Adaptive Curmudgeon

I knew this moment would happen. I’d been dreading it, but I accepted it as necessary. The “moment” was when the adventure was over.

An “adventure” doesn’t end when you get home, or get to your truck, or you climb into that commercial airline ride home… the adventure ends when you are no longer an adventurer. That sounds weird doesn’t it? Forgive me. If you haven’t done such things, you can’t know.

For this particular endeavor I’d allocated the bare minimum time (and I’d used it well!). This very day, I’d started my day arguing with U-Haul and my mind couldn’t forget the clock was ticking on whatever mayhem the U-Haul complication would create. Since then I’d climbed to the most gorgeous spot on the ridge and it was truly glorious. I was pleased with my accomplishments. The view was awe inspiring.

But now, it was time to move on. I’d just poured all my “backup” gas into the bike’s tank. I’d eaten my special orange. I’d done all I came here to do.

The adventure ends when you can no longer avoid thinking more about how you’ll get back home than the wonders you’ll see in the ensuing miles.

I fired up my SpotX and sent a message to Mrs. Curmudgeon; “Please reserve a hotel room in Casper, WY for tonight. Preferably on the west side of town. Thanks honey.”

I didn’t wait for a response. The die was cast. (For that matter, even if she didn’t get the message and didn’t reserve a room the die was equally cast. I’d never had a clear plan for the night anyway.)

I made some mental calculations about getting to a hypothetical hotel in Casper. I did so after I’d sent the message. Why? Because sometimes you have to force yourself into a choice. If this particular adventure was going to end with a long unpleasant struggle to the finish line so be it. What I’d done is make sure I had a finish line.

I had no idea how far I was from Casper. I guessed no more than 90 miles and possibly much less. (That doesn’t seem like much but don’t confuse miles on a trail with miles on an Interstate.) I had perhaps 8-10 miles of the ridge’s very tough riding to get back down to a road; a dirt road. From there I could hop on various dirt roads (no services) to the curiously named Poison Spider Road. According to the map, Poison Spider went straight to Casper.

On the ridge I’d been traveling at maybe 10 MPH. On a clean, well maintained, dirt road I could buzz along at 45MPH. I’d seen enough of Wyoming to know I wouldn’t find anything that nice. Assuming Poison Spider had the usual levels of washboards and sand (and hopefully a minimum of the very annoying big cobbles of private energy company roads) I’d probably average 30+/- MPH.

I had a couple hours of sunlight left. I wouldn’t make it all the way before sunset but I’d make it in no more than 4 hours. I would be very tired in 4 hours but it was do-able. I had the grit to last that long (and plenty of water). All that was left was the task and the ensuing sore muscles.

I ignored some messages that had arrived incoming to the SpotX. They weren’t emergencies and had nothing to do with hotels. It sounded like Dr. Mingo wanted to chat about his “inspiration” having seen my miniscule progress on the map coordinates I was sending. I’d have time to chat later. For now, having seen no good place to camp on this whole section, I’d rashly declared an endurance slog clear to civilization.

Tonight I’d sleep in a real bed!

Don’t think I was bummed out and weepy. Nor did the skies turn dark. The terrain didn’t change at all. It was still an awesome afternoon!

But my mind had new goals. My new goal was stacking the odds in my favor with the upcoming U-Haul hassle of getting back to civilization. I’d be in town a full day early. I might find other options. I might benefit from rest. The price, to be paid immediately, was a long, steady, partially after dark, grind.

Grind or not… the view was glorious!

And I was still a very long way from anywhere.

I made it from the high ridge to a “normal” dirt road without much hassle.

After the ridge, a regular dirt road looked like a runway!

It wasn’t. There was loose gravel and I nearly wiped out!

I’d gone too far to break a leg now! I dialed back the speed.

I was idly wondering if I’d “stiffed myself” by bailing out before I’d fully sampled all the things I should? As if in response Wyoming chucked a handful of road hassles at me. (Thanks Wyoming!)

I topped a low ridge going as fast as a TW200 can manage on loose gravel and rode straight into a flock of sheep! They were everywhere. I slowed way down expecting some guardian dog to kick my ass should I tag a sheep. I rolled that way for a surprisingly long bit. The sheep were grazing, not bunched up, and they scarcely noticed me. No dog showed up either.

Later I came across a critter crossing the road. A porcupine. I thought porcupines ate tree bark. There wasn’t a tree for miles. What the hell was he doing way out there?

I didn’t take a photo. I was trying to make time. I never saw another car… or sheep… or porcupine.

