I started with an ambitious plan.
Take a 9 day ride, made up of 5 transit days, and 4 "rest" days. My transit days would be right around 1000 miles. My "rest" days would be spent exploring National Parks. I picked 4 parks and turned to Google maps. The route looked good, so I started looking for camp sites. Of the parks I wanted to visit, only the first had camp sites available in the park. The rest either had no in-Park camping, or were already booked solid. More help from Google (the Goog, for short). I'd always assumed KOAs were prohibitively expensive, as were the memberships. There's a reason we're admonished for making assumptions. I booked 2 nights at KOAs near each of the remaining parks. This another thing I generally avoid: making reservations. I like to ride 'till I can't, or don't feel like, riding anymore. I don't like feeling like I have to stop riding early or keep riding late. But I had goals for this trip. So I made my reservations. I'd rest at Badlands, Carlsbad Caverns, Zion, and Yosemite National Parks.
My next task was to determine how I wanted to spend my rest days. Yosemite was obvious, go climbing. I recently took up indoor climbing and the idea of climbing at one of the most iconic rock climbing destinations was very alluring. So I started looking at the other parks. Badlands: nothing to climb, and the only thing the National Park Service (NPS) website mentions is a few short hikes and the scenic loop road. I decided I'd do some hiking, but pretty much wing that rest day. Carlsbad Caverns: obviously I was going into the caverns, duh. Zion: it turns out there's climbing there, so I booked a guide for a half day of outdoor climbing. Yosemite: climbing, duh. Oh wait, Discovery Channel aired "Valley Uprising" while I was planning my trip, and suddenly the local guide services seemed unable to answer the phones. I suspect a lot of non-climbers booked lessens in the wake of that special. Oh well. Another one to wing. I really prefer having only loose plans when I ride any how.
I was convinced Day 1 would be the hardest, riding from my home in Bellevue, Washington, to Badlands National Park, in South Dakota. I generally avoid "Super Slab" (motorcyclist for divided multi-lane highways, usually interstates). So the "Avoid highways" check box in Google's directions feature is my friend. Somehow I failed to notice how much longer the first leg got when I ticket box. 20 hours was more than cared to spend on a single run. The solution was obvious, turn 9 days in 9.5 and leave after work on Friday, grabbing a cheap hotel room for the first night.
Day 0.5 - Get some (mostly boring) miles out of the way.
This whole trip came together fast. That wouldn't have been a problem if I'd been on my usual, no plans, style of ride, but I tried to plan more in less time than usual. When I left work Friday afternoon, I still had things to take care of. I had to contact the Credit Union and make sure my cards didn't get turned off for "suspicious activity" as they'd be used in several states a day at times. I also needed cash just in case I found myself needing fuel at some super-rural gas station that didn't take plastic, or my cards were turned off and I had no cell service. As a result, I left too late. The light was turning red as I made my past the Wild Horse monument near Vantage, WA. Despite the wind (there's a wind farm there for a reason) I stopped, briefly, to admire the monument. A herd of metal horses charge toward the cliff. You can almost see them move in the fading evening light. I've been through Vantage many times in the past, and never had any issue with the wind. This time I had a few "interesting" moments before making to calmer altitudes.
Day 1 - Transit Spokane, WA to the Badlands
My late departure made Spokane, WA my first stop-over. That saved me a few hours, but not enough. I was back on the road a few minutes before sunrise. I had to grab fuel, though. That's another one of my travel guidelines broken. I usually grab fuel before turning in for the night so I can get plenty of miles under my tires before the rest of the world wakes up and civilization forces itself upon me. After tanking up, I motored east. A few minutes later I crossed into Idaho, the Mountain timezone, and added an hour to my clock accordingly. The miles ticked by and I started my ascent of the Rocky Mountains. I had my long gloves, the wind shells on my pants and jacket, but it was still cold in the mountains. By the time I made my first fuel stop I was shivering. I broke another rule. I got off the bike and grabbed grub in the gas station convenience store, and spent too much time eating and trying to warm up. Before getting back on the road I donned my thermal glove liners and balaclava. I skipped the boot liners, so with that one exception, I was wearing every piece of thermal gear I'd packed. I rode on for another hour before I stopped again. I'd obviously gotten out of riding shape. This was way more painful and strenuous than it had been a few months prior. All those short winter rides, doing a only a few hundred miles a day and having an entire work week to recover had taken their toll. I stretched, I used the restroom, and I got going again. More time lost. It continued like that for the next couple of tanks of fuel before I settled in to a rhythm. I had to make a concession, though. I was moving too slow to take the fun route. I would be slabbing it (riding the previously mentioned Super Slab) all the way to the Badlands.
