Apologies to faithful readers who've waited patiently since May for an update to this adventure story. I was promoted to an executive role at work, and it's consumed most of my energy and time. But I vowed to complete this write-up and fortunately I have notes to work from!
We're in Moab, Utah, enjoying a welcome rest at the halfway point while surrounded by the trappings of civilization again. The oppressive desert heat stood in sharp contrast to the relative isolation and cooler air of the high-elevation backcountry roads from which we'd arrived. The heat ensured little motivation to do much besides hang out on patios, drink beer, and watch people. Imaginations lubricated by booze and heat, we constructed elaborate fantasy back-stories for people we saw in the diverse crowd that meandered past. There was a surprising number of Europeans everywhere, with many languages besides English overheard. Not at all like my prior visits over a decade earlier. Indeed, Moab has become a global tourist destination. One upside of the increased attention is improved food and drink, as we discovered at The Spoke restaurant on the main drag.
An evening hike up one of the nearby canyons revealed dinosaur footprints and a natural arch.
We planned some morning activities for the day we left Moab. Jeff booked a horse riding trip at a dude ranch used for one of the filming locations of Westworld, led by a wrangler who'd guided George Lucas. Pete and I decided to ride up to Arches National Park, where our annual park passes let us bypass the entry line only to have the curious ranger ask a zillion questions about our bikes while we stewed in our suits and another line of traffic built up behind us. Finally we rode in, forming a train with the RVs and other traffic. Best time to visit is early morning when the air is clear and the crowds haven't arrived yet. Brings lots of water, because with the relative humidity hovering in the low single digits, you dry out fast and points of interest that seem nearby are actually much farther away.
After our respective side-tours, we regrouped and resumed our journey on the TAT, which started a short distance north from Arches on a rough dirt side-road that rose quickly above the sweltering canyon below. This was real desert riding!
The dirt wound its way up into ledgy rock sections where we were surprised to see a couple of cars gingerly picking their way through en route to some backcountry trailhead. Finally we reached the mesa and the track opened up to fine, powdery sand.
Having been on relatively solid surfaces for the last few days, riding in sand proved to be a white-knuckle experience for Jeff and Pete, made worse by the oppressive heat and elevation of around 7,000'. Both guys had some low-speed tumbles as they struggled to keep their squirrely wheels under them, and their frustration was clear: Jeff voiced existential concerns around abandoning the TAT altogether in favour of hightailing it north on pavement. Pete just didn't say much at all - his typically understated English sign of discomfort.
The terrain became even more desolate, with even the normally ubiquitous sage giving up hope and abandoning the landscape to sterile dirt. Ominously, now the skies grew dark with gathering storm clouds. Gusty winds picked up and made it clear the storm was headed our way. With zero shelter in sight, getting ourselves out of the way of the impending deluge became an urgent concern. Beyond getting drenched and facing slick mud, we risked becoming lightning rods in the flat, open country.
No doubt, our paths were going to cross with the incoming squall line!
As we tried to outrace and flank the front, the winds whipped up to a frenzy, reducing visibility from dust, making steering treacherous, and almost knocking us off our bikes. We could see lightning strikes approaching just to our side. Fortunately, a series of low mud hills emerged like a lunar landscape, so we quickly parked our bikes and found low spots to hunker down on the ground and wait out the lightning. Our timing was lucky: the worst of the storm surged right over where we'd ridden moments before, yet we hardly saw a drop of rain thanks to the inrushing wind.
Our route now posed two options: Either a couple of days of more desolate desert riding circumnavigating the salt flats to the northwest; or heading more or less straight north up to Salt Lake City where we'd intersect the first option and resume the TAT. Given the heat, fatigue, and frustration, we opted for the paved route north to make up some time, with the hopes of lingering later as we headed further north.
An abandoned section of highway beside the modern interstate became our route. Behind us, the sky was black and sliced by lightning as the storm gained strength and moved through. As we rode the patchy pavement and dodged drifts of tumbleweed, all of a sudden we saw a photographer standing in the middle of the road with his camera on a tripod. It must've been an amazing shot to have the three of us emerge from the maelstrom, headlights blazing, and ride around him.
At a gas stop, now lost in our own thoughts and hardly speaking to each other as we sat on the curb chewing corn nuts and chugging Gatorade, an old guy approached us. He was from Texas, towing a Harley up to the annual Sturgis Rally in North Dakota. After sharing a few anecdotes about our trip, he became absolutely fascinated and amazed by the concept and decided right then and there that he was going to give up on Sturgis next year, sell his Harley, and get into adventure riding. He drove off muttering and shaking his head about his revelation.
