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.

Day Six: Grand Canyon to Zion National Park, Utah

The helicopter ride

I decided that since I was here, I might as well do the whole thing, and the whole thing at the Grand Canyon has to include a helicopter ride. You can tour the Canyon on a plane, but I had never flown in a helicopter, so I coughed up the $200 for a 25 minute ride, got the the heliport at 7:15,and waited impatiently in the neatly appointed heliport boarding room.

Outside were 7 Bell 206 helicopters painted in bright colors. The pilots, all in their twenties, went about getting the birds ready  while i lined up by the gate with French family that would share the ride with me.

With the engines started and the wop-wop of the big rotor above your head, we headed for the chopper, and since I was alone, I got to ride left seat with the pilot.

The kid was busy with his check list, so he could (nor did he bother) to acknowledge my coming aboard. For him this was just another ride, another group of tourists. These kids, most fresh out of Flight Instructor School, are hired by places like this and are paid pathetic salaries to fly. They do it because it is a way to get flight time, which will allow them to get better paying jobs down the line. This is common across the flying industry in the US. The only pilots that make real money are the captains and first officers on long haul flights for the big companies.

Anyway, despite his attitude the kid was really sharp. We got off the ground ever so gently, and in reverse. I have many hours as a pilot flying Cessnas, so I know how you are supposed to get off the ground. And going in reverse is NOT how you do it. Yet there we were, flying backwards very slowly, like pulling a car out of a parking spot, before he pointed us out, dipped the nose of the craft and accelerated towards the tree tops. With the glass cockpit, you can see down, above and to the sides, a great unobstructed view out of the Bell's cockpit.



With some soothing music pumping into our headsets, we headed over the forest some 100 feet above the trees. And then the world below dropped out and we were over the chasm, while in the headsets the music had appropriately changed to the theme from 2001 Space Odyssey . And my God, what a view. in the early morning air there were still layers of haze inside the canyon, giving it an even more incredible look. We flew across the 15 miles of space between the two sides of the Canyon, heading into what looked like a box (dead end) spot. We were flying slightly below the rim, inside the canyon. He made it through a passage between two peaks, the great rocks of ages rising to our right. This was a most wonderful, almost spiritual experience.

We flew back across the Canyon and headed back to the heliport. The pilot put us down on the ground ever so gently, a perfect ending to the perfect flight. Note: if you do this remember to do it early in the morning, before it gets how and windy, or you may not enjoy it as much as I did :-)

Into the Desert, and the adventures that followed

Back on the ground I went to the hotel to get some breakfast, packed up and headed down into the desert floor. " Floor" around here is a relative term, since this is a high desert and you are at 5,000  feet (1500 m) above sea level.I made a few more quick stops along the Rim before leaving the park, took a few more pictures, then headed East on Highway 64, and down into the desert. Temperatures can change very rapidly in an area like this, and you can go from desert to forest in 30 minutes or less, with a corresponding drop of rise in temperature from the 90s (30s C) to the 80s. as it turned out, as I headed down into the desert, the air temperature gauge on the dashboard began moving into the high 90s (above 36 C). One moment you are in a high plateau with trees and deer and elk walking around the next you are in a sea of nothing, with cliffs and canyons that look like mean, dark scars on the face of the earth.

What goes down must come up.

As I was riding into what seemed like a featureless landscape I saw a dark, deep cut into the desert floor, a small canyon that look really interesting. Spotting a " scenic view ahead" sign, I decided to pull over, the place marked by yet another Indian jewelery stand and the traditional American flag waving in the desert wind. Now, this road was narrow and going downhill. One thing you never do is park a motorcycle pointing downhill, because in a motorcycle you do not have reverse, and there is no way you are going to push 600 pounds (270 kg) up hill. Well, as I head down I notice that I will not have space to turn around, what with the cars lined up on the side of the road, what with the dirt  and rocks and such. The only way out is to go down where the asphalt ends and take my chances on the loose gravel and rocks and sand.

