WYBDR: A Good Afternoon

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…