Revising the past (blog editing)

Now that I am back in town I have been dedicating some time to cleaning up the blog, correcting typos, adding maps, and a few other things I really could not do on the road (or simply did not have the time and energy to do). I am also writing some reviews on the gear I used, so come back again, you may find something new here and there.

As for another trip, well, Blue has some ideas, and I like what I am hearing. Prince Edwards Island in the Fall sounds like fun, or, for a shorter run, a one week trip down to the Florida Keys. There is also the Pacific Coast, but that may have to wait for a different time.

Meanwhile, if anyone has any suggestions for rides around this part of the country (Jackson, MS), let me know. There is the Tail of the Dragon, off course, about two days from here, but I am not sure about riding with so many people around, so I am more interested in the " less traveled road".

So, stay tuned...

Day Sixteenth: Van Buren AR, to Ridgeland, MS

I was just here, two weeks ago...

My little mascot during the trip

420 miles to go, to get back, to end the journey, if that is possible. I slept well and by 6:30 I am awake, get dressed and go have yet another variation of Motel Breakfast. I noticed for the first time the morning air is warm and heavy, as if the night was not enough to cool the earth. I pack the bike one last time, noticing I left the bike cover in the previous motel, one notch on the few losses I had on this trip, along with a pair of sunglasses and some cheap Walmart slippers that went AWOL on the first night.  Nothing serious, I am not too worried. Time to saddle up and hit the road, East-Southeast to Little Rock, then on to Mississippi.

This should probably be a time to reflect on the trip, take stock of what I have seen, the places I have been. But I am hot and tired. The cooling vest no longer works due to the high humidity in the air, and the temperature gauge hovers around 90 F/32 C, although it feels much higher.

After Little Rock I leave the freeway, the rest of the trip on secondary sleepy roads. I remember after going by a church that it is Sunday. During this trip I completely lost track of time, and any effort to align my head with the calendar was quickly thwarted as I went back to a more natural Day One, Day Two, Day Three manner of reckoning time. But now I see it is Sunday, the entire South, it seems, is indoors, singing and praying. Outside churches I see small groups of people dressed in their Sunday best, little children jumping around in their little suits and ties and dresses. Somethings never change and that somehow gives me a sense of comfort. I ride on, unchurched but for the silent prayers in my head, of thanks for the beauty I have seen, the safe passage I have had, and my destination a few hours away, that it may hold, no harm to man or machine. I have become very fond of Blue, I must say.

I ride through green fields that stretch to the horizon, the fertile lands of Arkansas merging into those of Mississippi. Lush, intense green that seems almost unnatural, and beyond a sky so blue it make me almost forget that I am hot and sweaty and tired.

In small towns whose names I do not recall I pass by bronze images of generals and soldiers gazing into eternity, made anonymous by time but not forgotten, reminders of the folly of man, and of the bravery of some. There is so much silent history in the South, like a wind, whispered, the past here is less gone than in other lands.

On Highway 65 I follow the elegant arch of lake Chicot and come to a beautiful white bridge, suspended over the Mississippi. I cross the river and am there, and the greens I had seen seem even greener as I head down country lanes, and fields.

I stop to get some gas and get a drink and the big black girl who takes my money seems to believe I do not want my 8 cents in change, as she does not offer them. Next to her, a big white girl with several teeth missing, smiles and wishes me a good day. Sometimes I do not know if I have crossed some invisible line between reality and the land of stereotypes, but there are times when I have serious doubts.

After Yazoo City I ride through miles and miles of what seems like a carefully manicured lawn. I don't think you get too many highways in the country that look like this, but you do in the South.

Blue and I, safely where we started

I finally get to know territory heading down towards the Natchez Trace Parkway. I wind my way trough shady alleys of trees and into Ridgeland. I am back after two weeks, no one to greet me, no one to ask anything but I don't care. I stop Blue's engine and put the kick stand down. I pat the bike's tank as if it were a living creature. It is almost anticlimactic, as I unload the bike and climb the stairs in the hot, humid afternoon air, wondering what I can make for dinner. Perhaps I will dream of the open road tonight, great stone arches, snowy peaks, and remember all the wonderful people we met.

16 days and  4,101 miles. What a trip.

Day Fifteen: Amarillo, Texas, to Van Buren, Arkansas

When I wake up the wind is still there, but the skies have cleared. I have some breakfast, check out and pack the bike. Back on the freeway it is me and Blue against the wind. This will go on all day.

