Riding the Grand Canyon’s Rugged Perimeter, A Dirtbike Expedition

 

Pre-ride story:  For almost a decade since about 2003, we have been riding motorcycles all over remote trails on the Baja Mexico peninsula, Baja Norte as the Mexicans call it.  Let me tee this up to salt the readers sense of adventure: Our so called “trail rides” were dirt bike excursions of 50 miles which was about the range we could ride on one tank of gas and if you are really sharp at math, that was 25 miles out and 25 miles back.  Eventually, we were riding 250 miles on Saturday and 250 miles back on Sunday for a total of 500 miles.  I hope my math checks out.

Since any Grand Canyon story will tell you about eons of history, here is a quick excursion into our history of how we came to ride this famous hole in the ground.

When our boys were in middle school, we started dirt bike riding in California’s OHV areas.  OHV or Off Highway Vehicle area is basically similar to an Indian Reservation, some dusty out of the way desert set aside where motorcycles could not ‘damage’ the environment too much.  90 square miles may sound like a big area but it got to the point where we could ride it in an hour or so.  Looking for more adventure, we started riding in the forbidden country of Mexico in 2003.  Due to various bad guy reports, tourists have been convinced that Mexico just was not safe anymore.  (Reports of decapitated heads being tossed into night clubs tend to do that.) 

 

Since it wasn’t in our plan to take 12-year-olds to night clubs, we snuck into Baja through the smaller town called Tecate.  The areas we rode in the Baja frontier was so remote, we could ride all day and see less than a handful of other people. 

 

What made Baja special was it was wide open and full of nothing but trails and dirt roads.  No one cared where you went.  The full of nothing part is really one of the reasons why most refuse to ride there.  In the states, we have become so accustomed to the hand holding.  Ask anyone who enjoys the outback and they will tell you they have an expectation that if you press a little button, a helicopter will show up and fly you to safety.

 

In Baja, there’s no handholding, so if you grew up flying with a safety net, flying without one is uncomfortable.  Not to disparage any seemingly weak soles, riding in Baja would drive me nuts making the mental adjustment. Probably even more so as a dad riding with my son.

 

 Here are some great examples. In Mexico, there are no road markers telling you where you are at. Even if there was cell phone service, no one was there to call for help.  As we rode through little dirt road towns, we could see the emergency services.  There’s always one dusty pickup truck marked ‘Policia’ parked in front of a white cement building.  Some sort of assurance to the locals that lawlessness also lived in the town.  If there was a fire truck or ambulance, the windows would be covered in dust.  The poor vehicle was a picture of hope.  Hope that someone would eventually arrive and install the missing wheels.  Make no mistake, if someone in your group was hurt, it was your buddies that were brining you home.

 

As they say safety in numbers, we would invite others and at times we had about a dozen guys.  Practically though, the saying was not true as we found the smaller the group, the smoother things actually went.  In Baja, just as the last guy got suited up, we would have the safety talk.  Depending on who gave “the talk,” it went something like this, “Listen up. It’s not safe down here.  There are no cell phones.  There’s no helicopter if you get hurt.  Some people have died down here.  You’re responsible for the guy riding behind you.  Every turn you stop. Make sure you see your guy.  Signal the direction to go then you can ride again.  Don’t forget there’s always the chance of head-on traffic.  Don’t cut your corners that you can’t see around.”  We would finish with, “Don’t ride fast!”

Well, sometimes we would ride slow.  Mostly at the start.  Mostly through the little dirt road towns.  Mostly up the steep hills… as in a place where a horse would struggle to walk. But if we are really talking mostly, mostly riding slow was not very fun so we mostly rode fast.  How fast is fast?  Hmm let’s say you were driving down a residential street with cars parked on both sides.  There’s a speed at which you would tell someone, “Slow down.”  We were always riding that fast and more down tiny little dirt trails that were neither straight nor flat.  If it was a jeep trail, we rode faster.  If it was a legit dirt road, we rode as fast as you may go on the freeway.  Our so-called freeways were lined with sage brush the size of cars, cactus, and boulders.  Oh, it looks artistic in a photo but really, there was misery to pay if you ended up departing the road or trail.

 

All in all, we survived pretty well.  It was our reckless irresponsible friends that went home with some broken bones.  Why worry about headless bar patrons when we were our own source of danger??  Everyone, including the motorcycle they rode, eventually make it home.  I don’t want to focus too much on the bad part although that makes for a good story. Really,

 

Mexico is full of a lot of nothing.  Beautiful nothing.  The sunsets were spectacular.  One Spring ride, there were so many flowers in bloom the air smelled like maple syrup and the hills were covered in a yellow orange blanket.

 

Still, as good as the Baja Frontier was to us, we dreamed of finding similar riding in the United States 

 

I suspect by now the curious listener is contemplating, “What kept them from being smart and riding in the States?”   

 

It fancies to be a reasonable question a mature person would ask and sets up a nice transition into my favorite saying, “The only difference between stupidity and bravery is really in the outcome.”  So, to answer the question, the outcome of our rides typically was a feeling of being brave in the face of some crazy adventures.  You will have to visit some of those crazy adventure stories that I have recorded but for now let’s get to the Grand Canyon.

 

Imagine our excitement when we finally met a guy in the summer of 2011 who had ridden around the Grand Canyon 850+ miles on an Adventure Bike in five days.  He saved the GPS route and was willing to share it with us.  Of course, not wanting to waste valuable vacation time, we decided to only make it a 4-day ride.  After all, we were bad @ss Baja Mexico riders and he had done it on a “lesser” bike.  Adventure Bikes were basically big street going motorcycles that had some dirt holding capability so suitable for riding graded dirt roads.  We were on dirt bikes which had evolved to a radical motor on a light frame with knobby wheels and 14 inches of travel.

 

As the Grand Canyon dream kindled into the thought of an epic adventure, there was a detail that we may have only lightly considered, none of us had ever downloaded a GPS track and followed it for more than 8 miles, let alone 850 miles!  Still, our dreams were bigger than the reality so we started planning the ride. 

 

Once we had the GPS track file, we turned into little kids trying to get this nugget of knowledge to yield its secret.  Of course, there is nothing more tech clumsy than a bunch of old men staring through glasses at several forms of software that are “easy” to work with.  At one point, I simply needed to click one button to finish down loading the map to my GPS but I could not figure out what that button was.  We broke the tech wall down finally, not with the stealthy swiftness that a kid may have, but using the Russian method of just keep bashing and something is bound to give way.

 

After much hacking, we edited the route to 4 days and loaded it to 3 different GPS’s.  We were set.   Our group mantra was, “What could possibly go wrong?”  To improve our odds of actually being able to use our GPS, I created a training run that we could use near our houses.

 

Local routes were created for each of the three GPS’s so that we could practice our navigation skills in the streets around our houses.  Editing this story ten years later, I can see that I should explain the early GPS.  Each of us had some different model.  All of them had a screen smaller than a playing card.  There was no active internet connection so you’re stuck with the route loaded before the ride.

 

After a bit more planning, some reassurances over a few beers that we could easily do this, we set a date to ride during the springtime of 2012.

 

Preride prep is usually left to each rider.  To our credit, it is a symbiotic excellence that we have perfected (okay that may be a stretch but I would say we were pretty darn good at it in that we all seem to arrive with not too much stuff and yet just enough to collectively be able to fix anything, well, almost anything.  The final headcount on circumnavigation was four riders.

 

The Story of Four; 

Yes, there was four of us going.  None of our sons.  Tim Brown, six foot plus, he had the stature of a retired pro baseball player.  Tim, a gentleman’s gentleman and a Navy Corpsman or ship’s doctor.  Always a handy talent on a high stakes adventure.  Stu Markey, a retired Navy commodore who was always pushing the table stakes on adventure.  Stu’s nephew, Carl Liptak.  A nighthawk helicopter pilot.  I think he really wasn’t supposed to be on a trip like this.  The Navy wouldn’t have liked him taking all this risk and screwing up their pilot investment.  And myself, out of humility, I would label myself as the planner, the thinker, the check valve. Trying to make sure we had our fun but got back home too.

 

Into Tim’s 4x4, we loaded up four motorcycles, four gear bags, four guys, loaded to head out for four days of unsupported riding.  Leaving at 4 PM, we drove 400 miles to Mesquite NV.  As we were arriving into town after dark, the skyline was painted with the eerie light of a brush fire. We could see it for miles as we drove the highway into town.  It reminded me of superstitious sailors of old.  Sailors were full of salty laws to predict the seas of tomorrow’s sails.  A desert fire painting the night’s darkness could easily be seen as a mythical sign warning off adventurers getting ready to sail off into a great expanse of sage brush and rock.  The car was unusually quiet as we drove into town.

 

The hotel was nicely situated up on a little hill overlooking a beautiful valley punctuated with the beacon of consumerism, a giant Walmart sign.  Considering that we were still in Nevada, the illuminated signs were as big as houses themselves.  It was somewhere after 8 PM, and since we had not eaten dinner, we headed off to a casino for some good eats.  Usually, the buffet is the hot ticket but ordering from the menu seemed to take precedence this time. 

 

With full stomachs, we head back over to the comfy hotel and immediately hit the hay.

 

 

 

Setting Sail for the Painted Desert

 

The sun was up early.  Jim and Stu were up next.  Luckily the hotel had a free breakfast.  Jim made it down for coffee and cereal.  The others trickled in searching for a hot cup that would spark things up a bit.

 

Back in our rooms, we got all quietly suited up in our off-road gear.  Each person double checking everything for the big ride ahead.  Our backpacks loaded with all the stuff needed to ride for four days straight.  Each person’s pack, regardless of its size, is stuffed to the point of barely getting the zipper shut.  Mine weighed about 40 pounds.  Most of the weight comes from the precious water that becomes a life source in the desert, there were also several pounds in tools, spare tires, a tire pump, parts, dry clothes, shoes, some food, and anything else that we could think we might need.  The pack is supplemented with a fanny pack that carries 1^st aid and survival goodies.  Just think, when I was a kid, safety gear was a good pair of Levis and maybe a military quart canteen!

 

After getting all of this together, we gathered it all up and headed for the elevators.  we strolled in slow motion out of the elevators into the lobby, trying to act cool, all the time hoping we looked like some serious bad guys out of an old spaghetti western.

 

We strolled out into the parking lot, unloaded the dirt bikes from Tim’s giant truck and started them all up.  The nervous energy clouded by the smoke rising into the air.  Who could miss us?  Moms picked up their little kids and whisked them off to the safety of the lobby.  Men walked out of their way to avoid us.  That’s right, bad to the bone. 

 

After months of preparing, days of planning, hours of talking, all this time getting all this stuff ready, we swung our legs over the bikes and looked around.  Time to ride!  I swear I heard the village church bell ring slowly.  A gust of dry wind blew a tumbleweed in front of us with only a hint of dust revealing the invisible hand pushing leaves out ahead of it.

 

Perhaps the biggest dilemma of the whole trip was about to dawn on us.  Perhaps the biggest dilemma that we had ever encountered moto riding.  Everyone turned and looked at me.   Where do we start?   In all our years of riding, we had never had this problem of not knowing where the ride began.  It could have been in this lot; it could have been on the other side of town.   All we knew was that we were starting in Mesquite.  In fact, in a moment of soberness, it occurred to us that we knew nothing about where we were going on this ride except there was a Grand Canyon in the middle of the ride. 

 

We shut off our engines.  The parking lot grew quiet again.  So, we started pushing buttons on this little miracle of electronic navigation called a GPS.  It was so tiny.  The font impossible to see with goggles on.

 

The GPS was a genie in a bottle.  Just give it a rub and tell us where to go!   Getting a GPS is like eating from the forbidden tree.  It gave us knowledge yet it was both good and evil.  Good, in that, we could boldly set out on an 850 mile off road ride without ever having been there before.  Evil, in that, it sucks you in and starts to control your mind!  Everyone says the same thing, I got a GPS and before I knew it, instead of enjoying the scenery of the ride, I was staring at a little line on a little screen making sure that we were not getting lost.

 

For this ride, we had to live with the devil that we knew.  With a series of zooming in and out, we spotted the colored line signifying our bread crumb for the next four days.  And like Hansel and Gretel, we found out that Tim never loaded the map onto his GPS.  Well, we still had two GPS, Stu and mine, for navigation.  Happily, our starting line appeared to be less than 3 miles from our hotel.

 

Two blocks from the hotel was a beautifully remodeled traffic circle.  There were caution signs everywhere, fresh paint with arrows, yield signs proclaiming the traffic circle, several guys leaning on brooms watching us make our way around the circle.  In a moment, no more than 4 minutes into the ride, Carl was on the ground.  It seems that the guys leaning on the brooms were supposed to sweep away the reflective sand that just was sprinkled on the paint.  The sand was like ball bearings and Carl’s moto slipped right out from underneath him.  Carl wasn’t hurt. We got the bike scooped up and continued on past the guys who were clueless that their brooms could have prevented the slip.  Motorcycle riders are not a superstitious bunch but a crash this early in the ride, maybe that is not the best way to start 850 miles.

 

Within another 10 minutes, we were comforted in the fact that we reached the start of our ride.  Despite the underwhelming look of it, we approached the point where a little colored line appeared on the GPS screen.  A bit of relief to see that now we were onto something.  A bit of anxiety too, who knew if we were going to be able to navigate this tiny little line 850 miles? 

 

The little line had us turn left from a two-lane road and then a right onto a dirt road.  The dirt road looked like any number of little dirt roads that peel off into the desert.  There was no “Grand Canyon Ahead” sign.  In fact, there were no clues at all that it was the start of an epic adventure except maybe for a few scattered plastic bags snagged out of their free flight through the hot and dusty desert.

 

Down the unassuming road we traveled, we were happy and settling into finally having dirt under our wheels.  As we cleared a rise in the dirt, we could see the road made a bee line straight towards the brush fire that tortured the previous night’s sky. We rode past a fire truck parked next to a fence.  We could see a few firefighters kicking up their heels and soaking in the truck’s air conditioning.  We were not sure if they would stop us or not so we gave a healthy wave as we coasted on past.  Once clear of the truck we were back on the throttles, the speed climbing back up to 50 Mph.  The road came to a fork.  Going right sent us to the fire and left towards a range of mountains on the horizon.   The little GPS line made a slight break to the left so we veered left and departed the burning desert.

Whizzing down the road, the mountains got closer.  We were traveling up the alluvial plain but the mountains were not giving any clue as to the location of a pass to weasel our way through.  As we approached closer, finally the road started a gradual bank like a plane turning for approach.  It veered right and started up the left side of a canyon.  After a few scenic turns up the canyon, the road tired of that and started climbing steeply away from the canyon floor.  We climbed up a nicely graded dirt road and finally hit our first sign indicating that we were on a legitimate marked road.  The marker was a welcome assurance that our GPS was possibly to be trusted.  A few more miles of climbing and we passed another sign.  A rather ominous sign forewarning of a remote area with no services for miles and miles and miles.  Finally, our road hit the summit and we peeked over the range down into a valley that lived up to the promise of being remote.  We all stopped and just admired the sight.  This is exactly what we came for, even if we only had a chance to ride another 10 miles down the canyon and then go back, it would have been worth all the planning and cost.  We ‘snapped’ off a few photos of this perfection that God had created.  (There really wasn’t any snapping.  I had a digital camera that I kept handy it didn’t make a clicking noise.)

 

Just like the climb up one side, the road reversed itself as a tiny steep run-down hill into our picture-perfect valley and finally flowing out into a high plain.  The road ran a straight line across the plain spooling out in front of us like a tan ribbon cut through sage brush as high as our shoulders.   We ran the throttles up again and were enjoying an air speed of 60+MPH.  The road shot through a gate which was well behind us in 30 seconds.  It couldn’t have been a minute but then I looked down at my GPS and saw our little bread crumb falling way at a 90-degree line from the screen.  I cut my throttle and jumped on the radio, “I think we just missed a turn according to the GPS.  Can anyone confirm?”