As I made my way across Montana, every few exits taunted me with the mileage to Yellowstone NP (National Park). I kept going. As the light started to fade I started doubting my plans. Maybe I should skip Badlands and do Yellowstone instead. I rode on. I crossed into Wyoming, Yellowstone still beckoned, I remained resolute. Finally, I was no longer riding parallel to Yellowstone's borders. I was leaving the tempter behind me. I'd expected to see similar signs for Badlands. Nothing. I rode on. Darkness finally came, no signs for Badlands. I rode on. Signs for Devil's tower, I knew that was in the vicinity of Badlands, but there were no signs for the NP. I rode on. The darkness deepened. I was getting tired. I started to wonder if I'd remembered the maps wrong. I started to wonder if Badlands NP was a hoax, some elaborate trick and I'd find the park either never existed, or had closed. I rode on. The miles passed beneath my boots and still there was no sign of my destination. Then there was a sign for Mt. Rushmore. That's 100 miles west of The Park, I thought. Surely there'll be a sign soon. Nothing. I rode on. Since waking at 4:30 PDT that morning, my phone had been turned off. I was determined to remain unplugged. Finally I broke down. I pulled off the Slab and into a gas station. I turned on my phone and thankfully found I had data service. It was time to consult The Goog. Where the hell am I? have I somehow gone too far? Am I even on the right track? Yes! Damn-it! I'm still an hour out. I rode on. Finally there was a sign for Badlands NP. The next exit, a few miles away, would be the one to take.
I got off the Slab and started out a mildly twisting, mostly straight farm road. Dark shadows blotted the stars near the horizon. Like giants looming in the dark, awaiting my approach, I knew I was seeing the Badlands formations, or at least their shadows. I approached the entrance to the park. It was late, there was simply a sign asking late arrivals to pay their entrance fees upon leaving The Park. I rode in. The first sign indicated a camp ground so I took the road, and a few hundred feet later came to a stop. The pavement ended. Damn-it! I got off the bike and fished my directions out. In the wind I could barely steady the paper, and holding a flashlight made things worse. I determined I needed to turn around. To get back to the pavement and continue on.
The Badlands Loop Road is spectacular. It's stunning in it's scenic beauty and breathtaking in it's twisted complexity. There are hairpins and compound corners. The drop-offs are unprotected so as to avoid spoiling the view. This makes it a pleasure for a fresh rider in the daylight. With nerves frazzled and reflexes shot from 15 hours of hard riding, the Badlands Loop road is terrifying at night. In the faint moonlight and feeble headlamp glow, shapes emerge from the darkness, and disappear back into it. Many belong to the Badlands "formations." Many move on their own. Exhausted, I rode on. The road got trickier, the night seemed to get darker, my eyes became blearier. Finally, I found the camp ground. It was late. Obviously there was no one around with whom to check in. I found my reserved site, staked my tent down in the wind, raised the poles, and had a couple of granola bars for dinner. I was too tired to cook, and the wind was too much to fight any how. I took care of my evening necessities, crawled into my sleeping bag, and promptly fell asleep.
Day 2 - Rest and Explore Badlands National Park
First light at Cedar Falls Campground is well before sunrise. Daylight filters around the Badlands formations while the disc of the sun has to climb high enough to peek over them. This is great for someone like me, who likes to rise early and get the day started. Unfortunately the wind is incessant and I had nothing with which to erect windbreak for my camp stove. So I started Day 2 the way I ended Day 1, with a granola bar and water. To be fair, the plan was oatmeal and tea, so this wasn't a big downgrade, except that I like a hot breakfast, especially when camping. My back being sore, just looking at the bike inspired a groan. I was definitely feeling the effects of pushing too far with too little training. I find it a bit odd to think of it as training, but its really very appropriate. When pushing oneself as far and hard as I was planning, it's important that the body be prepared. Mine wasn't. A winter of being hemmed in by weather and tethered by holidays had made me weak. I finished my breakfast and crawled back into my sleeping bag to wait for the wind to die down.
Just as the sun was finally peeping over the Badlands the wind softened and took on a slightly erratic quality. There were even calm moments. "Great!" I thought. Unfortunately this was a temporary condition, as I had the rest of my morning routine underway, the blasted wind returned. I ambled over to the check-in station to review a Park Map. Judging by my bleary eyed ride in the night before, I figured the Visitors' center to be about a mile away, on the other side of the main road. So I geared up, fired up the bike, and set out. Upon turning right out of the campground I noticed the sign indicating the Visitors' Center was immediately ahead. It was a shame to have spent all that effort getting ready only to ride just a few hundred yards. "c'est la vie," I thought as I stepped in to find out what the local Park Rangers recommend. I asked the ranger at the information desk: "As I'm only here for one day, what is the one thing you recommend I do?" "You have to drive the loop road," he replied. This was not what I had in mind. No wonder there were sites available at the campground. There doesn't seem to be much reason to visit. "I'm here all day," I continued, "what else should I do?" The ranger, a nice enough guy, suggested some hiking, a couple trails, less than 5 miles round trip. Still not up to my standards of trying to have an epic trip, but I thanked him and continued to study the small natural history museum that is part of every NP Visitors' Center. The exhibits are dusty, worn, and in some cases missing explanations. It's an old Visitors' Center, and it shows. I'm sure it's also a relatively quiet one so the fund simply aren't allocated to keep it up like the ones at many other parks.
