Adaptive Curmudgeon

Still no time to write up more motorcycle adventures. But it’s still a good day.

I checked my e-mail (which I don’t do very regularly). Turns out I got a handful of donations I hadn’t yet noticed.

Thanks!

*P.S. I try to send a personal e-mail for every donation but sometimes I don’t get them written. If I failed to send you a note, don’t think your donation wasn’t appreciated.

*P.S.2. A question for readers. What if on my next “adventure” I bring a single roll of film? I’m talking real 35mm film. Maybe even in black and white. Many fewer images but perhaps those few would have more soul? This spring I dusted off my old 35mm camera. I think it still works. I was thinking of “going backwards” in technology but just didn’t get my act together in time for film images on this particular trip. Even so, I didn’t take a huge number of “cell phone snapshots”. I had my hands full just keeping gadgets charged and also there’s just a lot of stuff you’ve got to handle when you’re doing solo stuff. I wasn’t exactly “touristing”. This trip, I was also mostly “in the moment”, often choosing to leave the cell phone (digital camera) tucked away so I could simply enjoying the view. I think it worked out well. Am I just pissing into the wind or is it a decent idea?

I was busy over the weekend. I didn’t have time to write more of the WYBDR story. Meanwhile, the world seems to never run out of time to continue and hype the ongoing spastic madness that we use in lieu of proper and orderly elections.

It’s a shame, I wanted my happy motorcycle story to be a tiny “safe space”. Not everything has to be politics!

Since I didn’t get more text assembled, I’ll just float a few random pictures. I’ll post them now. I feel like we’re going to need every bit of “sane” we can muster. When tomorrow’s events pass from people acting stupid, to farce, to flat out embarrassing just think that the desert neither knows nor cares about politics. It might help. (Or it might not… I don’t have any special juju to solve all mental maladies. And, sorry to say, I’m just as battered as the rest of the sane populace.)

Anyway: here are a few blocks said to be worth 10,000 words. Enjoy:

It probably doesn’t show at this resolution but there were three wild horses in this photo. I got to watch them galloping around in the vastness. What a life they have!

After many fits and starts and also reacting emotionally to some wingnut in a mask, I roll out of Lander on what is sure to be a Quixotic day. The first part is unavoidably on pavement and it’s not fun. For some reason there seems to be an endless fleet of cement mixer trucks and my slow pipsqueak bike is not meant to be playing tag with behemoths like that!

At first they’re blasting by me like I’m standing still, which makes sense. Then, the road turns uphill and the massive mixers (which seem to be full) start slowing down. This makes sense too. I catch up and pass them. Then, the road gets steeper and I start slowing down. It’s one thing to be in front of these monsters when you’re faster than them and another entirely when they start catching up. The innocent truck drivers are trying to wring every bit of momentum out of their heavily loaded machines and there’s no way in hell they’re going to let off the steam for me. Meanwhile, I’ve got the bike’s throttle wrung out like I’m trying to strangle the handlebars and I can only downshift so many times.

Eventually, on a long slow climb physics sorts things out. From memory, I can’t remember if they outran me or I outran them but engines and tonnage spilt us apart; much to my relief.

I kept the bike wrung out and it climbed admirably… though I started to have unholy thoughts about “real” motorcycles. My PC800 would float up this hill like a dream. My Shadow 1100 would thunder up it like an invading force. I’m stuck in Pee Wee Herman mode limping uphill.

Eventually I get to a lookout and stop to rest. The bike isn’t running hot but I could use a stretch. Then I realize I’m on the wrong road!

Dammit! I should be conserving fuel and instead I ran something like eight miles up a steep climb, burning God knows how much fuel, just to get to a place I’m not supposed to be. What a dumbass!

I pace to and fro angrily but then get a grip on myself. I pause to take in the view. It’s spectacular!

I’ve never been here before, I may never be back… damn good thing I got that gorgeous view. I could have missed it. Wouldn’t that be a shame?

I’m pretty sure I used not one molecule of fuel going back down. The bike idled while rolling as fast as she’s likely to go. Then, wondering if I could blame this on cement trucks, I made the correct turn.

I briefly considered returning to town to top off on fuel again but was too stubborn. I’d wasted far too much time already. I was still traveling pavement but with a lot less traffic. I climbed another pass, burning more fuel, but at this point I was in for the duration. I stopped thinking about fuel and trusted to fate (and my spare gallon in the RotoPax).

It took a while but I finally found the cross trail. This is where the WYBDR, as it was originally mapped on paper, crosses en route to the ridge. There wasn’t a soul to be seen.

I should mention that nothing is better than a nice clean obvious sign with the road name and road number. Thank you BLM for sparing me some uncertainty!

I’m heading into a mix of private and public land. Technically speaking you can dispersed camp on BLM land but almost nobody does. At least in places that look like this. I wonder what the fire situation is?

Like they can read my mind, someone has stapled BLM fire regs to the signpost. How very handy.