 

Stu came back almost right away, “My GPS shows a 90-degree turn.” 

 

‘Whew’ I thought.  Not that I was pleased that we missed the turn but pleased that our GPS’s were telling the same story.  Up until this point, there were no random turns. We were following a very worn trail.   In fact, it was amazing that we did not even register in our minds that there was a viable turn we missed.  Once we all got turned around, we kept one eye on the GPS and one on the road.  Stu’s voice came through on the radio, “Left turn ahead 100 ft” which was a relief because I was still not trusting in this little colored line.

Once we punched back through the gate opening, the GPS indicated a hard turn.  Sending a Scout out like the pioneer days, we determined that there really was a little road weaving down the fence line.  The road had seen very little use and there were little sage bushes growing into the road every where.  With some balance, we wobbled through what felt like a lost road.  After a piece, the road and the GPS line took a turn east and now we were headed once again parallel to the main dirt road to our left by 2 or 3 miles.  As it turned out, our scrawny road finally created a prodigal’s path back to the same road that we detoured off.  Despite the awkward detour, it served a valuable training exercise in GPS navigation for the group.  At the main road we stopped, I asked Tim if his GPS was giving the same navigation information.  He matter of factly said, “No. My GPS was never working quite right.”

“Whaddya mean, ‘Not quite right.’?” I asked.

“I did not get the route to load up.” Tim said.

I tried to put out of my mind how they got the phrase, “DEAD Reckoning.”   

 

Looking around, we were in some vast valley.  Even though living in San Diego is beautiful, it is a rumpled geography with little canyons and hills.  The road that we were on stretched out ahead as far as the eye could see and looking the other direction the road came from someplace that could not be seen either.  Despite the remoteness, the road was about three lanes wide and well traveled.  Occasionally, there was a sign that indicated a few destinations that could be reached but the mileage let you know that it wasn’t simply the next exit, the closest destination was over 30 miles away.  In fact, there was no indication at all which direction of travel would bring you to the closest town with gas or food.  If you broke down and had to walk, it would take a whole day to find out that the destination may just be an abandoned Indian Schoolhouse.  Other than a corral for herding cattle, the whole valley was full of scattered sage brush.  …and it was so quiet, the light breeze was really the only noise to be heard. It was April and perfect weather.  The air temperature was in the 70s yet the sun was beaming unobstructed through clear blue skies.  Words on paper fall grossly short of the grand scene and a two-dimension photograph would not do the eye any better justice of the panoramic view. 

 

It was getting close to high noon.  We were eager to arrive at our lunch destination, a place called BAR 10 ranch.

 

We started riding again.  We buzzed down the main dirt road.  We were probably going at a leisurely 65 miles an hour there was no hurry.  It was still the morning of the first day.  Despite all the motor and wind noise, no one said a thing over the radios.  If you ask enough questions of adventure riders, they will all tell you that the best part is the cruising.  There is not a care running through your mind.  The speed keeps your attention yet the sights just keep stealing more and more of your imagination.

 

I felt like singing, “Home on the Range” over the radio but we were going so fast it would have come through the headsets as a nuisance.  We settled into the ride, each one of us shooting white plume of dust backward like a crazy rocket whipping along the ground.

 

Eventually there was a detour off the main dirt road.  The road played out the same story again as our exit from the last valley.  There was a five-mile swooping right turn dropping off below us.  There was another trail leading off to the left for miles.  Either direction could have been the right way to go if we did not have our planned route.  For sure, going straight was not an option as there was another range of hills fencing us in.  We swooped around the loop to the right and then swooped back to the left.  Our road settled into more of a trail and started its steep climb into the mountains.  We rode into the first “technical” spot of our journey.  “Technical” usually means ‘hard,’ sometimes “difficult,” and even “impossible.”  But this pitch was a rocky steep section and the road climbed up and over bed rock and then onto a road that was cut narrowly into the side of the mountain with a rocky valley a few hundred feet below.  I looked over the side trying to catch a glimpse of an old wagon or jeep that may have gone over the side.  Eventually the road mellowed out as it arched over the top of the range and then started a technical drop down the side of a tight canyon.  At one of the hair pin turns, I quickly stopped and whipped out my camera to shoot up at the riders coming down this steep mountain goat road. 

There is a rule in adventure riding.  ‘Never go down a hill that you cannot go up.”  For obvious reasons, it was a decent and reasonable rule.  But like all rules, it was easy to break. Sometimes the road just keeps getting steeper and steeper.  This scrawny road was approaching the point at which it would be difficult just to turn around and impossible to reverse course and go back up.  Let’s hope things get better and the GPS trail smooths out.

In short order the box canyon did yawn open and revealed a view of another valley.  The GPS announced that our lunch stop, the BAR 10 RANCH was somewhere ahead in this valley.  Our eyes scanned the road was we settled into the valley.  What we thought was a ranch turned out to be just some work structures.  We buzzed past those and headed down canyon.  A final jaunt through a fence and we could see our lunch stop waiting.

 

BAR10

Bar 10 was also our first gas stop; we were advised to call ahead to make sure that they had gas for sale. So earlier in the week I Googled BAR10.  They had a great website marketing a fancy dude ranch. It even looked like a great place to bring the family sometime.  You know, romantic home on the plains.  Riding horses lazily around dusty trails. Getting the irons hot and punching doggies.  Well at least burning some leather belts.  The web site said BAR10 was a cattle ranch. In fact, at the bottom of each web page, it bragged about the grass-fed beef. Naturally, since we rolled into the Bar 10 around noon, we were thinking of getting lunch for us and gas for the moto’s too! The ranch was situated a few miles from the Grand Canyon edge.  They made a healthy living from rafters that did not want to ride the river another four days.  About 12,000 people went through Bar10 to get out of the canyon per year!  Even though it was close to the river, it was more than an hour’s drive from just about anything else. The ranch was the only civilization that we would see on Day One until dinner. To say we were craving a nice big grass-fed beef burger for lunch would be an understatement.   Bar 10 was situated on the high side of a mile wide valley.  It was an oasis of green trees and grass in the midst of brown fields.  The dining room looked out over the valley as it dropped away toward the Grand Canyon.  There was a guy in jeans and a cowboy hat out power washing a few motorized quads.  We drove past him and headed up to a little dirt turn around drive way punctuated with a flag pole flying the stars and stripes. The main building was a two-story place anointed with a handful of mature trees spreading shade on the lawn below. There was a liberal amount of pleasing shade and a decent cool breeze to pull off the heat of the trail. It was a very comfortable oasis from the heat.

The first leg of our trip was meeting all our expectations. Good technical challenges. Beautiful vistas. Great weather. Everyone was relaxed and lazily taking their gear off.  We were in no hurry as the trip was smooth sailing to this point with very little wandering around.  I was starting to get used to the GPS navigation. The guy washing the gear didn't make a move to see if we needed anything. After five minutes, a woman came out of the main building.  Despite being the only other humans as far as the eye could see, I don't recall her being too particularly interested in our situation. I think she was out taking care of a chore. Tim and I flagged her down and struck up a conversation starting with the usual greetings and adulations. Finally, we got down to business.

“Is it possible to get some gas and something to eat?"

"Oh, I will call that fellow over and be will get you some gas.”  She paused, “It's $6 a gallon."

We soberly replied, "Sure no problem". "Can we get something to eat?"

And then she casually said, “Oh the kitchen isn't open right now." like we should have known it.

Her reply didn’t make any sense on several levels. I checked my watch thinking maybe we were still here too early however a quick glance showed it was half past noon. "When will it open?" I asked.

"We only open the kitchen for groups staying here." she said matter of fact.  "But we can make you sandwiches..."

In a moment, a ray of hope glimmered but she shattered that by adding, “for $27."

"Oh, okay we will think about it. Thanks"

She turned and walked back into the main building.  Tim and I looked at each other. "Did she mean $27 for 4 sandwiches or each "? Tim said that he would go in and ask her. A few moments later he returned and briefly said "$27 each!"

“Whoa!” I said.  “I think I will have a Powerbar.”

 

The gasoline actually was easier than a sandwich. We all topped up our tanks with the precious liquid. Paying double sure beats walking. But paying triple for sandwiches that's just too much.

We all rode back over to the main house to pay for the gas. The main house had a nice sized restaurant which was empty.   We walked into a well stocked general store. T-shirts supplies all kind of snacks. The cold sodas looked good but I think no one wanted to pay $1.50 for a 0.50 soda.

"So, you guys want me to defrost some cold cuts?" she asked with a straight face.

 

I suppose she must have suckered others into this but we were used to getting dozens of Mexican tacos for a few dollars. We doggedly declined her offer.  Looks like it was going to be an energy bar lunch. 

 

We ate some snacks and sucked down on our drinking systems.  Our first lunch on this trip was turning into something closer to a snack than lunch.  It hardly did our hungry bodies justice. 

 

We suited back up and started to prepare to navigate the next part of the trip.  As the navigator, there was something nagging at my logical part of my noggin.  The next part of the trip had a few optional tracks.  Judging from the write-up, I had chosen the optional route.  Sewing the route, the pictures, and the story into one clear navigable trip was a bit of a guess.  My notes showed that the next stop was Toroweep and the route to Turnbull School house was “fun.”  It was a guess as to which order these were to be taken and an even bigger guess as to what “fun” meant.

 

So, we left the dust of Bar 10 behind us and followed the GPS little green line weaving its way up onto a ridge above us.  The first part of the trail was clearly on the ATV route that the ranch used.  It climbed uphill and we kept running into sections that were littered with rocks all about the size of stuff from my kids’ ball box.  The rocks slowed our speed down because we kept making sure that we were dodging the rocks bigger than softballs.  The trail got steeper and less used.  Stu radioed that he was getting tired of bouncing off the rocks.  At first, we made a joke of it, “Yah, Stu doesn’t like rocks, and sand, and whoops, and hills, and…”  We were climbing into the Kaibab national forest.  The pine trees on the side of the trail got thick.  Trying to be positive, I announced over the radio that it looked like the rocks were thinning out.  I knew in an instant that that was a sure way to bring more rocks down upon us.  The trail hit a 75 yard straight away and then banked into a turn and then steeply went up a mile stretch that was littered with rocks.  It was impossible to ride.  The only thing that worked was momentum and luck.  Every rock bounced the front wheel pointing in a direction that the rider was not hoping to go.  I just knew it was going to be a calamity.  Somewhere around the halfway point, I found a little flat in the road to stop my bike.  Looking over my shoulder, I saw motorcycles strewn all over the trail.  Carl somehow managed to get his bike running and underway from a dead stop.  He came pinballing past me.  I don’t think he dared to stop again.  I heard his motor grinding its way up the hill.  I hoped that he would bring a report of fair trails ahead.  Tim, who was 6 foot something, was aided by the fact that his legs could easily reach down either side of the bike and keep it upright as he bashed his way up.  His KTM was just begging for relief.  There were so many rocks, it was difficult just to stand up. Somehow Stu got his bike up on the kickstand.  As I hiked down to his bike, he used the electric starter to get the motor going again. Even with me pushing, the bike was going no where.  The rear wheel was stuck in a crag and just was spinning out.  The radiator sounded like a coffee percolator getting ready to blow.  After a few attempts, the bike puked antifreeze out the back of the overflow tank splashing the green cocktail onto the rocks.  Everyone was spent. The both of us wrestled the moto back down to the corner hoping to find a good run at the rocks.  By now, the 7000 ft elevation was getting to us. Even though we had our helmets off, we were hot. Sweating like pigs, and getting frustrated.  Sizing it up, there was less than ten yards of steep trail before the rocks started up.  There was no chance at getting any momentum in that short of a run.  Stu sat down.  I decided to push his bike downhill farther to see if there was a better run.  Another 30 yards would do it.  I got the bike running.  Popped it into first gear and almost immediately popped it into second gear.  The cylinders bucked at the spurring with some serious pinging before the motor could build any rpm.  I rode into the corner as hot as I could.  The bike was clawing at the ground, snorting, kicking up dust, stumbling on rocks, trying to settle down and pick a line.  We were making ground and building speed but then the bike hit a rock that jerked the front in a direction that would end in a calamity.  I had to cut the throttle.  I was still hoping for a heroic show of pulling it off.  I waited anxiously for the bike to fall back into a better line. The bike was still losing its footing hunting on the high side of this scrawny road.  More power was useless, I already was working the engine so hard that there was more rock being shot backwards than the bike was moving forward. My hope was not paying off. The bike bucked more and it was hard to keep balance. I was breathing hard just holding the bridles.  In another moment and in defeat, all the momentum was lost. I pulled in the clutch, cut the throttle, and subconsciously hung my head down a bit.  The bike stopped in a plume of smoke, dust, and the smell of more coolant being puked on the ground.  I steadied the bike and killed the motor.  I could hear it crackling and wheezing from the sprint.  As I summed up my attempt at heroism, I noticed that I stopped in exactly the same spot Stu had climbed to before.  DRAT!

 

I mentally wrestled with another try or waving the white flag.  I was shot and Stu was sitting exhausted.  With no small effort, I hiked the 50 yards up to my motorcycle.  I got on the radio hoping to raise the others.  “Hey guys, we have to turn around.  There's no way we can come up.”  I know this meant that the others who had clawed up to higher spots would have to give up the hard-earned ground.  We regrouped and started back down the hill.  There still were the same rocks but gravity was on our side in this direction.  It was surprising to everyone exactly how far we made it up the hill.  For a moment, I questioned if we were still on the correct trail.  Fortunately, the GPS showed we were on track.  Eventually we were spit back out near the BAR10 ranch.  Now we had a problem of a different nature.  The GPS track had no Plan B! 

 

We reasoned that the Bar10 vehicles had to take tourist back to the highway somewhere.  We followed the most worn dirt tracks.  The GPS showed the trail distinctly.  However, if I tried to zoom out for perspective, all the little dirt roads disappeared.  It was frustrating. Finally, we stopped and I asked Tim to bust out his trusty AAA automobile club map.  The map was titled “Indian Lands of the West” or something like that.  Surprisingly it showed quite a bit of detail.  The map helped to dead reckon where we must be and then create an alternate route to get us back on track.  I located the only two landmarks I knew, Trumbull School house and Toroweep.  It turns out that the mess of a road that we tried to go up was called the “Doe and Buck” road.   Sounds about right. Nothing else would go up there to disturb them.  Bucks never show themselves on well traveled roads.

“It looks like we continue on this road until we run into the Schoolhouse and then we can loop back to Toroweep. It was now 2:30 PM We lost quite a bit of time wrestling the bikes up the last trail.  I think in everyone’s mind, they had already switched to the failsafe plan of going to the highway and riding pavement to our next stop in Fredonia. 

 

I said, “Toroweep is the best look out of the whole trip. We can’t head up to the highway.”

 

There was a spark of enthusiasm just enough to kindle the fire to go on.  It raised spirits to reach the Trumbull Schoolhouse in about 20 minutes.  The schoolhouse was a paradox in itself.  The actual school house was built for Indians.  It was the only structure in this large remote grass valley.  It was an honest to gosh parried school house.  There was a plaque there that read the actual house was burned down but this one was rebuilt to preserve history.  We looked at the house.  We looked back to the plaque and then to the house.  We shrugged our shoulders.  How disconnected that someone may drive 40 miles down a dirt road to see this historic place only to fine a replica.  Don’t get me wrong.  It was in good shape, well maintained by the national park system.  But still, it was hard to get over that it was a replica. Somehow, I doubt the Indian kids liked this one or the original one either.

