it fell, so except for a few scratches on the crash bar, no harm was done. And I finally got to discover just how hard it is to pick up this bike. Not too hard, really, even with a full load.
Still, small comfort.
So I made it into in Del Norte, a pustule of a town if there ever was one. It had one seedy motel, with an adjoining “restaurant,” where the buffalo burger was the highlight of the menu. But no beer! On the 4th of July! It’s an outrage, I tell you!
Total miles so far: 2521.7
Miles, Day Seven: 267.9
Day Eight — Del Norte, CO to Grants, NM
On the eighth day I rode over the highest pass on the trail, Indiana Pass, at 11,910 ft. And like all the other passes on this ride, it was surprisingly easy. While I was standing there at the highest point, soaking in the view, another rider on a little Suzuki dirt bike rolled up. So I asked him to snap this picture to commemorate the event.
Indiana Pass
On the far side, just before Platoro, I met two CDR riders from Arizona on their way north, with whom I swapped intelligence about the route ahead. They told me about two sections farther south from which they had been warned off by locals. It seems the rains had turned the dirt roads there into impassible quagmires.
Like This
I had heard about southern Colorado’s and New Mexico’s dirt roads being of a different quality than the dirt roads up north. And that when the signs said “Impassible When Wet,” they meant just that. So I knew that if I got unlucky with the seasonal monsoon, it would mean getting off the trail and onto pavement. But I was hoping that I could avoid doing that for as long as possible.
But the next section, from Cumbres up to Hopewell Lake, was one of the sections I had been warned about. So I decided to head further south on the pavement, and then rejoin the trail south of Hopewell Lake.
Bad plan. As I headed up Highway 64 towards the lake, I rode right into a torrential downpour, and I could see lightning strafing the ridge above. Time for Plan C.
South of Abiquiu was the next chance to get back onto the dirt portion of the CDR. But again the weather up ahead looked nuclear. Clearly the monsoon was already in full swing. And only a suicidal fool would have voluntarily ridden into that cataclysm.
Suddenly, New Mexico
So I ended up staying on pavement most of the day, and am quite sure that I did the right thing. By late morning the thunderheads were already erupting all around me, and I could see tropical downpours and lightning hitting the ridges everywhere I looked. Even staying on the pavement got me drenched. But with temps already in the 90s, it was a welcome respite from the heat.
In any case, the pavement riding was big time fun in those mountains. I was lucky enough to encounter the Cumbres & Toltec steam train as it chugged uphill just outside of Chama.
Cumbres & Toltec Train
And I took a big detour to go see the Anasazi ruins at Chaco Canyon. That big detour included another 45 miles of dirt road, and another race against oncoming thunderstorms. But I made it back onto pavement just as the first drops fell on me.
Bagged an extra four crossings of the Divide that aren’t on the original ride to boot!
But I sure could have used a little better luck with the weather.
Total miles so far: 2908.2
Miles, Day Eight: 386.0
Day Nine — Grants, NM to Lordsburg, NM
Leaving Grants, NM just before 7, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and I hoped that I could cover a lot of miles before the inevitable deluge hit me. The previous few mornings had dawned crystal clear. But by 10 or 11 the thunderheads erupted, and by early afternoon I found myself scanning the horizon, trying to gauge how long I'd have before I needed to seek shelter, or at least get off the dirt roads.
Things looked good as I turned off the paved highway for the first section of dirt on the road into Pie Town. I even encountered a couple of people in a pickup truck, who assured me that I’d have no problem getting there. Didn't turn out to be quite so easy, as there were plenty of puddles and muddy stretches on the road.
The Road Into Pie Town
But Pie Town is one of those obligatory stopping points on the route. If you don’t stop there for pie, I figure that you haven’t really “done” the trail. So I was a little disappointed when I pulled into town, and both pie cafés had big CLOSED signs in their windows. Whether because it was Sunday or because of the holiday weekend, I didn’t know. But I was doubly frustrated because, while I would certainly have enjoyed a little mid-morning pie break, I was also hoping to get a little local poop about the roads south of there.
As I sat there, staring at the closed cafés, a man in a pickup drove up and called out to me: “They’re closed!”
No shit, Sherlock.
I asked him if he knew what I might expect on the next section of dirt road.
“Mud,” quoth he.
“Greasy mud,” he elaborated. “You best not be in a hurry.”
I assured him that I wasn’t, and thanked him for the info. Then I turned south onto the next section of the trail.
My hope was to get through this section of dirt to the next paved highway, and then ride on pavement for a while, as the following section was one that I had been warned about by the two guys I met near Platoro the day before.
Things started out well. But after about 15 miles or so the road got increasingly muddier, until I hit a section of deep, sticky mud, which started enveloping my tires and threatening to fill the space between the rubber and the fender. A couple more revolutions and I would have been well and truly stuck. I looked ahead, and as far as I could see was a sea of mud. Sigh. This wasn’t going to work. It was time to turn around.
So I tried to do just that. But the mud was so slippery that I lost my footing during the turn, and the bike flopped over into the quagmire.
It was about at this point that the deer and the antelope at play may have heard a discouraging word.
To say that it was not an easy task to lift the bike out of the muck is the understatement of this report. My boots had about as much grip as they would have had on ice. But after much struggle and choice words I finally got it upright and faced in the right direction. Then I slowly duck-walked back onto more solid ground, where I had to stop and scoop out all the mud that had been flung into the space between the engine and bash plate by my front wheel.