No open fires. Fair ’nuff. This is not a place I’d want to toss sparks. My JetBoil is allowed and that’s all I’ll need.

I pass a lot of land that looks like this:

I’m truly in the middle of absolute nowhere. Then, for no reason at all, I enter a place with cell phone reception. I have no idea why.

My phone goes apeshit! A zillion texts have been piling up and they all ping onto my screen at once. It’s overwhelming. There’s a bill I needed to pay a week ago. There’s a doctor’s appointment reminder for next week. There’s a bunch of well wishers who’ve been sending me texts without really “grokking” the idea that I was no-bullshit off-grid. (I think there are people in 2024 who have never been out of cell service and don’t really understand the concept.)

I’m all pissed off sorting through this mess but it’s my fault for using my cell phone for navigation. One text catches my attention. It’s my good friend Dr. Mingo. He says he’s been “inspired” by my trip. Well that’s pretty cool. I’m glad about that.

I’m halfway through sending him a text back when the phone rings… a voice call. Half of us have forgotten phones do voice calls.

Right there, in the middle of the goddamn desert, our vet has called me to arrange a grooming appointment for our fucking dog! That’s it! I’ve had enough of human interaction.

Barely containing my desire to hurl the phone into the sagebrush, I politely nudge the vet to call Mrs. Curmudgeon. The vet has no idea where I am. They’ve got no idea how much mellow they’ve harshed.

Angrily, I stuff the phone in my pocket. I hit “check in” on my SpotX. Now everyone knows where I am and that I’m currently not dead. I send a quick SpotX to Dr. Mingo, happy that I’ve offered inspiration and providing my map coordinates. He’ll possibly click the link on the SpotX message and see that I’m a billion miles from nowhere. That ought to inspire anyone!

Later I see some little flags.

These are associated with a bicycle “event” (I don’t know if it’s a race or what). I remember one of the people with whom I talked yesterday at the campground/concert was doing a “bike race”. If he’s pedaling his ass all the way out here, he’s got balls of steel.

Now I’m inspired!

Anxious to get the hell out of there in case a zillion bicycles will show up, I take the next turn.

The turn changes the whole day. It’s the last time I’m worried about “being crowded”.

I haven’t seen anyone in forever, there are no bicycles and I’m off their route now, the phone shuts up for good, and life gets interesting. Stay tuned.

After a confusing morning of dealing with U-Haul’s definition of “reservation” and then tracing lines on a paper map I’m itching to go. At the gas station (I’m going to need every ounce of fuel!) I get a morale boost.

Two guys with dual sports are also fueling up. They are not traversing the WYBDR. I can tell they’re local folks just preparing for a fun afternoon. On the other hand, they’re obviously outfitted exquisitely well for the environment. I need some local information and they’re just the right source. “I’m planning to ride to Casper. From halfway there I’m going to pick up Poison Spider Road. Have you been on that road?”

“Yep. It’s a little boring but it’ll get you there.”

Excellent! I’ve been planning this “Poison Spider Road” approach for weeks and I’ve never ever met, read about, seen a photo of, or spoken with anyone who’s personally been there. Now I know the line on the map comports with a viable option!

Inside the gas station’s convenience store I grab 2 one liter bottles of water, a packet of beef jerky, and an orange. Honestly, all I need is the water and I only need that because I may be out there overnight. (Cooking a dehydrated meal will take a little more water than usual.) With my 1 gallon rotopax and 2 liters extra I’m ready for anything. I’ve got enough food that I could probably just eat snacks anyway.

I’m delighted with the orange. It seems a little bit magical that there’s fresh citrus right at hand. It looks lovely. This orange will be a special treat tonight, when I hunker down wherever the hell I wind up!

Ahead of me in line for the cashier is a woman. Nothing special about that but she’s wearing a mask. She looks reasonably fit and healthy. She’s got the standard issue “HOA Karen” quasi-professional clothes and the requisite asymmetric haircut.

Four years after everyone lost their shit and they still walk among us. I can’t know anyone’s heart and it’s possible she’s got some rare funky situation but I can guess and I guess it’s just the generic COVID madness. In my eyes, if you’re still wearing a mask in public in 2024, you might as well carry a little sign that says “mentally ill and proud of it”.

Imagine the damage she’s done to her mind. She’s wearing a mask in the heart of civilization; a clean, well lit, air conditioned, convenience store. The floor has been freshly mopped and the place gleams with antiseptic prosperity. It is probably one of the safest places on all of earth and in the safest times in all of human history.

Yet there she is, publicly declaring her fear to breathe.

And here I am, standing right next to her. My jacket is dusty. Leather gloves are crammed in my pockets. I’m going to ride a machine with two wheels; no roof or doors. I’m going to a place where nobody exists. I’m going alone. I don’t know where I’ll spend the night or what I’ll encounter during the day.

And I’m standing next to the woman afraid to breathe.

