Craters of the Moon National Monument was one of the most desolate, unforgiving, yet exhilarating sections of the entire trip. Aptly named for its volcanic geology and remoteness, the area once served as an astronaut training ground for the Apollo moon missions and a centre for nuclear research. Our destination, the small town of Arco, was the first community in the world to be lit entirely by nuclear energy. It's a remarkable achievement considering the town's humble origins as the junction between two stagecoach routes of the Oregon Trail during the wild west era.
Increasing smoke haze to the north, and ominous fire reports suggested our route north could be in doubt. Topped up with gas, we had to make it through about 125km of remote dirt dual-track with no water, services or human habitation should things go wrong. The combination of heat, dust, and elevation of 5900' amplified our fatigue and reduced our patience. Yet, we were excited by the line of black on the horizon that hinted of the lava fields we'd be crossing.
Sage brush dotted the landscape, giving way to patches of black basalt that had flowed from 15,000 to as recently as 2,000 years ago, emerging from the Great Rift fault in the crust that transected the area.
The fault line itself is a series of yawning crevices that slice through the plain. It's remarkably visible if you're alert and know where to look. But in low light it would be very easy for an unwary hiker or rider going off road to fall into one of the jagged cracks.
A short detour to the improbably-named Ice Crystal Caves site revealed two explosion craters (Kings Bowl) that were caused by molten lava meeting underground water. The ice caves themselves are nearby and were once a major tourist attraction until 2001, when the operation was shut down for safety reasons. Today there's little evidence to suggest how well-visited this site once was, with concession stands and a visitors centre, although apparently it may still be possible to visit the underground wonders in winter.
The only other people we saw were two researchers from the University of North Carolina. They were performing an aerial study of the landscape to develop a model for understanding geological features on Mars.
They graciously topped up our water bags with ice from their cooler and offered us a beer, but as tempting as it was, the beer would've only increased our dehydration.
Although the road looked rough, it proved to be a bermed and grippy rollercoaster ride that had us all whooping and laughing in our helmets for many kilometers.
A random stop in the middle of nowhere revealed a survey marker, proof that no matter how much the adventurer you think you are, many feet have stepped before you.
Our bikes had begun making a disconcerting pinging noise with accompanying vibration, and we wondered if fuel from our last top-up was to blame.
After stopping to investigate, we learned we weren't truly alone: indeed, thousands of grasshoppers leapt from the trail as we passed, causing the pinging noise as they plastered themselves on the lower parts of our bikes. The sheer volume of bugs was impressive.
The skies darkened more with smoke as we rode north, until all of a sudden the arid desert yielded to green fields from irrigation on the outskirts of Arco.
Much of the town's small centre was deserted, with a gas station/grocery store, restaurant, and motel being the only main signs of activity.
Improbably, a submarine sail decorated a small park, with a fascinating story originating in the town's nuclear history.
Equally unexpected was the Hobbit motel next door, and its proprietor Mike whose stories were as colourful as his rooms.
A retired nuclear safety engineer, Mike now splits his time between running the motel, prospecting, and conducting occasional radiation monitoring studies at former research sites in the area.
With not much else to do in town, we headed across the street to the only restaurant we'd seen and settled in for steak.
Tasty enough when you're famished, if not elegantly presented.
As we ate, I overheard a man and woman at another table speaking with the waitress in what sounded like a New Zealand accent. Having a hunch, I told Pete and Jeff that I bet I knew someone in common with the other couple. (I like playing the six degrees of separation game, especially when traveling.) I figured the only reason someone from New Zealand would be in this area is because of its unusual geology, so I went over to their table and introduced myself. Turns out they're from Wellington, and indeed they are interested in the local geology because the man was in fact a geologist. So I asked if he knew a certain person also in Wellington, who was a friend of mine from school and the best man at my wedding. Indeed, the Kiwi works for my friend at New Zealand's geological survey! Small world it is. I returned to my table feeling pretty smug about my hunch.
Leaving Arco, the lava plains gave way to mountains of the Lost River region and increased smoky haze.
Some twisty gravel roads took us up through burned-out forests that had started to regenerate.
Very little traffic or signs of human habitation in this area. It's one of the more remote regions of the US and you need to come in prepared.
As we rose and descended into different valleys, the prevailing winds changed the visibility. However, we couldn't be sure if our twisty route would lead us to a temporary road closure, and we knew that this area was subject to active fires. As amazing as the riding was, we couldn't help but feel anxious about whether we'd make it through before fuel range became a critical concern. We debated emergency bailout options at each major intersection.
Hundreds of kilometers of loose dirt riding over the past few days, combined with the heat and smoke, had taken a toll on Pete and Jeff's patience and confidence. Our route along the TAT became a sandy road with long, powdery soft patches that would take you by surprise and threaten to throw you off the bike. To avoid eating each other's dust, we'd spread ourselves out but this resulted in our helmet comms frequently losing contact, and frequent stops to regroup and discuss which route to take. There seemed to be poor correlation between the road markers and our maps, raising some questions about whether our intended route was indeed open, or we'd have to find a way around.
Soon enough, our luck ran out. One of the hazards of riding this early in the season (July) was that roadwork and repairs from poor spring conditions wasn't all completed. All the more likely in remote regions where there's little traffic to justify the effort and cost. We consulted with locals and a forest ranger about the actual passibility of the road, given we were on dirt bikes and not in cars. The response was mixed, and since we couldn't be sure, we decided optimistically to push on and see for ourselves.
But this was it: the end of the road to Featherville. Much more than a mudslide; the river had changed course and followed the roadbed, washing it out completely with ice, deep water. Even if we could cross through a relatively shallow but long section with baseball-sized rocks and knee-deep water, there was no guarantee that the road would return to a rideable state further down.
Part 14
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