Bruce, who got me out of the hole

One thing about the FJR 1300 I don't like is that it is top heavy, meaning that moving the bike at very low speeds requires that you keep a solid contact with the ground. If your feet slip, there will be some breaking of expensive stuff, or worse. Now I am pointing downhill on loose rocks and gravel, my boots are slipping, it is 96 degrees (35 C) and I am terrified the bike will go down. that is when Bruce showed up and knew immediately what was going on. "I have an FJR, i can help you get out of here". Bruce was touring with his wife, although they had decided to drive this time. He helped me figure out the best way to get the bike around, helping to steady it from behind while I easy the throttle ever so gentle and make sure my feet don't slip. After what seems like an eternity, I am able to put pick up some forward momentum and get the bike onto the tarmac and park it. I went down the road again to thank Bruce. Between his confidence and and his help, he really made a difference. As we talk he tells me he lives in Ventura, CA, an old neighbor of sorts. And that he is a merchant marine pilot. At the time I did not see the beauty, but his job is to make sure ships get to port safely, and there he was, helping me get Blue out of a tight spot. We talked for a few minutes under the scorching sun until he left. Trips are made of chance encounters and of the kindness of people you find, and this had been one of those moments.

You name it, they've got it.

I went to get my hat, some water and get rid of my ridding jacket, then walked the half mile down to the canyon, a deep, dark sort of crevasse in the desert floor. I took some pictures, then went to see what the Indians were selling. There, in the middle of nowhere, was one of the many shacks I would see that day, some place with shade and a few tables covered with jewelry and the American flag waving lazily in the desert heat. In the back and old man and an old woman sat stringing beads together. I wanted a souvenir from that place, so I asked him what I could get for $10 and he showed me some pretty beads on a string and I gave him the 10 one dollar bills, all the cash I had,

then headed up to where Blue was parked, put on my gear and headed down the road as the mercury continued to rise.

A few miles down the road I joined the road heading north through the desert, made a quick stop for gas and water, and got on my way. Here I was going to ride through one of the most amazing places, the Painted Desert in northern Arizona, so called because of the deep red hue of the towering cliffs that you first see in the distance, and then appear before you as an impenetrable barrier that forces the road westward. It was truly an amazing site, to ride down this great plain towards these crimson giant walls., through a land so alien and vast it might as well be Mars.

Among the many wonders I have seen on this trip, one things that does not cease to amaze me is how quickly the landscape can change, desert giving rise to forested hills and then alpine meadows, temperatures dropping quickly as you transition from one zone to the other. In a car you may not be aware of this unless you stop, but on a motorcycle you are flowing through the landscape, so you feel, smell, sense every change around you.

I stopped briefly to take in the scenery at a viewpoint that afforded a view of the great desert below, Again you are nearly crushed by the size of this land, and in awe of those who crossed in covered wagons, who settled it, built it, whose lives gave rise to this nation, both in virtue and in sin, but who lived hard and conquered spaces that still us today with awe and no small amount of apprehension.

The road, which until now had been a long, stretched out ribbon of asphalt that lulled you into a sort of hypnotic state, began to demand my attention as I headed up the mountain. With increased frequency I began to notice slight slips on my front wheel, making my heart skip a bit as the bike lost traction for a slip

second. The road bed as covered in tar snakes, patches of asphalt used to cover cracks on the road. With the high temperatures the asphalt melts and becomes slippery. The snakes, so called because they look like black, flatted out reptiles, are only a few inches wide, not enough to cause problems for a car, but on a motorcycle, where your only contact with the ground is a few square inches of rubber, things can get trickier. The hairpin turns also did not help, so I made my way up the mountain as slowly as needed until the forest rose around me, the temperature dropped, and the dreaded tar snakes vanished.

Gas, lottery tickets, guns, ammo and beer, all basics covered.

On the other side of the mountain I made a quick stop at a vista point and took a look at what the Indian vendors had to offer. A pendant with a silver gecko with turquoise inlays caught my eye. " The gecko is the survivor, the one who can adapt", the lady said. $20 later the little solver gecko was part of my journey. I know a thing or two about those things myself.

A few hours later I made it to Zion National Park, where more wonders awaited me. I will tell you all about it  tomorrow, although I fear that once again words, even pictures, will do it little justice. But it is the best I can do. 

Day Five: The Grand, really Grand Canyon

The Trap

Finding decent food at a tourist place is generally possible if you are willing to pay the price. Here at Tusayan, if the reviews from Trip Advisor are to be trusted, high prices and quality are not necessarily the same. Sure there is always some sort of Grand Hotel " where you can really get a good meal", but I decided I was not about to blow $60 plus dollars. Still, it has been a long day, I was tired and needed a quick meal so in the end i went to Wendys. At least with a place like this you know what you are going to get, you know what you are going to pay, and you get a decent chicken sandwich. After that I walked  to my hotel, which was just a few hundred yards away, the high desert air crisp and clean clearing my nostrils of the fried chicken fumes.