I clambered back aboard the bike and set off the way I'd arrived the night before. What a difference a little light makes. It was a pleasure, a painful one, to ride the loop road in brilliant sunshine. A few miles down the way I came to the park ranger's "favorite" trail. Signage is for the Window and Door trails, but Notch is the longer, more informative, and more impressive route. Signs warn of Rattle Snakes. I geared up. Too much really. I traded my riding boots for my hiking boots, grabbed my sun hat, locked my mesh gear to the bike, and strapped my hiking pick to my back. Way too much gear, but I had my water and my camera, and my lunch (a granola bar and beef jerky). The badlands aren't really rocky. Their like dried mounds of mud. They're a bit chalky, very crumbly and soft, and twisted beyond imagination. Following the trail can be difficult at times because the trail markers, steel pipes painted red, are often out of sight from one another. Without them it would be easy to get lost. A short way down the Notch trail a wood and steel cable ladder makes a steep stairway from one level of the formations to another. For a guy who's physique demonstrates just how much more exercise he should be getting, the ladder inspired from huffing and puffing. Following the trail is, as I indicated, an exploratory process. One searches for a trail marker, or a path worn dusty and smooth by all the previous boots, and makes an educated guess on how to get there. There are a couple of blind canyons that can lead one astray. When you do find your way to the end of the trail you're rewarded by views out over the lower prairie and formations. All through the Badlands you can trace lines of rock/dirt of a different composition than the surroundings, demonstrating some extreme tectonic uplift. No where is this more evident than when you see a darker band of ground on formations hundreds of feet tall a mile away, and trace that band through the formations below, under your feet, and into the formations you just traversed. The scale of the Badlands is impressive, and it's difficult to appreciate without getting off the road and into the world. After resting and enjoying the view a bit, I made my way back toward the trail head. I intentionally picked my way up some blind canyons and enjoyed more striking examples of how immense the world really is. Door and Window trails are less impressive boardwalk trails. I followed them, but aside from a view down into more formations, I was as stricken as I had been.
So I geared back up, and road on. I stopped again at the Fossil trail. There are plenty of bronze casts of fossils along the trail which indicates a significant dig had taken place here in the past. But nothing natural of interest. The visible formations at this site are rather plain, and the trail is loop of boardwalk around a flat patch of dirt. I studied a few of the "exhibits" and meandered back toward the bike when I noticed a sign for the Castle trail. My pre-trip research indicated that this was the longest trail in the park (at 5 or 6 miles) so I figured "what the hell, I'll do that." It was early afternoon at this point. The sun was high and the temperature was climbing. It's a back-country trail so I signed in and headed off. This is probably the best easy demonstration of the Badlands available. It's dry and hot, and anywhere the land has been worn flat there's grass, and not much else. I came face to face with a Rocky Mountain Longhorn Ram (the indigenous Audubon Long Horn hasn't been sited in decades) but he descended into the formations before I could snap a photo. Walking alone through the starkness of the Badlands impressed upon me my own smallness. At the intersection of 3 trails I made the decision to explore a short side trail before turning back. I'd ditched my mesh jacket at the bike, but wand s still wearing my mesh riding pants. That was a big mistake. Walking in that heat, even mesh was too insulating. I peeled them off and packed them away, but that meant clipping my water bottle to my belt, and dealing with its uncontrolled swinging as I walked. On the return I had to meter my water intake. I'd only brought a single Liter, and should have had more, especially in the heat. I set goals for the landmarks I'd passed on my way in. I would have a swallow of water at the silt bed. I'd have another swallow where I saw the goat. I'd have another swallow when I saw the road. I'm glad I made the attempt. I wish I'd been better prepared and started earlier. Lesson learned.
Upon returning to the bike my back was screaming at me. I scrounged some pain relievers from my tank bag and sat in the shade, then determined to finish riding the loop road. I rode on, but the soreness in my back made the ride more miserable than fun, so I turned around. By the time I made it back to camp I was pleased to be out of my riding gear and stretched out on the hard seat of the picnic table.
In my previous National Park visits, the lodges have always had excellent food. So I'd latched onto the idea of having one restaurant meal at each park. I walked over to the lodge. I perused the gift shop, and the book store, and evaluated the lodge restaurant. Everything seemed to have been caught in some sort of time warp. The staff uniforms, the decor, and the smells coming out of the restaurant all screamed mid-1980's. I passed on the lodge meal but did pick up an atlas and guide book to the National Parks, and returned to camp. Trying to wait for a lull in the wind, I studied the atlas and my directions for the Day 3 transit. The wind out-waited my hunger. I got out my camp stove, positioned myself upwind to serve as a windbreak, and proceeded to heat my soup. Between the altitude and the wind, it took longer than I'd intended, and cooled off more quickly than I wanted. It was still better than I expected from the lodge, given it's menu and smells. Dinner complete I refilled my water, packed the bike as well as I could, and retreated into my tent to get out of the interminable wind. Of course, just as I got settled and re-opened my maps, the wind settled down. Had I been a little more patient I'd have enjoyed a perfect break in the wind to get my dinner prepped and eaten. That damned wind was a just a bit more patient than I, and it won.
Day 3 - Transit to Carlsbad Caverns, or not.