 

We ate a quick snack and put on jackets.  There was finally a cool breeze, not much of a breeze and not enough to really need a jacket but it always gets colder riding at 50 MPH.

 

We rode out across the golden grassy plain towards the next set of hills. We passed a modern ranch and then the road started to climb.  It was a well graded road and snaked back and forth climbing into the hills.  Finally, it made sense, the original rider said that there was a “fun” section.  There was no way they meant the Doe and Buck Road   This road would be perfect for a bigger touring bike. 

 

It was a very pretty road too.  We weaved in and out of pine trees.  There is nothing like the smell of real pine trees.  On and on we went. It was almost hypnotizing.  I thought to myself, “What a perfect time for a cuppa coffee!”  The hypnotic effect was broken when the GPS showed a green line appearing on the horizon.  It signaled the intersection of the Doe and Buck Road.  As we sailed by, I glanced down it and wondered, how close were we to making it up the hill?  The thought faded as quickly as the road disappeared into the trees and off the GPS.

 

 

TOROWEEP

There actually are several spellings of this Indian word and probably even more ways to pronounce it.  But no matter what dialect you use, you have to go there.

 

The road spooled out of the mountains down into a valley where the US Forest and Parks had graded a handsome four lane dirt road, a waste of tax payers’ money when a simple two-lane road would be double the size of the lack of traffic way out here.  Stu was in the lead and is notorious for spinning up the throttle on the flat and fast stuff.  It must have been quite the site if you were standing in a spot to see us.  Just like the old cartoons, the four riders would have looked like one speck of dust pluming down the road.   Zipping along at 80 mph, we were actually spaced over a half mile total.  The lead rider had it great; no dust and only the noise of the wind.  Rider number two was in pretty good shape.  as long as rider one stayed riding in a straight line, Rider number two could queue up just off to the side and behind and enjoy a reasonably dust free ride.  Rider number three and four?  They were being barraged by an 80-mph blasting of dust.  If they were lucky, a strong cross wind would steal the dust out of the way before it could pound the last riders.

 

Since we were now in a National Forrest, the road signs were frequent and in perfect shape.  The signs announced our entry into the Toroweep National Park.  I got on the radio and warned the group that we were approaching the ranger station that was flashing on my GPS.  It was about 3 PM and other than BAR 10, we had not seen a soul all day long.  The road approached the Ranger Station straight on, it hooked to the right as we passed through the ranger’s front yard.  Since motorcycles are generally guilty until proven innocent, we tried to slink through like alley cats trying to avoid arousing the neighbor’s dog.  We made it through without even a bark.

 

Author note:  Skip the next paragraph to avoid my old man taxpayer rant.

Thinking we were almost there was a mistake as it was probably another six miles to the edge of the canyon.  The little signs increased in number.  These signs are almost disgusting.  After navigating over miles of dirt roads and hazards, here were these little brown US Forestry signs warning like big brother of goofy things like the next turn were sharp.  Don’t drive off road.  Keep your kids in the car. Whatever…  I suppose that if 1000 people visit a spot, there is bound to be that 1% who really do stupid stuff.  But did we really need to put a sign there for the One-Percenters?  Perhaps the epitome of ridiculousness is found at the cattle guard crossings.  Now let’s assume you were from the city and had never seen a cattle guard.  Basically, the cattle guard is there to replace a gate in the fence so that a person in the car does not have to get out and open and close the gate.  Instead, at the break in the fence where the road goes through, there is a deep ditch about 6 feet wide and then again as wide as the road’s width.  The ditch is covered over with a grating of some sort, usually some big pipes spaced just wide enough apart to get a cow’s hoof into.  The reasoning is that the cow or horse will not try to cross this spot where the footing is so precarious.  For a car, the spacing make a racket when you drive over but generally, it would not cause the car to slow down. On a motorcycle, it is just a bit more precarious, as if you slowed down and tried to ride over the pipes at an extreme angle, I suppose you could get a wheel stuck between the pipes.  Keep in mind, a cattle guard is hardly hidden since it big.  Just to be safe, each cattle guard has a sign warning of its approach 50 ft ahead.  Ok, maybe if you were speeding in the dark, this sign would help.  But here is the real kick in the head, each sign we saw had a new and smaller sign attached below saying: “Bicyclists Cross with Caution”

What then ????????  I don’t want to assume that someone in the government is actually thinking but exactly what was the thinking?  Let’s humor this thinking; a bicyclist decides they will ride to see Toroweep. They will have to cross about 50 miles of dirt road to get there.  Of those 50 miles, probably cross about 10 cattle guards.  Does the government actually think that this person would be surprised by seeing a cattle guard and not knowing what it was, ride straight into it and get stuck?  I am guessing that a person capable of riding a bicycle 50 miles on dirt has enough grit or smarts to cross a row of pipes.  Certainly, after the first guard, even the biggest rookie will instantly learn what this means.  The only conclusion we can be left with is that hanging the signs put a crew of people to work for a few months in the summer to install all these signs, a $500,000 project.

 

As we approached the end of the road, there was an unceremonious loop and dirt parking.  We could see that there was one car and 5 adventure type motorcycles.  “Drat!” someone beat us here!  Hee hee.  We parked and shut off our loud motors.  The only sound was a few groans as we swung our legs over the seat and stood on firm ground.  Looking around the place, it appeared rather ordinary and perhaps even, “Is this it?”   There were no crowds.  No fence.  We couldn’t even see the people that had beat us there.  It was a bit hot so we took the time to take of some of our packs and gear.  Walking from the lot in the direction of the canyon, there were several possible little walking trails, none of them revealing the primary direction previous visitors preferred.  Since we could still not see anything, we just started walking.  And then, the trail crested and clearly wandered over to a drop off and stopped.  No little One-Percenter sign. No sidewalk. No rail.  We proceeded to get closer to the edge and then the eye is deluged with the greatest expanse beyond comprehension.  Similar to having a bucket of water tossed at your face, whoosh!  Your mind tries to grasp what the eye is seeing.  Before the mind comprehends, instinct reacts.  We all either stood still or stepped back and everyone felt it in the pit of their groin.  Whoa! Now that is a big drop off! Someone said.

 

Like standing on the edge of a table, the firm earth just fell way to a tiny blue green ribbon, the mighty Colorado River almost a mile below.  There was no slope. No secondary ledge a little below. It was straight down.  The big chunks of rock that were the edge had nothing to rest on if they fell away.  There were fissures in the rocks leading up to the edge.  I contemplated, ‘What if today this edge slipped.  Another seven feet of edge just….swoop! Fell away?” 

 Each one of us took a turn testing our nerves by walking over to the rock’s edge.  Some got closer, some did not, but each one of us naturally assumed the same position, one foot forward rather than side to side.  It somehow felt safer that way. 

 

The Grand Canyon was vast.  It took some time to take it all in and really let the eye and the mind piece the complete expanse of it.  There was a slight warm breeze.  The sun already was starting to cast shadows on the walls of the canyon below.  A large bird would soar by and over the edge.  I wondered what feeling the bird got flying out over the edge of such a big drop off.  The thought made me think of sailing out over the edge.  It was a thought that was so off the charts that my brain refused to even think it through.  Holy cow, even a rock would have enough air time to think it was flying, that is before it hit the bottom. 

 

We were looking east and the setting sun was beaming on the wall of the opposite side of the canyon.  Finally, we started taking pictures of each other at the canyon’s edge.  A tiny speck appeared on the river and I said, ‘Hey look, a raft is headed down the river.” 

 

Stu said, “Time to get going!  Daylight is burning.”   

I said, “What’s another 5 minutes?”  but he was right.  It was 3:45 and we had another 75 miles of untold trails to ride before we reached our first hotel in Fredonia.

It was still warm but we put all our gear back on, kidney belt, ear plugs, back packs, helmet, goggles, gloves and got ready to roll. The group sensed the urgency of the sun setting and they all peeled out before I had all my stuff ready.  As I pulled out, I saw that the other adventure bikes were still there.  We only briefly saw the riders but did not get to ask where they were headed.  We slunk back past the ranger station but judging by Stu, Tim, and Carl’s dust, they wasted no time cranking the bikes up in speed, way past the posted 35 mph signs, most likely twice as fast.  As I crested the next rise, I only caught a slight glimpse of dust.  It didn’t make me feel very comfortable falling that far behind so I really had to ‘rail it’ to make up time.  If the lead group is going fast, the only way to make up time is not necessarily to ride faster but really to ride further into each turn and then brake hard.  Exiting the turn, roll hard onto the throttle moments before your mind says that the turn is straightening out.  Each acceleration, helped me gain on the group.  It was a little hairy but a little fun too once I got the feel of it.  At every speed, the motorcycle behaves a bit differently so slight adjustments in style make a big difference.  It’s the difference between plowing each corner and “railing” each corner (like the bike is on a rail).  I purposely played with it a bit to see the difference.  The rear disc brake is strong, so strong that I can stall the engine if I step on it without pulling in the clutch.  However, at 60 on a dirt road, the rear brake does nothing.  Grabbing the clutch to disengage the motor and simultaneously stepping on the rear brake harder and harder did nothing to slow me.  Eventually, the brake only got to the point that the rear wheel locked up which meant that one out of two of the wheels were sliding at 60 mph.  If I tried the same trick but used the front disc brake, the bike would dig its nose down like I pulled the bridle of the horse.  As you can imagine, the bike and the rider’s weight shifted forward adding more down force on the tire keeping it from locking up.  The whole effect was fun after practicing it a few times.  I could go from 75 to 40 mph in less time than you could say, “Whoa Nelly!”  So now I could safely go much faster at a turn, slam on the front brake, ride into the turn at a very comfy speed.  With a little practice, I could start twisting the throttle hard before the exit too.  At speed there are only two limiters (kinda important ones) One: making sure there was not so much power to the rear wheel that it wanted to spin and come around, rear wheels are not meant to be front wheels. Two:  Make sure that I didn’t run out of turn before the turn ran out.  What I mean by that is that the faster the bike goes, the more it wants to go straight rather than turn.  Sometimes, it looks like the turn is straightening out but it starts to turn more.  That is a problem. 

 

If all this tech talk bores you just consider this, I was having great time.  If there was a little rise, I could get the front end into the air.  Not really something that is everyday feeling at 70 mph.  Finally, I started to see dust.  Soon I was riding in dust. After 15 minutes, just when I caught up, someone suggested that we stop.  After the break, Tim took sweep again which was unfortunate for him.  Not only because of the dust but somewhere in the time he rode sweep for 30 minutes, his tool pouch fell off the back of his bike.  If he was not in sweep, there was a good chance that someone would have spotted it.  Alas, it was gone and there was no sense in doubling back a possible 30 minutes.  What a bummer, Day One and $100 bucks of tools lost.

 

We were now riding across a high plain.  These dirt roads were in pretty good shape.  Over the hill and around a turn, a great cloud of dust was ahead.  It was a cattle truck full of cattle going about 50 mph in the same direction we were going and it was just packing the dust into the air.  Each one of us had to take turns over taking the truck.  Hanging back just far enough to see that it was safe and then speeding into the dust storm to punch trough and pass along on side.  It was “sporty” as we say.

 

Once past the truck, the road straightened out.  I mean straight as if someone snapped a line on the ground and then graded it.  We cranked it up to maximum comfort speed somewhere below 80 mph.  The problem was that this strung the group out considerably.  There was no wind to whisk away the dust so each rider had to hang farther and farther back.  We must’ve stretched out about three miles easy between the very front and the back.  We blasted along like this for almost an hour.  Dirt bikes are not too comfortable at this speed.  There is no wind screen to push the air over the rider.  80 mph wind creates a noise so incredibly loud; we have to put in the same ear plugs required for working on jack hammers.  The wind was trying to yank my helmet off my head and every few moments I would pull it back down.  It’s impossible to tighten the chin strap with only one hand. 

 

After awhile, my throttle hand fell asleep. It is almost as bad as needing to itch your nose with both hands in a cast.  There is no way to give my righthand a break. The throttle has a spring return that instantly kills the gas with an equal effect to speed, which quite possibly would kill the rider since there are three other riders all heading up your back riding in the dust.    It is too dangerous to reach across the body with the left hand.  While it would look cool, it is probably not a good idea to rest my boot up on the handlebar either.  So, I am left with lifting a few fingers of my right hand off the throttle and hope the blood gets the feeling back to them.

 

We rode like dust rockets for an hour.   and then ……..the sun set.  In the desert, when the sun sets, it gets dark fast.  With the same speed the sun set, so did our own speed.  We couldn’t continue riding at 70 mph since the headlight beaming forward just gets sucked into the darkness.  Flat dirt roads and big fields are the worst since there really is nothing to reflect the headlight back to the rider.  The human eye loves change and it doesn’t work well when nothing changes. Try staring at a blank wall for a while, the sameness made it impossible to stay focused. Just staring at dark sky without anything for the headlight to shine on for more than a few minutes was blinding in a way. 

 

It was a different problem for any of the trailing riders.  Everyone behind the front rider has the exact opposite problem of seeing nothing.  Trailing riders see dust.  Lots of Dust.  Clouds of Dust.  It plays tricks on your mind.  Just like airplane pilots in the fog, the eye sees nothing.  The mind sees all sorts of things.  It was mentally draining to concentrate that much.

 

Tim was in #2 position and quickly figured out that it was better to ride side by side with me, the lead rider, rather than to hang out in the dust.   We were starting to get strung out so far that our radios would not reach the guys in the back.  After a full day of riding, this was not the casual restful finish we had dreamed up. 

 

The road droned on for 45 miles.  Eventually, a speck of light shown in the distance.  It arrested our attention.  In front of our eyes was solid black except for this single point of light. It flickered like a star and was twice as bright.  With such a great expanse, it was hard to tell how far away it was.  Who knew?  Maybe it was a giant prison in the desert but at a great distant all the light beams appeared as one.  Maybe it was closer and was a lonely street light hanging over water pump in the middle of a farm.  We no longer were looking at where we were going, we were mesmerized by the light.  Us and about 10 million flying bugs I suspect.  We were knocking off a mile a minute and every minute, the light just got brighter and brighter.  Finally, our eyes could focus on more than just the white part of the light.  From the evolving detail, we could make out that it was a billboard.  The billboard was more than a beacon of light, it signaled our arrival at the paved highway to Fredonia which was a big relief as this night riding was getting tiring.  Tim and I arrived at the highway first.  The other guys were so far behind that we started to worry a bit.  They were only ten minutes back but the darkness was impossible for their 65watt headlights to overcome.  We were all glad to have that punishment over with and turned our attention to the pavement.

 

We were happy to be on the highway.  Eventually we saw that Fredonia was 15 miles away.  We were tired and looking forward to a shower and dinner.  We had reservations at the “Grand Canyon Inn” it sounded like one of those cool route 66 motels.  Rolling up to the place, we were never so right.  It was an old motel.  Very cool looking neon sign.  Some very goofy ‘antiques’ out front.  There was an old British Phone booth contrasted with an old west wagon.  Stu, Tim, and I strolled into the “lobby.”  In a moment, Tim strolled right back out.  The screen door slammed behind him.  A quaint old gentleman in his late 70’s helped us.  Eventually, an older lady appeared, possibly his wife, and started helping too.  The place was stacked with junk.  They called it a museum.  There was a bunch of stuff from India mixed with American Indian arrows and pottery.  Two distinctly different “Indian” collections.  The dichotomy made me curious.  Ignoring the run-down conditions, I asked where the “collection” came from.  The old gentleman piped up, “Was my wife’s sister’s stuff.  She traveled all over India. When she passed, she left us all of this.”  You could hear that he was proud of his ‘museum.”  There were cats running around everywhere.  The place smelled of cat pee. (at least we were pretty sure it was cat pee).  The old guy handed us a real metal key with one of those tags dangling from it “Postage Guaranteed.  Drop this in a mailbox.”  I hadn’t seen keys like this for years.  This whole place is a museum!

