Adaptive Curmudgeon

I can’t say I didn’t have ample warning. This particular engine of mayhem spent hours building up in the distance; only to steamroll me when the time was right.

Bad luck, the only rock shelter overlooked a small canyon and faced the storm. It would focus the wind and blast me.

Very pretty though.

This “tree” was pathetic shelter… but it was better than the “nothing” that was my other option.

After the brunt of the storm passed, there was a brief period of blue sky and mild showers. I rode through that and slowly dried out.

The air might have been dry-ish but the road surface wasn’t. I dropped from a high area where the trail was wet sand to a slightly different area where the trail was wet mud and sticky cowshit. My front knobby tire packed solid and steering went from “soft” to “practically uncontrollable”.

There was a rainbow. I caught only a sliver of it though.

Sunset looms. Behind “schedule” indeed!

The mystery and joy of “adventures” is that time becomes malleable. It was mid-afternoon and I’d already lived a year’s fun. I’d been through regret and uncertainty as my little bike struggled over a high altitude pass on smooth pavement. I’d been justly pleased with my choices as the rugged little bike climbed over a remote pass on its native habitat of dirt. And now I had settled into a deep feeling of contentment. All concerns of the outside world were irrelevant.

Eating beef jerky and drinking lukewarm water at the more or less unpopulated and completely service free “town” of Hyattville might have been the most mellow moment I’d had in months. All was well with the world.

But of course, that was just part of the story. The rest of the story is that a dark cloud was rumbling in the distance, I was behind “schedule”, and my leg was aching something fierce.

The leg wasn’t a mystery. Normally I swing my leg over the bike like a cowboy getting into a saddle but now that I’d loaded the rear of the bike with all sorts of bulky shit I had to “high kick” to get my right leg over the seat. It was an unnatural use of muscles long neglected. Each time I winced a bit.

As for being behind schedule, I shrugged. There was a campsite at Ten Sleep (and a microbrew with good food it was said). If I got there a little after dark so be it.

As for the cloud, it was what it was. Hopefully I’d make the canyon. Beyond that I had no plans.

The route climbed up onto a long desert flat. From there it looked like it dove into a canyon, squiggled around in the canyon for a while, and then popped out on pavement a scant few miles from Ten Sleep.

I rolled out of town, got up on the exposed flat and happily puttered through the desert. The cloud chased me alarmingly. Nothing I could do about it though. I hoped to get to the canyon before the storm hit. I wasn’t too worried because this isn’t my first rodeo (at least with deserts). In a deep canyon I could hunker down in some nook or cranny. I’d munch on snacks, wait out the storm, and then emerge a little muddy. No big deal.

WRONG!

The empty flat desert got higher, flatter, more exposed, and sandy. It became the textbook definition of a place you don’t want to be when a storm hits and there was nothing I could do about it. The trail’s twists and turns meandered in the general direction but didn’t seem to make much progress. You can’t go faster than you can go and this trail wasn’t smooth enough to let me “hustle”.

The front edge of the storm hit with gusts of wind. Dust devils sprang up at random intervals. The trail wound back and forth. Sometimes I was cross to the wind. Other times I was parallel and it was at my back. Crosswind was hard work but manageable. A gritty stream blasted across my view so intensely I wondered if it would sandblast the paint right off my bike! That seemed unlikely but you had to be there. Even so I could keep the stout little bike upright and chugging along. Whenever I was parallel to the wind it was much worse. Airborne dirt had a chance to build up and it went full “white out”. Maybe that’s the wrong word. I’m a northern guy and “white out” is when blowing snow obscures all vision. I’ve no idea what a “dirt out” is called.

I sought in vain for shelter. Anything, even a rock where I could huddle in the lee away from the wind, would be better than exposed. But there was nothing. Finally the white out completely obscured all vision and there was nothing left to do. I was near a shabby pine. It was bent and scraggly and about as tall as a Christmas tree. That would have to do.

I put down the kickstand right there in the middle of the trail. If a truck came by it might flatten my bike… but I couldn’t see to do anything else. Most likely any truck would be blinded and stopped by the storm too. Plus I had seen a grand total of two motorcycles all day anyway.

I staggered off the bike, pulling my “high kick” muscles mightily in the effort, and stumbled into the tree. Literally… I fell into it’s branches. I have an Aerostich jacket and pants. They’re tough like a fireman’s jacket. I zipped every pocket and closure tight. I left on my helmet. I sat on the dirt.

All hell broke loose!

The leading edge winds had been intense, the ensuing rain was far worse. It was a maelstrom.

Rain fell hard. Giant icy drops the size of marbles. The wind hit like a train and grew with intensity at every gust. The rain landed like shotgun blasts. The planet’s atmosphere seemed focused on my little piece of desert; concentrated into a great flood tide rolling over the human gnat caught in the endless plain!

I expected my Aerostich jacket to handle the rain. It didn’t. It was instantly soaked through. My gloves turned to mush. I was chilled to the bone. The only part of me that stayed dry was the back of my head, where my helmet (which I hadn’t removed) bore the brunt. My face was soaked and windburned.