Just before sunset I was flying along a section of slightly better packed dirt when I spied a stick lying in the road. I veered slightly to miss the stick. The stick reared its head, opened wide, and struck!

Rattlesnake!

Neat!

Don’t panic; snakes are a thing like any other and I was prepared for my environment. First of all I was dressed head to toe in motorcycle safety gear. A snake fang might get through it but I’ll bet not. Actually, I’d literally bet not. And it seemed I’d been right.

Also I’d flown past the poor beast hell bent for leather. Snakes are fast but they’re not laser guided. It would have had to be a snake on meth to strike fast enough. Even if it was wicked fast it probably wouldn’t be able to pick out my ankle (which was in a protective boot and wrapped in crash resistant heavy material) amid the overall mass of a motorcycle. It would be a miracle if the thing even managed a mouthful of tire.

I was delighted. Every good cowboy movie has a snake strike and now I had experienced one too! I’ve spent plenty of time in deserts but (theoretically through due diligence) I’ve never had much trouble with snakes. Finally! I had a “the snake missed me” story. And I’d earned the story.

I’m sure the snake had no idea what the hell was going on. I circled back just to check that it really had been a snake and not an illusion. Remember, I wasn’t in a vehicle. You can safely drive to within a couple feet from a snake if you’re in a Ford. Not so when you’re trying to fiddle with a cell phone (camera) on a motorcycle that requires the left hand for clutch and right hand for brake. If the critter took it into his mind to challenge the motorcycle/human being that had pissed it off… I might have a hell of a time getting out of his way. It would be silly indeed if I dropped the phone too. If he slithered up to claim it we’d both have an interesting night. See how things on motorcycle are more “close to nature” than a car?

I took a photo, from a very respectful distance. The snake was PISSED!

Also, he was uninjured. I hadn’t run over him. Whew.

I went another quarter mile down the road before I stepped off my bike and inspected my ankle carefully. It’s unlikely, but possible, he’d nicked me or left a fang in my gear which would prick me later.

Not a scratch.

Minutes later, the sun set.

It got cold. My SpotX pinged. I stopped to read it. Mrs. Curmudgeon had reserved a room! She explained there was some sort of soccer tournament and every room in the city was booked up. She’d had to make many calls. I got the last room for miles. Fortunately, it was pretty cheap.

I’m lucky I sent the SpotX message hours ago. If she hadn’t started calling when she did I’d be sleeping on a park bench!

As expected, the rest of the ride was a slog. I put on warmer gear but it was still pretty chilly.

My bike isn’t good for long mile runs. My ass was sore.

It seemed like there was scarcely a human alive in Casper. A convenience store was the first lit parking lot I found and the lot was empty. I stopped there to turn on my cell phone. I needed to navigate to the hotel. What luck, I had only a few miles left!

I hopped on the bike, revved the engine, and blasted off like a hoodlum. I tore across the sidewalk, zoomed down into and across a shallow ditch, crashed up the other side, and gained a little air as I hopped over the curb and onto pavement. I was at full RPM (for my slow bike) from the minute I took off and had shifted through all the gears while careening across the landscaping.

I blasted along until I got to a red light. I stopped. Then I realized what I’d done!

I’d just plain flat out forgotten about… civilization. I’d been riding terrain so long that I’d forgotten you can exit a convenience store parking lot using… lanes. Hell, I’d practically forgotten about pavement. The place was dark and deserted. No cars to remind me. I’d slipped into Mad Max driving mode!

I’m sure glad nobody was there to mock me… or worse yet a cop. It had been an innocent mistake but how do you explain to a cop that you’ve gone feral? “Sorry officer, I’m in a good mood because the snake missed and also I plum forgot rules exist.”

Carefully remembering to ride like a human being, I covered the last few miles. I parked and checked into the scuzziest, most run down, clapped out, beat up, shithole of a hotel you’ve ever seen. I walked in; covered in dust and smelling of sweat. My limbs were a little out of kilter because every joint ached. I lumbered up the steps looking like a serial killer. No, that’s not right. I looked like someone who might attack and eat a serial killer.

The dude at the counter was nice and either didn’t think I looked scary or has dealt with such clientele before. I looked around the lobby, with it’s tattered carpet and a bucket catching drips from the floor above. I half expected to see dead bodies and spent shells… yeah I was nothing special here.

I dragged my stuff to a cramped room that smelled of cigarettes, notified everyone via SpotX that I was safely in a hotel, and collapsed into sleep.

I’d had a hell of a day.