 

If we weren’t so darn tired, I think we would have done a few laps around the town to find a place a bit more sanitary.

 

The motel was a classic motor hotel.  There was a courtyard of overgrown grass with a few BBQ’s that once added charm.  The courtyard was surrounded with 12 bungalow type rooms.  Each bungalow had a lava rock façade and a single jelly jar light burning in front of each door, thus the origin of the phrase “We will leave the light on.”   There was a gravel driveway that went all the way around so you could park by your bungalow regardless of which one you had.  There was several mature oak and pine trees giving shade and leaves. 

 

 

  As it was, Stu and Carl were shown the bungalows at the very back of the place.  Tim and I rolled our motorcycles back to the rooms.  I was sure that the motorcycles would be duly marked by the male cats all night marking their territory and that we would end up with souvenir smells reminding us of our fine stay at the Grand Canyon Motel.

 

Not wanting to disappoint, the room was decorated very typical of a 60’s motel.  I am confident that in its day, this was a great place to stay.  As I stood in the doorway surveying the place, I would rate it a generous 4 out of 10 however, keep in mind that we usually stay in motels in Mexico!  That is to say, this place was less than the average Mexico motel much less.  Nothing was newer than 1970s.  There were the two twin beds with aged bedspreads.  Stu already had staked out his bed. In the corner of the room was a Kitchenette with a stainless-steel sink.  When they built the place in the 60’s, there were only a third of the appliances we have today.  I winced at that the microwave, an old full-size refrigerator, and the electric heater were all plugged into one Ace Hardware power strip.  When I plugged my radio in for recharging the battery a scene from “A Christmas Story” flashed through my mind, “a puff of smoke, and the whiff of ozone.”  I looked around.  Nothing resembling a smoke detector was seen.  “What could go wrong?” I asked myself.

 

It was 8 PM and we desperately needed a shower and dinner.  I chuckled, there were no little bars of soap wrapped in paper, instead, there was a soap dispenser stuck inside the shower.  Still, the water was hot and washing the day’s dust felt good.  Since we were traveling with everything we needed in our back, I had only one set of clothes.  The outfit was picked specifically for being lightweight and versatile.  What to pack was a learning experience.  The first thought was to bring a warm pair of Levis, a husky cotton shirt, and sturdy pair of shoes.  This whole arrangement proved unreasonable since it used up 100% of the back pack.  Levis and shoes are heavy too! 

 

The final choice was a Nike pair of jogging warmup pants, a long sleeve technical shirt from one of my running races, and a pair of canvas deck shoes.  These were rolled into a tight wad with heavy rubber bands choking it all together. All of this was tucked into two plastic bags which was the hottest tip ever.  You see, one of the other primary items in the back pack was the drinking system.  A bladder with a hose to drink water or Gatorade.  These things had a nasty habit of leaking and flooding your pack with a liter of fluid.  It is so nice to put on warm dry clothes at the end of the day.  Wet clothes….not so much.

 

It was dark and the town of Fredonia was a three-light town.  From the front of the motel, we could see the lights of a little gas station and a small restaurant a block away.  Should we get gas first or eat first?  We were so tired and hungry that we couldn’t think.  We rode or motorcycles over to the restaurant.  A quick conversation with the waitress and we found out that they would be open for another hour.  Everyone had the idea to order a cold beer to wash down the day’s dust.  The waitress said that they didn’t sell beer but the gas station across the street did!  This made the decision to go to the gas station much easier.   We shot over to the gas station, fueled up, and grabbed a six pack.  Carl balanced the beer on his lap and then rode back to the restaurant.  We passed the town’s only police car on the way across the street.  Luckily, it looked like he was headed home and only paid us a quick glance.

 

The restaurant was small, only a dozen tables but it was a clean comfortable place.   The menu was something we were expecting at the Bar 10 ranch.  It was loaded with all sorts of steaks and hearty meals.  The prices were very reasonable too.  Famished, we all ordered some sort of beef.  To our surprise, the food came out just as fast as we were able to finish off our first beer.  In the end, we voted that it was the best restaurant we would eat at the whole trip.  Everyone thought the food was great.  The beer and the long day had tenderized us. There was not the usual volume of dinner conversation.  We chowed down our meal, everyone cleaning our plate to the crumb. 

 

Whew!  8:45 We could not have gotten in bed fast enough.  We didn’t even discuss a wake-up time.  I slept like a rock, never once waking up to see if the missing smoke detector was needed. 

 

 

DAY 2

The morning was cool with the crisp feel of high elevation.  We all came tumbling out of our rooms about the same time.  A good cuppa coffee was in order.  No one even considered heading up to the Lobby to see if they had coffee there.  We probably would have lost any ambition for coffee detracted by the aromatic smell of cat pee.  We peered up and down the street for something we may have missed last night.  There were a few red brick buildings across the street.  One looked hopeful, there was a sign announcing a bakery.  Unfortunately, the waitress had told us that they have been trying to open that place for a few years now.  No one really wanted a big sit-down breakfast (not that the town even had one).  We agreed that we would just grab whatever over at the gas station which was the only place open at 7:30 AM.  We suited up, dropped off the keys for the room and rode over to the gas station.  “breakfast” if you could call it that consisted of a coffee and some hostess donuts; I reached for a chocolate milk.  We were not doing too well in the eats category.

 

Saying goodbye to Fredonia and the Grand Canyon Motel, we rode the highway out of town.  We were dutifully following the green GPS line.  In less than 10 minutes, we made a hard right turn onto another highway.  I noticed a big sign but sailed past it as I was reading the GPS.  Someone said over the radio, “sign says the Grand Canyon is closed for Winter conditions.”  This had to be a mistake.  Seriously?  Can they just close the Grand Canyon?  What if you came all the way from the other side of the world?  I guess you would be stuck driving 200 miles to get to the other side of the canyon!

 

You could almost sense what everyone was thinking, First Day, no lunch, almost thrashed by rocks, and a late arrival.  Second Day: No breakfast. And now, no Grand Canyon?  We weren’t even 15 minutes into the second day and already we were stopping again, detoured from our route.  Out with the AAA map!  We studied the map and then decided to just go forward to see what would happen.  The paved road fell down and then up again across the valley ahead of us.  Above the grassy plain, we could see a plateau cropped with pine trees and we were making a bee line straight for it.  The GPS green line was still with us and spooling out a turn ahead.  Left was the city of Grand Junction.  Right was the Kaibab forest and the Grand Canyon.  We went right and the road started to climb up to the plateau.  We were in a canyon of sorts lined by ancient lava flows and decorated with thick pine trees.  The view was so captivating.  We were enjoying the early morning sun light beaming through the trees.  The rays bringing precious warmth to our jackets.  So captivating was the view, that I finally glanced down and noticed that our GPS green line had decided to take a different direction.  I signaled to the group that we would have to turn around and head back to our turn.  While the GPS was our guide, it was starting to be our master too.  I think this is where following the green line was starting to be a Kill-joy of our wanderings.

In a few moments we found the hairpin turn that we missed.  We were turning off a large two-lane road and trading it in for a much smaller road.  In a few more moments, the disappointment of leaving the main road was quelled with this really cool remote canyon.  This new road switched to a well graded dirt road that meandered its way down an even narrower canyon just wide enough for the road and a little creek that ran along side of it.  The canyon seemed to narrow at each turn in the road and then opened into a meadow upon departure.  I just had to get a picture but I was the last bike.  I sped up close to the group as we exited the next turn, I stopped hard and tried to get my camera out and snap a picture.  It was impossible. The group was already heading into the next turn.  I did get a good picture of our beautiful surroundings.  We detoured off onto an even smaller dirt road.  You could tell that this was only used by hunters or farmers.  Our next stop, the lookout point called ‘Crazy Jug.’  Our splendid progress made everyone happy so there was much chatter over the radio.  We passed the time speculating how the place could have gotten the name ‘Crazy Jug’?  “perhaps originally,” someone said, “that the name was shortened from the original Indian maiden called ‘Crazy Jugs’ “  That certainly got us all going!  It sure was going to be disappointing if we got there and all we could see was the Grand Canyon.  The road kept getting tighter and tighter which actually made it more fun for the type of motorcycles we were riding.  The group was just getting into the fun of it and twisting the throttles a bit quicker as each corner dissolved into a straight away.  Just like the day before, the little green line on the GPS just stopped. We were teased this time with a glimpse of an enormous drop off as the trail turned the corner.  One miscalculated turn would spell interesting results.  We zipped by a row of pine trees and low-lying scrubs.  We got a peek-a-boo look that there was no firm ground just beyond the trees to our side.  Everyone’s preservation instinct kicked in and we suddenly slowed.  The chills of the sheer drop of Toroweap were still fresh in the back of our minds.   It was a bit creepy not knowing exactly where the trail ended. 

Another quick turn and we were clearly at a little turn around spot on the trail.  Another trail that was dropping off led away from this spot but no one dared go down on the motorcycles because we could see that there was too much daylight indicating the end of the trees.  We parked our bikes in an area nestled by low lying Pinion trees.  Since the hour of the morning was still early, the air was brisk.  From where I parked, I walked uphill to take a picture of the others.  Whew!  A few short steps and already I could feel the elevation!  After removing the bulky riding gear, we all walked through the clearing of the trees.  The Grand Canyon unfolded before our eyes. 

There was no Crazy Jugged Indian, but the view was just as inspiring!  From the point, there was a series of canyons that splintered off.  Picture an upside-down letter Y.  We were standing at the apex of the Y looking straight out at the base, to our left and to our right were expansive canyons.  These two canyons did not have the sheer drop of Toroweap.  We were clearly up on the Kaibab mesa and the canyons drained off the rain and the snow.  Don’t get me wrong.  The water had cut through the ancient lava crust so there was a 100 foot drop off close to us but then the sides of the canyons were steeply sloped down to the bottom, where no doubt, the water was still working hard at carving its way even deeper about 1000 feet below.  The canyon to our left (east) was big.  The canyon to our right (west) was bigger.

Hold on!  There came into view an even bigger canyon straight out at the base of the Y.  It was hard to estimate distances with everything on such a grand scale.  The main Grand Canyon could have been 5 miles away or 15 miles away.  Just visible was the Colorado River, a brownish green ribbon rolling down the bottom of the canyon.  We sat at the edge just looking.  To the West, we could see possibly 20 miles.  We imagined that we could see to the West the ledge that we had been on the day before.

 

I don’t know if it was the grandeur of the sights or the lack of breakfast, or the lack of oxygen but everyone was very mellow as we sat there soaking in the beauty.  It was a very different feeling, standing at the raw edge of the canyon without another sole around.  Apparently, we were not the only ones to enjoy the mellow feeling.  I looked down at a small camp fire that some one had burned some days before and I could see the stub of a small marijuana joint.  Sheesh!  I suppose a few whiffs of wacky tobaky at this elevation kept them from worrying about a bit of litter.

 

We snapped a few portraits of each other at this edge and hiked back up to the motorcycles.  We were just about ready to leave when a little Honda Civic came rattling down the road.  We waved.  A guy in his twenties rolled out of the car, his hair looked like he was living out of the car.  We started chatting it up with him but I suppose everyone was curious about his girl friend who stayed in the car.  Not really from a, ‘let’s gawk at the only female around for 20 miles’, but all the facts were not yet making sense.  After a few sentences, we found out that they had driven down from Utah camping out and were basically in the same predicament that we were since the main road to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon was closed.  They had come all the way and did not want to miss the view.  Finally, the girl popped out (when I think she knew it was safe too) and we all said hello.  They wandered off to the view.  We wandered off to get our gear back on.

 

We said ‘So long.’ And got on our bikes and headed back out.  It is funny how long the road coming into Crazy Jug seemed but the return trip felt short, retracing the way we came in.  We re-grouped.  We still had a dilemma.  We only knew where the green line would take us and that was down a portion of the closed part of the National Park.  What was of primary concern was that our only gas station of the day was on that road too!  There was no way we could ride 184 miles on one tank of gas.  If the gas station was also closed, which was just about a sure thing, we could pretty much throw out the day’s plan.  Again, we ignored the Oracle (GPS) and consulted the old school Triple A map.  Ironically the AAA (American Automobile Association) was founded with the sole purpose of helping people find their way as they drove the old highways across the country. 

 

A look at the map showed a town north of the road closure.  Ok, we thought, at least there will be gas there.  Some suggested that we wander around the trails and then go up.  Some suggested that we head up to the gas stop and then pickup the trail again.  The final option was to hit the highway, get gas, and hard ball (ride the paved highway) to our next hotel.  Admittedly, since we were hungry, the last two options sounded good however I was reluctant to throw in the towel on the day’s exploration.  Hardball Riding was a pretty good description of riding dirt bikes on the highway although a better name would be Hard-ass riding since it literally is a pain in the butt sitting on the small seats for more than 30 minutes.   Riding the dirt, meant that we were in a constant state of standing and sitting which is more favorable to posterior circulation.

We agreed; ride to the gas station, get something to eat, and then re-join the trail ride.  We got on our bikes and started to ride.  Since we were going back the way we came, we let Carl and Tim take turns riding up front (they did not have GPS so were not out front when we were navigating some new trail).  We were zipping along such hard dirt roads; they were nearly like riding pavement.  Our speed kept increasing and as the last rider, I could see that the gap between the riders was increasing too.  Finally, our dirt road hit a T intersection to an even wider dirt road.  As I arrived, I could see Tim waiting.  He was pointed south bound on the road.  I could see from the GPS that we needed to go North.  I radioed to him that Stu and Carl were going in the wrong direction.  I could not raise the break away pack on the radio.  We quickly agreed that Tim would chase the breakaway and I would hold position.  Our radios are strong but VHF is limited to primarily line-of-sight reception.  As Tim rode off, I could hear him radioing, “Stu, Carl, this is Tim. Turn around. You’re headed the wrong way.”  After several transmissions, he was getting tired and had shortened the transmission to, “Stu, Carl, this is Tim.”  I heard a few more but then they started to fade and get scratchy.  I knew that the road was so smooth and fast that the breakaway pack probably was going well over 55 MPH which meant that Tim was probably riding 70 on the straights to catch them.  ‘Crap!” that meant every minute I waited; they would be another mile away.  It wasn’t a big leap of math to understand that if Tim caught them in an optimistic ten minutes that they would have a 20-mile round trip ride to get back to me!!!!  20 miles!  Uhg! I got frustrated wondering why at such speeds the front rider didn’t check in every few minutes.  I also got my motor running and in no time was hauling ass as fast as I dare go to catch the runaway train.  So, the reader can do the math, breakaway riding a reasonable 60 mph, Chase 1 riding 70 mph, well that meant I had to ride at a speed that wanted to pull the helmet off my head.  The whole time I was repeating the same futile transmission, “Tim this is Jim.  Go ahead.” (The only reason to add “Go Ahead” was to ensure a long enough transmission as the radio takes a moment to build full power on transmit, I didn’t want him to just hear one word.)  Finally, I got tired of repeating my useless transmission which was just making me even more frustrated.  All I could hear was the screaming wind in my helmet.  The road turned to a white ribbon with trees blurring by on the sides.  After what seemed like forever, I finally heard a broken transmission between Tim and Stu.  While that was a relief that they were now together, I had just one more problem.  Tim thought that I was still waiting some ten miles away.

 Can you figure my problem out?  It is just like grade school math; If a train leaves Chicago traveling at 60 miles per hour south, another train leaves New Orleans traveling on the same track 80 mph north, how fast will they be going when they approach each other somewhere in the middle?  140 mph Right?   Now, my transmission was even more urgent.  “Tim this is Jim.  Approaching your direction.” 