I trust entirely to my skills and equipment. I have tools and tent. I’m looking forward to eating an orange while sitting on a rock in the desert. I’m not afraid, though I am exercising due diligence.

Myself and the woman. We live on the same planet; though not in the same world. I seek out and experience risk… real risk; rattlesnakes and unsure footing and dehydration. She experiences risk in her mind… germs from four years ago. She’s probably afraid of Donald Trump. She’s probably afraid of dusty desert cretins standing in line at the convenience store.

I imagine our respective futures. I’m hoping to find flat sand to setup my tent. Maybe a dry wash. She’s going to die alone in a room full of cats. I’ll look at the stars. She’ll have cable news telling her about all the mean nasty terrible people who are just itching to oppress her. She’ll have NPR playing on the radio. I left my HAM radio (which catches FM too) behind. It was too much excess weight.

I almost ache to tell her the secret…

“it’s going to be alright”.

I’d like to reach across the vast gulf of human experience; offer encouragement. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. The world is a wonderful place. Wash your hands with soap and water and then get over it.”

But of course, I can’t. Her world view is specifically about separating herself from… “other”. That’s what masks did to people. They were a physical signifier of a belief system. If masks were invisible she’d have picked something else, a tattoo about a vaccine, a certain kind of clothing, whatever it takes to express “I am not of the other”… that’s what she’d do.

She pays for her gas and minces around me like I might bite. I smile as best I can but I’m sure my sweetest most disarming smile looks absolutely feral to her. And I suppose it’s not unreasonable. Compared to her, I’m a flat out predator. I’m a being of nature. I’m armed and active, I ride motorcycles, listen to the wrong kind of music, run chainsaws, travel, camp, swear, drink whiskey, read books, think for myself… to the right person my thoughts are dangerous and my very existence is a threat. My smile does no good.

She climbs into her SUV, tightens her seatbelt, and rolls out. I follow, helmeted and jacketed but otherwise fully exposed to the world. Our ways part a few miles down the road. I’ll never see her again.

I know my lifestyle isn’t for everyone. I have aches and pains from my ride, I’m leaving later than I plan, and I’m still fretting over my U-Haul connection. There’s no guarantee I’ll make it to sunset without dropping off a cliff somewhere. I get that everyone has their own path and some are riskier than others. But I’m hardly a rock star, I’m just a guy having fun. That lady (who appeared healthy) was closer to death than I’ll ever be.

[If all the map talk makes your eyes glaze over, feel free to check here for a visual.]

Logistics are the monster drawback to long rides on a dual sport motorcycle. Dual sports suck on the highway and you gotta’ get back to base somehow.

Lander was an unavoidable decision point. I was almost out of time and I had to plan my way back to “base”.

Technically the section I’d been on should have dumped me near Atlantic City WY (which might not have services but camping is nearby). I’d bailed early for free camping with a beer truck. (No regrets!) After Atlantic City, the next section goes to Alcova and it’s a big deal section.

The ride from Atlantic City to Alcova is either the hardest and most talked about section along Beaver Rim or an alternate and not so difficult section which pops out near Bairoil (no services) and then pavement schlepps to Alcova.

My GPS download shows the southern route to Alcova via Bairoil. My printed map shows the northern route to Alcova via the treacherous and beautiful Beaver Rim. If you’ve been watching YouTube videos to “scout” the WYBDR… it’s “the rim” that has all those awesome drone footage shots. Rumor has it, the rim is also where everyone gets their ass kicked. (All I know is scuttlebutt from forums and shit, I hadn’t done it myself yet.)

The GPS waypoints make no mention of the “rim” section at all. It’s like it was erased from memory and the paper map has old data because many were printed all at once. I glean from rumor that removing the rim trail because it was “too hard” was something of a debate. I don’t know who had the debate or what they said but I do know it’s effectively memory holed. Without my paper map I wouldn’t even know the route had ever been along “the rim”. It’s not even on the GPS as “expert” or “optional”. Yet, everyone says the rim was awesome.

*Spoiler Alert: I did “the rim”. It felt like the right thing to do.

I have a hard deadline. I have time to trail ride a bit toward Alcova but then I’m out of time. I turn into a pumpkin and all bets are off!

After Alcova I need to hightail it to Casper; throw my bike in the U-Haul, and haul ass north. I need to blast down 180 miles of Interstate, turn in the one way truck (another opportunity for U-Haul to fuck up), and then somehow I have to “zip” over the mountains to my my truck at base camp. (This would be on roads which don’t support “zip” and using a bike that prefers “plod”.) Once I’m at base camp, shit gets simpler. The bike gets strapped to a trailer and it’s back to traveling by Dodge. The Dodge will easily roll to civilization and deal with the horrors thereof.

I’m fucked. The “plan” has too many moving parts.

Regardless, I’m optimistic. I knew this moment would happen and I’ll figure something out. The first and most important thing to know is this:

If U-Haul is part of your plans, U-Haul will fuck up.