The plan was simple, head out of the park and grab fuel in the nearby town of Interior, SD. I should have toughed out the back pain and seen to my fuel the previous afternoon. There's no pay-at-the-pump in Interior, and the store wasn't open when I rolled into town. So I rode on. It was the same story in Wanblee, the next town with fuel. There were also no hours posted, so after some debate, I chose to ride on. I was low on fuel, but I figured there must be fuel at the next town. Unfortunately, the next town was a long way away, and as the reserve indicator flashed away, I had to concede defeat and turn around. By the time I returned to the Wanblee mart, it was open and I was able to fuel up. So back around I turned, headed for what should have been the most straight-forward transit day of the ride. There are zero North-South Interstates in Nebraska. The plan was to head straight south on NB-61, clear across the state, into Kansas, then Texas, and finally into New Mexico. In Merriman NB-61 and US-20 are the same road, and I missed the spot where they diverge again. As a result, I found myself on US-385, well west of my intended route. This meant I'd be riding through Colorado, so I consulted the Atlas and decided to make the transit shorter with a bit of slabbing. Great in theory, terrible in practice. After droning across most of Nebraska, I jumped on I-80 West to I-78 West and found myself trapped in Denver rush-hour. Denver rush hour is nothing compared to Seattle area rush hour, but when every minute counts, it's still terrible.
Just South of Denver the rain started. As a Seattle native I have a hard time even calling it rain. Just north of Colorado Springs, however, the skies opened and the deluge began. That was the final straw. I'd been on the road for 13 hours and still had more than 7 to go. I wouldn't make Carlsbad, NM until midnight, or later. Completely soaked despite the water-proof claims of my gear, I stopped, got a hotel room, and changed my plans. The most straight-forward and boring planned transit day ended in defeat.
Day 4 - Rest turned Transit
It was supposed to be a rest day. I got up late, had breakfast, took my time packing my gear, and hit the road. There was a light drizzle in the air, but nothing serious so I opted for my long gloves but no rain covers. I continued south, intending to ride US-50 out to Utah. As I got off the Interstate at CO-115 the heavens opened I regretted the lack of rain covers for boots and gloves. At least my jacket and pants had dried out over night. The rain would bucket down for the next few hours as I rode west. Between Maysville and Sargents the highway climbs over Monarch pass. On the climb I'd noticed it getting colder. about 6 miles out from the Monarch summit an oncoming pickup flashed his brights at me. "That was nice of him, I'll slow down," I thought, "so the constable doesn't get upset." That's not what the warning meant. A mile from the summit the precipitation lost its liquid character. It was snowing. It was snowing and it was sticking to my visor. It was cold, I was soaked to the bone, and I was riding in the snow, in May. I hadn't expected this. I wasn't prepared for it. As I approached the summit signs warned of a steep grade. I was thrilled. That meant a rapid descent to warmer, if not drier, weather. The road was still bare and wet, I let the bike run. I was diving out of the snow and the vicious cold. Another great thing about signs that warn of a steep grade is that they usually also indicate curves. This was no exception, and soon I was forgetting to shiver and instead enjoying a bit of twisty riding. For the next couple of hours I rode through alternating bands of rain and sun. My gear would dry out on the outside, but not the inside, as I rode through the sun, then start soaking up more rain. The run through Gunnison, west to Montrose, is some of the most beautiful alpine country I've seen. The Blue Mesa Reservoir is ringed by mountains and hills rising skyward. The road snakes it's way westward and there are ample passing zones. At times I forgot how cold I was.
I stopped for coffee and a hot meal in Montrose. The fist restaurant I tried was just closing, so it was on to a fast food chain. As I drank my coffee and started to warm up, I began to shiver. I'd wondered about the lack of shivering, but when I quizzed myself on arithmetic, my answers seemed right, so I figured I was okay. I seemed to be thinking clearly enough so I figured I was okay and had finally warmed in the drier, warmer riding. I was wrong. When getting warmer leads to shivering you've put yourself in danger. When you stop shivering in the cold you're in the early stages of Hypothermia. I'd pushed myself to far again. It was time to think about finding lodging for the night, and given my physical state, camping seemed like a bad idea. I road on through Grand Junction and in to Utah. A few miles over the CO/UT border I stopped in at the Utah Welcome Center where the lady at the counter was kind enough help me decide on the next day's plans which ultimately informed my decision on where to stop for the evening. Stopping in Green Valley allowed me options for the morning and got me out of the next wave of rain. I made use of the microwave to skip the restaurant hunt, got out my maps, and set to work figuring out the next day's plan. To a degree this one day of riding with only a general direction in mind was the most satisfying, despite the miserable conditions for which I was completely unprepared.