 

Well once we had a chance to regroup, we decided to continue riding south towards the canyon rim.  The road started to narrow and we started to see patches of snow!  This was April!  We were amazed at the snow patches in the shade but after a few turns the snow was solidly packed along side of the road.  Of course, since we were from San Diego, this only served to entertain us even further.  At one point, we stopped to take a picture of the snow across the road.  This certainly was another surprise that we had not planned on.  Luckily, our light jackets were able to hold off the cold air.

The pine trees started to thin out again and the snow thinned with it.  The morning sun felt good.  Ahead on the trail was a sign that indicated a fire lookout tower.  On a lark, we decided to turn in and check out the tower.  As we rode into a clearing, we could see a green house with a brown roof which was a give away for a forestry owned house.  At first, we thought it might be a ranger station so we cut the throttles and started to slink down the road.  Shortly, we noticed that the place was vacant.  Nothing to worry about here. Just past the house was another clearing with the legs of a lookout tower sprouting their way up into the sky like the proverbial bean stalk.  With curiosity, we idled up and around the tower.  The coast was clear.  The place was vacant too.  We stopped in the clearing and the sunshine to warm ourselves and stretch our legs. Carl and Stu walked over to the tower.  Looking up, it must have been ten stories high.  It was an older construction.  Steel frame tower that tapered like a pyramid as it reached toward the sky.  Way up on top, there was an eagle’s nest hut so that spotters could look over the Kaibab forest keeping an eye out for tattle tale smoke indicating a fire. At the bottom of the tower, the legs spread out about 30 feet square. 

There was a set of stairs that crisscrossed and zigzagged its way up the center of the legs.  Stu checked it out first and found that there was no locked gate.  A quick inspection revealed that the stairs were rather rickety.  Not that they were ready to fall apart as they were made from steel, it just was not very thick steel.  The span across the lower part of the tower felt and swayed like an aluminum ladder set across a river bank.  Stu refused to climb up.  Carl was right there behind him and started his way up the ladder without hesitation.  I thought I might have heard some remark questioning Stu’s fortitude but perhaps that was just the creaking and groaning of the stairs.  I stood and watched Carl head up to the second landing.  “It’s not so bad.”  So, I yanked off my riding jacket and tossed it over my bike.  Tim was walking in ever smaller circles like a dog does just before it lays down for a nap.  Sure enough, with a groan, Tim settled to the ground to “observe” the climbing of the tower.  I was in pursuit of Carl and trying to take two sets of stairs at a time but once I reached midspan of the first flight, the stairs bobbed up and down like a suspension bridge.  I slowed a bit…

 

As we snaked back and forth, the span got closer and closer which meant that the stairs felt sturdier.  Climbing up ten stories at 8000 feet elevation was not easy.  I think we faked a stop to “look at the view” about eight stories up.  After a few moments, we caught our breath and continued to climb.  We finally reached the top and found a trap door to the eagle’s nest lookout.  The door was locked. Instead, we looked around from our vantage point on the stairs.  Up above the tree line the view was fantastic.  We again imagined that we could look back and see both Crazy Jug and Toroweap hanging over the canyon’s edge.  There was a stiff cold wind above the top of the trees.  It was literally a “bird’s eye view.”  The tops of the trees swayed below, whispering back the sound of the wind raking their tops.  I felt a shiver and looked at the jacket that was draped over my motorcycle over 100ft below.  The view teased us with vertigo because if you looked way out and then looked straight down, it felt like you were just hanging there.  The legs of the tower were thin, the stairs were only rails with expanded metal landings (it looked like a cheese shredder) so there really was not much solid surface to reassure the weak of heart.  I looked straight down again, this time a bit more slowly.  There were four little toy motorcycles lined up below. Stu and Little Timmy were lying prone in the grass with their hands cradling their heads and just staring back up at us. 

I shouted down that I wish I had two snow balls to drop!  After a few photos, we started back down the funhouse stairs.  At least going down, we were not gasping for air.  By the time we reached the ground, Stu and Tim looked as if this was going to be the final stop for the whole trip.  Carl and my exuberance was a fine balance to Stu and Tim’s almost Zen like relaxation.  I suspect that we all would have fallen into the same trance of tranquility but it was now eleven in the morning and we had not had a decent meal for the day. 

 

Hunger was a good motivator so we got organized again and started to head back North towards gas and hopefully a decent lunch.  On the GPS, I could see that we were paralleling the closed paved highway that led to the North rim of the Grand Canyon.  We marveled at the fact that roughly a mile from the closed road was another road just as wide.  Who would know?  Most road maps only show the paved roads.  We blasted down the road.  Occasionally there was a sign or two.  One of them might have been a speed limit of 35 mph, but it was small and hard to read at 70!  The road was a long, straight, dirt road that rolled up and down.  At high noon, the sun was shining almost straight down the pine tree lined road.   The road felt like a rollercoaster at this speed or maybe a better description was a rocking chair.  Despite our speed, the sun, the rolling, and the constant white ribbon lined by darker tree lines, had a lulling effect.  I found myself daydreaming.  Tim was in the lead.  I felt like I was riding alone in sweep.  No sense in riding in everyone’s dust.  Tim broke the radio silence; he was quite excited to come over a rise in the solemn road only to startle and chase a few deer down the road for a way.  I guess we were not quite alone after all!  Ironically, in five minutes, we would be in the midst of clusters of hunters sneaking around in the trees.  We started to roll through dozens of campsites.  I can tell you that these were not poor folks out trying to scratch up some food.  There were fancy rigs of all kinds.  The campsites were lavish.  Big RV’s the size of a bus, surrounded by new full-size four-wheel drive pickups.  Chairs and loungers were arranged around still smoldering campfires.  Most site were vacant but one had a few large fellows that looked like there was more lounging going on than hunting.  Philosophically, we all like to get away.  Some get away to do nothing and they like that.  Some get away to do something and I like that.  I can’t remember a single time I got away to do nothing.

 

The Kaibab plateau was ready for a late spring time, the winter here must also take more than its share of the year hanging out.  The lush trees formed a canopy over the road now.  We slowed as the sun light flashed through the trees onto the gravel road.  The constant off and on, shadows and bright spots, shadows and bright spots had the effect of a strobe light.  It made it hard for my eyes to see things in the shadows.  Whacking a branch or a rut at 60 on a dirt bike will get your attention.  As sweep, I signaled that there was a forest ranger on one of the side roads. It was good that we had slowed a bit.  A few checks in the mirror and then over my shoulder confirmed that we had not rustled up the chase in Smokey the Bear.

 

The GPS telegraphed that there were a few big S turns ahead.  The road grandly swooped down into a beautiful canyon and then swooped back up onto the Kaibab plateau.  We were getting close to our gas stop.  The road turned and headed over towards the paved highway.  In a few moments, we were winging it down a paved road not knowing which side of the road closure we had jumped onto.  There was no one out here but we kept our speed dead on the speed limit.  It seemed like a moment later we passed the National Park gate and were rolling to a stop at the gas station, a proud place at the entrance to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon.  The sign above the eves said “JACOB LAKES INN, Elevation 7925, CAFÉ MOTEL CURIO STORE

The remoteness of the morning was switched off.  It wasn’t even a slow fade.  My brain switched into Civilian mode with expectations of something warm to eat.

What a morning!  Despite our starvation, instinct told us to get fuel first into our motorcycles.  You can ride far being hungry but you can’t ride anywhere if your moto is thirsty.  I dug for my credit card to get the pump to ante up some fuel.  It felt funny paying for gas with a credit card.  Usually, our rides are in Mexico.  As soon as we cross the border, everything is paid for with cash in Pesos.  The distinction was interesting in that a credit card felt like I had unlimited spending resources!  Using cash, I can see how much I have left for the remainder of the trip.  The credit card has an invisible limit.  Perhaps the credit card companies like it that way.  Maybe my mind works differently but I also knew that using the card created a record of exactly where I was and what time I was there.  If we got lost, someone could see that we had made it as far as the town of Jacob Lake, Arizona.  I pondered this unusual feeling.  In Baja, you leave no trace.  In the USA if we realize it or not, we leave bread crumbs that are pretty easy to follow.

 

Ooh! Speaking of bread crumbs, we rode our bikes to the other side of the parking lot and swung down the kick stands near a four-foot diameter stump.  The sentinel stood there quietly.  What had happened to the tree that stood on top of this stump?  Probably this barely noticed stump was the reason that the two highways merged here.  Back when there were only Indian trails, they all converged at the father of all pine trees that the big spirit put there to climb down from the heavens and visit men.  I hope that the tree had to be cut down for natural causes.  After-all, it has been some time since God has visited man.

 

Jacobs Inn and restaurant was actually quite busy with hunters stopping in for lunch.  Probably coming in from their “roughing it in the woods.”  We walked into the old tyme general store and sat down at the lunch bar.  It could have cost a fortune but we gladly would have paid that for the four greasy burgers that we ordered.  The place was staffed with the happiest and courteous group of college students.  While we waited for our meal, we ordered a few coffees which were poured out into thick porcelain white mugs.  As I was swirling in half and half creamer, I looked over and saw a glass case with a stack of baked goods.  Of course I zeroed in on the chocolate chip cookies.  I couldn’t help it; I excused myself from the lunch counter and walked over to eye the treasure.  The girl behind the counter smiled and asked me if I wanted a cookie.  I ordered four to treat the other guys.  As I was digging out some money the girl stood there watching with a smile.  I probably looked odd all dressed in the offroad gear.  My heart jumped before my thoughts comprehended it.  I had seen that smile before!  Think of the thousands of faces that our minds catalogue.  Every little subtle difference.  Every little expression that differentiates this person from the millions that we pass in our lives.  Somehow my mind matched her smile to a memory 30 years ago when I was first dating my wife, Theresa.  It was a flashback that caught me by such surprise that I could not even think.  I handed her a bill.  I don’t even know what denomination it was.  Did it matter?  While she was making change, my mind ran back to those days when Theresa and I worked at McDonalds.  You know, at 17 you finally were in charge of your life. You had it all together.  A job and the money that came with it. Your car and the freedom that came with it.  And for me, a beautiful girlfriend and the smiles that came with that.  To think, over thirty years ago I saw that smile and married her.

“Thanks” as she handed me the change.  “Keep it.” I said both homesick and full of wonderful memories.  For a moment, I was a homesick 50-year-old man.  I realized that the foundation of a great life is great love.  The adventures are just sprinkles of greatness that are gifted to us to enjoy our lives even more.

 

We ate the cookies before our lunch could be served.  I think I drank three cups of coffee!

 

After our stomachs were finally very happy, we stood out in the 65-degree weather just enjoying the day.  Where to next?  The GPS was useless.  If we zoomed out enough, it would show the little line that we should be following was miles away with no clue of how to rejoin our silent guide.   Out came our trusty AAA map, it was folded open with four guys trying to study the map.  Our two options:  ride back into the forest and pick up the “Kane Trail: Hard way” or Highway to our next hotel.  It was easy to estimate that the hotel was about 3 hours away by highway.  There was no telling how much time taking the trail route would take.  By now the full stomach and warm weather was steering our thinking.  Someone said, “Maybe we should just head up the highway and make it an easy day.  Yesterday was so long, it would be good to get a rest.  There was hardly an argument when I explained that the next section had a mysterious reference to a big drop off called the Kane Trail.  In my notes, I added “Hard Way.”  I figured it would add some excitement and we surely would have no problem since we had their tracks and they were on less nimble bikes than we were.  Author’s note:  Words are everything.  “Drop Off” could mean everything from a dirt road rapidly dropping in elevation to a near cliff.  When we rode this trail a few years later, we found out that the trail was a forestry road that descended out of the Kaibab plateau descending to the next plateau below some two thousand feet below.  It was a wonderful road full of expansive views.

 

Ok the decision was made; we headed down the highway.  It turns out we literally headed down the highway as it was quickly dropping in elevation as we glided off the plateau.  Our motorcycles followed the curved road like four marbles rolling down and following the painted center line.  The ride was a complete change up from racing down the dirt roads in the forest.  It was calming, almost hypnotic.  I almost did not register a little sign to the side of the road.  Every mountain road in the USA has a little sign boasting “Scenic Lookout Point Ahead.”  Most of the time, as you zoom by in your air-conditioned car, you crank your neck to see a moment of “oooh’s and awe’s”

As we turned the corner, our hypnotic state was snapped back to attention to the biggest postcard view, so big, the mind couldn’t soak it in with a glance.  I am sure this is where they shot the cover photo for one of those gigantic coffee table books called “Painted Desert.” 

“Who-o-o-o-ah! We have to stop!”  I squawked over our rider-to-rider radios. 

We parked.  I barely remembered to swing my leg over the seat.  We were a thousand feet above the desert floor.  A vast reddish brown desert floor poured out in every direction below and across the valley was the cliffs of the Painted Desert rising like a great wall from the far right to the far left, as wide as the eye could see.  The cliffs were an even more varied hues of orange, reds, browns.  They looked like frosting that was raked up the side of a cake with a gigantic fork leaving vertical drag marks spanning the far horizon.  In the desert below us, we could see our road below snaking back and forth down into the valley and then another a pencil straight line heading off to disappear into the horizon.  I ponder, how many wagons used that road before it was paved?  How many horses before the wagons? Who was the first Indian to have made the trek and why?  No doubt looking for that smile that he had once seen long ago.  With our mouths slack, we snapped a few pictures knowing that they would only remind us of the amazing memory, understanding that the memory was of this iconic American vista that God had shed His grace on thee.  A little more gazing and then we were off again, four marbles rolling down the switchbacks of life. 

 

Spooling out onto the desert floor, the temperature went from the low 60’s at the Kaibab plateau to the high 80’s at the desert.   As the road straightened out, so did our wrists and the throttle was twisted up a few more notches.  We could see miles ahead and the road just kept escaping the horizon farther than the horizon.  To the left, the cliffs were sentinels making sure that the road was bounded to the floor of the desert.  To the right of us, unseen was the Grand Canyon.  I was looking off to the far right, trying to picture or imagine the Kane Trail.  Out there, was the adventure we had come for.  As I glanced back down at the GPS, I could see our little friend the green line.  It was marching on the GPS screen closer and closer.  At this speed, we would cross over the line in a few minutes.  I got on the radio, “Guys, our trail picks up again in three miles. Let’s pull off and at least have a look at it.”  I got a simple, “Roj” or ‘Roger’ for short.  Stu always said “Roj” I think he kept his finger on the mic button because he replies to any radio call before the call reaches the period at the end of the sentence.  Perhaps this was ingrained in him from years with the Navy.

 

A wire fence lined both sides of the highway. It wasn’t barbed wire but still, I wondered how we would venture out off the highway.  Was there a road? A cut wire?  Perhaps there was a gate that is now locked?  The green line approached.  There was definitely a pull out, a pull out with a gate.  We slowed and stopped.  There was a dirt road that led off to the east at an angle from the road and away from the cliffs.  The gate was closed but there was no lock. Coming from California, this almost defied logic.  Why have a gate if you aren’t going to lock it? 

 

On the other side of the gate, I pleaded my case.  “This was one of the best lookouts on our whole trip.  The GPS says that it is about 10 miles away. (I guesstimated.)  If it gets too much, we can turn back.” 

 

Stu said, “Ok but I don’t like rocks, and sand, and whoops, and hills, and dust…” 

 

“I think we will be good.”  But I really had no idea. 

 

We rode forward and the road started to get sandy.  I hoped that it wouldn’t turn into the same powdery sand like sand dunes.  The sand started to subside but switched to dried red mud.  I hoped the dust would blow off to the side.  It didn’t which made the chasers unhappy.  Then we found a section with a few good drops.  We rode past an old wooden bunk house that had a classic old west wind mill standing off to far side is some cotton wood trees.  The windmill’s days of providing precious water had gone.  In its retirement, the windmill had lost a few teeth over the years.  Its weather vane no longer steered into the wind.  The house was in the same era of life missing a few windows but the roof was still intact.    I thought if there was snow on the ground, I’d snap a poetic photo.  A metaphor of the last season of life. 

