Adaptive Curmudgeon

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…

I started day three with a spring in my step. (For those of you just tuning in I was solo riding the Wyoming Backcountry Discovery Route on my small cheap motorcycle.)

Most folks (among the lunatics who do this sort of thing) camp for the sole purpose of facilitating their motorcycle trail ride. I’m the opposite. Half the reason I was on the trail was as an excuse to camp. Unlike my usual morning self (which is grumpy bordering on insufferable) I hummed a happy little tune. I made coffee with my JetBoil and French press. (Note: My JetBoil is very old. It’s so old, I had to buy the two items separately. The Amazon link goes to the two items as a group. If you don’t drink coffee (which is inconceivable!) then you can save a few bucks and buy the JetBoil only.)

Then I rinsed out the grounds, made breakfast with water from the JetBoil, and, because it was a glorious sunny day, poured more grounds and made more coffee.

I was a happy camper!

Packing up is slower with complex specialized motocamping gear than for the simpler gear of truck camping. I used my cool little GigaPump to extract the air from my air mattress, which is pretty slick I think and rolled it tight. I stuffed my new sleeping bag (I’d fretted over the cost but it had turned out worth it’s weight in gold) into the waterproof compression sack (which had performed heroically well over several downpours). Even the tent, which has it’s own story, had ridden out last night’s wind and rain like boss. All those decisions about gear… I’d gotten them right!

It was sunny so I sprawled all my stuff on the picnic table. Rolling all that junk while on my knees might kick my ass. Breaking camp in rain might do me in!

Another learning curve is what I call “Gadget Management”. Various electric devices were inadequately charged and bitching at me. The GigaPump was almost out of juice. Usually it goes for several days without a hitch. I suppose filling the air mattress at high elevation takes more effort. (Note: There’s a newer version of GigaPump with more battery capacity. Also my Therm-a-Rest NeoAir Topo has a bag for manual inflation… and I always bring it with me.) My cell phone was on 10% which is irrelevant for calls but I occasionally use it for navigation. I’d charged my SpotX to 100% overnight; mission critical emergency gear comes first! This left my Noco battery pack about a third depleted. (No big deal in itself. It’s just that I was “wearing down” my “backup capacity”. Plan C is to push start the bike if needed.) My GoPro died on day one. My GPS was very low and buried in a saddlebag (for emergency use only).

Gadgets… they’re nice but I don’t trust ’em. If it has a battery and you’re taking it extended off grid, it wants constant attention. I’ve been thinking about getting a battery driven heated sweatshirt. Would that become a pain in the ass too?

I think most people keep their phones charged without much hassle because they’re well trained. They’re welded to the phone, carry it everywhere, and always think to charge it.  I’m the rare sort who forgets to charge and otherwise neglects their telescreen.

After dishes were done I’d used most of my water. A gallon seems like it’ll last forever, but I’d been profligate and used most of it. Not that it mattered, I was only 8 miles from town.

The Toyota camped nearby, which was following the BDR in the opposite (correct) direction, rolled out. The two ADV motorcycles were long gone. They’d likely hit the road before I was out of my sleeping bag. I left a campground that was sunny, gorgeous, and deserted.

I plugged in my cell phone to charge as I rode and backtracked 8 miles to the town of Shoshoni. I arrived at the gas station where I’d been the night before and the fuckin’ phone went apeshit! The day before I’d logged onto the station’s Wi-Fi. When I approached the store, it recognized the Wi-Fi, automatically logged on, and hurled a barrage of texts at me. All sorts of shit had accumulated overnight. I hate how intrusive phones have become.

I don’t know why I couldn’t keep my shit charged. I deduced that my cigarette lighter was charging the cell (or SpotX) intermittently due to a worn out cable. (Note: That wasn’t it and I now have other theories.) I bought a new USB cable and lots of water. I dumped the tasty ice cold water into my grimy RotoPax water container and then bought two more liters. I was carrying lots and lots of water. (My RotoPax gas container was still full.)

If I’d been in a group, I’d have carried perhaps only 1/2 or 1/3 as much water and maybe less gas too; knowing I could bum a few pints off a fellow rider. Solo life means working without a net so you must use caution. I bought some snacks, inexplicably forgot to buy another deli sandwich, ignored everything my phone wanted me to address, and rolled out.