Day 5 - Transit and Rest
I had a couple of options. Head to the Moab area and explore either Arches or Canyonlands NP, or make my way westward and visit Capitol Reef and Bryce Canyon NPs. Visiting the Moab area parks would necessitate more slabbing to get to the Zion area by nightfall. I was sick of the Slab and I'd ridden through Moab 9 months earlier, on my last 9 day ride. Those parks would have to wait. I rode into Capitol Reef, where the scenic drive is the only obvious feature. It is beautiful, with distracting views popping in the middle of the trickiest corners. In fact, a few corners in and I found myself waiting expectantly for the next rise or curve to reveal some other marvel, and was never disappointed. It's not a big park, though, and the scenic drive, at 10 miles each way, is too short. On my way back I took side road into the grand wash, where I had my only loose surface riding of the trip, and that was anything but difficult. The average exhaust dragging econo-rocket would be just fine. I continued on and somehow missed the turn-off for Bryce Canyon. As a result, I found myself back on the very Super Slab I'd wanted to avoid. So I decided to make time and blast to my campground for a mid-afternoon check-in. This was the shortest and easiest transit day of the ride. I spent the afternoon lounging and strolling about camp, and trying to figure out if the damned wind would ever subside. It did, about 30 minutes after I'd given up, used myself as a windbreak, and cooked another can of soup. As I turned in for the evening it occurred to me that it seems rather absurd to put the people who have only a thin bit of fabric for their shelter right next to the busy road. Put your solid walled cabins and road proof RVs there, please. They can't hear the road any way (especially since half of their occupant haven't heard a thing in 20 years) and they'll block the racket. That aside, I slept well.
Day 6 - Rest, climb, and explore
By now I'm sure you've determined that my idea of a "rest" day might be a bit flawed. My 3rd scheduled rest day of the trip included an 8:00 AM start 70 miles away. For the first time of the trip I'd had my phone on (in Airplane mode) overnight so it could serve as an alarm. I wanted to be on the road by 6:30. Due to a challenge with one of my contacts, I wasn't rolling until 6:45, but I should still have had plenty of time. Road construction and obscured signs thwarted my plans. I was 30 minutes late, and still had to de-gear. My guide, Al, was understanding, and given the weather, and road conditions, he suggested we try an alternate climbing location, near the town of St. George, an hour away. Aside from trusting that he knows what he's doing, I have no way of knowing whether or not this was the right call, but I suspect it was. I had a wonderful time conversing with Al on our way to the crag, the Prophecy Wall, and I hope Al enjoyed it too. This was my first outdoor climb. My gym climbing had provided me with a few tools like a basic understanding of belay technique, decent foot work, and the knowledge that my hands are really only there for balance and body control. After a quick ascent, with me on belay, Al rappelled back to the base of the crag and provided some last minute guidance. Then it was my turn to ascend. The Prophecy Wall is sandstone and my local climbing gym doesn't have anything which comes even close to replicating it. The hold are thin and pointy. The big, obvious holds have the stone eroded away behind them, making it easy to grasp. One of the biggest differences, though, is that it's really difficult to scout out the slightly darker or lighter red of a good hold against the red of the wall. In the gym it's neon colors on black or gray and all the holds have some degree of rounding to the edges.
I started up the wall, and before I new it, I was well above the highest I'd ever been in the gym. I found my self stuck for a moment, and called down to Al indicating as much. He encouraged me, stating that when the hand hold run out, that's where the foot holds get good. It was the footholds I wasn't seeing, but I took his word and kept looking. Voila! A foot hold, and another. I high-stepped to an inside edge with my left foot and moved my weight over. I raised my right foot to an outside edge and started moving my weight back. The hold gave way. The tiny sliver of stone I was standing on disappeared. My hands clenched the rock face. "Way to clean the route!" hollered Al. A bit of a smear, a flag, and I brought my right knee up onto the slope. I found another hold for my left foot and scrambled onto the ledge. I stood up and decided to take a breather. My nerves needed calming.
On approach to the Prophecy wall, at least the route Al had chosen, includes a rise of 40 or 50 feet to the base of the crag. I was now standing on a ledge I judged to be 70 or 80 feet above that. The view was magnificent. My camera was in my backpack a few feet away from Al, on belay. It's an extraordinary feeling to have hauled yourself up the side of a rock wall and to turn around and see the world down below. I turned back to the rock face and started looking for holds. I made it another 4 or 5 feet before I got lost. I couldn't find a hold. In retrospect I they were all over the place, but I'd gotten my mind out of sorts and couldn't get it back. My hands were shaking for no rational reason. Sure I was way up the side of a near vertical rock face, but I was roped in, and I trusted by guide/belayer. In that moment I couldn't conquer my self. I gave in. I asked Al to let me down.
I needed a breather. I needed to calm my hands. I needed water. I needed a bite to eat. I needed some more water. I needed to get back on the wall. Al provided the encouragement and I gave it another go. 4 or 5 feet of the ground my mind was bouncy back in forth in my head like a game of pong on nitro-powered super-computer. 5 feet. Hell, even if I weren't roped I'd probably be fine with a fall from that height. 5 feet, with enormous holds I'd almost walked up 20 minutes earlier and I couldn't figure out my next move. 5 feet, and I was freaked out. My primal self won. I was done for the day. I'd had my taste of outdoor fun for the day. I'd wisdomed out. That's what I'm going to call it when I decide not do something I'd have done without a second thought when I was younger. I wisdomed out. I rationalized that it wasn't the falling, but the myriad other ways one can get hurt while climbing that was at issue. If I couldn't get my head right, I'd wind up injuring a hand be unable to complete the trip. I wisdomed out.