After leaving the cooler better version of myself I’d like to become, I was ready for the upcoming challenge.

I made a few turns which (by luck or skill) allowed me to escape the vortex of the water cistern. I found a BLM sign in disrepair. It indicated I was somewhere near the right track… maybe. Later I saw another sign and was greatly relieved.

I began to climb on harder and harder roads. I could see the ridge long before I got there. I was definitely approaching a challenge.

Caption: Don’t get cocky, the party’s just getting started.

The trail changed dramatically. It was a two track. Nothing but ruts from the left and right tires of a truck. The trail had never ever been a road. It was probably a horse path until the Model T got cheap enough that ranchers started using them. Or maybe it was a two track from back when sheepherders or ranchers used horse drawn carriages?

I geared down and started working through rough stuff. As I rolled on I realized that the longbow hunter was the first human I’d met on my entire trip that didn’t comment on the risks of me going solo. Nor did I comment that he was also solo. It wasn’t mentioned because it was natural for both of us. Why wouldn’t we be out there on our own?

My attention distracted, I jammed a footpeg into the side of a deep rut I’d been following. Yikes! I’m still new at this and have a great fear of sandwiching my ankle between bike and terrain. Such a bad place to twist an ankle!

The ruts were deep; like narrow ditches. I don’t know how much clearance I’ve got but I’d run out of it. What’s worse is that the base was sand. The two ruts predictably had erosion, this particular ground condition meant that the lower rut acquired a floor of sand, some of which filtered in from the upper rut. Meanwhile the upper rut had all the small particles washed away and had a floor of cobblestones. Sand sucks, if your front tire “washes out” you lose steering and (unless you’re paying very close attention) fall over.

I kept hopping from the low rut to the high one. Sometimes threading the needle by riding the narrow strip between them. Even when I wrestled the bike into the upper (rocky) rut, the front tire would sooner or later follow gravity across a gap in the center ridge and I’d be back in the sandy rut. None of this tipped me over; for which I’m thankful. The bike handled the mess like a boss, it had zero fucks to give.

Any truck out there would need very high clearance and ideally tall narrow pizza cutter tires. A stock vehicle would would tear itself to bits in a few miles and inevitably wind up high centered. Of course, nobody would be there who doesn’t know such things. I saw no bits of damaged truck / jeep so I’m guessing common sense kept the fools away.

No matter where the trail went, one tire rut was taller than the other; often with a huge differential. A truck, even with a lift and tall tires, would be tilting at unnerving angles. My bike just wallowed along on one rut or the other.

I wondered about UTVs and ATVs. Up until now, I’d harbored thoughts that a bone stock UTV would do just fine on virtually any part of the BDR. A plush ride that could carry more gear than my little bike. But if the two axles of an ATV/UTV were wide enough to match truck axles, the thing might plunge in and high center? And if they weren’t? Who knows? How long can you straddle a mini-Grand canyon? Everywhere I go I see dozens of UTVs, but here, in the Wyoming rangeland, there wasn’t an ATV/UTV to be seen. It was clearly truck/jeep terrain.

Except for my little mule of a bike and the grunting bearded dude operating it. We belonged there!

The Yamaha TW200 might have seemed like a goofy choice for the overall trail. If fact it might be overly cautious and slow. But right then and there it shined!

The little spud of a bike lived up to its reputation as unstoppable. Unlike a “normal” dirtbike it doesn’t rely on speed. The modest engine and the hugely fat rear tire was perfect for where I found myself.

I geared down and rolled along more like a tractor than a motorcycle. It was a no-drama challenge. No great rooster tails of flinging dirt. No roaring high RPM maneuvers to hop the front tire out of a rut. Nothing but slow and steady. You’ll get there. Don’t fret or hurry. Ride like a rational adult and you can go to the moon.

I never had the slightest doubt. The bike wasn’t even breaking a sweat. A couple ruts got stupendously deep and my feet brushed the dirt sides but I was going slow and just lifted my feet off the pegs and out of danger. My soft saddlebags brushed against occasional sagebrush but only lightly and the thick material was never stressed. The bike chugged along, turtle like and completely unimpressed as Wyoming tried to kill it.

We climbed steeper and steeper up onto the ridge. Gradually, at some unknown elevation the sagebrush thinned out and I could traverse the land itself. I popped out of the ruts and motored along just a few feet from the disturbed rutted mess. I wasn’t the only one, you could see where other motorcycles had done the same (and occasionally entire trucks).