The Tour

Next day I decided to start by watching the Imax movie at the National Geographic Tourist Trap (I mean, Center). This being the middle of the week there were not too many people around so the gigantic theater was mostly empty.

Touring the Rim in the Pink Jeep

While at the Center I had asked about the Pink Jeep tours. This company operates fleets of jeeps at several locations, and their trade mark are their neon pink jeeps. a 3 hour tour costs $68, not too bad. The thing to keep in mind is that they do not take you anywhere you cannot go on your own. You see those Jeeps and you think of Jurassic Park, you think you are going to go on dirt roads and see things no one will see unless they pay $68. What they do is take you along the rim, stopping at the different view points, while the guide provides you with information about what you are seeing, etc. For what it is, it is a great deal. For me, being on a motorcycle, going to all these places would require a constant stop and go, getting in and out of my helmet, gloves, etc. This way you sit on a modified Jeep Wrangler are just enjoy the ride. I shared the ride with two very nice couples from Alabama and our guide Tom was very nice and made the whole experiencemore enjoyable. 

The great explorer takes off his hat, pausing for a photo

Here i am holding on the edge, nothing but 1 sheer 1,000 foot drop below me :-)

As for the views, well, they are simply magnificent. This is a place you really have to see for yourself. no words, movies, photos, can convey the feeling of awe you get from being here, witness a moment in eternity.

We got back by 2 pm, and I went to the local Mexican place, one of two in town. I must mention that Tusayan is about a mile long and designed exclusively to serve the park tourists. There is no town, no homes,, nothing. You get a main road lined with restaurants and hotels, motels, gas stations. It is all very pretty and proper, and, I suppose, it serves the purpose for which was created. An efficient system of shuttles run constantly, allowing you to leave your car behind and go to the Rim, then hop on and off from view point to view point. This greatly reduces traffic in the park and makes it easier to get around. And it is free with your park entry fee, which, by the way, costs $12 for a motorcycle, $24 for a car.

In the evening I rode the bike into the park, which is about 6 miles away. You have to go pretty slow, since elk seem to like this particular area and you do see them frequently crossing the road with the calm demeanor of a local who knows well what they are doing. I went to the Rim and sat there watching the sun setting and the Canyon turn a million shades of red. You just sit there and let your eyes and soul take it all in and you think that if you are going to worship the Creator, this is the place to do it, this is a proper cathedral and temple, here your soul becomes acutely aware that there is a scale in the universe, and a proper place for for everything and everyone, here you see what the eons of time, like a river, can do to the land, and for a moment you realize that while you are nothing but a breath of life in the great scheme of things, you too are part of this Great River, flowing with it into eternity.

Day Four: Albuquerque, New Mexico, to Grand Canyon, Arizona

The trip begins

Perhaps because of the heat (it was 100 F/ 38 C yesterday), perhaps because of the excitement of the trip ahead, I did  not sleep well, waking up constantly, tossing and turning. Despite the lack of sleep I got up easily, loaded the bags on the bike, had some coffee and was ready to leave by 7:15. The day before I had given Blue a thorough cleaning, removing 1,000 miles worth of bugs from the windshield and the headlights. I  had also fixed the annoying vibration on the left mirror, caused by either a lost or worn out washer. A bit of electric tape shoved into the space between the mirror stem and the mirror fixed the problem.

After some light traffic leaving Albuquerque westbound, I was out again in the desert. One of the reasons I left early is because I was concerned about the heat. I did not want to repeat my experience on the Amarillo-Albuquerque leg. The day before I had gone to a motorcycle shop and purchased a cooking vest, the sort that you soak in water and let the evaporation do the cooling. I knew from just wetting my t shirt that this worked. so this would do the same but provide a much longer cooling period.

But at 7 in the morning the desert air was cool, cold even. Shivers made me look at the temperature gauge, which read 57 F (14 C). I smiled as I closed some of the vents on the jacket, but I knew this would not last.

Some 50 miles out of Albuquerque, with the desert stretching out to the low level Mesas that jutted up from the ground here and there, I missed a great photo opportunity, as a long train was making its way towards the freeway, with some red bluffs for a backdrop, and a field where horses roamed. It was a classic shot, but with the road and the gear and the camera in the bag there was no way I could stop. Still, I saw it and it was a beautiful site.