Well… shit!

I wanted to grab a tarp to wrap around me. Unfortunately, I’d made a mistake when packing. I had a small tarp that packs to about the size of a sandwich. In order to “lighten the load” I’d left it behind. My tent had a suitable ground tarp (that for marketing purposes also has SOS printed on one side… better not let that side show!) but it was rolled with the tent itself. If I opened the tent bag my tent would be instantly soaked. Better to preserve the dryness… that’s where I was going to sleep in a few hours!

Shivering, I thought about the warmer clothes I’d packed. However, I decided to NOT open my waterproof saddlebags. If I opened them while getting blasted by God’s pressure washer, all the contents would be soaked. My sweatshirt, tied to the outside of the mess, was a sponge.

I hunkered down, jerking involuntarily every time lightning struck, and waited. It was a longer wait than I expected. And colder and more miserable too. But it was what it was.

I thought about modern humans. So very few of us have ever been anywhere in nature. Of those that have, most travel in cars or trucks. I thought about sitting in the cab of a Toyota; heater on, windshield taking blasts instead of my face, maybe the radio burbling in the background. Sitting in a chair… with a roof. Damn that sounded nice.

Not for me. I was getting an experience entirely unlike that. Maybe most modern people have no experience with what I endured. To them, it’s a cartoonish camping trip. To me, with the bike almost invisible not 10 feet away, my clothes soaked, my body cold, and no shelter… I fretted that I should have made better choices. I might as well be a caveman shivering under a pelt. Except a caveman would probably be smart enough to arrange shelter better than I had.

But… did I die?

Nah. I ate shit for a while and then the rain let up. Am I not a strong tough biker dude? Is not suffering, at least a little, good for you? As my Grandma used to say “you’re not going to melt!”

Though beaten, demoralized, and soaked, I was still there after the storm. I stood up, shook it off, and high kicked my ass back onto my soaking motorcycle. I was still a long way from town.

Adventure indeed!

After the cattle drive I had to make the first decision of the trip. The path splits in two. There’s an “alternative” (or “advanced”) option and there’s what I can’t help but call the “lame ass wimp” option.

Here I was; looking at the fork in the road. I knew this moment would come. I’d given myself a stern talking to. Here’s my internal rant I gave to myself:

The goal of this trip is to succeed; not to flame out in a blaze of awesome. I’m starting five hundred miles past my comfort zone, each mile hits the afterburner, and despite willingness to do risky shit, I’m still mortal. Having never done anything like this before and given the fact that I’m doing it solo and I chose to employ a “toy” motorcycle… I solemnly promise my future self that I will select every “wimp” chance I get.

Easy peasy right? Wrong! Past Curmudgeon had already rehearsed the right choice at this juncture. Future Curmudgeon really didn’t want to wind up in the ER with a twisted ankle. But Now Curmudgeon… that bastard is fearless!

I sat there like an idiot, astride my cheap little farm bike battling my inner Don Quixote. There’s windmills to tilt! Just you and me Rocinante! Shall we drop the clutch and go for it?

No.

This is not a fucking poem and just being here means I’m on “the road less travelled”. So take a chill pill and go easy on yourself like a rational adult.

I did not take the turn to the East to what the map called “Alt Harder Woodchuck Pass”. I stayed on pavement.

Damn, it’s weird how much I hate leaving a challenge “un-accepted”!

What’s worse is that I was still on pavement and it was silky smooth but it was the absolute worst habitat for me and this particular bike. My TW200 (Honey Badger) has the heart of a lion but the lungs of a chipmunk. The road was a long smooth steady climb and there’s just not enough oxygen up there. The single piston 200cc carbureted lawnmower-ish engine was struggling. I gave it absolutely every bit of throttle and downshifted. We crawled higher and higher.

The TW200 is a brick shithouse of a machine. I’m not sure what it would take to melt the poor air cooled beast into slag… but I’m sure I was pushing it. Flat out giving it all she got we kept climbing. I downshifted again. The engine didn’t seem hot but it was clearly struggling. How long could this continue?

I feared my equipment was going molten not 10 miles out. And that’s just from rolling on smooth pavement! What did the “expert” section hold? Dragons?

I started to have doubts. I have a Honda PC800 and a Honda Shadow 1100 and both have gobs of spare power. Both would blast up this hill like it wasn’t there… and with liquid cooling, they’d do it without stress.

Maybe I took the wrong bike. Maybe this is all a mistake.

At the peak I stopped and let the suffering bike cool.

I paced about calming myself. It’s just altitude… at some point there’s no more altitude left. This is your first “adventure ride” but not your first mountain campout. Chill out!

And I did. As soon as the pass was over we plunged thousands of feet into Shell Canyon. The bike coasted happily, barely over idle. I still felt stupid. I was coming out of the clouds at a relaxing 50 MPH, which is stupidly slow. The pavement was smooth and orderly; perfect for canyon cruising! I’d brought a toy where a street bike belonged.

At Shell Canyon I crossed into dirt… finally! From there everything brightened. Instead of feeling stupid at 50 MPH on a ribbon of pavement I was a happy camper at 40 MPH on a mellow dirt road.