It was a lot easier! I kept riding in the style that matched the squat fat tired bike. I did that for miles, picking a path of least resistance in the exposed dirt between bunchgrasses and sagebrush. Winding between vegetation, I scarcely left a tire track. I couldn’t help grinning ear to ear.  Navigation became easy, there was nowhere else to be. Just the tire tracks and myself, passing without a trace a foot or two to either side.

This is what I wanted. The perfect experience! A hard trail, but not a “dirt park”. A lot of folks like to blast around gravel pits and sand dunes. They use words like “technical”. Not me, I wanted to be here… rolling across the planet itself.

Higher and higher I went and the ridge grew and grew. I was on the top of the ridge (of course!) and the view went from nice, to gorgeous, to indescribable.

I stopped and took snapshots from time to time but the immensity, the grandeur, it wasn’t something meant for a cell phone “selfie”. The phone, any phone, seemed an insult to the timeless view spread before me. I wished I’d brought my old 35 mm camera; an elegant weapon, for a more civilized age.

Often when I stopped I killed the engine. Conserving mission critical fuel but also basking in the endless silence. At one spot I heard very faintly, as if from another planet, the whinny of a horse. I didn’t have binoculars but I saw something far and away down on the plain below the ridge. A horse. Don’t horses stay in groups? Herd animals, like most humans? I waited. The tiny dot trotted about like a horse ought to. It dropped out of view near a little stream. It emerged with a partner. Ah ha! I knew they wouldn’t be just one. The two, completely unaware of me, cantered about. Then they charged into a cluster of juniper and pushed a third horse into my view. They seemed to be having a jolly good time. Why wouldn’t they? They’d found ample food and a thin trickle of a stream… and endless freedom. I envied them.

Wild horses are illogical. North America lost the horse the same time it lost the Mastodon and the Camel and the Giant Sloth. When Spanish invaders bridged the gulf and unleashed horses they introduced an invasive species no more “correct” for the environment than a carrot, or Dutch Elm Disease. Yet there they are. We humans get starry eyed over them in a way don’t for invasive earthworms or tumbleweed. I don’t know now long I watched the wild horses, I don’t carry a watch.

I rode along the ridge for hours. Every inch became grander. Eventually, I could see the curvature of the earth and great parallel waves of land; as if the high desert below was an ocean. I’m not sure what was going on. Geology had taken upon itself to demonstrate fluid dynamics to the miniscule human staring into infinity. I took more pictures, none of which were adequate. Much of North America was once an inland sea. Down there, actually standing on those parallel swells, the pattern would be invisible. How much of the world am I privileged to observe only because I scaled a tall ridge to witness it?

I stopped at a survey marker. Sometime, long before lasers and satellites, someone stood there with a transit; himself observing the planet. Mapping Wyoming from the advantageous locations that could see so much of it. I shut down my engine and dug out my orange. It was here, on hallowed ground, that I would celebrate my trip.

The orange sucked.

Oh well.

Since I was stopped I decided to move my excess gas from the RotoPax to the fuel tank. Unnervingly, the tank swallowed my whole gallon and had room for more. Yikes!

I still had plenty of water. Some in a couple battered plastic bottles from the gas station, and a gallon in the other RotoPax. I considered stopping right there. It was rocky and tilted, but ever so beautiful. While I pondered this another wild horse approached, this time from the high side of the ridge where I was parked. It had a foal with it. They assessed the new addition to the neighborhood critically but didn’t run away.

Reluctantly, I stowed all my stuff, even the orange peel, and put on my gear. I was very far from anywhere and I had a few hour’s sunlight left. It would be wise to use that time.

The wild horses watched my departure; as if to say “sucker”.

Right at the survey marker the land had peaked (as I expected). The rest of the day would be downhill (as I also expected). Icarus flew too high and annoyed the gods. Me and my humble motorcycle had climbed very high, but we did so filled with humility. It would take a long time to get back down but we rolled on confident and happy.

More to come…

[Recap so far: It wasn’t even noon before I’d lived a full day. I started out politely extracting myself from concertgoers. They were nice but crowded around as soon as I got up. They’d been waiting all morning to talk to the dusty desert guy on the little bike. They reminisced about the adventures they’d had in their youth. Wistful and neglected shadows of long discarded motorcycles played in their eyes. It was beautiful and sad. I’d be a better man if I’d found the time to indulge them, but alas I was “peopled out”. Then I argued with U-Haul’s impenetrable wall of unawareness and bought gas (and my precious orange) in the presence of tragic mental illness. I got on the road only to play tag with cement trucks, take the wrong turn, and flog my slow little bike over some very long (but smoothly paved) climbs. When I finally rode straight into the desert I was attacked by my phone. It was like a day held a week!]