Meanwhile, our adventure had become riding the highway through intermittent downpours and gusty winds for the rest of the day, until we reached the gritty mining town of Price, Utah. Filthy, chronically dehydrated, and famished, we sweet-talked the concierge into sneaking a cot into a room on the fourth floor. Although this was apparently against hotel rules, she confided that the hotel owner, a "large woman", was unlikely to notice the cot because she didn't like to go up that high.
Washing our sweaty-grimed riding gear was right out of the question.
Once again, we were ID'd for beer. It's a very strange feeling to be 50 and have to justify that I'm at least 21. Equally strange was seeing a shiny new Tesla supercharging station in the middle of nowhere, lit up like the space-age artifact it is.
Continuing north, the route consisted of more good paved secondary highways through canyons and over mild mountain passes, often following rail lines in the valley below. The scenery looked just like the pictures in Model Railroader that I'd loved as a kid - and I could see why this area stoked the imaginations of model train enthusiasts. Lots of rocky outcrops, tunnels, twisty tracks around mountains, and wild-west buildings to recreate in miniature. I think I know what I want to do again when I'm too old to ride.
We reached Salt Lake City on a Sunday. None of us had been here before, and despite our experience with reading maps, we naively assumed it'd take us only a couple of hours to get through the urban area and reconnect with the TAT.
Of course, it being a Sunday, everyone was in church--of which there was at least one every two blocks in every direction we looked. Crossing the city took the entire day. Although our road was a secondary highway, it passed through the longest low-rise suburban development of traffic lights and big-box stores I've ever seen. Every few kilometers seemed like an exact repeat of the last, like in an old Scooby Doo cartoon where the characters ran through an old mansion and passed the same repeating sequence of chair, curtains, door, and window.
Riding through the downtown Temple area was interesting and I would've like to have stopped and take pictures or even tour some of the buildings. But time pressed us on. We were desperate for some food and coffee, weren't sure if we'd find camping for the night (we wouldn't), and the 200kms of suburb we'd ridden at low speed on deserted streets past closed businesses and full parking lots of churchgoers was playing weird tricks on our minds.
Late in the day, as if by magic, a coffee shop materialized on the side of the road. Incredibly, it was also open--and site of an indelible memory that added to the overall sense of weirdness we'd felt grow throughout the day. While enjoying our unholy stimulants (a.k.a. iced cappuccinos) a family arrived, evidently from church judging by the white shirts and black ties. One of them was a stunningly beautiful woman in a little black dress and heels. As we sipped our drinks on the patio, for some inexplicable reason she proceeded to do an impressive handstand on the wobbly table where her be-suited family sat just across from us. Given her dress and angle, it was an unexpected show to say the least. It was hard not to suspect she was messing with us in some way.
Eventually the suburbs evaporated like our sweat and yet, despite all the open space, there was no discernible camping and nowhere we could stealthily set up for the night. Our only option was a motel in Tremonton. Once again, we had to fill out forms to buy three beers at the gas station to wash down our Wendy's dinner. Back in our room, we watched the movie Dune with Sting striding around in a leather codpiece, a somehow fitting end to Twilight Zone episode of a day.
Heading north, the TAT devolved quickly into desolate rural roads between large fields of mostly safflower which stretched off to distant foothills. Pioneer homes and hamlets - many abandoned long ago - appeared infrequently.
Tough place to make a living and raise a family. It's understandable why religion was so important to giving hope.
It was also tough riding in some spots. Jeff had gone on ahead when we suddenly heard swearing and banging over the comms. Turns out he'd hit a patch of talc-like bull dust and wiped out.
Thankfully he wasn't riding fast, and there was no damage to him or his bike. However, the episode reinforced his suspicion and dislike for dirt riding. We were now in a bit of a quandary, since we still had a lot of dirt riding left to do on this trip, and Jeff had lost his patience for the slower pace and technique required to navigate loose surfaces. Pete and I continued along the dirt side roads, while Pete opted for the main paved route, and we met up at key intersections.
Nevertheless, we were now headed towards Craters of the Moon National Monument in Idaho, an appropriately-named desolate area of wilderness. Moreover, we were starting see signs of the summer's terrible forest fires in the distance, and sometimes caught a whiff of smoke. It was becoming questionable whether we'd even be able to follow our planned route north.
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