I cross Oklahoma from West to East in one giant step, a man on a mission, stopping only for gas and a quick bite to eat. The landscape begins to change slowly, and before I know it it reminds me of Mississippi, long stretches of freeway lined by trees and green that crops up whenever it is not

Oklahoma City (stock photo)

covered by asphalt. The air is also noticeable thicker and my cooling vest, which relies on evaporation, no longer works, leaving me with a clammy, stuffy feeling. I get rid of it at the next gas stop, next to a restaurant that advertises "all the catfish you can eat". When I get back on the road a very large bugs explodes on my face shield, its yellow guts running down slowly pushed by the wind, before freezing in place like glue.

I stop for lunch before hitting Oklahoma City, then head across the big city. I hate ridding through big cities, and this one is no exception.

For dinner I walk over to this Italian Grill. The combination of "Italian" and "grill" worries me a bit, but I am out for a quick meal, not a gastronomic experience. Inside the usual Saturday evening crowd, families, with kids, a few young couples, some older folks. The place seems to be staffed by too many waitresses for the size of the establishment, but it seems to work. I want a beer or a glass of wine, but the waitress reminds me, almost apologetic, that I am in a dry county, inside what is mostly a dry state. Yes, I see that, the 1920s temperance movement is alive and well in the south. Alcohol is bad for you, but the large plates with pizza and pasta the very large couple next to me is putting down, helped down by judiciously applied slabs of butter on the olive oil bread, is not. I get it. Water please, I ask.

The chicken Marsala I ordered also suffered from the constraints of being cooked in a dry county. I pay my bill and return to the hotel to realize I lost Blue's cover, probably left it at the hotel this morning.

I took no pictures today.

Tomorrow I head back to Ridgeland.

Day Fourteen: Albuquerque to Amarillo, Texas

On the road, again

Now the pain begins, the vacation is over and I still have 1,200 miles to go. As I right this I am watching sheets of rain fall from a black sky, as a large storm moves past this part of Texas. Moments earlier the sky to the north was lit by an eerie light, as a leaden darkness spread across the horizon to the south. Luckily it seems Amarillo is on the edge, so the wind is not as strong as it was an hour ago, and this may not be as bad as it looks. I tried to cover Blue, but the wind was so strong I decided it was probably better to just let it get wet than have a loose cover beat on the paint all night. A lady from the cleaning staff saw me struggling with the motorcycle cover and told me I could just move the bike and park it right in front of the main door, under cover. I thanked her and moved the bike, pointing it into the wind and leaving it as close to the wall as possible. it will not be completely protected but it is better there than out in the parking lot.

This is supposed to clear by morning, and I sincerely hope so, as I have 420 miles (670 km) to do before I make it to Van Buren, Oklahoma. I am not going the way I came, so this will be new territory. It may even be that I see things I like, new landscapes, but right now all I can think of is the open road ahead of me and the fact I miscalculated the amount of miles I needed to do every day before I reach Mississippi.

Today I did only 280 miles (450 km) yet it felt like twice that amount. I felt anxious for the first time in a long time, and had to will myself to release my grip on Blue's handlebars, to let go of my breathing and relax. It did not work very well and all I wanted was to get to the motel and take a long shower.

I am bone tired, the strong wind that blew across the empty plains shaking me and Blue, grabbing and letting go, punching me for hours and hours. This makes the turbulence coming off the big eighteen wheelers even harder to deal with, but you just keep pushing on. Fortunately it was not too hot. There is nothing out there other than wind and more wind. There is probably enough wind in this part of the country to power most of the US. Again I am reminded of the emptiness I had witnessed when I came by here before, as if God was unable to finish this part of the earth before He rested on the Sabbath, and then, when the new week had began, completely forgot where He had let off and left it like that.

The hotel is very nice, but the receptionist is not, asks me for my visa and driver's license like a cop at a traffic stop. I am too tired to get annoyed so I grab my things and go towards the direction she points, where my room is. A few moments later I realize I am going towards a dead end in the building and that the receptionist simply did not care to tell me that. I make a mental note of her name for when I am less tired to complain about it.

It takes a long, long shower to wash away the noise of the wind. For dinner I go to the sports bar across the street, a sports bar, the temple of fired food served among a cacophony of sportscasters blaring out scores, trivia, games playing on giant screens. The waitress was kind and attentive even though she looked tired. Some people are better at their jobs than others.

Time to get some rest, which should come easy tonight.

Day Thirteen: Durango, Colorado, to Albuquerque, New Mexico

Hitting Return

I was up at 6:30 and on the road 40 minutes later. For me Durango was a bad Motel and I could not wait to get out of there. I am now on the return leg of my trip, and the joy of discovery is quickly turning into the realization I have more than 1,000 miles of boring road before me. The highlight is my stop over in Albuquerque and spending a little more time with my friends there. 