On the ride back to Springdale, where Zion Mountain School in headquarted, Al and I continued our conversation, delving into philosophy and culture, and exploring why we each choose the activities we choose. I'm truly glad to have shared a few hours with such a genuine person.
Having wisdomed out so early, I had time to explore Zion NP. After packing up my climbing and hiking gear, and donning my riding gear, I rode into the park. Oh! My! God! This is where I realized that the roadway engineers working for the National Park Service intended to kill me. The stunning rock formations revealed as I rode around some of the most complicated corner complexes I've ever seen combined to my nearly plummeting off the road. I found myself negotiating compound, multi-apex, hairpin corners (all in one) while being distracted magnificent views of towering rock formations including gleaming walls, natural arches, and towering spires, often in the same view. It was the slowest ride on a twisted road I've ever enjoyed, and I enjoyed it immensely.
After passing through the park I turned around and road back through and was equally impressed on the return trip. I stopped in at Zion Pizza and Noodle for a late lunch. It was an excellent pizza, but of course, way to big for one person, especially a person who'd been surviving on a couple granola bars and soup for a week.
Returning to camp I made a detour up the scenic road the Zion NPs Kolab Canyon complex. It's a completely different landscape with similarly distracting views that were kind enough to reveal themselves as I exited the corners.
I had a couple pieces of cold pizza before retiring for the evening. This was the rest day I needed.
Day 7 - Transit from Zion to Yosemite NP
The Goog had indicated this would be an 11 hour ride. I realized a timezone transit would give me an hour back, so my morning was less frenzied than usual. I enjoyed a bowl of oatmeal and a brief conversation with a camp neighbor. He, and his family, are from Vancouver, BC, and were on a nearly opposite loop. He indicated Tioga pass, the east entrance to Yosemite NP, had opened just a couple of days earlier. That was good sign. I figured I'd cut another hour or two off my ride by taking what, according to all my data, would be an absolutely incredible road.
The first indication of trouble came shortly after I crossed the Utah/Nevada border. Heading out of camp I'd been on the descent or level for an hour, but near the border the road started to rise. Climbing ridge after ridge, I came to be riding in the rain again. Then, just west of the border, snow. "It's May" I thought with disbelief. I long string of expletives filled my helmet. The snow started sticking to the roadway. More expletives. I caught up to an RV, and promptly settled into his wheel tracks. The road descended and the snow disappeared, but I chose to keep position behind the RV. It was a wise decision (maybe the first of the trip). The next ridge brought more snow, falling more heavily and sticking more deeply than the previous ridge.
I seem to have a knack for finding snowy passes on my motorcycles.
We finally dropped out off the ridge and into a valley where the snow had melted away. At the gas station where NV-319 meets US-93 I had a brief chat with RV driver. "That must have been miserable" he hollered. "It was," I answered, "but I've never been so glad to be behind an RV." I hope he took it well. He went north, I went south. I new Nevada was famous for long stretches without fuel, so I inteded to top up wherever possible, just in case. The next gas station I came across was just a few miles down the road, too soon to add anything to the tank. I rode on. I descended to the Extra Terrestrial Highway and the town or Rachel. No fuel. I rode on. Endless miles of relatively flat scrub-land hemmed in by mountains. I rode on. My fuel gauge read lower, and lower, and I rode on. Signs indicated the town of Warm Springs at the outside edge of my comfortable fuel range. I rode on. Warm Springs had no fuel, and the road turn up hill. I rode on. It was cold. My gloves started icing over. I rode on. My fingers started getting numb. I rode on. Flexing my fingers and stretching my ankles to keep blood flowing, I grew nervous about running out of fuel in this frigid weather. How could a place so notorious for being unbearable hot be so unbearable cold? The fuel gauge ticked lower. I rode on. The reserve indicator started flashing. With no sign of fuel any where nearby, I rode on. Under ideal conditions, with the bike light and weather fair, I've pushed her to 225 miles, and filled her with the design capacity of fuel. As my trip meter ticked past 200 miles, riding up-hill, in the rain, into a headwind, I fought the urge to panic. At 205 miles, I reached the town of Tonopah and the glorious site of a gas station. I filled up and proceeded through town. I'd hoped to find lunch in town. I rode passed a couple of Mexican restaurants, but I really wanted steak or a burger. A billboard indicated a fast food chain "just down the road." I figured that any town with one of those had to have something else, too. I decided to ride to the next town. The next town they were referring to, however, was just down a different road.