Anybody got a trowel?
Boy, I was sure having fun now.
Eventually I made it back onto the paved highway, and after staring at my maps for a while, had to admit defeat. The section south of the place I had just tried to cross was reportedly impassible. And I had to think that the arroyos and washes farther south would be filled with running water or deep, gluey mud. There was no point in repeatedly attempting further sections of dirt road, and traveling 15 or 20 miles down them only to be faced with another impenetrable obstacle. The monsoon was in full swing. And even though each morning brought clear skies, the roads never had a chance to completely dry out before the next afternoon downpour re-wetted the surface. I had been whupped by New Mexico’s sticky goo. There was really no getting around it. I was going to have to finish the trail on tarmac.
Still, I wanted to reach the border before I turned for home, so I decided to ride down to Antelope Wells, take a picture and maybe get my passport stamped again, and then point the bike in a north-westerly direction. Maybe take the scenic route home, since I reached the end of the trail well ahead of schedule.
FTFF. But it could have been worse, I guess.
Total miles so far: 3275.8
Miles, Day Nine: 367.6
Day Ten — Lordsburg, NM to Flaggstaff, AZ
So, I did make it to the border.
Actually, just beyond the border and into Mexico. I got a stamp from the friendly U.S. border guards, but the young guy manning his isolated post on the Mexican side of the border didn’t seem the least bit interested in what this stupid gringo was up to, and with a dismissive wave of his hand sent me back to El Norte. No biggie. I have photo documentation.
I also have photo documentation of being pulled over by the Border Patrol on my way back up to I-10. It seems one of them noticed me suspiciously racing toward the border and then returning just as quickly north after a brief interlude. Apparently I had drug courier written all over me, so he pulled me over and asked to see the contents of my panniers. But once satisfied that I was just some loon on a motorcycle, he graciously allowed me to take a picture of his and his backup’s trucks (but not of either of them!).
Your tax dollars at work
Thus cleared, I turned toward home.
I had scanned my maps the night before to see if I could find some roads that A) I had not ridden on before, and 2) were designated as scenic. And Bingo! Highway 191 through eastern Arizona fit the bill perfectly. And it sure didn’t disappoint.
First, soon after joining it near Clifton, I passed the biggest open pit copper mine I had ever seen. I mean this was some freaking big-ass hole in the ground, and went on for miles and miles.
Then the road wound it’s way more than 4,000 feet up into the mountains in a very short distance, twisting and turning like an M. C. Escher corkscrew. And it continued twisting and turning for almost 100 miles.
It may not have been the most curvaceous road I’ve ever been on, but it most certainly was the longest curvaceous road I’ve ever been on. Way fun. But I almost had motion sickness by the time I reached Springerville.
My original plan was to try to get to Kingman, Arizona at the end of the day. But I saw that I was going to pass near the Petrified Forest Nat. Park and the Painted Desert, so I veered north and truncated my final destination, choosing Flagstaff instead. Well worth the veerage, not to mention the truncation.
The Painted Desert
I mean, how can I be certain that I'm ever going to pass this way again?
My plan for the next day was to try to get as far as Tonopah, Nevada (via the Extraterrestrial Highway), where you can get the world’s best Chile Rellenos.
No, really! In Tonopah!
Total miles so far: 3857.2
Miles, Day Ten: 581.4
Day Eleven — Flaggstaff, AZ to Tonopah, NV
Jeebus! It was 101°F when I crossed over Hoover Dam just before noon, and the wind was blowing so hard that I almost fell over as I inched along behind the gawping tourists. In Las Vegas the winds were even stronger, and the thermometer on my bike maxed out at 105°F. I felt dessicated.
Hoover Dam
This was not the time of year to be riding through the Nevada desert. I had my Safari cooling vest on, and must have swilled 3 quarts of water. I even passed up the opportunity to ride the Extraterrestrial Highway again. There just didn’t seem to be any good reason to spend an extra 40 minutes in this heat.
I didn’t pass up the Chile Rellenos at El Marques Restaurant when I finally pulled into Tonopah for the night, though.
Yum!
Total miles so far: 4338.7
Miles, Day Eleven: 481.5
Day Twelve — Tonopah, NV to Ashland, OR
So, it did cool down considerably on the final day of this ride. In fact, it never even reached 80°F. And I was all geared up for another day in the broiler. Ah well. I wasn't complaining.
I did get to ride the Pole Line Road between Tonopah and Gabbs that morning, something that I’ve been wanting to do for some time. It cuts about 40 miles off the distance between Tonopah and Reno, and takes you out into the really empty part of Nevada, a state that pretty much defines empty.
Pole Line Road
Upon making it to Highway 50 (The Loneliest Road in America), I noticed that the famous “shoe tree” was just a few miles to the east, and that this bike hadn’t had its picture taken in front of the tree, so a small detour was in order.
The Shoe Tree
Having accomplished that task, there was pretty much nothing left of this journey but to travel over very familiar roads back to my home in Ashland. And that’s just what I did.
My wife was still at work when I got home, so I had to settle for the excited leaping about and sloppy kisses from two old dogs for my homecoming ceremony. But that’s not a bad thing. And once my very patient and understanding spouse came home soon thereafter, I got to rediscover once again what a lucky man I am.
I swear, I’ll never go awandering again!
(Until next time)
Total miles: 4846.2
Miles, Day Twelve: 506.9