I drive through some small towns, nondescript conglomerations of people, names that mean nothing to me. The landscape is bland, nothing to catch the eye, especially after what I had seen in the last few days. It is hard to believe I have gone from alpine meadows and the rocky heights of the San Juan mountains to this in less than a day. The world is flat again, empty, like someone hit the reset bottom and things have not rebooted yet.

I find myself riding through Bloomfield, hunger and a lack of coffee remind me it is 10 AM and I have not yet had breakfast. A big sign points to a restaurant
like many others on the road, trucks parked outside, people coming and going, local people. If they like it, so will I. I do a U turn and park my bike. I see the big display case with Coca Cola memorabilia, a nice collection that n one seems to notice, bottle sets, little trucks, banners. A couple groups of old men sit and talk while the waitress goes around filling coffee cups. One waitress in particular seems to be filled with a contagious joy, the old men laugh easily, she seems to care. She is young and pretty but the beauty seems to be more of a radiance than a physical thing.  A young delivery man comes him, they seem to be old friends, she laughs, he laughs and jokes. I do not hear what he asks her but she volunteers a time for a date. That seem to take him aback. She laughs, having caught him off guard. Later I hear her turning down an offer, saying only lobster will do. They seem like old friends, comfortable with each other. He orders a large breakfast and eats heartily. His waitress friend does a few more rounds, then comes and sits with him and they talk some more. They seem to go well together.

My waitress is an older lady, tells me the special is " eggs and bacon", which strikes me as an odd special. I order it, and coffee. A few minutes later a large plate comes in and I eat the food with gusto, washed down with two cups of coffee. I joke that I am on a trip, not on a diet. The waitress tells me there is no way to diet with this food.The bill was $4.90. I am surprised, especially after two weeks of being milked out of my savings by all the touristy places I have gone through, so I leave her a tip that is out of proportion. A bit of Karma, I hope. I know I can use some myself.

I get to Albuquerque around noon, happy to see my friends again. At the request of my friends, I made Gaspacho, always a hit and miss, as most people are not keen on cold soups. It was a hit and miss but a good one, and a good compliment to the perfectly seasoned roasted pork and potato salad. Laughing is easy with old friends, and yes, I will have some more wine.

After dinner I subject my friends to a quick showing of my pictures. They are good sports, and we laugh that hopefully the camera batteries will give out before I have a chance to scroll through all the 1,300 photos I took.

Again I think about my return to Mississippi and how long it will take me to make peace with the loneliness that awaits. I go to bed at 10, tired, but I cannot sleep. Luckily I decided that I would only do 300 miles next day. Somehow the return trip looms even larger than the map tells me, an unmeasurable distance between two points.

Day Twelve: Million Dollar Highway (550), Colorado

I know there's a heaven, I rode through it today.

Well, for starters, how's this for a picture? This was right after the pass on 550, outside of Oray, Colorado. Alpine meadows, magnificent mountains, flowers everywhere, the air was fresh and the puffy clouds provided a perfect backdrop. This was a fantastic ride, stunning vistas, heaven.

I had a crappy night, could not get any sleep despite the fact this pace was very quiet and pleasant. After some coffee and cereal, I said goodbye to the owners, who were very gracious and reminded me I need to look for more of these " mom and pop" motels.

I left Delta around 10 AM under cloudy skies that looked like rain was coming. I had checked the weather and it showed some possible rain over the mountains. I put on my rain layer, but ended up getting the jacket layer off in a parking lot some 30 miles later, the skies now cleared. I could not get rid of the pants rain proof layer, since it requires I take my pants off, never a good idea in a parking lot.

In the distance the snow capped mountains began to rise higher and higher and I was full of expectation for what I might find. I also looked for some cooler riding, after having spent so many days riding through deserts. The road began to weave right and left, the sort of road Blue really likes, much better than the miles and miles of boredom we had done on several occasions on this trip.

Shangri La, with beer

The San Juan Mountain range reminded me of  Switzerland, steep snow capped mountains, meadows, waterfalls. But this is the United States, Colorado, so you have that plus these delightful little towns that were once mining centers.