Here and there some features arose out of the plain landscape, red outcroppings, rock formations, just enough to break up the monotony. With the cool air I felt alive and realized it i for moments like this that you ride, for the freedom, the communion with the world around you.

Indians

Postcard from the 1950s. Not much different today.

About an hour and a half into the trip I got to Gallup, New Mexico, and got off the freeway looking for a place to have breakfast. Heading up one way on the main street, I saw the usual fast food joints, gas stations and stores that line up towns and cities along major highways. One place caught my eye, a restaurant claiming to be in business " since 1947". It looked like an old dinner, but the fact that the parking lot was full on a week day was enough to convince me. I pulled into the parking lot, by the entrance, and saw the

Earl's Restaurant, Gallup, NM

Indian vendors there, three or four people with stalls set up by the entrance, shaded from the morning sun by the building's overhang. Men and women, they sold Indian jewelry, bracelets, rings, that sort of thing. I decided to look at that later, as I was hungry and needed some coffee.

As I went in I found the place, which was not small, packed with people. The decoration had a decidedly Southwestern flavor, a hodge-podge of Indian decorations, posters, banners, announcements of local events, patriotic signs saying ' God Bless America". But what really got my attention was the fact that the patrons were all

Indian vendors (not my photo, see here for credit)

Indians. In fact, for the 45 minutes I stayed there, myself and one other couple, a rough looking young woman and her tattooed friend, were the only white people there. There was also the owner, who was also white, and would on occasion go about greeting some of the regulars. This was apparently his family's restaurant. Old Indian men and women, some short and stocky,  others thin and weathered by a long life in the desert sun, young couples with children, parents, grand parents, couples. Most people, men and women, wore Indian jeweler y, men with turquoise rings, belt buckles and bolo ties, women with necklaces and earrings, the beauty of their culture in their everyday life. There was a certain quiet dignity in the way the older ones moved, as if inhabiting a universe that moved not according to the passing fancies of our time, but to a much more ancient rhythm of things. Cell phones non withstanding, that is.

A woman sat silently by the cashier, with a sample of more things to sell, braided things with bright colors. Now and then she would get up and silently walk among the patrons, who would look at her wares and nod no, or say thanks. Then, as a smiling Indian waitress brought me some coffee, I notice more vendors coming in with small display trays. At first I though this odd, since, with the exceptions I noted above, there were no tourists anywhere to be seen. But then I noticed that they were trying to sell to the other patrons, some who would look at this or that piece, ask the price, before the vendor would move on. But you got the distinct impression that they were part of the target customers, or, in this case, the bulk of it.

While I was putting down a plate of huevos rancheros, a young woman came by with a tray of necklaces. they were pretty, made with bits and pieces of turquoise and silver, or something that looked like it. Something caught my eye and I asked her how much. " $20", she said, in a quiet voice. I bought one, with a silver butterfly hanging from a string of turquoise. I asked her if she made them herself, she said she did. I had no reason to doubt it, the price was fair, she took the money and handed me the little cardboard case holding the necklace and two earrings.

Next to me a large and short gentleman ate his steak and eggs. He asked if I as passing through. I pointed to my gear, told him about my trip. He wished me a safe ride. I paid my bill, looked over the stalls outside with more jewelry, started my bike and returned to the freeway heading West, as the mercury began to rise.

The ground rises

I saw the mountains near Flagstaff rise in the distance, as the desert brush began to give way to pine trees first  few here and there, then, as I climbed higher, the forrest of the high desert came to greet me, dry air, pine scented.

The camera is falling as the shutter goes click... too late

After deciding not to follow the GPS but to go through Flagstaff so I could take the 180 through the mountains, I promptly got myself caught in the downtown traffic. I finally found my way out of there, but regretting not having the time to visit what looked like a very charming city. I caught the 180, not before eating a frozen burrito at a cafe that advertised sandwiches but sold none. The coffee  though was excellent. Not longer low on blood sugar, I headed northeast on 180, which took me through alpine meadows and glimpses of snow still trapped on the highest peaks. It reminded me of Tahoe.