 

We went through another gate.  Now we were plodding down a red dust trail.  The trail did a few quick turns and then dropped into an all-white dirt canyon.  The bright ground was hard on our eyes.  There were a few sharp technical turns thrown in for good measure to catch anyone daydreaming about cowgirls.   We rode on, the road petered out. In fact, it was not a road any more but two lines in the dirt.  I could sense the group was starting to get leery about this.  Finally, the trail started to veer to the left.  Thank God it did because if it went straight or to the right, we would all have ridden straight off the edge about a mile of flying, straight down!

 

Without any announcement or introduction was the most amazing view of the Grand Canyon I have ever seen.  The edge of the desert just fell away.  No slope.  No gradual step.  Just straight down.

We parked our bikes, one by one shut down the motors, instinctively swung the kickstand down, and threw our leg over the seat.  Almost in unison like we were walking to a gunfight, we slowly walked over. 

 

HOLY MACKERAL the sight was too much for words.  Our instincts held us back.  Our curiosity pushed us forward.  Thankfully, eyes are at the top of our heads so that we could peer over from a distance.

 

As I glanced around, I noticed off to the side, there was a rise.  There was a gap between us and the rise.  I peered into the crack.  It seemed like I could see light so I got down on my stomach and slid closer to the edge.   My head spun a bit when I finally was forward enough to see.  It was only a few inches more but it literally could be said “within an inch of life” through the gap and down below, I could see the Colorado River a mile below me.  Picture in your mind, laying on the edge of your roof with your head over the side looking straight down at the ground below.  Now picture the roof being a mile up and the ground famously far below.  Whoo it was creepy.  I pulled back with a grin.

 

I called the others and beckoned them without warning, “Hey guys. Lay down on your stomach and look over here!”

 

We were like kids.  No one wanted to even get close to the other person.  It was spooky to the core’ We backed away and stood up.   Whew. It made your head spin.  I think the word that Hitchcock used was Vertigo.

 

We walked eastward toward another edge.  Below you could see the mighty Colorado River and several rafts could be seen entering the rapids far below.  We stood there squinting to see the oarsman line up the big rubber raft to go through the fattest part of the rapids. 

 

The day was getting long.  The memory of riding in the snow this morning was melted away by the heat of the desert this afternoon.  It was hours ago that we had lunch.   Everyone was getting anxious because we were in the same predicament yesterday.  Our navigation indicated that we were still 40 miles away from our next stop, the “Vermillion Cliffs Lodge”.  We wondered if the lodge would be as decrepit as the “Grand Canyon Motel” so we guarded our hopes.  A cold beer was starting to sound good and everyone was damn sure not going ride in the dark to get there. 

Since the way out was the same road in, Carl and Stu took no time getting the heck out of there.  Tim dutifully waited while I stuffed my camera away and slung all my gear back on.  He took off when he saw the headlight on my motorcycle.  The headlight only came on when the motor was running indicating that I was ready to roll.  Unfortunately, as I saw him ride off, I stalled my motor.  In the moments it took to get my bike started again, Tim’s dust was already disappearing.  We all rode so swiftly that one minute was the equivalent of being nearly a mile behind.  In a moment, I was alone. The wide-open space left me feeling very insignificant. Or as my grandfather used to quip, “I feel so unnecessary!” 

 

Usually when you are the last rider, it doesn’t make sense to take any risks as you have no back up.  I have always stuck by the rule that the group should know and constantly check how the back of the train is doing.  Stu, for some reason, always looked at it differently.  He charges off thinking that leading means getting everyone to the destination.  I shrugged my shoulders indifferent to what my logical mind new was a fundamental safety rule. 

The dirt jeep road was a sandy, little twisty-turny thing with hidden rocks every few yards.  Hidden in that they were the same color as the dirt and the dust removed any linear features that would help my mind detect the obstacle a bit sooner.  In and out of the turns, I wracked the throttle to make up time.  The engine pinged under the sudden accelerations and the hot thin air.  My riding technique was a dance or better it was like martial art.  Every single move was being prefaced by perhaps a shift in my body weight, the next move was being planned to dodge some rock before the prior move was even finished.  Good offroad riding technique meant that most of the time, you stood on your foot pegs.  For hours we would stand.  If you got tired and sat, now your butt was connected to the motorcycle.  Any dodge, dip, or weave the bike did was translated through the rider’s body so that’s 400 pounds being thrown in the wrong direction.  Basically, the motorcycle is now doing the steering.  By standing up, all my weight shifts to the connection point down low in the foot pegs.  I can steer the bike through shifting my weight.  I shift my weight in all directions all the time on a rough road.  Now when I really want to travel the swiftest, on top of all the body English, I sit just at the right point halfway out of a turn.  The motorcycle has so much acceleration that if I was standing, my weight being thrown back would keep me from twisting the throttle to the limit so I sit.  The bike jets away from the turns like a dragster and I am shifting and standing simultaneously. 

So here is the whole dance in rapid succession; shift left push right, let the bike come left, anticipate that it will come back, see the rut 20 yards ahead, sit back pull on the bars while twisting the throttle the front wheel comes up for thirty feet to clear the dip, brake hard, lean hard, wait, sit fast, grab as much throttle as possible to launch the bike out of the turn, stand while shifting.  And all that happened in three seconds

 

Everything was happening in fractions of seconds in a streaming series of moves, accelerations, braking and dodging.  I was using all of my senses, all of my muscles, all of my concentration to ride as swiftly as the dirt would allow.  An Off and On series of hard turns and then G pulling exits that if at the right speed and power, the torque would hoist the front wheel off the ground which I was using to get over obstacles and pick even more favorable lines.  The best turns were the results of choosing the right position after braking hard from the last straight aways.  There are no rules that I could explain, it all comes from instinct of reading the turn and the amount of erosion going into the turn to pick the best line out of the turn.  I was using the three-inch ruts to add a few more degrees of traction pulling me through the turn.  The smallest mistake of a few inches at forty miles an hour means the difference between heading down the road or heading out into the scrub brush.  I certainly didn’t want to find out why it was called scrub brush so every ounce of strength was used to keep the 300-pound motorcycle in the right direction.

 

For the most part, things were “railing” smoothly.  Occasionally my brilliance would be tempered by a hard “ping” to the front wheel hitting one of the hidden immoveable rocks.  Instinctively I winced, hoping the strike wouldn’t cause a flat tire.  “Ping”  ooh I hope that one doesn’t give me a flat tire either!  After ten minutes, I started to see Tim’s dust, I put away my game of speed and settled back down.  It felt good to “get it out of my system”.  I sat back down a rode for awhile on my seat like a good boy should.

 

By the time I caught the crowd, they were waiting back the gate to close it behind me.  We jumped back on the highway.  I think my bike was glad to have a little more air flowing over the radiator to cool it from all the hard riding.  It is fascinating that these paved roads in the middle of the desert are in perfect conditions.  The pavement looked like it was rolled out yesterday and painted in the morning.  We soared along the highway with the grand cliffs to our left and the Grand Canyon to the right.  Just another day of grand riding.  Sigh!  

 

After 20 minutes or so, we rounded a corner and off in the distance we could see the road drop down to a few little buildings along side of the highway.  Other than the structures we could see, there was a vastness of dirt and sage brush.  A glance at the GPS told me that this possibly could be our hotel.  From this distance, it didn’t look like much.  Oh no.  Here we go again. Some fleabite hotel with a sweaty manager that smelled like cat pee.  As we rolled to a stop in front of the hotel there were a few horse bridle bars to tie your horse to so it wouldn’t wander off.  I threw the kickstand down and shut my motor off and was pretty confident that it was going to go anywhere without me so I didn’t tie it up.  I looked around and this place already was exceeding my expectations.  It had a Santa Fe feel, including an old artist sitting there filling in a sketch with colored pencils.  His wife sat comfortably next to him in a colorfully padded lounge chair.  They had a bottle of white wine they were nursing.  She was looking up at us because of all the racket announcing our arrival.  The artist kept sketching away. 

 

Stu started up with them.  He had a way of sarcastically getting everyone to smile and come out of their “too serious to socialize” shell.  He would say something like, “Well, you all look entirely too comfortable!”  In a few minutes, we all were talking and getting the run down on the place, what they were doing, where they were from, etc etc.  The other thing Stu had a knack for was magically appearing with a cold wet beer in hand.  I noticed everyone slipped away leaving me to finish the congenialities with the artsy couple.  After expunging any idea that we were the wine drinking sophisticrats, we were all sitting in a row on the front porch of the bar/restaurant enjoying the fizz from a few cold beers.  It was almost 4 PM. 

 

The memory of sitting on the porch was my all time favorite of this trip and many to come.  You have seen this scene before in cowboy movies.  It’s hot and dusty out.  An old wooden porch with worn wooden chairs.  The rail in front of the porch is more for resting your boots on than tying up your horse.  The only thing missing was a watering trough.  Four dusty men sitting there in heavy dirt bike riding gear with boots propped up on the worn rail in front of us.  Behind us was the painted Vermillion Cliffs falling into the shade as the sun started to set.  Our view in front was the Grand Canyon fully illuminated by the sun as it wandered to the West.  The land was so quiet.  Only the wind made a slight sound as it went from here to somewhere else.  Occasionally, a car would whisk by breaking the quiet but as quickly as it came through.   In moments, the quiet consumed the moment again, history consumed time and we were once again cowboys consuming a cold beer.

 

 

 

 

The Vermillion Cliffs Lodge was a desert 5-star rating.  In other words, it was clean, supplied with beer, quiet, and relaxing, if you were expecting anything more from a hotel than you shouldn’t be in the desert.

 

For some reason, the host gave us a room the furthest back.  Perhaps a bunch of motos parked in front wasn’t the best marketing for impulse shoppers driving by on the highway.

 

I suppose we did not match the décor when started hanging all our sweaty gear outside.  It looked like four motor cycle riders exploded right on the back porch.

 

A quick shower and we were back over on the restaurant porch resuming the relaxation that we started expertly 30 minutes before.  Because of the cliffs behind us, the sun started to cast their shadow at 5PM.  After a few beers, we decided that we would go in and order some food.  We sat at the table and after ordering, we asked the waitress if we could go back out on the porch to continue enjoying the sunset while dinner was being cooked.  As we were relaxing, one of the waiters came out to have a smoke.  Stu got him to tell us his life story in less than a minute.  You see, the guy had an interesting tattoo and that started it all.   I have to admit, it was,,, uhm… colorful.

 

The young man (about 24 years old) said that officially, he and his girlfriend (who worked there too) were Hobos.  He said the word Hobo with such dignity that I barely understood.  In fact, I didn’t realize that people still referred to themselves as Hobos as it has always been a word that someone else labeled a homeless person.  He went on to explain that they had been riding trains all over the country quite extensively.  Apparently, not anyone can willy-nilly just become a Hobo.  You have to officially join and there is a code of conduct.  The tattoo signaled to other Hobos that he was the real deal and not just a low-class drifter (Hmm Hobos have a class system I noted) The story went on about the dangers and drugs of the Hobo “lifestyle.”  Being a father myself, I started to wonder just exactly how his girlfriend fit into this lifestyle.  Was it safe?  A girl hanging out with lonely men would be like a T-bone steak trying to visit with a pack of hungry dogs.   It was a question out of my league and I didn’t ask.

While our Hobo went on with his story, the coolest dog rambled up with a rock in his mouth and dropped it at my feet.  I was game so I chucked it out into the dirt parking lot in front of the restaurant.  The dog bolted then skidded his way to the rock.  After the dust cleared, the dog came trotting back proudly with the rock and dropped it without hesitation at my feet.  All the dogs I owned, always seemed too “own” the rock after one or two tosses and would refuse to drop it without serious cajoling.  Not this dog, in fact, we played catch so much that I was working up a sweat and my throwing hand (as opposed to my beer holding hand) was starting to turn black with dog spit and dirt!  I started to work on a scheme to bring this dog with me for the rest of the trip.  Our Hobo friend finally fessed up that the dog was his.  The dog hung out on the porch while the Hobo worked his shift inside.  He checked on his dog during his smoke breaks. 

 

Stu asked, “So how is it living here?”

 

The Hobo said pretty good and then started in on a story that his wife’s cooking is better than the chef.  I think the Hobo almost swallowed his cigarette when he saw that the chef was asking him to come back in and serve up an order.  When the chef disappeared inside, our Hobo friend took a long drag on his cigarette and blurted out some sort of explicative confessing that his job was probably over since the chef was the manager too.  We felt bad assured him that the chef probably would think he was just bullshitting with us.  I heard a clunk at my feet, the dog, unphased by the close call, was staring up at me with great expectation.

 

Our dinner was ready.  So, we sauntered back into the restaurant.  We were now a few more beers into the relaxation mode so sauntering is definitely what we did.  Tonight’s dinner cost us twice as much as the previous and was half as good.  Not to knock the chef or the restaurant, it is just that the previous dinner was cooked that much better.

 

After dinner, everyone was spent.  We headed straight to bed.  It was so dark and so quiet, that it was almost a strain on the senses.  Did I mention how quiet it was?  The most predominant sound was the light breeze tickling the top of the sage brush.  I looked at my cell phone and was surprised to have reception so I called my wife. We chatted and I relayed the day’s events with a vow to bring her back.  After the call, I sat outside trying to soak it in but the outside was winning.  Finally, there was so much nothing that I decided to go inside and sleep.  The nothingness won there too.  I laid on the pillow and could hear the blood flowing in my ear drums.  Did I mention how quiet it was?   I was asleep by the second time I exhaled. 

 

Day 3

 

The morning rolled in.  It was a ‘Home on the Range’ moment, not a disparaging word and the skies were not cloudy all day.  I got my shoes on and walked over to the restaurant.  The door was locked but I could see a few people bumping around in there.  I knocked.  An older gent answered the door and I asked about a cup of coffee. For some random reason. The restaurant was not open until 8 AM and it was now 6:30. I could see that the kitchen may not be open and fired up but certainly for humanitarian reasons, a pot of coffee with an honor bar for coins would not be unreasonable.?  Nope.  There was nothing else around for a few miles. 

 

Grudgingly, we all got our gear on and decided to ride over to Lees Ferry for breakfast just a few miles away.  Our motorcycles were barely warmed up when we passed the first gas station, next we passed a general store and restaurant Indian Trading Post.  We figured that there must be a fast-food joint in Lees Ferry but when we passed one more building, we found ourselves departing the town and at the base of the bridge that spanned the Grand Canyon to the other side of the canyon.  We were a bit puzzled like someone moved the town however, that was it. If we wanted gas., there was one choice.  If you wanted food, one choice again.  We decided this time to get coffee first. Gasoline could come second after breakfast so I guess that’s third for math majors.  A hot breakfast trumped the gas station meal we had yesterday.

 

We rolled out of Lees Ferry around 8 AM.   That familiar feeling of not knowing what to expect was riding with us this morning.  Today’s ride called for portions of riding through Navajo Indian land with the intent to hit up to four view points of the canyon.  We were packing extra containers of gas because we had about 150 miles to ride without a gas stop.  When I say ‘extra containers’ I mean that we fished empty Gatorade bottles out of the trash, filled them with gas, and squirrelled them away in our packs.  I don’t think this was legal in the United States but since we were used to doing this in Baja, no one even thought twice.  Our motos have a range of 100 to about 130 miles.  About twenty miles short which is an extra half gallon. Each.  That was a good bit of fuel and left us with out any “wandering around” (aka being lost) reserve.  There really wasn’t any other option so we shrugged the math off. 