Crossing from Nevada into California I road past Boundary Pk, the highest point in Nevada and over Mongomery Pass into the California town of Benton. This is where I experienced some of the strangest and most disturbing riding conditions I've endured. It was bitingly cold again. It started snowing and the snow started sticking. I found myself behind a semi-truck. I stayed put, riding in the semi-clear path of his tires. That's when it got weird. The air was cold, but the road was obviously warm. The snow, coming down hard enough to impede vision was turning to fog as it touched the road. Between the altitude and the temperature differential, a strange ground fog obscured the road, and kicked up by the semi in front of me, it obscured my view ahead as well. When I road into Benton and stopped and the Gas Station/Convenience Store/Cafe I was shivering violently and having trouble thinking. I'd gotten way too cold, again. It was around this time I resolved to add grip-heaters to the bike in my next round of upgrades. I stopped for coffee and a french dip, then followed that on with soup and more coffee. Conversations amongst other travelers indicated the route I wanted might be closed by the snow. I also learned that this community was experiencing the most snow they'd had in 20 years, on the one day I was riding through. I could only laugh when I heard this. On this trip, of course my ill-preparedness would be met by terrible conditions. I rode on. The travelers were right, my route north was blocked, but I'd heard about another route, so I gave it try. Snowy plains, icy lakes, and frigid mountains, surrounded the bare and dry road I traveled. I got back on route and continued north.
By this point I'd figured Tioga pass was closed again, but I hoped to be wrong. I wasn't. In Lee Vining the road signs indicated the next two passes were closed as well. I resigned myself to missing my next destination. Maybe I should just make peace and head toward home. Stopping for fuel, I conversed briefly with the gas station/grocery store attendant who advised me that CA-88 was open, and that there were "no controls." I had a way west. My route northward carried me back into Nevada. Had I been better informed I could have saved myself considerable discomfort and time. The adventure of finding ones way en-route is part of the fun, for me, though. My new route was hours off my original path. I would be riding in the dark, but I'd get to my destination. CA-88 is a wonderfully twisty mountain pass, which I was completely unable to enjoy due to the thick fog. My only reliable indication of the path the road followed was the tail lights of the SUV in front of. At times those tail lights would disappear in the fog, despite my following too close. There was snow beside the road, luckily, none on it. I'd have had no idea if there had been, as I couldn't see the ground. My route twisted and curved through the mountains, but I finally made it to the west side of the Sierra Nevada where I turned back southward.
CA-49 twists and winds it way southward, creeping closer to Yosemite NP with every mile. It is wickedly twisty and would be challenge for a fresh rider in the daylight. South from CA-88 to my final fuel stop of the day I enjoyed the dying rays of the setting sun. The glaring golden light was flattened by tree cover, making road easy to see and twists and turns a pleasure. In my 14th hour of riding the light failed. I was twisting my way down an unfamiliar highway hemmed in by sheer rock walls rising on one side and falling away on the other. I knew I was still hours out from my destination. Still, I persisted. Occasionally, I'd happen upon a car or pickup. Their headlights illuminating the road far better than my own, I'd hang back, intending to take advantage of their leading the way. Invariable they'd do the courteous thing and pull aside, letting me by. While the freeways in California are hell, this willingness to let a motorcycle by is unparalleled, in my experience, any where else. It's fantastic in the day time when you want to rip, or even just maintain a steady pace. That night, I found my self thanking the drivers while wishing they'd been less polite. Even so, worn out as I was, with the feeble headlamp made less effective with every lean of the bike, I pressed on, and caught car after car. Tail lights gleaming in the distance, across the ravine, disappearing around the curve and reappearing beyond the next. One after another I hauled them, seeking the sanctuary of their brighter headlights. One after another they'd move aside, banishing me to ride ahead into the dark. As I entered hour number 16 I became aware of my riding mistakes. Stupid things I would never do when fresh. Shallow corner entries requiring excess lean to avoid riding off the outside of the corner. Unintentional late braking. A slight over-riding my visibility around corners. I finally made it to Coarsgold, 21 miles south of Yosemite's south entrance. I'd ridden across Nevada and all but circumnavigated Yosemite NP. The Goog's directions were clear. I'd ride into Coarsgoald and the campground would be on my right. I road through Coarsgold, with no sign of the campground. Just as I was ready to give up, to turn around, and seek out help or a hotel, campground sign appeared. The beacon of rest left little opportunity for my obliterated reflexes to slow the bike, but I made it. I found my reserved site, made camp, and slept.
Day 8 - Rest and Explore Yosemite NP
I hadn't set an alarm. My camp was in a hollow with the hill above to the north, east, and south. First light was too soft to wake me. It was well into morning by the time I roused myself. Well rested, I enjoyed a windless morning and prepared my breakfast of oatmeal and an entire pot of tea, and a second helping of oatmeal. At camp the weather was fine, so after offloading the gear I didn't expect to use in the park, I removed the weather proof panels from my jacket and pants and stowed them on the bike. I made sure to carry my long gloves as well, but this was summer riding weather. I left camp in my mesh gear and headed back north, into the park.
The ride into Yosemite from the south is fantastic. Unfortunately it's shared with people who can't be bothered to use the pull-outs, even when it's clear that they're the "slower traffic" to which the sign refer. Passing through the gate, I pulled aside to stow my map, and was immediately blocked in by cars who's drivers were oblivious to their rudeness. To be fair, I'm sure the excitement of their own adventures made it impossible for them to recognize how they were impacting others. Once I was clear of the gate crowds, I turned my attention to the road. I found my self looking for the corners with distracting views, and was disappointed. The road is forested, so while there are plenty of fantastic corners, they're bordered with trees. The road is in the mountains, so while there are plenty of gorgeous views, they're along straight escarpments with no corners. The notable exception is fantastic sweeper at the edge Yosemite valley. Coming around this easy but beautiful right-hander, Half Dome, gleaming in the sun, leaps into view. A quick check of the oncoming lane and I was on the binders and pulling across to the parking area. The splendor of Yosemite, distilled to single view, is incredible. The teaming masses were similarly enchanted, so I snapped a few pics and continued on.