Oray, Colorado

I arrived in Oray around noon. The town is very cute, arranged as usual along a main street, old buildings that still keep their nineteenth century flavor. The whole town is on an incline, since it was founded probably on the only piece of semi straight ground they could find between one mountain wall and the one facing it. On account of this the left side of Main Street is higher by quite a few feet than the right side (facing the pass). The town literally sits on a hill, going down will, so to speak. This posed some problems when trying to park Blue, since I could not park nose in on the right side of the road since I would never be able to get the bike out of there

At the Oray Brewery, good food, good beer and nice people

(there is no reverse on
a motorcycle, for those of you who are not motorcycle inclined), and parking on the other side would put the bike at an angle I did not like To make matters more interesting, the side streets are dirt. I mean, good old dirt. And they are also at an angle. I don't know if they are always like this, or this is because they are fixing them, but even the back streets were dirt. I finally found a spot next to where some German bikers had left their Harley, dirt of the gravelish kind, but uphill and fairly level. I would just have to be careful backing the bike out of there. But  first, lunch, as the smell or grilled meat that was coming over from this brewery just across the street caught my attention.

A lunch, with a view

Yes, it's water under the bridge...

The Oray Brewery is on a corner of Main street, topped by a terrace on the third floor where you can have one of their beers and look out on the gorgeous scenery. As I was ordering and talking to the nice waitress, she told me I should probably eat quickly since the pass would close at 1:30 and not open until 6:30 PM. This was 12:30. The pass, she told me, was only about a couple of miles up the road, and that I would have enough time. I ordered a beer (550 something or other, really good), and a burger, which was perfectly done and quite delicious. While waiting I struck up a conversation with this retired couple who were on a vacation trip, really delightful folks. I have met a lot of people on this trip, and it is always a joy to swap stories and just find out who these other travelers are.

(stock photo, I was too busy not falling over the edge)

I ate my burger, said goodbye to the good folks I had been talking to, and headed up the road. There had been a big rock slide and the road had been blocked. Crews had cleared it but they still needed to close it for several hours to allow the machinery to finish the job. One of the things everybody talks about when they mention the " Million Dollar Highway" is how scary. The road winds up the side of the mountain is a series of super tight hairpin turns, on one side the a vertical rock wall that climbs to the sky, on the other a sheer drop all the way down to, well not good. and off course, there are no guard rails. The reason for this is that during winter the snow crews need to be able to simply push the snow over the abyss, which makes you wonder how many snow plows you would find at the bottom of those ravines. Apparently none,as their crews are some of the best in the state, and manage to keep highway 550 open all winter, no small task. Guard rail or no guard rail, the drive, or ride in my case, is exhilarating but not scary, as you have to crawl up at 20 miles per hour. Still, if you have a fear of heights this might not be your cup of tea.

A note on names

More information here

There are several theories behind the name " Million Dollar Highway". One relates to its mining past and the claim that the road bed was filled with tailings from the gold mines and that there was still a lot of gold ore mixed with the gold. Another one, more modern, has to do with the feeling some folks get when they look out their car window and see nothing but space all the way down to the ravine, thus eliciting the old " you could pay me a million dollars and I would never drive this way again". For others, myself included, the view is worth a million dollars. Better yet, the view is priceless, so don't be afraid, it is truly worth it. Read more about it here.

As it turns out, getting there just before they closed the pass was a good thing because I think I was one of the last people to make it through. This, along with the fact I stopped at this beautiful meadow you see on the first picture, and stood there for a good half an hour, made it so that when I got back on the road, there was no one else going either way. I had this fantastic mountain road all to myself for a good 15 miles.

Elysian Fields

Going over the pass you meet with dust and dirt on the road form the heavy machinery that have been fixing it. It is narrow and I had to pay close attention to what I was doing. I stopped at a water fall to take pictures, and it seemed that at every turn you were looking at a perfect post card. Once  on the other side of the pass I came across this beautiful meadow with yellow flowers and green grass and a magnificent view of the mountains in the back drop. One car had also pulled over, and its occupants, this charming coupe from Australia, were sitting on a rock in the middle of the field having a picnic. I did not want to spoil their moment but did ask if they could take my picture (the one on top), they did and we struck up a conversation, comparing notes on our voyages, we both amazed that one day you can be in the desert admiring the crazy red spires of Moab, and the next you are in an alpine meadow looking at snow caped mountains and listening to a rushing stream go by.

It was hard to eave this place, its beauty was so intense, the view so elevating it almost brought tears to my eyes. I sat for a moment, and that was my prayer, that one moment, with the camera off, just letting my soul reach out and feel the incredible beauty of the moment. Master Yoda would have been proud.

I kept riding, telling myself I would go straight on to Silverton, but at the next bend another vista would open up and I had to stop. At one place, I pulled over and sat one what looked like God's balcony, a valley of green below me, and the ever presence high snows, like a silent chorus on a silent prayer.