From a restaurant, I call U-Haul. They’ve screwed up. This isn’t a surprise. When you make an on-line far-in-advance reservation at U-Haul they don’t actually make a reservation. Sane humans think “reservation” means there’s going to be a truck present at the time and date agreed upon. To U-Haul it means they flagged an internal database with “it would be nice if there’s a truck here but we’re not promising shit” and then… nothing They hope one of their franchise people has a truck.

I knew this. I planned for it.

After some discussion, the lady on the phone switches pick up location from one place in Casper to another. Then she assures me there really will be a truck; like it’s parked there and nobody else is driving it. Nice.

Then I mention that I need a ramp and it starts all over again. I’m not strong enough to dead lift my whole motorcycle by myself. (Traveling solo is not like traveling in a group.) Nor am I forthcoming that I’m trying to move a motorcycle because U-Haul is notoriously stupid. Rumor has it if you use the word “motorcycle” they’ll rent you a motorcycle trailer no matter what. The last thing I need is to pay for a trailer AND a friggin’ truck! It is said that no human has ever communicated to anyone at U-Haul the difference between an 800 pound full dress chromed out Harley Davidson bagger and a utilitarian little 300 pound farm bike.

Alas, U-Haul trucks only have a ramp if you go 20′. I wind up agreeing to rent a 20′(!) U-Haul to move a 300 pound pipsqueak of a bike. Ugh!

Having made a bad plan that cost more than I want… I was satisfied. Sometimes “bad” is all you can do and there’s no “better”.

What’s more, I have (while eating breakfast) traced my future on my paper map. Wanna’ hear this mess? Here goes:

• Just completely ditch Atlantic City and head instead out of Lander on pavement.
• Somewhere between Atlantic City and Alcova the trail crosses said pavement. Catch the trail there and blast out on what is supposedly the worst nastiest riskiest part of the whole shebang.
• After many miles, the trail crosses Ore Road. Bail off the trail and follow Ore Road (no services).
• Ore Road crosses onto Dry Creek road. Take it. (No services.)
• Then there’s a chunk of nameless road. Then Poison Spider Road. (No services.)
• This leads me directly into Casper, where there’s an overpriced, oversized U-Haul I’ll be picking up after hours at somewhere I’ve never been.

There are no services anywhere on that whole series of bullet points. I think I have enough gas but I haven’t sat down with a calculator and proven it. I decide not to. Fuck it, I’m doing this.

I have two days to get to Casper. I’ve got extra water, extra gas, camping gear, and all the other survival shit a guy could want.

There are no designated campsites. Some of it is BLM land and therefore legal for dispersed camping.

That’s it. I’m all out of ideas, somewhere in the middle of this mess the sun will set and I’ll hopefully find a place to hunker down.

It sure ain’t a good plan but it’s the best I can do. That’s why it’s an adventure.

I leave the restaurant and head for a gas station. I want my tank filled to the brim and I feel compelled need to buy extra water and more beef jerky.

I’m about to do something stupid and I know it.

Stay tuned for more…

I hope you’ve been happily following my story of riding the WYBDR. You might have noticed I haven’t posted for a week. (Or you might not, I’ve no idea how much my writing affects anything.)

The absence of posts came from mundane problems. I was traveling (without my computer as I often do) when my vehicle broke down. I wound up cooling my jets at a hotel for a bit while the vehicle was managed.

This, I think, was a huge blessing. I’d picked up a cold just before my brief little mechanical Waterloo. With my wings clipped and no laptop (thus being “off-grid” in the center of a city), I was forced to do nothing but sleep. What cures a cold best? Time and sleep. Whether by chance or fortune, I was granted (forced?) time to heal. I’m almost (but not quite) back to firing on all cylinders.

The delay puts me behind on my WYBDR story, but that’s perhaps fortunate too. The election “season” is slowly inching through the lower intestine of our jangled and mismanaged society. Whatever is excreted on the head of the populace will happen regardless of my little blog. No matter what happens, one portion of society or another is going to lose their shit. They’re likely to behave like toddlers in the cereal isle and I’m sure you find that as unpleasant as I do.

The best I can offer a distraction. I’ve been typing about deserts in Wyoming rather than comment on Clownworld. It’s a small respite from the maelstrom, and I often fall off the bandwagon, but I have good intent. That’s the best I can do. I hope it helps.

In the meantime, the story I didn’t type while moldering in an overpriced hotel room won’t write itself. I’ll get it done soon but I’m not sure when. Given what next week might turn into, my story might hit the ‘net in the middle of even more national hysteria… the likes of which we’ve endured since long enough ago it’s hard to remember. My earnest little story might be missed like a fart in a windstorm. But, I’m trying.

Thanks for your patience.

I woke up happy. I was well rested and clear headed. I need to emphasize the important part of this post; I woke, well rested, in a city park that had been the scene of a music concert. Can you imagine the miracle such a thing implies?