This was going to be the least interesting section; which didn’t bother me at all. I was about to cross a hundred odd miles of absolutely nothing to get to Lander.

All of the BDR materials said Lander would be the absolute only “town” on the trip. If you needed a motorcycle tire, or camping shit, or a handy ER… this was your only chance while staying on the trail. From there the section continues through some very pretty (and campsite friendly) National Forest to Atlantic City, WY. Rumor had it, Atlantic City had no services.

Rolling through the sagebrush I plotted my own course. I didn’t have enough time for the whole BDR. As much as I wanted to camp at or around Atlantic City, I was closing in on a key deadline. Atlantic City to Alcova would be my last section and it’s rumored to be both the hardest and prettiest section.

At Alcova I’d officially be out of time and I’d have to somehow divert to Casper. Also the Alcova to Casper paved route is unsuitable for my slow bike. I’d already decided to divert off the trail somewhere west of Alcova.

Lucky for me, it was the problem of “Tomorrow Curmudgeon” to figure it out. “Today Curmudgeon” had no such worries.

Hours later I stopped in the absolute middle of nowhere. It was an empty place just like any other. I liked them all. I savored them. Almost all of humanity has never experienced the complete and utter emptiness of that vast land (or any land like it).

What loss happens to the soul of a man who’s never stood alone under the endless sky? Humans are bred in cities, raised in institutions, and herded like mewling livestock. Is this why they go to exquisite pains conforming to the details of their chosen group? How many humans have never been in their own company? Witness how often they take an action based on its support within their social sphere. Witness how rarely humans act independently. As a whole, humans fear to stand alone.

There I was, days and hundreds of miles from my truck (abandoned at base camp). Days and hundreds of miles from a destination that I hadn’t exactly planned out in detail. Nobody knew where I was. Yet I had food, water, and equipment. I was fine. What more could I want? My phone had no service, there was nobody to talk to, and the last living being I’d seen was a jackrabbit a few miles back. My inner peace was palpable. Life is not a performance for the purpose of hits on Instagram.

It was bittersweet because it knew it was fleeting.

In due time I’d have to return to the chaotic blended puree of our modern overclocked society. I’d endure another serving of the same bullshit. There’s an election coming up; another ham handed, disappointing, sequel bent on hollowing out a glorious story which began with Enlightenment ideals. Pax-Romana is over and now we pick between an Orange goofball and a Spastic Unaccomplished DEI hire.

A better society would do better, but we are not better people. The national vote count is less trustworthy than referees at the Superbowl and we made that happen. The media brays angrily with endless constant lying and we want to consume their words. We have a deficit of trillions amassed by the controlling interests of humans but very few of us can understand “trillion”.

For a few moments as I stood in the sagebrush, none of that mattered.

Eventually, after a break of unknown time in a place I could never find again, I continued. Half a bag of beef jerky consumed to keep the body running and a soul completely replenished. The soul matters more than the body. The soul is why I was there.

As I rolled on, I thought that I’d paid absolutely no attention to my motorcycle. An inattention which suits the little brick shithouse just fine. More as a ritual than a necessity, decided to lube the chain.

I rode up and off the road and wandered a hundred yards off the path. I parked in a small clearing with less sagebrush than the overall vicinity and carefully smeared a wax based lube over the chain. It was starting to sag but didn’t quite need adjustment yet.

I looked the bike over carefully. The simpler the machine, the less attention it’s likely to need and this bike has not one single “luxury”. It was earning it’s pay. I fired it up and plunged across nothing back onto the road. That was the only mechanical thing I did the entire trip. A Yamaha TW200 bike loves being ridden hard.

It was a good morning…

Maybe I’ll avoid the rain so long as the road doesn’t veer left.

Or maybe I’ll just take it in the teeth.

Danger Will Robinson!

When you get through a tough spot it’s good to look back take a picture and think WTF!Hm… hydrogen sulfide. Neat!

Locals did not help me interpret the sign.

An “oasis” on Badwater creek. I wouldn’t drink from Badwater creek but the shade was nice.