Mountains in the rear view mirror, off Flagstaff

I saw very few cars on that road, other than the old 1970's era VW Bug painted turquoise green parked at a trail head parking lot where I stopped for some photos. Both the hood and the trunk were open, a sign that the bug was not doing well, while a man who seemed to have time traveled from the same year the car was made, pocked his head in the engine, and his companion looked on into the distance. As I was getting to leave, this one fellow come over, completely stone, or drink, or both. After making some derogatory remarks about my license plate being from Mississippi, he proceeded to tell me in a slurred voice that his traveling companion, the car's owner, was an ass and he was stuck there. I asked if the car had broken down, to which he said, " well, with the hood and the trunk up what do you think, we are on a picnic?" I got his point, wished him luck, and left, while he walked slowly back to 1972 in a not so straight line.

The Canyon

I got to the motel, checked in, unpacked the bike, then decided to go see the Canyon. I bought my park ticket and rode the 5 miles to the Mather Vista Point. For some reason I thought this would be something i could see, a sort of  a canyon intro, before I could go to the " real" park next day. I did not realize this was it. now there I am, walking from the parking lot, there is forest around, the ground is flat, there is no indication of what is ahead, and so your brain is not ready for what is coming. And what is coming is that awe inspiring gap, that magnificent chasm 15 miles across and 1.5 miles deep. And the space is so awesome, and the scale so vast, that I was speechless, mouth opened, marveling in what your eyes are seeing but your brain is slow to comprehend.

With the sun setting, the canyon began to change, the rock a vermilion hue, shadows carving new shapes, as the darkness fell. But I, I stood there for a moment, unconvinced Night itself would be enough to fill the canyon  with the silence of the stars.

Day Three: Albuquerque, food and friends

Open Arms

There is nothing like being on the road for a long time, getting somewhere far from home and being received at the door with a hug by welcoming friends. After unloading my gear and taking a shower, we went to some friends of my friends for dinner, magnificent ribs  barbecued to perfection, beans, baked and green, wine, stories, laughter. Sitting outside in the inner courtyard of their adobe home, we drank wine and watched the night fall, and listened and told stories. Later at my friends' home, we sat in the living room and played and sang some songs, lyrics from songs learned long ago carrying with them memories as clear as the friendship that kept us close all these years.

I slept well but woke up early, perhaps because of the one hour difference. After some coffee, we went to a local restaurant for some breakfast, wonderful huevos rancheros and more talk. I have now almost forgotten the ride into town. The trio starts here.

Tomorrow I leave for the Grand Canyon!

Day Two: Wichita Falls, Texas, to Albuquerque New Mexico

Faster than a speeding ticket (almost)

Another grueling day on the saddle, 520 miles of long, boring roads and furnace heat. When I left Wichita it was cool, and I headed northeast on 287. The landscape began to change, hinting at the wide, open, empty spaces that were ahead. Here and there  oil derricks the size of a small van moved up and down rhythmically like a swarm of metallic praying mantises worshiping some alien god. This is Texas, oil, emptiness, the eyes search in vain for some point of reference but end up moving to the edge of the earth, far, far below the silent praying machines.

The Ticket

I suppose I was distracted by all the emptiness, because as I was putting down mile after mile of straight road behind me, across the four lane a black SUV turned on its red and blue lights and came after me. I waved to let him know I saw him, pulled over and took my helmet off, while the patrolman remained inside checking my license plates. He was an older gentleman, polite and soft spoken. Said I was doing 87 on a 75 mile per hour zone, that it was endangering me and others, what with the wind and what not. The wind had in fact picked up, blowing straight across the empty plains, pushing tumbleweed across the 4 lanes. He took my license and registration, came back about 5 minutes later and handed me the ticket. I will have to contact the Texas DMV, he said. This will cost me a pretty penny, no idea how much, but more than I would like.

 Oddly enough I do a quick mental check and realize this is only my 5^th or 6^th ticket in 30 years. He looked  at the bike and said, “ I bet this cruises at about 90”. Yes it does.

PS: this turned to cost me $200, which is what I expected. It had to be in Texas, off course...Next time I will know better, which reminds me I need a few extra electronics to the bike.

By now I was about an hour and a half from Amarillo, and only about half way to where I was going. I stopped for gas and some food, another chicken wrap that I ate in a hurry, as the bike sat in the sun baking. One thing I notice out here, there is no shade anywhere. You get some shade as you fuel up, but then there is nothing, no awnings, no trees, just that merciless sun baking everything below.