I didn’t bother making coffee. I had morning plans that involved Wi-Fi which meant I’d go to a restaurant. You’d think I’d be spurred into fast motion but my night’s deep sleep had been almost a cathartic experience.

I think we don’t appreciate the miracles of life enough. Please join me while I explain why this was a big deal.

I’d camped in the middle of a music concert. The music was excellent and the band (whoever they were) played their heart out until the last encore. Nestled in my fluffy sleeping bag I heard every note (it’s not like a tent’s walls are soundproof) and I had a dreamy appreciation for their talent. Around midnight it was all over. That’s when I mentally prepared for the night.

A concert, right after the musicians leave, is the habitat of morons. Crowds, at night, perhaps lightly buzzed and coming down from a music high, are about the lowest collective form of idiocy you’ll ever meet. If you’re a fuckin’ idiot, the kind of walking disaster that frays the fabric of society by your every act, the place you’re most likely to be is wandering around a city park at 3am. In fact, nothing good happens in any town or city after 3 am.

I’d hunkered down in a place fitting for a good old scene of mob stupidity. Beer had been served to a crowd that found themselves suddenly idle at midnight. What would they do now that the music was done? Some portion of any crowd, be it 5% or 1% or 30%, are socially maladapted shitheads. After the good people are drawn off, they’d be the ones left. I’d camped in the natural habitat of mayhem!

I steeled myself for the underbelly of America’s post-Pax Romana social decline. Crowds (at least recently and perhaps regressing to the mean of most of history) are dangerous. Society is no longer self-policing. Idiots like to idiot and social pressure, law, and God no longer keep them in line. Society is so degenerate now that social pressure encourages, not discourages, mayhem. Ask the nearest purple haired otherkin about it. Law is a paper tiger. The cops (unwisely) took sides in politics and lost their mojo. Necessary protectors of the innocent have devolved into “tool of the ruling class”. Nobody anywhere takes the cops seriously as an unalloyed force for good. As for God, society has abandoned God. Thus, society acts Godless.

This is why I avoid crowds.

No crowd is as safe as the absence of people. I might live forever solo camping in the lonely desert only to get popped over $50 in a parking lot. Hank Williams Jr. warned of this. Can a country boy truly survive?

With the music over, the sane, responsible, music goers… the adults… drifted away. Many left on foot. I scarcely heard a car. I waited for the scum of the earth to become the majority. That’s when things get weird. Someone would get in a fight with someone else. Someone would puke loudly on the pavement. Someone would do donuts with a Honda Civic until they crashed into a street light. A handful of someones would rut like weasels in the dirt. Someone would overdose. Here, in relatively sane rural nowhere that would mean a noisy ambulance siren, in hollowed out urban hell holes it would mean a creepy discovery in the morning.

Most importantly, someone might mess with my bike. Granted, it’s the cheapest vehicle of all the vehicles parked there, but thugs are idiots and they’re attracted by anything that stands out from the crowd.

I intended to sleep lightly. The better to slip out of my tent, skirt the rutting weasels and overdosed junkies, approach from behind, and deliver whatever attitude adjustment necessary to protect my cheap little bike.

That’s how it is. People are animals.

Except none of that happened. Concert attendees dispersed like mist in the night. Campers turned lights low, climbed into tents and vans, and went silent. Every RV had it’s generator off. Every sound was muffled. No cars roamed about. No radios played. No crowds of lively jive talking hoodlums prowled the darkness. Nobody shouted. Nobody screamed. Nobody made a peep.

There, in a city park with free camping and a free concert, a couple hundred people went to bed quietly and peacefully; universally behaving like sane adult citizens!

Relieved and somewhat surprised, I passed out and slept like the dead.

I think God has a purpose in this. He wanted to remind me that all is not lost. All is never lost. Even as parts of Detroit and St. Louis and Seattle are demonstrably regressing. Even as I’ve personally had my vehicle in the hinterland robbed. Even as we learn that the law is no loner as written but as conveniently interpreted. Even then, there are pockets of good people. My cynical grizzled self had forgotten that there is still good out there, even among… people.

It was quiet because the people behaved like adults.

I needed to remember that. Lander Wyoming right now was as quiet and sane and pleasant as fictional Mayberry from 50 years ago. I couldn’t have been more pleased (or surprised) if Andy Griffith rolled up and asked me how I’d liked the park.

If the election season, which has expanded from months to years to eternal, has brought you down…

If social media has gotten under your skin…

If you feel like the whole world is turning into a zoo…

…go camping in the Lander city park.

I used most of my water but the only thing better than one cup of coffee is two.

What a great morning view.

Whoops, looks like I’m lost again.

Here’s the road to backtrack.

But look, I found a shortcut!

The shortcut evaporated.

Wisely chickening out, backtracking from my “shortcut”, and backtracking to Oil Springs Road yielded me this road sign.

Taking a break amid the cows.

Heading into the Natural Gas plant.

It turns out much of a Natural Gas plant (or maybe “field”?) is just scatteredpipes sticking out of the ground.