Silverton, coffee and funny buildings.

The road kept going down the mountain until I got to Silverton, a cute little town with a huge main street, lined with brightly colored old buildings, and a steam train that links Silverton to Durango, and which has been running for more than 100 years. I went in to a store to buy a pin for my jacket and stayed to talk with the lady at the store, who had lived in California but had ultimately found a home here in the mountains of Colorado. Silverton lives from the tourist industry, skiing in the winter, outdoor sports in the summer.

When I asked for a place to get some coffee, the young attendant told me to go next door, she also worked there, and the coffee was good. i thanked her and walked over. There I met Steve,who was having lunch and wanted to know where I was traveling to, from, etc. Walking anywhere dressed in full motorcycle touring gear gets people interested. I liked Steve, there was something solid and kind about this man.

Meanwhile, back in 1968...

After Silverton the landscape opened up, and the magic of the mountains was quickly lost. I got into Durango, on what seems the very edge of the town and finally came across a crappy motel. It had to happen, and it happened here. This place, Spanish Trails, must owe its name to the time Spanish explorers were roaming lands not far form here in search of El Dorado. The rooms are old, the buildings are old, and, judging from the appliances, the last time this place was remodeled was in 1968. And then, after I unloaded the bike and took a shower, I find out someone had slept on the bed and the sheets had not been changed. I talked to the young attendant, who gave me what he described as " their best room", immediately above the other, that being the only distinction I can see. No one seems to have slept here,but I am not betting any money. As soon as the sun rises I am going to be out of here.

I really did not feel safe leaving my things behind. That, and because I was tired and in no mood to go find a restaurant, I walked across to the supermarket and picked up some sushi, or at least that is what they called their overprice dead fish covered bricks of rice.

I will go to bed now, forget about these trifle matters, and dream of Shangry La and my Elysian Fields. I was there today. I even have a picture or two to prove it.

Day Eleven: Moab, Utah, to Delta, Colorado

Sometimes it is better than you think

Today was shaping to be another downer. I did not sleep too well, despite being tired from the 3 mile/ 5 km hike yesterday. While it was not a long hike, it was uphill and it was hot so that's my story and I am sticking to it. I got up at 9, took a shower and went downstairs to get some breakfast. I had some coffee, a waffle and some cereal with yogurt. Then I went up to my room and began getting things ready. By now I have it down nicely, so it did not take me long to get the bags packed. I sprayed some Pledge on Blue's screen and headlights in an effort to get rid of the dead bugs. I was somewhat successful, since some bugs are now almost as hard as the plastic itself.

Not wanting to haul all my stuff downstairs by hand, I got a cart and used the elevator. There are two hard cases, one large rear pod/trunk, a tank bag, the helmet, my jacket, the camera, an extra bag that straps on the back seat and carries water, way too many things to carry by hand, although I have done it several times already.

With the bike ready and fueled, I headed out of town. There are two ways to get back to I 70: the way I came in, which is nice but nothing worth writing about, and SR 128, which goes along the Colorado River Gorge. Just as you get to the edge of town, you turn right along the river. And then the fun starts. You are immediately surrounded by tall, red, canyon walls, as the road weaves alongside the river. At places the canyon walls recede and the stage opens into grandiose views or sky high mesas, snow caped backdrop mountains, green meadows. It is a fantastic ride and far more impressive than what I was expecting. This goes on for 15 miles and the views are simply fantastic.

Blue and I under the Great Blue Sky

Then you are out of the gorge and the landscape opens up like a book laid flat open. On the side of a lonely road I saw some sort of four legged goat/deer thingy, with large, curled back horns. He was as surprised as I was, and I made a point from then on to go slower, you never know what else might pop up out of nowhere.

A quick stop in Frutia, Colorado, for some coffee, then another hour on the road, through Grand Junction and down on to Delta, a place I had never heard off and my first stop that is just that, a stop.

From the outside edge, Delta appears as a small town, nondescript, with a river running across the main highway. I follow the GPS to the Riverwood Inn, but I see a sign that says " Riverwood Motel and RV, some RVs parked in a small cluster f trees, a river that runs right behind the main office, and a gravel driveway. Blue does not like the gravel, which is deep and loose. I park in front of the office, which turns out to be the motel part as well. It is a long track home sort of building, with a nice little lobby, a fireplace and a hallway that leads down to the 10 or so rooms that make up the motel. The young attendant is nice, tells me I can park my bike around the building, since " people like

to see their bikes". I get Blue around the gravel yard and park by a tree, not 50 yards from where the river flows. The room is nice and everything is very clean and neat. Nothing fancy, but the AC works, there is plenty of hot water (even if it takes 5 minutes for it to flow) and sitting here on the bed I can see the Gunnison river flowing by while the wind stirs hand fulls of cottonwood, falling like snow . It is peaceful and different and I welcome not having anything yo do for the rest of the day, no wonders to see, no photos to take. A long shower, some coffee and downtime. This was a good ride after all.