 

After about 40 minutes of pounding pavement. The green line indicated the exit point onto Indian land.  I was apprehensive what we would find but again found that there was not even a gate so we took that as a big welcome sign.  I turned onto the dirt road with three other motos happily in tow and the GPS leading us yet providing no emotion to the remote excursion.  Immediately there were stark differences in the Navajo land from the Kaibab side of the canyon. For one thing, the earth was by any description …. barren.  We were riding on a high plain, nothing in sight taller than a barbed wire fence post.  There was little to no sage or weeds so the rust red dirt was free to go where-ever the wind swept it.  From the looks of it, the wind swept the dirt quite a bit but never really making it clean.  Sadly, it became obvious that the Navajos were given this land as a reservation probably because no one else would want it.  Being part American Indian, my heart felt heavy at the tangent Indian life had been sent.  Our trip perhaps was a metaphor, as one could bemoan the rocks that sent our trip off course but life is always about making the best solution forward.  We can’t change what is backwards.   Everyone has their version of what happened but we certainly can influence what happens next.  My pragmatism didn’t keep me from my feelings of sadness.

 

GPS Madness!!   Little jeep trails were endlessly wandering everywhere. There was no indication that any one of these trails’ dead ended at a dried-out watering hole complete with some poor animal’s bones bleaching in the sun.  Our senses of tracking relied on which direction the previous persons would have gone.  However, each jeep trail appeared to be semi-well-travelled.  It was like being in a funhouse maze a foreshadowing example on a smaller scale that life has its detours. 

 

See how quickly you recognize the problem.  We certainly didn’t get the hang of it.

 

The Navajos living here now were ranchers of cattle, sheep, and horses.  All of these animals roam randomly up canyons and meadows.  Ranchers by definition are simply trying to get over to various areas where the livestock may congregate. 

 

If they were farmers of the land, they would have roads set up in large squares.  All the intersections would be mostly at right angles. 

 

Perhaps my clues have allowed you to foresee what will happen but I will walk you through the problem.

 

On this ranch, there are all these frequent little roads departing from each other in little Y’s not turning off at right angles.  This made it very difficult to navigate using a GPS because on the tiny little screen, you didn’t see a nice 90-degree turn.  There wasn’t even a distinct break in the ‘Y’ providing a clue.  The only way to navigate was to ride slowly, guess which branch of the Y to take, wait and stare at the GPS screen.  After 100 yards, if I chose correctly, the GPS green line would follow me.

If I had guessed incorrectly, the little green line would veer away.  Since I was the only one with a working GPS, everyone was getting frustrated with me for choosing incorrectly.  At one point, Carl got frustrated and jumped into the lead thinking that dead reckoning would be better.  It wasn’t.  So, he just had to fall back into line.

 

As we rode farther away from the villages, the guessing became less frequently.  Coming over each rise our eyes feasted on yet another desolate valley bigger than the last.  The pit in my stomach grew a little bigger as well the farther away from the highway we rode.  It didn’t help that everyone was getting hungry and worn thin by the constant guessing

 

Somewhere about 10 AM we stopped to take in a view of the Indian Reservation.  It was an expanse of rolling barren land in all directions but at our stop we were at the highest point so we could at least see over to the Kaibab side of the canyon.  Roads branched out and disappeared over every knoll and hill.  We went to get rolling again and I felt my clutch cable break.  The left lever on my bike that was supposed to disengage the motor from the rear wheel just went limp.  Limp anything like vegetables to clutch levers is disappointing.

With a brief inspection, we confirmed that the cable had sheared off at the engine casing.  Suddenly, we felt very alone and in the middle of no where.  Looking around, there was absolutely nothing as far as the eye could see.  I powered up my cell phone and to my surprise, I had one little faint bar of reception.  I made an SOS call to my brother-in-law Dave in Flagstaff.  I was pleased to hear Dave’s voice.  I explained to Dave, “Hey. A Clutch cable broke on my 2006 WR 450.  Can you locate one in Flagstaff?” He said he would work on it.  Before I hung up, I asked him to just send his answers by TXT messages so I could save battery life on my cell phone.  A few minutes later my phone buzzed.  It wasn’t good news, the stores in Flagstaff were not open on Sunday.

 

If you want to see the real man’s mettle, watch what happens when something goes wrong.  Every man acts differently based on the perceived risks.  Some nearly panic and throw reasoning out.  They react like, “Screw it and everyone.  Here is the plan that I have and we have to get going.”  We do not ride with those guys anymore.  Stu, our retired Captain, just focuses on the objective. “Let’s get going, we can make it.”  Tim, our medic, defaults to conservation. “Let’s ride back to the pavement and then to Flagstaff.”  It sounds ridiculous but I like the ‘slow down and think method.’  The only real problem was that my motorcycle would not go from a dead stop as shifting into gear caused the engine to stall with violent results.  There was a solution allowing me to influence what would happen next not worry about history.   I found that with some effort, I could run alongside pushing my 300-pound motorcycle down the dirt road, jump on, swing my leg over the seat, and pop it into gear.  Obviously, this worked better with even the slightest of downhill.  So, I learned that when everyone else stopped, I rode in a circle to find neutral in the gear box and the best direction of gravity to restart my journey.

 

Underway again.  We rode past a few mud domes.  No sign that anyone lived there. Perhaps they were temporary homes for the sheep herders.  As we rode past the reservation ghost town, I spotted a satellite dish stuck to the back of a dome.  What a strange dichotomy I thought.  A mud home with a satellite dish?  No power lines for miles.  No people for even more miles.

The mysteries continued.  We rode down a hill across a valley and up to the ridge.  The GPS had a little waypoint indicating “view point” was within two miles of us.  From our vantage point, we weren’t quite over the lip of the ridge.  We rode forward.  I got on the radio, “the GPS says we are supposed to find a road to our left.” 

There was a faint trail that we followed which made a hairpin turn on the ridge, it crested at an angle.  When we could finally see forward, we were on a hill above the Grand Canyon edge.  The jeep trail continued to follow the ridge line and just before going straight would end in a very big drop, the trail turned straight down the hill towards another slight plateau below.  With my clutch problem, I waited to see how knarly the decent down the hill was before committing.  Stu refused to go.  Tim refused to go. 

Carl peering over the lookout

The Navajo Lookout

Carl picked his way down and was successfully spit out on the flat below.  From our roost, we watched him wander over to a little dead end in the trail about 50 meters from the edge.  I mustered up the gumption to bomb down the hill.  By the time I caught up with Carl, he was all smiles telling me about the amazing view.  Below us the Colorado River snaked back and forth, so we were treated with a view of it coming and going.  We stood there awhile admiring the variety of green hues of this peaceful yet powerful giant.  Growing up in Southern California, we don’t see water flowing too much yet alone majestic rivers. There’s something beyond words standing at this overlook without a rail.  I feel as small as our friends on the ridge looked.  

Tim and Stu looking down at our Lookout

Looking back up the ridge to Tim and Stu snapped me back to the reality that Carl and I would have to scramble the 500 feet back up the steep drop to reach our buddies.  If I stalled out, there would be no clutch to control the beast I was riding. 

 

Carl made a run at it first, dirt shooting from the rear tire of his moto as they both scrambles to reach a new orbit on the earth.  With no small effort, he navigated the rocks and the sharp turn at the top to join Stu and Tim.  Now there were three small spectators peering down at me. 

 

I pointed my motorcycle in the right direction. Hit the engine start button.  450 cc zapped to life like a horse chomping at the reigns.   I took a deep breath and started my foot race along side the moto and in one swift move planted my left foot on the peg, swung my leg over the seat and simultaneously clicked the shift lever into first gear.  The sudden smash of power to the rear tire made the bike jerk and the motor ping.  Rolling into the throttle I immediately found second gear.  Momentum, direction, and balance is everything in a hill climb.  Needing more momentum, I got the moto into third gear.  Anymore speed would have been disastrous.  Now I was in the sweet spot of power, torque, and momentum.  I chose my line early but two thirds of the way up was an overhang.  On our way down, it was merely a drop off.  On the way up, it was a step up.  If I had a clutch I could drop to second gear, use momentum, and pop the front end with the clutch at the right time.  I stayed in third as long as I dared, the lip coming fast.  Just before bashing into the lip, I dropped into second and slightly cut my throttle.  The last thing I needed was to hit the lip so well that it launched me airborne.  I threaded my way past a rock and in a moment, blipped over the lip.  As my bike rejoined the ground, I was already twisting the throttle asking for as much new power as my bike would give.  After a few sandy spots and a left-right, I was pointed towards the ridge my buddies were on.  There was one last tricky left turn, an out-of-control right would send you flying for sometime towards the river below.  I cut the throttle and lost momentum and snapped the left turn.  There was no time to find neutral so my bike jerked to a stop the engine stalling instantly in a cloud of dust.  The three of them just stared at me.  I was glad to stare back.  Finally, Stu broke the moment exclaiming, “Well… That was sporty!!” 

 

Even my motorcycle needed a moment. 

 

The team back tracked down the jeep trail.  I watched as the quiet little symbol “Overlook” disappeared from the GPS screen.

 

The next big valley was a bomber, up a steep approach with a rollercoaster top.  We shot down the hill with enthusiasm, rode up and over the rollercoaster then made a hard left on a bigger road.  The GPS signaled a right turn at the top of a little hill but when we got up there the right turn was barely a little jeep trail, long time neglected and washed by years of summer monsoon rains.  It was mentally hard to leave the more travelled trail which offered the promise of going someplace, where-as, this little jeep trail made no pretense of going anywhere.  It was so pathetic that not everyone in our group even followed the trail.  Some of us just bushwacked through the grassy sod.  As we crested another little hill, we spotted a significantly better jeep trail that seemed to draw a straight line up through the hills.  With a ray of hope, our GPS confirmed that the bigger dirt road was our way out.  A hard left out of the scrub, and we were hot on the throttles to reach the highway.  Or so we thought.

 

Tim and Carl took the lead.  They soared up the dirt road at freeway speeds with such endeavor.  At one point I looked down, the GPS track had taken a right turn.  The Tim and Carl rocket kept super sonically heading straight.  I couldn’t even reach them on the radio.  It seemed like a long time but fifteen minutes later we were all rolling to a stop at the pavement.  Unfortunately, I had ten minutes of patience.  Waiting the last five minutes to catch the gang allowed my emotions to percolate. 

 

Tim and Carl were all smiles to have reached the pavement signaling civilization.  I rolled up and lectured them on riding away from the group and failing to use the radios to check in.  Tim’s smile faded.  I felt bad. 

 

We switched to a discussion about our options.  Should we ride back to the trail or ride forward on the pavement?  Recall that we barely have enough gas for the estimated mileage.  After some calculations, we opted for the GPS guidance.

 

As aggravating as it was, we were married to the GPS track, a cold green line that that just kept pouring in at the top of the screen and disappearing off the bottom of the screen like sand in an hour glass.

 

Making good time, the road delivered us ever closer to the highway but not without a few last teasers.  The GPS tattled on the pavement ahead but the dirt road was holding out any hint of civilization.  The earth tones changed from the desolate rusty red Navajo sand.  Here the earth was a strange mix of reds, blacks, greys, and a dusting of white.  The terrain was erratic and unnatural like nothing we’ve seen before.  It could have been an air force bombing run with knobs of bare dirt piled up and pock marks between.  If it were not for the dirt road knocked through this moonscape, it would have been impossible to traverse even for our nimble dirt bikes.  Again, I was reminded of such a desolate place that the government had provided for the Navajos as a reservation!

 

Bringing us back to reality, we saw a few cars zipping down the twisting pavement ahead of us.  They were going at 60 miles an hour and it seemed odd that this final outlet from the reservation was so significant to us, yet it was barely noticed by the cars speeding past us.  We popped out onto the asphalt highway.  I almost forgot my clutch was not working but on the hard asphalt, there was no cheating the shifting.   It meant that I really had to time my shifts and not do too many of them.  The air temperature on the highway shot up to the 90’s and blasted us at 70 MPH with a scorching wind.  After 45 minutes of this abuse, we finally approached the town of Cameron.  We were hot, tired, thirsty, and hungry.  Most importantly no one ran out of gas. 

 

The plan was to meet Dave Dobrick in this town.  Dave, was our host for the evening.  My brother-in-law rode the highway up from Flagstaff some 70 miles to meet us.  We were about 40 minutes overdue which really was pretty good considering the vast nothingness riddled with countless misleading trails that we had just crossed. 

 

A long suspension bridge was the gate keeper of Cameron.  The plan was to meet Dave at a gas station. Not any gas station in particular, just a gas station.  Guys can be so general in our planning.  As dumb luck would have it, there were only four stations in the whole 3-mile-long town.  We rode through town scouting each station.  When we reached the last gas station, we pulled in for fuel and a leg stretch. 

Despite my plan for a soft landing, I stalled my motor abruptly close to one of the pumps.   I could not pop the gear shifter into neutral fast enough.   I cringed at thinking about the abrupt shock the hot engine got just locking up like that. I hoped the thin film of oil would hold up to the piston welding itself to the cylinder.  We gassed up the bikes but that only solved one of our three problems.  A call on the cell phone solved our second problem.   I found out that Dave was waiting for us at the gas station on the opposite side of town (naturally!)  Now, the last problem, EAT!

Pulling into the gas station, we could see Dave waving.  I was surprised that it felt really good to see someone I knew after three days of riding in remote country. Emotional almost.

 

It was 2 o’clock and we were starving!  The town of Cameron was one big tourist stop for passersby to get Indian souvenirs.  We rode over to one of the bigger stops.  On our way, we noticed that one of the motos had a flat tire.  Right there in front of all tourists, we propped the bike up on a curb and removed the rear tire.  Everyone started pulling tools out of everywhere.  Soon, it looked like the bike had exploded.  Busses kept spitting out European travelers dressed in shorts and sandals.  We were dressed in full off-road gear, colorful shirts, riding pants, heavy boots that rose to our knees, of course, we were covered in red dust from the day’s ride.  Changing the tube out of a tire is a messy proposition.  In order to wrestle the tire of the rim, a liberal spray of WD40 oil is applied over the tire.  It takes a minimum of three long tire irons to get a stiff moto tire off the rim.  The old tube is pulled out.  We check the tire for any nails.  A new tube put in.  We were well practiced.  Changing the tube is not a clean process.  Everyone’s hands get covered in a black oily mess.  After gathering an adequate number of disgusting looks, we successfully remounted the tire, filled it with air.  After packing away all the tools, we headed off to lunch.

 

The restaurant was a grand place. There must have been about an acre of “Indian” souvenirs all the way from tumbled shiny rocks to high end silver bracelets.  I suspect that the closest most of these Indian souvenirs got to an Indian, was when it was pulled out of the case and set on the counter.

 

The air conditioning felt good.  The restaurant was all the way in the back of the souvenirs.  The normal lunch crowd had died down yet there were several tables with customers trying to figure out what planet we just arrived from.  There was no use trying not to attract attention since our heavy riding boots pounded the floor like a bunch of thirsty cowboys headed for the bar.  No sooner had we slung down our packs and sank into the seats, we were upstaged when our waiter arrived.   Everyone just looked up from our menu, slack jawed.   Our waiter showed up and he was a genuine Indian and a genuine gay Indian.  He asked to take our drink order and busted a joke to reset our jaws.   His whole persona did not match our stereo type of the Navajo Indian.  True, he looked the part, yet he spoke with the liveliness and extra exacerbation that gave his speech a sing song pattern with the last word of every sentence dropping off a bit.  If it wasn’t his voice, his posture betrayed any further suspicions.