This is called Rainbow Cliffs, it was underwhelming.

Lander was a miracle! Free camping, with shade and grass!

A happy hippy crowd.

With dogs!

And kids to pet the dogs.

And food trucks! And beer trucks!

What more could a tired desert wanderer want?

A comfort zone is the general area of skills, experience, and knowledge where you’ve got a pretty good handle on things. Leaving your comfort zone exposes you to uncertainty. That’s the whole point.

It’s common, perhaps too easy, to “pretend” at leaving that zone. A guided tour where everything is pre-arranged, a cruise where your floating hotel room is literally welded to the same hull as your floating restaurant, a guided hunt where someone scouted the whole valley on your behalf, a wine tasting where a sommelier carefully protects you from confusing white and red… these are all methods to reduce uncertainty. There’s a time and place where they make sense, but I tend to roam further afield. Why do I mention this? Because I’d already expanded my “comfort zone”!

It was day three and I’d “grown into” my little adventure. I knew what my bike could handle. I knew my gear was adequate. I’d ridden three days and goodness knows how many miles without a dumped bike, flat tire, twisted ankle, or mental meltdown. Good for me.

I was feeling like “an old hand”. We all know the universe won’t tolerate such hubris.

The one thing I knew was my ass hurt. The Yamaha TW200 seat isn’t terrible at first but after a hundred miles or so it’s a damn plank. The sheepskin helped but only so much. A “farm bike” just isn’t ergonomic like my street bikes. Coupled with the relentless heat, I was sore and cooked.

The bike had just gone on reserve when I popped out in “civilization”. I was at Hudson, WY. I was ready to stop! I looked about eagerly. I would zoom to the nearest restaurant and soak up air conditioning. I wasn’t overly hungry (given the desert heat I’d been drinking water constantly and that seems to fill your stomach) but I wanted a seat with a cushion and cold air. A hamburger on the side would go with that nicely.

There was nothing like that in town. Dammit!

I pulled into the only place serving the public. It was a butcher shop / liquor store / convenience store… but mostly a butcher shop. No AC. No chair to sit in. No gasoline. Specifically it was Frank’s butcher shop. As far as I can tell, Frank’s is a big deal. I’m sure their food is great. I wonder if the delicious hamburger I’d gotten at One Cow in Tensleep was sourced from Franks. (Later that day I ate a burrito from a place that said “meat provided by Frank’s”.)

In my current situation I’d have preferred almost anything with AC and chairs. McDonalds would have been fine.

I bought the coldest thing I could find; an ice cream sandwich. After that, I had to leave. I stood outside in the beating sun, grumpily eating my little bit of ice cream. People in the parking lot idled cars with their windows up. I could almost taste the AC in those cars!

The ten mile ride to Lander was brutal. I was exhausted, sweaty, dusty, and sore. I was proud of what I’d done, but I’d done enough.

I started having unholy thoughts about alternative transport. My tough little bike was perfect for the hard stuff but rough on the rider. An ADV would have better ergonomics but I worry I’d dump it. Perhaps there’s an alternative in the other direction? I’m scooter curious. Would a Honda ADV150 handle the roads I’d been on? Probably. The little peanut tires might flounder on the cobbles dumped on the private road through the Natural Gas plant… but then again it would be lighter and balanced lower to the ground. Fuel injection for high altitude would be a bonus. They’re said to have a nice soft seat. Speaking of which, waterproof storage under the seat is always a plus and part of why I own a Pacific Coast motorcycle. Would the “citified” fairing of a scooter shake itself to pieces where my crude farm bike so far hadn’t broken a sweat? Hard to say.

What I really need is a quantum superposition of my superlative small tourer (Honda PC800 made in 1989) and my unkillable little Honey Badger (Yamaha TW200 bought in 2020 but designed in 1987). If I could swap between them at will… I would be unstoppable.

I’d only been in the “desert” for three days but I’d practically forgot how much stuff a normal town (like Lander) has. I think this is a warning, you can get used to a lower level of civilization very quickly. Luckily it’s NOT the apocalypse and there were endless services just waiting for my charge card! Marvel at the glory of having several gas stations from which to choose. There were a zillion trendy hipster restaurants. There were several hotels.

I didn’t get off my bike yet. I was far past “normal” levels of tired. Once I got off that bike I might not be able to get back on it. I determined to resolve my “hotel/camp” situation before I lumbered into an air conditioned restaurant and became a zombie.

This is when the universe completely surprised me.

The nearest camping, at Sinks Canyon, was about 10 miles away. My ass vetoed that idea. There were hotels everywhere so I decided to “wimp out” and stay in one. As a last “hail Mary” toward camping I fired up my nearly dead cell phone and looked for a camp in town.

Gadzooks!

Lander City Park had camping. And it was free!

Free is my favorite price!

I rode there expecting to find junkies shooting up in an abandoned playground. To my delight it was well maintained, even gorgeous! Tall cottonwoods casting deep shade over thick luscious grass. I hadn’t seen grass like that on the whole ride!