I spend the rest of the afternoon resting and updating my blog. The weather is warm and windy, with heavy dark clouds above. now and then sudden gusts of wind wake up the cottonwood trees, which unleash another fuzzy snow storm.

I ride into town in search of an Italian restaurant I saw online. The town, aligned along its main street, which is Highway 50, is a pretty,  tree lined town, with buildings hearkening back to the 30s and 40s, and well preserved, small stores, all close at this time of the evening, but which speak of a quiet, old style community.

I find the place, Davetos Italian Restaurant. It looks like it was remodeled not long time ago, with Italian scenes painted on the walls. It is a cozy, family oriented place with a touch of class. The place is not busy, this being a week day I imagine. The waitress comes over and I order some pasta and a glass of wine. The food is ok, the service is very good. I eat quietly looking at Blue, which looks funny parked outside without her saddle bags.

Tomorrow we tackle the mountains and the Million Dollar Highway.

Below is one of the videos I took while ridding down 128. This is raw footage, since I do not have the means to edit video right not. Don't get car sick now!

Day Ten: Moab, Utah

Delicate Stony Things

Park Avenue,  as it resembles some an alien skyscrape city

After breakfast I headed for the park. With so much to see and only one day to do it all, I decided to head straight to the end of the scenic route and hike to Delicate Arch. Despite my decision to "ride straight to the end", it as impossible not to stop and take in the sites. To make the constant stops easier, I got rid of the jacket and gloves. Because Utah laws do not require you wear a helmet, I could have done without it also, but I simply cannot bring myself to ride with my head in the wind. I will, however, look into getting one of those helmets that convert from full face to open face, as I can see it would be useful when touring. One of the things I learned

on this trip.

I rode down the 10 or so miles to the parking lot from where you hike to the Delicate Arch. It was warm, hot, actually, 85 F (30 C), with a crushing azur sky for a dome. The parking lot was full but I found a spot for the bike, locked my gear in the side cases, got my camel pack with plenty of water, my hat, and headed into the trail.

The sign said it was a 3 mile round trip, moderately strenuous hike. Maybe it was, but it felt longer, perhaps because it was mostly uphill. A constant

stream of people hiked up, looking like ants going up a stone hill in the distance. There were young people and old people, and some very old people. One Japanese lady I helped get down to the Arch rim must have been 80 years old. I have no idea how she made it, but she did.

People walked up in all manner of attire. The Japanese groups looked like they were ready to cross the Sahara, with face scarves like Bedouins, and matching clothing and water enough to last for a long trek. There were people who just walked out of their cars and thought 3 miles up and down some

rocks in some serious heat was nothing, so they headed up, no hats, no water. One older woman even headed up wearing nothing but a bikini top. There were entire families with little kids, babies on back carriers, the works.

The last part of the hike is a long a narrow ledge that curves upward along a the side of a great big rock, and then, all of a sudden, in the middle of this massive natural amphitheater, there it is, this oddity of Nature, a colossal arch made of  whatever is left after eons of erosion took out the rest.

The great explorer has been framed

To get close to the Arch you have to go over a ledge and walk on a smooth incline made of this smooth red rock which offers such a good grip that you can walk pretty much at a 40 degree angle without loosing your footing.

This is another one of those places that you have to see to believe. The view from the top here is absolutely fantastic and definitively worth the hike. They say the best time to see the Arch is at sunset, and I don't doubt it. Still, even with the heat of the midday the view was one of wonder.

Back in town I stopped at the Peace Cafe for lunch. Had a very good chicken pesto sandwich, another pint of that local beer, and then went back to the motel for some rest, as the sunlight, the heat and the lack of proper coffee had left me with a noticeable and nasty headache.

Ancient Ones

Sunset light reflected on the Colorado River

Towards the evening I rode out of ton and headed West on the Potash Road, which follows the Colorado river for about 10 miles. It is lined with even taller, sheer cliffs that rise from the very edge of the road. I saw several people climbing the rock walls, while small groups of people were taking lessons on rock climbing.

There was hardly any traffic on this road, adding a feeling of privacy to your view of the sunset as it lit the cliffs and was then mirrored on the slow flowing Colorado.

