Dust in the Wind

Some days just start out sideways. If I'd been paying attention it would have been obvious that the plan was already dust in the wind. Breaking camp, something I've done more times than I can count, was a hassle. My cookware didn't seem to fit where I'd packed it, my sleeping bag wouldn't go in the stuff sack, and I have no idea how long I spent searching for my allergy meds. But I finally got squared away and we headed in to town for breakfast.

The morning breakfast hunt before 9 am is hit or miss in small towns. If it's an agricultural town, odds are good you'll find a diner with half a dozen farmers procrastinating in the dining room. The best bet is usually to stop in the first commercial establishment you find and ask a local. Not always. The locals we found said nothing was open yet, the diner closed a year ago. So we found some muffins and coffee in the grocery store for a "continental" breakfast. I should have had my oatmeal back at camp. Regardless, we were ahead of schedule and headed for the trail.

For this adventure I rode my Kawasaki VerSys. Every time I meet a BMW GS rider he insists on reminding me that mine is "not really an adventure bike." As we finally got off the pavement and to some rutted and pot-holed terrain, Tyler started honking his horn. I relayed the message and pulled over. My tent was trying to escape the luggage rack on top of the top-case. After tightening it down we continued on. Honk, honk, honk. Again, the tent wanted to escape. Another adjustment and on we rode. The terrain got more interesting, with some mild whoops and vegetation crowding the road. Honk, honk, honk. My top case had popped open, meaning I'd failed to lock it before leaving camp. There was gear all over the road, and it was becoming clear that today was not going as planned. But we gathered it all up and rode on. Honk, honk, honk. Shit! What now? It wasn't me. Tyler had a problem. We spent a few minute beside the road while he adjusted some accessories that were rattling around on his bike. Finally, we could get under way.

I like to describe the VerSys as Kawasaki's any-road bike. As long as there's a road, the VerSys will go there (mostly). Chasing Trever on his KTM 1190 Adventure and Kyle on his Suzuki DR-650, both of which are actually built for rough terrain, was fun. To my surprise, I was actually keeping up pretty well. When we got to some bigger whoops Trevor and Kyle both gassed their bikes and enjoyed a moment of weightlessness. So I followed suit. Something bounced against my back, so reached back to check that the top case was still closed. It was, I kept riding. Another set of whoops. Boy was the bike feeling fantastic. Honk, honk, honk. I looked over my shoulder. SHIT! Shit, shit, shit! the top case was no where to be seen. Pulling as far of the trail as possible, I rolled to a stop and started running back up the road. There it was, in tact, but banged up. It turns out that when you over-load a top case made for riding on smooth highways, then go jumping your short-suspension not-an-adventure bike, the thin oval tube from which the mounting frame is made tends to buckle where the un-gusseted bolt holes pass through. I'd sheared the top-case rack clean off. It was time for trail repairs.

Gear straps. Nylon webbing with cinch-buckles. Those did the hard work of holding the rack to the seat. Moving gear around to get as much weight out of the top case as possible was also mandatory. Then the tent got strapped to a grab-handle and ratchet strap, borrowed from Tyler, made the whole assembly quite a bit more rigid. Click. The top-case was on the bike. It didn't leave me much room to move around on the seat, making hill descents a little interesting, but it worked. Of course, every time we found rolling whoops I had to slow down. The grab-handles would flex under the load of the top-case pitching forward, allowing it slap me in the back, and reminding me to be careful.

We finally had 20 or 30 miles of dirt under our belts for the day. We road a mix of smooth gravel, pavement, pot-holed hard-pack, and rutted washouts. The bike held together. The riders held together.

The Natural Bridges are the remnants of an ancient collapsed lava-tube. Lava tubes are formed when molten rock flows over the surface, carving a channel in the surrounding soil. The surface of the lava cools and hardens, insulating the lava below and allowing it to run out, leaving a tube. Over the eons erosion and gravity do their work and the tube eventually collapses, leaving a ravine. In the case of Natural Bridges, portions of the roof of the lava-tube actually remain, forming bridges over the ravine left by the collapsed lava tube. It's incredible, really. In otherwise dry environment there's a fairly lush ecosystem with built in routes to cross back and forth.


It was nice to take a break from riding in the dust kicked up by the bikes ahead. Switching between face-shield and goggles, I never really got used to the goggles, though I think they'd work better.

A few short miles further along we came to the Lassen Ice Caves. These are not caves made of ice. Rather, they're caves (in this case, lava tubes which haven't collapsed) which have ice in them much of the year. Descending the stairs of the main entrance was a relief. The heat of the day disappeared and was replaced by much welcomed frigidness. There wasn't much ice, but it was still a fun scramble down to a too small for non-spelunking adults passage, then back up the other way to a natural entrance.

It seems Kyle may have been our appointed (mad) wizard. Or maybe his flashlight, combined with a chunk of ice, makes a spectacular visual effect.




My compatriots, and I, were loath to leave the comfort of the natural air-conditioning and return to the blast-furnace of the surface. But we had the middle of nowhere to be.

We still had some riding to do. So we saddled up once again and road off into the blazing heat and blinding dust. To be fair, the throttle happy nut jobs ahead of me may have had something to do with the dust.

The second full day of riding is often tougher than the first, and we'd all spent the previous day riding to get to the ride. Week took another break to get our bearings, patch a melting dry bag on Trevor's bike, and enjoy the view.


Eventually we made camp and our party grew as Kumi and Jon joined us. We enjoyed a pleasant evening around the fire before turning.

By the time the day was done I'd doubled my loose surface riding experience, and was gaining confidence by the minute. Including the equipment issues, this is what an adventure is all about. Pitting oneself against one's limits, expanding those limits, and sharing the triumphs and tragedies with friends.