The campsites were informal. Tents were scattered randomly on the soft inviting grass. RVs were parked up and down a pleasant little paved road. No site numbers, no reservations, no fee, no bullshit.

I dropped the kickstand and stepped off my bike. That was it. I might be physically able to get on that beast but psychologically I was done, done, done. I selected a picnic table and tossed my tent bag in a lovely spot shaded by huge cottonwoods. I could have ridden my bike to the picnic table and desperately wanted to do so but nobody else was so crass. I hauled my shit to the table and left the bike about 20 yards away.

I didn’t like that distance. There’s not much you can do to protect a bike. On the other hand I had been to hell and back on the trail and had the attitude to match. Should anyone mess with my steed, I’d curb stomp them without hesitation. Plus it just looked like a thing to leave unmolested. The bike, tough as nails and strapped with all sorts of survival shit exuded an air of “if you’re going to steal something, this isn’t it”.

As for my comfort zone, it was blown to smithereens. I’m perfectly happy on a sandstone rock in an empty canyon, so God threw me a curveball and parked me in the middle of a happy inquisitive crowd.

Everyone saw the dusty, dirty, lonely, desert rider with the little bike. They just had to see what that was about.

A very nice man came up and soon we were talking about his “desert bicycle race” tomorrow. He was going out there with pedals? Impressive!

Other folks were unpacking cooking gear from vans and RVs. I was moving slower, partly from many well meaning interruptions. Before I managed to get my tent setup, another dude came by to tell me all about the KLR he had in his youth. Then another. Misty stories of dirt bikes long gone. You can see the twinkle in people’s eye when they recall the times they had. Everyone wanted to know how I’d gotten there but nobody recognized the dirt roads I’d used. Finally I laid out my battered map.

“You came from… whoa… all the way up there?”

“Yep.”

“You’re riding alone? That seems dangerous.”

“I have a satellite communicator… but yeah it could bite me in the ass. I try to be careful.”

I shook out my food bag and dust cascaded onto the picnic table. I took a sip from my mangled water bottle. I wondered if there was potable water in the park. If not that would be OK, I had a gallon to spare. I tossed a freeze dried meal packet on the table and sat heavily… too worn to cook right away.

“Dude, you’re totally self supporting?” The bike guy was back, looking at the pile of junk I’d assembled; beef jerky, freeze dried food, a knife, a half-consumed and partially crushed water bottle, and my iso-butane cooking stove.

“Yeah.” I sighed heavily.

I was trying really hard to be human but I’m something of a loner. In my dusty, dehydrated, ass-sore condition I just couldn’t manage much more than trying to smile without looking like a serial killer. I gave short pleasant answers but wasn’t exactly loquacious.  This bothered nobody. I suppose desert rats coming in from the hinterland isn’t a rare thing in Lander.

“That’s impressive that you carry cooking gear. I just bought a burrito.”

“I’m pretty beat. I don’t feel like riding back into town.”

“I just went to the food truck.”

“THE WHAT?”

“Yeah, it’s next to the beer truck.”

“THE WHAT?!?”

I stampeded for the beer truck…

It took me a while to wrap my head around my situation. I’d ridden, dusty and exhausted, directly into a folk rock concert with free camping and full services. The beer truck had beer. The burrito truck had burritos. An ice cream truck had ice cream.

I was so grateful… almost in tears. God loves me and he wants me to succeed!

All that night, the music was wonderful. I crawled into my tent and snoozed, during the concert. If you can sleep during a concert, you’re tired!

Later, with the music still playing, I got up and ate and drank more. It was good music too! I fielded more happy people asking happy questions of the desert drifter with the odd little fat tired bike. Then, I crawled back into my tent. I fell asleep shortly after the last encore.

Food and beer delivered to a free campsite! Didn’t see that coming did ya?

For hours, I looked forward to the unmistakable landmark of route 138. It was paved and I’d be crossing it. When I finally crossed it I stopped for a photo and rest. (Looking at the map weeks and weeks later, I realize I saw another facet of lonely (but paved) route 138 later in my travels.)

For my break, I spent a while watching a lizard. The lizard didn’t seem to mind.

Then, off in the distance, coming toward me (in the correct direction), I saw the third and last motorcycle group I encountered during my whole trip (at least while on the trail itself). Coming across the hot desert and trailing dust, they closed the gap quickly. The group looked quite impressive. A tiny “invasion force” of high tech ADVs riding as a well ordered team. The phrase “tactical tourist” came to mind. They pulled up one at a time to nod at the dusty solo guy and his dusty little bike.

Each one nodded, friendly enough, from behind tinted face shields and dark sunglasses. Seeing them, I put a hand to my bearded face. I’d been riding with visor up and yes… now that I checked I could see, I was windburned. Whoops.