On the way back I stopped on the side of the road

and next to a gigantic cliff wall where ancient ones had left their mark. Petroglyphs illustrated animals and hunters, and symbols that had meaning to those who carved them thousands of years ago. I spent a long time admiring these drawings and taking pictures. I was very touched by them, issued from the minds of artists so long ago History has no record of them, yet they speak to us still today.

I made it back to town as the shadows deepened on the canyon. after parking the bike and changing into my street attire, I walked down to the center of town in the warm evening air, intent on doing some tourist shopping, getting some postcards, some pins and patches, and so forth. Th stores stay open until 10 PM, and restaurants continue to serve quite late, no doubt to accommodate all of the European tourists bent on dinning around 10 PM. I did the same, stopping at Zaqs. I had a beer and a steak sandwich, which was very good. Luckily for my digestion, the brisk walk to the motel took care of annoying effects all that food could have had on me.

If you are curious about some of these scenic byways around Moab, check out discovermoab.com, they have a nice little article of these routes if you want to take a few short detours. 

Day Nine: Lehi to Moab, Utah

Among Giants

I left Lehi with a bit of a heavy heart, family concerns creeping in, things I cannot control or fix, worries, the ever present specter of loneliness that I know awaits when I get back " home". Remembering the great Master Yoda, I tried to be mindful of the moment, letting the warm sunlight and the beautiful view of the mountains fill my spirit with their presence and dispel the shadows.

After a quick stop to get some food and gas, I headed down the freeway, then turned east on highway 6 towards Price. Try as I might I could not shake the feeling of loneliness that clung to me. So I just rode on, looking at the dark, gloomy clouds gathering over the mountains to the East, hoping I would not have to go through whatever it was brewing in the distance.

At a gas stop I met a guy who was on a month long trip. BMW bike, BMW jacket and pants, well worn and dirty. He was from Northern California, tells me he is doing the Four Corners, by which he meant the for corners of the United States. Louisiana and Mississippi were his favorite places so far. Odd fellow, but he has seen a lot of road for sure.

I got to Moad around 5 PM, greeted by great red rock walls that rise high above the cute little town, some four miles from the park entrance. I was going to call it a day but my friend texted me and suggested a ride through the park at sunset and that is what I did. I was immediately hit by the scale of the thing, as you enter the park and are faced with a climb up a windy road perched on the side of a colossal red wall. From there on, with the sun getting low and setting the red cliffs on fire, I rode through a fantastic landscape of impossible shapes that defy gravity, a B Movie Martian landscape set that looked too weird to be real. The wind was hauling
and that, together with the dwindling light, gave the place an otherworldly feeling, loneliness carved in a surreal landscape, embers of red quickly fading into darkness.

I rode back and down into town, trying to digest what I had just seen. I parked the bike at the hotel and walked a few blocks in search of a place to eat, finally settling on the Moab Brewery, just a few hundred yards from the motel. I had one of their beers, something called the Moab Dead Horse, or something like that. I ordered tri tip and was served a huge plate of meat and fried potatoes. Topped with an espresso, the meal came to $17.00. Service was quick and friendly and the place had a funky pub like feeling. If you happen to like the sort of music blaring from the speakers, pumped fresh from the local "electric guitar only" radio station, even better.

I went back to the motel and dreamed of Martian spiders, maidens in distress, while being pursued by a large plate of angry tri tip.

Day Eight: Rest, friends, life elevated

Friends are the family who chose for yourself

It was good to get off the bike for a day and spend time with friends, catching up on this and that, going out to eat at a Thai restaurant, looking around at the beautiful scenery, sitting by the piano as the children put a recital in my honor, play card games on the floor, watching funny videos, laughing together. When you have friends like this, people you have known for so long, who have remained loyal, kind, helpful when in need, throughout the decades, you can consider yourself lucky and blessed. I know I am.

I took advantage's of my friend's collection of tools and know how to get Blue's left mirror shakes fixed once and for all. It turned out a few extra washers was all that was needed. We did not even miss the third little bearing that fell on the garage floor and whose existence we debated, finally concluding it was never there in the first place.

I wish I could have stayed longer. Being with these friends and their wonderful children somehow lessen the void in my own life, and I am always grateful for how generous their are in sharing a bit of their family life with me.

Day Seven: Zion National Park to Lehi, Utah

Sanctuary

If the Grand Canyon was hard to put into words, the great red, towering spires of Zion invite a prayer instead. As I entered the park from the East side, I was struck by the intense beauty of this place. The mountain tops seem to have been done by a playful Force, God in its infancy perhaps, shaping the world with colossal red stone castles, then stepping aside and waiting for the tides of time to come and tear them down, millenia webbing and flowing as the Child God laughed at the wonders it created. Zion is indeed a sanctuary, and it feeds the soul as much as it feeds the eyes.