Once phone connectivity was severed (as it should be!), I happily settled into the proper mindset. I wound through the middle of nowhere for approximately a zillion miles without a care in the world. The trail was a road… well mostly a road (nothing too hard for the plucky dualsport). I was where I wanted to be. In fact, Cedar Rim Road might be the best road ever!

The least challenging water crossing ever.

I came across a windmill with a water cistern flanked by a couple of antelope. The trail exploded; going something like six ways… it was almost a star formation. I followed the main road/trail (which is where the antelope were headed) but something didn’t feel right. I stopped a few hundred yards down the road and checked on my GPS. I was following the wrong path.

I retreated to the water cistern, pondered the map, chose a different trail and a few hundred yards later checked on GPS again… still wrong. Lather rinse repeat. Some trails were small, really just a cow path. Others were two tracks (two tire tracks from farm trucks). A few had actual “surface” indicating someone had dumped a load of gravel at least once in the previous decades… and likely meaning an energy company well was somewhere out there.

As I was methodically picking through “the mystery of the star pattern” a battered truck with Idaho plates showed up. I rode over to say “hi”. I’m glad I did.

The driver introduced himself as a “longbow antelope hunter”. He was old but then again so am I… now. There’s a timelessness about people (especially working men) on rangeland. The hot sun and dry air makes a young man’s skin look old but it also preserves a wiry old man’s skin forever. Should you ever meet a “real” cowboy, there’s a good chance he’ll look the same from age 30 through 90.

The guy was ageless but not young. He suggested that it’s a nutty thing he was doing. Apparently, it’s damn near impossible to get an antelope with a plain old longbow. (Not even a compound bow!)

I get that! Antelope have eyes like telescopes. I think the standard way of antelope hunting is to use a flat shooting caliber and take a long (200+ yard) shot from a really good support. Probably the longbow solution is an ambush. Maybe a blind or something? Antelope are fast and can see like satellite vision but there’s something alien about their intellect. A wise hunter, especially an old man with a longbow, probably capitalizes on their mental limits.

I’ve only hunted antelope once and the short sagebrush had me completely buffaloed. I simply couldn’t estimate distance. I stalked a small social unit relentlessly; like a Kalahari Bushman. My cover was blown many times. They see so far! I kept at it day after day until finally they walked near a rock that obscured their view. It was the only opening I got and the only one I needed. I hustled up behind that rock, slithered around the side, and popped my target at 60 yards; which is stupidly close for a rifle. I can hit a quarter at 100 yards and a 50 cent piece at twice that. So why the hell was I crawling over cactus like I was using a sling? Because I sucked at distance estimation! I could have gotten my antelope days earlier by simply taking a longer shot.

Back to the story: The longbow hunter reminded me of… me. But older and cooler. He had been out there some unspoken number of days, presumably hunting but likely just “chilling out”. He said he had a “fine cabin tent” in his truck and that once setup he was “comfortable enough that I’m in no hurry”.

Not too many years ago I bought a big tent. It sets up in a flash and I fill it with a huge cot which is almost as nice as a regular bed. I blogged about it as “operation old guy” and the camping it facilitated has been checking off my “bucket list” very handily. Later I bought a “hot tent” which means it has a wood stove. I’ve had a few campouts where the toasty fire on a cold winter night made my tent into a snug little den. On this trip I had much less luxury. I had my tent with me (and my magic orange!) just as he had his tent and gear, but with a tiny bike I’m basically doing mechanized backpacking.

(Note: If you’re looking for details, for Summers I use a Gazelle Hub Tent. It sets up in a flash and I can stand up in it. I use a TETON XXL Camp Cot & matching Camp Pad which only fills half the tent. For winters I use a  Russian Bear Market UP 2 which is expensive & massive overkill. Though, I can ride out a blizzard like it’s a fortress! I heat it with a Caminus M woodstove and cram the tent with the same cot/mattress as summer.)

We talked about cabin tents for a while. He was retired and had all the time in the world. He sounded like he setup his tent, hung out a few days, and then moved on… never too worried about antelope; which we both assume were just an excuse to “be”.

I have a truck and a tent. I could do what he’s doing. But have to go back to work which means I can’t. When I grow up I wanna’ be like him.

He gave me instructions to find my trail and we parted ways. I couldn’t have encountered a better role model if I’d met Santa Claus.

It was a heck of a day and I’m just getting started… stay tuned.

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…