Their helmets were festooned with cameras and communication equipment. Every bike had (at least) quadruple my bike’s displacement. They were super well equipped and I’ll say it again, nothing looks as cool as an ADV. They even had hydration tubes routed from water supplies directly under the chin guard of their helmets. Presumably they all had a navigation screen on their dash plus everyone in the group could talk to everyone else, I’ll bet they never get lost. I was clutching a paper map and a dusty waterbottle I’d bought at the gas station.

Thus, tidy efficient spaceships crossed paths with a wanderer on his mechanical mule.

They were friendly but hurried. They moved on quickly. I’d embraced the speed of the endless desert and loitered. Seeing how they absolutely oozed efficiency, I felt “lazy” just standing around. But then again it’s all that ride to camp/camp to ride thing.

Somewhere out there I inexplicably took a wrong turn. I ended up at Poston Ranch. Actually, I was nowhere near the “house” where I assume the Poston family lives. I simply realized I was on the Poston Ranch road when I was supposed to be on Oil Springs road.

I consulted my map and my cell phone’s GPS. I figured out where I was and where I wanted to be. I needed to track back a few miles to Oil Springs road. But what’s this? The GPS showed a thin line leading back to Oil Springs. It wasn’t much but it would save me a few miles backtracking.

I backtracked to the small side road and headed out. I could see a ridge on the horizon and that’s where Oil Springs would be; a few miles max. I rolled along happily on what was surely a two track route. Then, quite precipitously the road faded, and it (or rather the trace of what it had been) turned away from the compass bearing I’d been following. WTF? I checked up and down the trail looking for the turn that would match what I was seeing on my GPS display. Nothing. Either the GPS basemap was wrong or something else was wrong. But it was an enticingly short distance to where I was sure I’d find Oil Springs road. I could probably just ride over to the ridge even if there was nothing at all. It was just so darned logical.

You’re not supposed to go off road. I get it. Nobody wants dirt bike tracks and erosion and all that. But in this terrain my bike was leaving hardly a trace. I wouldn’t be tearing up anything or chasing rare animals away. It’s just the fuckin’ desert and it would take a hell of a tracker to even know my bike had been there.

Reluctantly, I turned around. It occurred to me that not only was a solo rider “working without a net” but that I’d made several decisions in a row that nobody could have guessed. I’d put myself in a place where nothing short of expert trackers and very lucky helicopters could find me. And why? Because I was being a whiny bitch about a few miles of backtracking.

I reflect now that it was a moment where I about as untraceably remote as anywhere I’ve ever been. To my credit, I used my noggin and did nothing crazy. I type this absolutely certain that I’d have gotten to Oil Springs road in 10 minutes or less and equally certain it was a stupid risk that I wisely avoided.

A few hours later I briefly transited a small length of paved road. On the edge of the pavement there was a small informal gun range and I stopped to sip some water. A couple fellows were out there practicing. I wonder how many Americans know that there are other Americans that legitimately practice the skills of shooting a firearm? They do this for fun and at their own expense. They weren’t sighting in rifles for antelope or elk. They were practicing with pistols. Draw, aim, fire. Then quick fire. Then slow fire. Far distances. Close distances. There was friendly ribbing between friends about “archaic revolvers” and “holographic sites mean you’re gay”. Paper plates and tin cans fell in the onslaught. They were pretty decent shots. As America’s election seasons turn from a few months to perpetual and opposing parties turn from “friendly disagreement” to “they are the enemy” I encourage everyone of every party to avoid hassling one’s fellow countrymen. Those guys are not clueless deplorable nobodies in flyover country. They’re citizens and they practice a craft they never hope to need. They are not to be trifled with.

I thought about wandering over and joining in. (You think I was unarmed? What would make you think that?) I knew I’d be welcome. But I’d surely have too much fun and stay too long. I’d waste all my ammo and wind up stuck at sunset on the trail.

I turned back onto a private dirt road and rode (following the map) straight through a natural gas factory. These “factories” are weird. There’s machinery and equipment everywhere and a maze of private roads, none of which are clearly marked… but no humans. As far as I can tell, natural gas factories involve machinery spread all over the place that all operates without human intervention. It looked like a place that was maintained but not staffed.

I got lost a million times, re-found myself a million times, and generally wandered about on the gas field. I never saw another human. In fact, since I’d left Shoshoni I’d seen a few motorcycles and two dudes at the pistol range. Wyoming is not crowded. I like it there.

It was a happy dreamy day but it got hot. Very hot. My jacket is not light. The heat burned my energy. I’d been drinking lots of water but I’d also never been in the sun all day. My muscles were starting to get tired, I’d drank both my water bottles (though not the RotoPax), and the bike had gone on reserve (which isn’t a worry because I had spare gas). In short, the day wasn’t over but I was starting to run down and would be “over” soon. What can I say? I’m only human.

I decided I’d get to Lander and camp somewhere close to town. That’s miles short of the section goal of Atlantic City. Then again my goals are mine. I wasn’t there to take orders from a map.

More to follow…