The road winding down from the tunnel (not my photo)

For days I had been waiting for that tunnel, the one cut into the side of the mountain and which opens on the western side into an insane road with dazzling hairpin turns which dance down the great walls of the canyon, down to the valley floor. It is an exhilarating ride, to be sure, and even more so on a motorcycle. The whole experience, the tunnel through the mountain with its windows out into the towering sides of the canyon, the crazy ride down the windy road, the big stone guardians the size of a mountain that look like giant beehives, the sheer vertical cut of the mountain sides, it all looked like a set for a movie, almost too much to be real.

View from my room

Springdale, the little town at the bottom of it all, sits pretty and proper, read walls of sky high rock protecting it from the rest of the world. It is lined with the usual restaurants and boutiques and hotels and motels, shops selling adventure and adventure paraphernalia. You can get your walking sticks, and water bottles, and canyon and river walking shoes, hats, sunglasses, anything you need and don't need. The little shuttle buses that take visitors to the park fill with the curious of all nations, people wanting to see for themselves what this place has to show them.

I stayed at the Driftwood Lodge, on the western end of town. It is a really nice place, modern and with a touch of elegance, balconies that open up into a view of the great red walls that seem to rise to the blue above right there, on the other side of the garden. I really liked this place with its neatly manicured lawns, nice staff and a great breakfast served on a terrace where you could see horses playing in a field, and the red cliffs behind. So far this has been the only place that not only does justice to the photos you see on line, but looks even better. I really recommend it, if you come this way

Now, what do you do when you only have half a day at Zion? I took the shuttle bus across town to the visitor's center, and then another one that takes you deep into the canyon. I must have taken a hundred photos during the 20 minute ride. You simply cannot get over the fact that those canyon walls are so high and so close. It is like walking in Manhattan but the buildings are made of red rock, sky scrappers so high you need to bend your back to be able to see their tops.

There are many places to stop and take pictures, and you can take another shuttle and hop on to the

next place. Since I had limited time, I just took pictures while on the shuttle and that worked rather well. I saved the time I had for a hike to the Narrows, a place where the trail ends and you have to literally walk on the cool, refreshing water of the river coming down the canyon. At this time the walls are very close to each other, and it is a fantastic feeling to walk down that gorge, with the cool air, the sound of rushing water, and your feet nice and cool (but not freezing).

Many people had obviously prepared for this, as they sported sports shoes made for this type of
activity, and walking sticks, to steady themselves. I just took my socks off, put my shoes back on, rolled up my pants, and in I went. The water was never deeper then below the knee, often less than that. I felt like a kid, walking on that beautiful river gorge, pretending I was Indiana Jones on a quest up some forgotten land.

Some of the flowers that grow on the sides of the cliffs

With the clock approaching 1 PM and knowing I had five hours of road ahead of me if I was going to make it to Lehi in time for dinner, I turned around, sadly watching as others continued on. It seems there is a place where the river splits up ahead, and that is very beautiful. But you do what you can with the time you have, and i went back feeling I had gotten to see and experience something beautiful and unique, and that I would have to return to this place some day.

Back in town I stopped for some food at Cafe Soleil, which is on
the eastern edge of town right after the shuttle stop at the visitor center. Really good food, I had half a sandwich,some juice, a slice of cake and an espresso, nothing heavy, as I was going to have to sit on the bike for the next five hours.

I had left the bike already loaded, and my ridding gear at the reception. I changed, double checked everything, put on my cooling vest, and headed West for the 30 minute ride until the road meets up with Highway 15 to salt Lake City. The gauge on the bike read 97 F (36 C).

Once on the freeway, I turned on the MP3 book I had been listening to, one of Clive Cussler adventure novels. The Sena Blue Tooth intercom I installed on the helmet was one of the best investments I made. It not only allows me to make calls on my phone hands free, but I can listen to music or, in this case, audio books. For the longer stretches of highway that is just the right ticket. I don't do it in traffic, or in cities, since then I need to pay full attention to the road, but here it was fine.

The broad Utah expanses opened up before me, with the mighty Wasatch mountain range emerging ahead to my right. I made a few stops for gas and to
get some water and finally pulled in my friend's driveway at 7:30 PM, as the sun was illuminating the mountain range, and Mt. Timpanocos looked down as if to welcome me back, still decorated with ribbons of snow left in the higher altitudes.