Swamp Stompin’ With Honey Badger: Part 3

I rolled out of base camp literally days behind schedule. I’d planned some serious exploration but had opted instead to sit on my ass brewing coffee and reading books. No regrets on that choice!

But now it was adventure time! I was on Honey Badger, my 2020 Yamaha TW200 that I’ve mildly equipped to my own specifications. It’s basically bone stock but bristling with “survival shit”.

Out on the trail you’ll see bikes (rarely) and ATVs (and the much more common UTVs) traveling in packs. Individually, they’re lightly equipped. Collectively they’re still lightly equipped but usually someone remembered to bring whatever one person forgot. Also the safety of a pack is that they can always send one of their number to fetch help or a specific thing should it be needed. Anything from jumper cables to a ride in an F-150 at the nearest road can be arranged without much drama.

I always travel alone. I cannot send someone for help and nobody will come to rescue me. Even if I use the SpotX to send up a digital flare, the response time would be many hours. In the less dire situation of a dead bike and walking out, I’d be facing a hike measured in days not hours.

In the wise words of FortNine: “On a bike that never falters, it’s easy to get caught way out there.”

Thus, I was loaded up like my little mule and I might be out there a week. I had a spare gallon of gas, a gallon of water, an assortment of tools, zip ties, duct tape, spare glasses, navigation aids & maps, my SpotX, a GPS, my jump starter battery (which is also a flashlight and charges the SpotX), my GoPro, matches, a Lifestraw, a Thermacell, shit tickets (TP), an MRE, a couple bottles of Gatorade (it was hot out), clothes I’d need should I wind up out there overnight, and the luxury of a paperback. (That’s not a complete list.) From one point of view Honey Badger is just a cheap bike and I’m just a bearded dude who is too old for dirtbikes. From another point of view, we’re serious, equipped, capable, and loaded for bear.

I had a plan. There’s a forest road that goes from X to Y through the absolute middle of nowhere. I didn’t expect it to be a challenge but there’s a special quantity of nowhere that produces its own quality. It was a long ride, far for a little dirtbike and me for sure. But the line on the map calls to me. I wanted to traverse the area, because it’s (barely) possible. I also wondered if there was a fly fishing option in a certain spot where I was sure virtually nobody ever goes. (You can only learn so much from topo maps and satellite images.) There were also a few hunting spots I wanted to scope out. Some might be unreachable given the wet year… only one way to find out.

It was going to be a long day.

When I built my sailboat I stumbled across some words pertaining to the mysteries of such craft. A passagemaker is a vessel designed for long voyages. This is very different from the white fiberglass beauties you see at most marinas. Most sailboats rarely leave for longer than an afternoon spin. A passagemaker hunts the horizon.

I built my boat and by choice it was tiny. Small boat = big adventure. Also, I have no payments. No slip fees, no maintenance budget. It doesn’t even have a motor, it has oars. I built simple, small, cheap, and strong. I’m happy with my craft but it’s far too small for long trips unless I get a lot tougher. (Some brave maniacs have gone on long trips in little craft like mine, but those guys are pirate/adventure sailors of the mini-boat world. I’m still learning and can’t do half the shit they’ve done.)

I discovered another word; gunkholing. Gunkholing is the gentle art of meandering aimlessly in the shallows where bigger deep draft boats cannot go. The goal here is to find and enjoy isolated little inaccessible spots known only to you and God. The cost of such an adventure is bravely slipping about in soughs, inlets, creeks, marshes, coves, and other versions of watery nowhere. My boat is ideally suited to shallow water and by personality I’ve taken to gunkholing. I instinctively gravitate toward the habitats of herons and turtles and find myself struggling to master sails and my retractable daggerboard in the complex mess of a backwater rather than harnessing the open wind in search of speed.

I have sailed where a heron walked.

What does this have to do with motorcycles in the forest? Nothing and everything. I had an entire route carefully mapped out in my head. I had plans, a schedule, destinations and target times to get there, all in hopes that I could complete a certain circuit and return only slightly after dark. I was to be a two wheeled passagemaker.

Six miles out of camp I spied a trail I hadn’t seen before. It was small and going the wrong direction. I liked the vibe. Something about it seemed attractive.

Without hesitation I took the turn. Passagemaker became gunkholer. How? I don’t know. It just… happened.

An hour later little Honey Badger and I were deep in a swamp, lost, off the map, thoroughly coated in mud, the GoPro had conked out, and I was covered with bugs.

I couldn’t have been happier.

(To be continued.)