I found the place super peaceful.

Gorgeous view at camp!

One last storm cloud at sunset.

The storm hit pretty solid right after sunset but I slept through most of it. I was snug as a bug in a rug. None of my gear in the vestibules got wet either. Here’s a picture of the sunny clear morning after. All hail my trusty Lone Rider ADV tent! (Note the rocks; I couldn’t get all the stakes in so I punted and used rocks for some of the anchor points. It worked very well.)

The rough day turned mild as I rode past inert poison gas signs and countless antelope. Delightfully, nothing weird happened. I baked dry in the sun and settled into the rhythm of the trip.

My next milestone, the “town” of Lost Cabin, wasn’t really a town. It was entirely owned by an energy company. There were no services there.

From there I caught a few miles of pavement to Lysite which was technically a town and had a scant few services, I didn’t stop. I blew past my turn but caught myself when the pavement crossed a creek I was supposed to follow on dirt. I backtracked less than a mile and turned onto quite remote Badwater Road.

I was humming to myself. I chuckled that I’d only been on pavement a few miles and got lost while on pavement.

As one should, I began to think.

In the poem Paradise Lost, by John Milton, Satan says “The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.” At the risk of taking advice from Satan, I had a jolly good time riding 30-odd miles of absolute shit. Why? Because it was sunny and I was happy to be there. What more could I ever want from life?

The second reason I mention it is because it’s a glimpse “behind the curtain” of our current time of madness. I Googled the quote to make sure I had it right. In verifying a line out of Paradise Lost, written in 1667 to address Satan’s fall from grace, Google helpfully pointed out the line was written by the fifth Governor of Florida, who left office in 1865. This is AI. People who should be capable of better behavior already use AI. In time more people will get dumber as they believe AI over their own damn noggin!

In a Large Language Model, if words go together in a way that is plausibly similar to other arrangements of words in the “teaching set”, it will spew forth said words. Great tides of ignorant midwits stampede across social media and they will accept such bullshit at face value. Why not? They themselves are less human than possible and more Large Language Model than desirable.

We witness mobs of people publicly declaring their feelings and opinions solely to signal their membership in whatever group they desire. Unthinking meat-bots, they plausibly arrange words to sound like the center of the bell curve of their desired social status. Of this, they confidently speak. When you see a hundred people all agreeing on some specific thing as soon as the hot new thing is announced; that’s humans failing to be human. To me, they sound like seals barking because their words are not their own. The actual thing spoken (or written) is more a slogan than an idea. Most people in real life are not intelligent. Artificial intelligence is not intelligent. Due to these tw0 things, my computer reports facts that aren’t true.

John Milton, the 17th century English poet, and John Milton, a Civil War Era Governor of Florida are not the same thing. Ours is a time of mass stupidity because my computer says otherwise.

I had a point to all this so lets return to the 30 miles of nothing. My second day of the BDR was drawing to a close. The first day had been an “adventure”, the second first a slog and then a cruise. For 99% of that time I’d been off grid, away from media, out of cell reception, on dirt, and entirely engaged with nature. Why wouldn’t I be happy?

One thing about adventures, they’re not perfect. My ass was sore! Even with a sheepskin, the seat on a Yamaha TW200 is like a plank after several hours. But that’s ok. I had decided to get to Shoshoni and go no further. There would be gasoline, a restaurant with hamburgers (and softer seats than my bike), and there was a campsite nearby. All glory to my ass, which was metering the number of miles I could physically handle and doing so admirably.

I dithered about on that chunk of nowhere. I was happy as a clam. I liked that Badwater creek smelled like Sulphur. I’m sick of eco-twerps who bitch at me about plastic straws and think all of nature looks like the Ansel Adams poster they hang in their cubicle. Nature is not created solely to be a plaything of the idle classes. Sometimes the water is nasty because nature isn’t a playpen and geology has variation. Badwater creek wasn’t unpotable because Exxon took a shit there it was unpotable because that’s how it is. I found the honesty in my environment refreshing. I was at peace.

Far too early in the day, I emerged on pavement and slogged about eight miles to Shoshoni. I say far too early because I really ought to use that daylight to go further. Then again my ass and I had discussed things and I’d promised to stop riding at Shoshoni.