Mark, a fellow traveler from the UK, on his was to California

Now I was on 40 W, the road that takes you all the way to California. It was getting hotter by the minute, the bike air temperature gauge was reading 92, 93, 94, 96 (35 C). The road stretched out to the horizon, and to the right and left there was nothing but nothing, the wind now blowing at an insane speed straight across my bow, pushing me over and sucking me like the blast of a furnace. I looked at the people inside their air conditioned cars and envied them. I was being slowly cooked alive and began to think this whole trip was a stupid idea. I stopped to get some water, then finally, when I crossed the New Mexico border, went to the tourist station and just sat inside the air conditioned room to bring my temperature

Hot, windy and empty

down. I finally decided to do the wet tshirt thing, soaking it and then putting it on under my jacket, letting the air do the old evaporative cooling. It worked, and for the next half hour  I felt cool and refreshed. For the next few stops I repeated the process and that kept me going. I am buying a cooling vest today.

Finally the terrain began to change, some low rising mesas breaking the monotony of the desert, then the road rose higher and higher, mountains came out of the ground in the distance, dark red, and I knew I was closer to Albuquerque. The mountain road quickly gave way to the city, and soon I was at my friends house, for a warm reception and some cold drinks. Maybe this was not such a stupid idea after all.

Day One: Ridgeland MS to Wichita Falls, Texas.

Day one, 546 miles/880 km (too much)

Wichita FaIls, Texas, 9 pm. This was one hell of a long ride and  I am too tired to go get some dinner. Luckily I had a half a chicken wrap at MacDonald’s around 7 pm, so now I can make do with an apple and a cookie. All I want is shower and to sleep.

This leg took longer than I expected, which means I planned for the time riding and not for all the stops for gas and food along the way, the delays caused by rain (got some of that), traffic (damn the Dallas freeways) and fatigue. I should have left at 7 but decided to leave at 8, which means I ended up leaving at 9. Getting the hard cases to close with the soft bags inside turned out to be a chore the first time and I blew at least 30 minutes just doing that. It was past nine when I rolled down the street, too busy thinking about all the gear I had, the headset, the GPS and all the other junk, that I pretty much forgot I was beginning a great trip, something I have been talking about for along time. I need to remember this next time.

I took the Natchez Trace down to the 20 under heavy, gray skies. It was hot and muggy, and I was wearing the rain layer, since I knew sooner or later those gray skies would do more than look threatening.  About an hour and a half later one of the great, dark billowing cloud opened up and for a few minutes it rained so hard I could barely see. Then, as I got off the freeway to stop at a Cracker Barrel for breakfast, it stopped raining.  For the next hour on the road, it rained on and off again, a warm mist raising from the hot asphalt, until the gray clouds lost their strength and I rolled on to the West Texas landscape under cleaner skies.

Green Fields

Jurassic Park, with Power Boat (Pearl River, MS)

Rolling through MS and Louisiana and even  Eastern Texas, all is green, intensely so, everywhere you look . Whatever is not covered by cement or asphalt, is green. In this part of the country human presence seems almost like an interruption, a temporary setback for the Jurassic roots of the land, deep in green, hot, humid, a tamed environment but barely so. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if we stopped trimming the bushes, cutting the trees, mowing the fields, laying more cement. Within a few years the ancestral jungle would return to claim its own, unfettered by Man, drowning everything in a green embrace, ancient beast and insects reining once more.

Dallas, the Mad City

I could summarize my experience driving through Dallas by simply saying I will NEVER go through there again. I was going to take the same route going back, but not anymore. It was hot, 92 F, humid, and I was lost in a mad man’s dream of city planning, caught in the spaghetti like freeway complex, more roads and options and numbers and lanes than you can possible imagine, and people clogging the ever growing number of roads and lanes even on a Saturday afternoon. Were it not for the GPS, I think I would be caught in Dallas for the rest of my life, doomed to move from freeway ring to freeway ring but never escaping the all-powerful presence of this city, a unwilling satellite in a world of steel and asphalt, all seven rings  of hell and no place to pull over.

At one point, the traffic crawling to a stop and the temperature raising (it was 2 PM) and my having no clue where I was outside of trusting that the damned GPS knew where I was, I had to pull over under an overpass, get my helmet off and drink some water or I was afraid I would pass out in the heat.

When I finally found my way out of that mess, I found myself caught in miles of road under construction, until the 287 to Wichita opened up and I rode on, Dallas behind for good, a numbing fatigue pushing me on.