 

Our low blood sugar made our heads spin looking at the menu.  Dave said that we had to try the Navajo Taco.  All the menus closed immediately, and our happy waiter recorded our fate.  The “Indian Taco” was pretty close to what Mexicans call TEXMEX.  Which basically only bears a close resemblance of anything Mexican.  It was a pile of shredded lettuce, cheese, other several fattening spreads, on top of spicey ground-round beef and all piled on a fried cornbread cake.  At first, it was great.  However, the cornbread cake was enough to choke a horse.  I think the only person to clean the plate was Carl.  He always cleans his plate.  24 hours later, the Indian Taco was more effective than two bran muffins and a strong cup of coffee.  Could this be proof that Montezuma was related to the Navajo’s??

 

As we finished up lunch, the momentum of the day was slowing too far down.  We still had over a hundred miles to go but a nap started to seem like a good idea.  We had to do plenty of self-cheerleading to push back from the table and mentally get geared up for another 6 hours of riding.  We all rallied in the parking lot.  All the moto gear was put back on, chest and shoulder protector, backpack carrying the tools, fanny pack carrying the first aid gear, helmet, plug in the headset, plug in the push to talk button, goggles on, gloves on, radio check, ready to start moto.

 

There was no coordination of getting ready.  To each his own.     Since there was no clutch on my motorcycle, I surveyed the parking lot for any downhill slope to help with running alongside my running moto and then leaping onto it and pop it into gear without stalling the motor.  It wasn’t ideal. It wasn’t pretty. But it sure beat walkin’.  I was the last to get going.

 

As we headed out of town, I could collectively sense that the nutrition of lunch helped lift everyone’s spirits, or was it the Coke.  A few miles out of town, the GPS signaled our entry onto the next 100 miles of dirt road before our final stop in Flagstaff.  A quick check of the watch, 3:00 PM.  Not good.  Running late.  We may run out of daylight today.

 

It was good to get back onto the dirt.  Right away, we started to suffer again from second guessing the GPS.  The dirt road looked like merely a detour that people used to sneak off and surreptitiously dump trash like couches or other future historical treasures.  We wandered around this go nowhere road, crisscrossing stuff that barely looked like a scrub brush rabbit trail that even the rabbits had given up on.

 

After a few miles, the trail focused itself and sobered into a proper two track jeep trail.  Soon, we were zipping along dodging along a rickety dirt road at 45 mph.  I was in the lead and Dave was right on my tail.  I couldn’t tell if I was going too slow or Dave was so excited that he didn’t want to look slow.  The rest of the group knew from the last two days what a reasonable speed was and that was definitely slower than Dave was riding.  Dave passed me pulling a wheelie. 

 

We were whipping along a no-name valley.  Above us was a plateau that some ancient river carved this no-name valley into.  The road decided that the plateau was more interesting so we followed the road and snaked up the canyon side to the top.  As we rounded a sharp turn, Dave slid out in a glorious cloud of dust.  Since he was in second, everyone saw the wipeout. 

“Man Down!” the radio barked.

As lead rider, I pulled over and stopped.  Tim rode up and parked next to me reminding me that we were a long way from home and that we needed to keep our speed in check.  I agreed.  I had let the speed sneak higher that we should have been riding. 

 

The tool carrier that Dave had bolted to his bike disintegrated in the crash.  After collecting up and stashing the tools in his backpack, Dave set out to get his moto running again and a few calibrated kicks with the toe of his boot, the moto barked back to life. All adjustments were made so that we could continue our ride, including our ego adjustment.  We set out at a more reasonable speed.  Somewhat faster than “Driving your car to market.”  But not quite, “Somebody is gonna get hurt.” 

 

We were scooting down a dirt road that kept angling towards the higher elevation side of the valley.  It appeared that we could have joined up with a power line utility road but the power lines were not exactly going in the direction that we needed to go.  At some point, we managed to deviate from the preferred route that the GPS was advising.  The jeep trail was beautiful.  Like a scene out of “High Plains Drifter” we were rolling down a little jeep road at freeway speeds.  All around us was knee high grass.  The wind swept an unseen hand that brushed the top of the grass in waves. As far as we could see, grass, peacefully swaying in an Alpine wind.  Honestly, it would have been a Huck Finn moment just to lay down in the grass, stare into the sky and watch the clouds get pushed along by God’s mighty hand.  I stole my way into the lead and then pulled over so that everyone could get their picture taken in this land of America the Beautiful.

 

Our Huckleberry detour from the GPS course meant that we ended up a few miles off course.  There were dirt roads crisscrossing the high valley going in all directions.  The options should have resulted in the joy of choosing any route we wanted but ironically it created anxiety because the odds of choosing the wrong road are the worst.  So, we did.  Chose the wrong road that is.  After a few zig zags, a few back tracking, a few grumbly offers to lead the way.  Finally, we found our way back onto the little green line that the GPS was insisted we take.

 

After some miles, our trail exited the big valley and headed towards a range of hills.  We were funneling into a valley that was peppered with a herd of cattle.  The narrower the valley got, the more the cattle.  Finally, the trail took a sharp pitch up a scrabble hill.  The steeper it got, the looser the gravel. There was a cow and her calf trotting along ahead of me trying to get out of our way but the canyon kept the cow and calf running right in front of me.  The cow would zig zag hoping to shake us off.  The calf was doing the same but trying to follow mama and trying to look at us at the same time, frightened by the buzz of dirt bikes catching up to them.  The cow broke left but the calf stayed right to follow the jeep trail.  Simultaneously, I slowed to give her room and called into the microphone, “COW!”  At the same time, Stu, who was right behind me, decided he was not going to get stuck on the hill, so he shot by me on the left.  I am sure he was surprised to see he was right on the calf.  He coulda stuck out a boot and kicked her.  I was laughing in my helmet.  Stu was still intent on giving it more gas.  The jeep trail got so steep that the calf decided running uphill was no fun.  Stu continued his ascent to the top. Now I was in bad shape.  I had another 100 yard to go but had nearly no momentum.  I gassed it hard and jumped into second gear early.  It is a trick I had learned long ago.  A higher gear will prevent the rear wheel from just spinning and spitting dirt out.  The engine hated my trick and made a nasty knocking noise.  Luckily the motor didn’t stall but kept building up speed.  I was fishtailing a bit to make it through the loose soil.  Just as I crested the hill there was an abrupt drop into a ditch.  I slapped my engine case going through the ditch but held on tightly.  My trajectory took me way off the dirt road and scrambling past a large wooden water storage tank.  Judging from all the bullet holes, it had been some time since it held any water.  I finally rolled to a stop and turned so that I could see the crest of the hill.  I tried to radio a warning of the hidden ditch but it was unheeded.  Soon, I could see the last few riders charging over the crest and hitting the ditch in a spectacular fashion.  Some made it, some ate it.  Finally, we mustered together, laughed about the calf and bitched about the ditch.

 

The sun was starting to fall low in the sky.  Collectively, the group sensed that we were running low on time yet still had another 50 miles to go, navigating roads yet to be known was a challenge.  Navigating in the dark was nearly impossible. 

 

It didn’t help that the jeep trail was barely visible.  The brush growing in the tracks was an indication that few drive out here this far.  After some time, the trail spit us out at a farm house.  We are always cautious rolling into someone’s property unannounced.  It seems remote hospitality includes a shot gun for a hello.

 

We had a problem.  The GPS seemed to draw the trail straight through the farm house and up the canyon on the other side.  But the jeep trail, veered to the right and up to a wire gate.  So, we stayed right, letting ourselves through the gate.  The road continued to wander off to the west but our route was south.  I had to turn the group around which they never like to hear about.  The jeep road ahead looked way better than the jeep trail we left behind.  We went back through the wire gate.  While we were getting the gate shut and I was pushing my bike to get it started, Stu bombed across a cow pasture and somehow found the jeep trail on the other side.  We started to make good progress again.

 

Happily, we started to see forestry road markers indicating that we had entered the national forest.  The road was still barely passable. Large branches jousted out on each side of the trail.  Sometimes it was safer to ride up the right side, sometimes up the left.  Just to keep things sporty, the road wound like a snake and the middle of the trail had a gouge in it from the rain water making a ditch.  This made every crossing a good chance to yank the handle bars into some ill-advised direction.

 

Tim was leading and I was in second when we rounded the corner and straight into a heard of elk.  I didn’t get a good view of them but it sure was creepy seeing animals bigger than us on our motorcycles.  The big elk were moving faster through the brush than we could riding down the dirt trail.

Finally, the trail became more of a road.  As the navigator, I was starting to feel better.  I knew that if we got close enough, we would be in the country that Dave called his back yard and then finally I could get a break from the responsibility of navigating.

 

We stopped at an intersection of roads to take a break.  The soil was a rich red dust which created a choking mess for any rider past number two so everyone needed a break. 

 

With the sun setting, the break was short.  We started to ride but the GPS said that the trail was supposed to cut through the forest where there was no trail.  Stu’s GPS did not agree with my GPS.  With only two GPS’s, there was no tie breaker.  This caused us much discussion as to determine a proper route.  Nerves were thin because daylight was turning to twilight.  Just before an argument erupted, I remembered my GPS had a “Go To” function so I used Dave’s house.  After some thinking, the GPS plotted us a course and revealed a proper arrow.  “Turn right. Ahead 200 yards.” 

 

With that, we started to follow the GPS.  Turn here. Turn there. We were spit out into a beautiful mile wide meadow.  On the far side of the meadow was a farm house.  As we sailed past the house, a car indicated that people were using the farm.  It felt good to see someone else.  Anyone else for that fact.

 

In another half mile, we met up with pavement.  Another good sign.  I asked Dave if anything looked familiar.  I am not sure if I got an answer but he shot off down the pavement like he sure knew which way to go.  Everyone took off in hot pursuit.  I couldn’t just start and go without my clutch; I had to swoop around headed in the wrong direction down the dirt road to get my bike started.  Even a thirty second delay meant the group was another half mile away from me. It took some effort to catch the group which was now whipping along at 68 MPH.  We couldn’t have been on the pavement for more than twenty miles when Dave pulled over.  As I was just pulling in, he asked over the radio, “Should we take a fun way to my house?”  There was a pause from the group who mentally was sure that we were streaking to Dave’s house and a cold beer.  I replied, “Sure, let’s do it!”  as I knew that Dave knew where he was at and I had a good sense of both what the group thought was fun and what Dave thought was fun.  So “fun” it was.

 

We headed back out into the forest down a dirt trail. After a few minutes, we were climbing a crazy dirt road that corkscrewed its way through boulders and trees.  The on again off again and on again got the juices flowing.  Soon the group was like an angry swarm of bees zipping through the forest. The “fun” route also was spectacularly lined with towering pine trees and the smell of vanilla coming from the pollenating sweet pines.  The sun set and the motorcycle headlights played sword fights in the billowing trial dust kicked up by the pounding of horsepower down the trail. 

 

Fun never lasts and our dirt road delivered us back to the highway.  Having been here before, I could tell we were only a few miles from our destination.  We were riding in the darkness now and the air temperature of Flagstaff plummeted into the forties.  Jumping onto the highway and riding at 70 MPH just drove to cold air thru us to the point where our jaws started to hurt from the clinching of teeth.

 

It was 7:00 PM when we rolled into Dave’s garage.  Everyone was happy yet glad to get off the motorcycles.

 

My sister Teresa and Dave made us way too comfortable.  It was hard to even fathom that this morning, we were nearly lost in the Navajo Reservation.  Before we went to bed, we studied our route considerably.  I confessed that much of the trail system for the next 60 miles was difficult for me to map.  (remember at the time of our trip, there were no websites that discussed trails or their conditions) All 800 plus miles of our route were based on me studying the original GPS route and comparing that to a software that showed satellite images or you could switch to topographic maps.  The original route that we downloaded from our mysterious buddy of a buddy was suspect.  Somethings didn’t quite jive up that the guy had ridden the route that he sent to us.  There were at least two maybe three locations in the first three days that I doubt he could have ridden a heavy touring motorcycle because we had difficulties riding our nimble Baja proven dirt bikes.  There’s no way he went up Doe and Buck hill.  There’s no way he went down to the Grand Canyon overlook that Carl and I went down to.  These first few days, I was starting to wonder exactly what parts he had ridden so that made the sections after Flagstaff even more doubtful.  When I was plotting out our route, I would toggle between the three sources.  I would start with our given GPS track then look at the topo map which would show forestry roads.  From the satellite image, I could guess if the road was passable by how visible it was from space.  A well-travelled road would not be overgrown.  The biggest risk was locked gates.  Maps and satellites don’t show locked gates.  Many of the tracks after Flagstaff were very hard to confirm due to the heavy tall tree growth.

Dave suggested that he drive us down to Seligman thus cutting off 60 miles of forest trails.  That idea was starting to sound pretty good at 10 PM at night.

On Day 4, we loaded four motos into Dave’s little trailer.  We loaded five grown men into Daves little Toyota pickup truck and drove to Seligman an hour away. 

Seligman.  The trophy stop for tourists looking for the famous Route 66.  There were probably six busses of tourists in town all pouring out and going to the diners and souvenir shops.  We were out of place.  Donned all our moto gear and rode through town from stop to stop.  It was kinda cool to be riding on one of the first cross country US highways.  Route 66 was the first federal highway built in the 1920’s by connecting many state and local roads to make one continuous route.  Route 66 went from Chicago to Los Angeles.  Keep in mind that Ford started producing the Model T in the early 20’s so up to that point, most people had to take a train if you wanted to go across the country.

As we rode out of Seligman, the morning was still cool and we were headed down.

 

After about an hour of riding, our GPS track signaled it was time to jump back onto a dirt road.  We agreed that we should top up gas again and spotted a very old gas station.  Seligman may have been the place that tourists stopped for Route 66 but this gas station probably was built in the 30’s.  The pump still had rotary dials for the gallons pumped and dollars owed.  The pump still made the iconic “ding-ding-ding” noise as gas was flowing in the hose.  Unfortunately, I suspect the place is probably shut down by now.  Another relic fading into history. 

Our dirt road was punctuated by mail boxes all clustered together near the pavement.  Not a dozen of mailboxes but perhaps three dozen!  I stopped to take a picture.  Somewhere out in the desolate desert were people all hoping to get their Sears Catalog mailed to them each year and their Social Security checks. 

The road was infinitely long and straight.  We rode hours trying not to fall asleep.  By noon, it started to get hot.  By 1:00 it was the kinda heat that pulled the moisture right out of us.  Finally, we made a hard left and the dirt once again turned to black top.  Who knows where this pavement went but we knew where it was going, back towards Highway 93.  As we crested the hill, there was a run down town we rolled into.  Everyone was thirsty so we were looking for a convenience store.  Stu spotted a bar that seemed to serve lunch.  Now bars in the middle of the day are a tragic place to hang out so I was not looking forward to getting a cold drink there.  Once we walked in, it turned out that it was well lit and had several pool tables.  We ordered a beer and hamburger.  It seemed like a safe bet.  I wandered around and looked at all the photos on the walls.  Pictures of history.  History of friends that had come and long time gone.  Families growing up.  I concluded that life in a no-name town was the same as life in San Diego.

 

After our late lunch, we rolled down the highway towards Hoover Dam.  How different the South side of the Grand Canyon was than the North!  We crossed the Hoover Dam holding back the mighty Colorado.  On the other side was Nevada, our trip concluded at another casino just past the dam.  Our hopes were set on the lavish buffet but nothing would even come close to the dinner we had in a tiny little restaurant in the small town of Fredonia.

Our dream trip had come to an end.  The feeling was the same as riding a roller coaster.  Big excitement at first.  Some thrilling twists and scary turns.  Some high points and some low.  As you come coasting back into the station, you know the ride is ending and your smile fades but all you can think of is, ‘when do I get to go again?’