Shoshoni was a huge letdown. No burger joint! There was a single gas station with a righteous attached convenience store and pretty much nothing else. I topped off the bike and clambered into the store. I soaked up AC and gobbled up a gas station pizza (it wasn’t half bad).

The little tent icons on the map had misled me. Camp wasn’t exactly at the town. I would have to backtrack eight miles on pavement. My aching ass was not happy with the news.

I loitered near the gas station, using its Wi-Fi to examine my options; which were quite limited. Also my gadgets were dying. My cell phone wasn’t served by whatever service might have been there and its battery was almost gone. I dug out my iPad and used Wi-Fi to investigate alternate campsites to no avail. Reserving a campsite at the only campground was difficult with a non-cell device and probably not necessary but I was hindered by fading gadget batteries. I have a cigarette lighter plug with a USB adapter but it wasn’t keeping up with the load. My GPS and GoPro were deader than a doornail and my cell phone and SpotX were low.

I met two guys riding the BDR on ADV bikes. They bought a couple of gas station pizzas crammed one each in their huge saddlebags, and rolled out for camp. They had done several BDRs. They had their shit together. They made their decision and rolled out efficiently. When I grow up maybe I’ll be cool like that.

One thing I’ve seen motocampers do on YouTube is buy a sandwich at a deli somewhere and eat it at camp. Rather than Mountain House freeze dried, I’d do the same! I bought a sandwich and crammed it in my dusty luggage. I didn’t know what I’d find back at the campground. I assumed it would be empty but who really knows… and once there I’d be stuck. My ass would go on strike if I went 8 miles and then had to go somewhere else.

Batman and Kim Possible both have what I call “the man in the chair”. While the hero is actively doing hero stuff they contact their trusted help. “Alfred, I’m chasing the Joker down this dark ally, please have Uber deliver a box of ammo to my location.”

I fired up my SpotX and sent a short message to Mrs. Curmudgeon. “Please go to the Wyoming State Campground site and reserve a spot for me at Boysen State Park.” Without waiting for a response, I rolled out.

At the campground I turned on my SpotX and all was well. Mrs. Curmudgeon had made the reservation and reported it back to me on SpotX. She’d even looked at the online interface trying to choose a “pretty spot”. I was very relieved to have that stress handled. Her choice was indeed gorgeous, just like she’d hoped. I sent many words of thanks and then shut the nearly dead SpotX down. I plugged it into my Noco jumpstarter to charge overnight. Batman had Alfred but Mrs. Curmudgeon is way cooler!

The campground was nearly empty. The two ADV guys had setup a camp across the way. They were probably asleep before I’d pried off my riding boots.

Most riders “camp to ride”. They camp as a necessary hassle to facilitate more miles. I’m the opposite. I like camping. I tend to hang around the campfire “wasting time”. I’d happily gone from one campsite to another at a range of about 120-150 miles but I’d be just as happy at 50 miles.

Yay camping! I setup my fancy tent and sleeping system. I heated some hot cocoa. It was the first use of my old JetBoil on this trip! The sunset was gorgeous. I made a second round of hot cocoa.

The next campsite over a nice couple parked a Toyota pickup with a pop-up slide-in camper. They kindly invited me to join them. Surprisingly, they were driving the BDR! We sat by the fire talking about places we’ve been and things we’d done.

That night a storm blew in. Given the sedative effects of working my ass off two days straight, I slept like a baby. My tent rode the storm out like a boss. I found myself using the word “trusty” as an adjective when thinking about the tent.

It had been a good day.

The day before had been ridiculously eventful. That night I carefully took care of myself with rest, food, hydration, Ibuprofen, etc… It wasn’t enough. I had something like a hangover. Muscles ached like I’d been trampled by wildebeests and my head was sore.

My overpriced hotel room came with all sorts of cutesy crap. I’d like to say I didn’t want or need it, but the truth is I deeply appreciated everything. I needed to sleep in a warm dry room on a real mattress. That doesn’t mean it sucked to have a fluffy bathrobe provided and fancy soap to wash off the grime. Also the hotel breakfast was absolutely delicious. I found a few chocolates in the room, clearly left there for sweet female tourists and not muddy bikers. They found their way into my snack bag. I’d been lucky.