Riding into Yosemite Valley is surreal. The views are distracting enough you don't need corners nearly ride off the road. Unfortunately, too many people were more interested with having been to Yosemite to bother being there. More cars went rushing angrily by on the final approach to Yosemite Village than I've encountered at any other National Park. I think the park is too accessible, and there's not enough opportunity for folks to leave their city behavior behind. Yosemite Village is similar. Too much rushing about. Too much worry about checking off the boxes on the list. I got my lunch from the grocery store in the village. I'd wanted to enjoy the lodge restaurant, but it was closed for a wedding. I walked around the valley, watched some climbers take class, wishing I were among them, and finally stopped in at the Visitors' Center. I explained my photographic goals, to photograph corners with views, to the rangers at the counter. They lamented that the road I needed was closed for snow. I knew which they meant. Tioga pass had eluded me the day before. I thanked them for the info and wandered back to the bike. I rode west out of the park, and on that road found what I was seeking. Unlike at Zion where the views are at eye level and go up, in this part of Yosemite the views are below. I rode out of the park, most of the way back to civilization, then turned around to capture the views I suspected I'd been riding away from.
Approaching the village again, I made a detour up Tioga road. The road climbs above 7000 feet before the closure and offers many engaging sights, but the ones I really wanted, I'm sure, were beyond the closure. I returned to the Village and bought a sweater at the sporting store. I had a feeling the ride back to camp would be cold. As the sun set behind the mountains which encircle Yosemite Valley the temperature fell quickly. I pulled over, added my weather proof panels and my newly acquired sweater, and rode into the failing light and cold. I had the ride southward out of the park mostly to myself and got to enjoy the winding CA-41 the way I'd hoped to in the morning. I found a local diner for dinner and, after an absurdly long wait, filled myself up on a delicious clam chowder in a sourdough bread bowl. I then bundled myself backup and returned to camp just in time to fall asleep.
Day 9 - Transit from Yosemite NP to Bellevue, WA
From the outset the final day the ride was intended to be straightforward and boring. I'd considered the "avoid highways" check-box, but figured I'd be exhausted and the shortest route, at 14 hours, seemed long enough. I quick run south to Fresno, followed by some surface navigation to get to the freeway, and it was highway sign navigation from then on. I started the bundled up, and an hour later was removing my sweater and thermal liners. But there wasn't any other excitement. At my next fuel stop I removed the weather proofing and rode in my mesh. I droned north on the Super Slab. At my second Oregon fuel stop, I ended my avoidance of the popular green coffee house. It was Mother's day and I owed my mom a call, any way. Then it was back to the Slab. Just south of Portland, OR traffic came to a sudden halt. Some idiots had managed to collide, and every other idiot around had to stop and see. A few miles further north and traffic stopped again. Then the rain started to spit. I was 2 miles from a Rest Area. I made my way across traffic, and when the opportunity arrived I pulled in, used the facility, restored the weather proof panels on my jacket and pants, and donned the sweater I'd gotten the day before. I had brief chat with another motorcyclist trying to wait out the traffic and rain. But in the end, I wanted to get home and didn't want to stand around waiting for who knew how long. I returned to the fray just as traffic was picking up. There was no evidence of a collision, or any other cause for the slow down, so it'll remain a mystery why 3 full lanes of traffic came to stop. The sun set and temperatures fell. I crossed the bridge and, for the first time in over a week, was back in my home state. Riding north, I stretched my fuel and with only a single stop, made it home, ecstatic and exhausted. Grabbing a few necessities off the bike, I trudged up the stairs, entered my apartment, and within minutes had fallen asleep.
I finished feeling incredibly alive
Having arrived home just before midnight, I was not up at my usual hour for work. But I was up early enough to enjoy a coffee on my way in. Every fiber of my being was on it's highest setting for days. After work I hit the climbing gym and despite being a miserable wreck in my previous visit, I conquered all the basic routes, save one. I learned some valuable lessons, too. One, prepare for any weather, always. Two, I hate stopping to take photographs, so I've invested in more batteries and storage cards for my action camera. Three, prepare more and plan less. I find riding to a destination stressful as it rips me out of the current moment, and throws me down the road and the thing I love about riding is the immediacy of the present moment. Four, don't carry wet food. It takes up space and mass that can be better used in other ways. Finally, do it again, as soon and as often as possible. Despite the things that went horribly wrong, the missed destinations, the weather, the navigational issues, and the sometimes disappointing park facilities, exploring the world this way is incredibly exhilarating.
For those seeking a more visual experience, please visit the photo gallery.
For those seeking a more visual experience, please visit the photo gallery.
Photos http://photos.kddick.net/May-2015-Epic-9-Day-Ride/
ReplyDelete