Even now, I’m disappointed I had to resort to the hotel but there’s no doubt I’d made the wise choice. It had rained on and off most of the night. I’d have been miserable in a tent and everything would have stayed damp. My stuff (carefully arrayed in the hotel room) mostly dried out. A hot shower eased seized muscles.

I packed (with a great deal of wincing and complaining), topped off the bike (which was running on fumes), and rolled out into a cloudy day. For once I wasn’t “behind schedule”.

The map indicated one of the “duller” sections on the BDR. That’s to be expected, every mile can’t be glorious. I was happy with “dull”. Almost ecstatic. I’d had far too much excitement so far. My plan was going to roll to Shoshoni on dull flat dirt roads and it should be an easy short ride. I’d call it a night early.

Nothing is as simple as it seems; hence my use of the word “adventure”. At the first juncture I had an option to go on a merry little trip through a canyon and that’s what the map recommended. The road surface was good and I was all for it. But a big cloud was already dumping on that area. Rather than ride straight into rain, I stayed on a “main” (still dirt) road a few miles longer. I planned to cut across to the canyon on a side road a few miles ahead.

A few miles later I realized the cross road was private. Damn!

Not a lot of people have been to truly empty places like Wyoming so I’ll elaborate:

There are places where private roads still exist and it’s ok. Please don’t get your panties in a bundle because it sounds weird. If you live in some generic place like Cincinnati you’ve probably never seen a road that exists without State / Federal funding. But it’s a big world out there. Maybe I grok a private road because my driveway at Curmudgeon Compound is several hundred yards long. It’s a short road but it’s a road. It’s 100% my problem, it exists 100% on my property, and sometimes I’d give my left nut to have someone else plow the fucking thing.

In most occasions private roads are open for public use. Agencies like the Forest Service often negotiate to facilitate this and other agreements tend to pop up. The day before I’d been on a private road for about 3 miles within a gap in a National Forest. Also, if the private entity is a large corporation they’ll usually offer public access anyway. “The Octan Corporation provides public access to this road at the user’s risk. Don’t forget Taco Tuesday!”

Private roads are not just for ranchers in Wyoming. The Golden Road, in Maine, is about 100 miles long and it was built by a paper  company. I’ve been on that road. I paid a fee for the privilege. I saw a “superlegal” truck (meaning too huge for public streets). It had a bumper sticker that said “We drive like we own the road because we do!” Here’s a link about it (the link is 30 years old but giant log trucks don’t generally make the papers).

This private road looked old school. “This isn’t Octan Corporation’s facilities. It’s Black Bart’s road and Bart likes nothing more than capping errant biker scum.” It was marked private and looked unwelcoming in some way I couldn’t quite define. It didn’t have a gate. I’m pretty fearless going anywhere and there was naught but a cattle guard, but I hesitated. Then noticed the big nasty cloud over the canyon route I wanted to access was getting uglier. How convenient! The place I couldn’t get to was going to suck anyway. I stayed on the “main” (dirt) road.

Rain hit and I rode through it. It would have been worse further out near the canyon. I was just on the edge of the big cloud. Eventually the rain ended and I started to dry out. Eventually the canyon route I’d skipped merged with the road I was on.

A few miles later I met the second of the three BDR motorcycle groups I’d meet on the trail. A little platoon of 6 bikes; 2 dual-sport and 4 ADV bikes. They passed going the opposite (“correct”) direction. They were bristling with cool gear and cameras. Honestly, I can’t help but be impressed how “hobbies” create such bitchin’ arrangements of people and gear. They were moving like a team of professionals; a well oiled machine. I’m sure every helmet was Bluetooth linked to every other helmet. I’m sure everyone had GPS on their dash. There are probably tactical groups in advanced militaries less perfectly equipped than these guys. My mule of a bike with a paper map seemed pathetic. The good news is I’m probably on someone’s epic YouTube video.

As they passed, I noticed one guy was standing on his pegs. As I understand it, standing on your motorcycle pegs is “style / technique” useful for maintaining balance in rough terrain. I have no style and don’t stand on my pegs ever. My bike and I are equally slow, stout, and dumpy, we roll along like a tractor, not a jet ski. The mystery is that the guy standing on his pegs was on a smooth ass road! This section of road could be traversed by a Honda Civic. Why would a top-of-the-line ADV and kitted out rider be standing on that? If there’s a reason, solo guys like me aren’t in on the secret.

Soon, I caught up with a road grader. It took up 90% of the road, spewed enough dust to obscure my view, and it had no intention of doing anything to let me by. After eating shit a few miles I spied a slightly wider spot in the road and zipped on by. I was covered with dust.

Then the rain hit for real. I was (once again) in a place with no shelter. It wasn’t nearly the gale of yesterday so I stoically kept riding. At first it was drizzle with occasional lightning. I was on a big long boring climb to Cottonwood Pass at 6,700′. This long slow ride through the rain was on a spot called “Lightning Ridge” and yes the lightning grew in intensity with elevation. Fuck me!

Since I started covered with dust from the road grader I was now covered in mud. Meanwhile the rain hit hard. And harder. And even harder!

This was my “boring day”?

I didn’t see a sign when I crossed the pass. By then it was raining at the rate of eleventy billion buckets per hectare. I sometimes couldn’t see where the front tire was hitting the ground. But I was on a pass or a ridge or whatever and there wasn’t much to do but keep riding as muddy water sprayed in my face. It was raining so hard that the water couldn’t flow off the road fast enough but the road was well maintained (probably by my buddy the road grader). Puddles forming on the gravel-ish road were only a few inches deep, maybe six inches max. Visibility sucked and the thunder was loud but traction wasn’t half bad.

Eventually all that shit ended and the sun came out. Whew.

Then I came to the next interesting thing; poison gas areas.

I’d been informed I would encounter this. Some places in Wyoming have a sign that says “do not enter when lights are flashing”. I’m pretty sure the sign means it. If you disobey any such sign you’ve earned what happens to you. Of course, it wasn’t flashing and it probably almost never happens, so 99% of the time it’s no big deal.

In the shadow of the friendly death sign I stopped to take a photo and put on dry socks.

I’ve never seen “poison gas signs” but I remember poison gas in the plot of Close Encounters of the Third Kind. That makes me appreciate the movie even more. I’ve fond memories of Richard Dreyfuss making a likeness of Devil’s Tower out of mashed potatoes. I’ve been to Devil’s Tower. I didn’t see poison gas signs there.

I assumed the risk was sulfur dioxide; presumably associated with natural gas extraction. But I don’t really know anything. When I wrote this post I Googled it. The answer isn’t obvious. Google is less factual than it once was, tourist sites seem reticent to discuss “poison gas”, and let’s face it… nobody goes where I was. (Update: I have verified that the risk is hydrogen sulfide, a nasty gas that is found mixed with natural gas in some deposits. It’s separated from the natural gas in facilities out there but if there’s a malfunction the sign will warn you to offski pronto and hopefully live.)

Google refers to a Wyoming Poison Gas Area that the BDR does indeed cross. It’s where uranium is mined and it sounds like they use the word “poison” when “radioactive” should apply. I could be wrong. Regardless the Wikipedia reference is for Carbon County, and I was hundreds of miles away.

A group of antelope seemed curious about my presence. One looked like a nice trophy, all looked tasty. So what the hell was I riding through? No idea. I asked the antelope and they wouldn’t tell me.

But I lived.

I meant to wrap up my “boring day” in 1,500 words. I failed. More to come.

Photos from my trip (in no particular order). The rock star of my cheap dual sport luggage, a Tusk Tank Bag:

New handguards. Cheaper than a visit to the ER for a wrist x-ray if I drop the bike.

Studly and expensive tent:

Tools and parts which were left with the truck:

Waterproof saddlebag draped over a 1 gallon Rotopax filled with unleaded, with a tool tube tucked inboard of the bracketry.

Sheepskin. Probably the most essential of all equipment.

Cheap-ass offroad lights. I planned absolutely zero riding after dark but things never go according to plan. These dumb $35 lights were a Godsend!