I no longer longed for my pavement bound bikes… I was finally in the right world! The dirt road was unremarkable, just dirt. I began to have heretical thoughts about scooters. Would an Honda ADV 160, a scooter with a tiny 160cc powerplant but with fuel injection, serve better than my archaic “farmbike”?

As if in answer, the road started climbing.

No big deal to Honey Badger. The climb on dirt was less steep and slowed by rocks and gravel. It was starting to look like terrain a scooter might not like.

A few miles later I broke into “private road”.

Private roads (at least ranch roads) are a little less maintained than Forest Service roads. It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle, but it was enough to get my attention. I was thoroughly enjoying myself.

The scenery… it was gorgeous. Miles and miles of sky and mountain… with cows here and there. It was glorious. For the first time, I hit my groove. I’d done well. It was a good place to be.

Did I mention the road kept climbing? Soon it was back on Forest Service maintenance but it was still quite remote.

I topped out somewhere around 8,600′ and finally went back down. Somewhere around there my GPS battery died and it’s not like the “pass” had a sign. So I’m not 100% sure where the pass was.

No matter, I’d planned for things like that and frankly I prefer paper maps anyway. It was still a surprise that the damn GPS conked halfway into day 1. I put my GoPro on the handlebars and the GPS wound up wasting space in my saddlebags.

I think, but don’t know, that this photo is from Snowshoe Pass. See that tiny little dirt road… is there anything more inviting than that? And yes, that’s where I was headed.

I was happy to drop down in elevation. The day warmed up. My sweatshirt, which had been essential, was now dead weight. I strapped it to my gear, where it gathered dust like my own personal Swiffer.

I’d meant to ride without it but just didn’t trust the thermal underclothes I’d bought. I’d paid top dollar for a thermal top and bottom at an REI with a 94 degree parking lot just the day before. I was still smarting from the elitist burn of doing business with snobs. What cretins like me call “thermal underwear” is “base layer” to REI staff… and then shortened to “base” in some sort of anti-deplorable signaling. Whatever the case may be that meant I had a floppy sweatshirt in an environment where I shouldn’t have used it in the first place. Oh well.

The ride got prettier and prettier. I stopped to hydrate and eat a snack. The ride was a workout. It would be easy to get dehydrated!

All this time I’d seen nobody.

I thought I might find “civilization” at a place called Paintrock Lodge. I might be able to get a cold coke and a hamburger. When I passed it I was too happy riding to stop.

A few miles later I wound up lost in Medicine Lodge Lake campground. It was the first place I’d met anyone. I think people accessed that area from the other side and I’d come in from the “mountains” side. I wound up chatting with a nice older fella camping there. He pointed me to the “trail”.

Boy did the “trail” change! It went from “road you could take a basic F150 on without fretting” to “maybe a lifted Toyota if you know what you’re doing”. This was the first section that was more like an ATV trail.

The photo doesn’t do it justice.

Then again, my bike isn’t a wimpy bike and I’m not a complete wuss. We climbed though a couple miles of that and burst into yet a totally different environment.

Just look at it! It’s called Bighorn’s Viewpoint. GLORIOUS!

As I was gazing at eternity two motorcycles rolled up. They were dual sport riders from far away. They were outfitted like absolute pros. The two of them had done three BDRs counting this one. They were almost done, I was just starting (remember I chose to do the trail “backwards”).

We chatted a bit and then they saddled up and zoomed off. I felt pretty inadequate. They had better gear, better skills, and excellent hair. I was just a dusty guy on his first real ride.

Highlight of our discussion; “Traveling alone eh?” Raised eyebrow. “That certainly adds to the challenge.”

I’m not good at speaking human. I’d like to think he was impressed but I’m guessing he was calculating the odds I’d be vulture meat within the week.

Having dragged myself away from the viewpoint, the trail turned back into a road.. though a steep and messy one. As usual, the camera makes a steep decline look flat. Trust me on this, it wasn’t.

Soon I broke out of the trees and into the arid, sagebrush of a long steep steady decline back into what one might call “civilization”.

You might think this was boring, but it wasn’t. Not to me. I’m not a “technical” rider nor a “speed” guy. I like ambling… and this was perfect.

Somewhere around there my GoPro battery died. Honestly I’ve never looked at my GoPro files. I was there, I wanted to avoid getting swept up in “documenting it”. The GoPro rode the rest of the day on my handlebar deader than a doornail.

Eventually I popped out at what the map calls “Hyattville (No Gas)”. I’d already had a hell of an adventure. Views to last a lifetime! I sat on a log next to a bar that was out of business, drank a ton of water, and ate snacks. What a perfect day!

But the day wasn’t even close to over! Stay tuned because what I thought would be a mellow cruise to my evening destination of Ten Sleep was absolutely not mellow. So much “stuff” got crammed in my first day!

Leaving Lovell WY.

No further pictures from the climb up route 14A. This was taken after all the exciting parts were done and I pried my hands off the steering wheel.

Bear Lodge is a little rundown but it’s also a perfect wilderness lodge. It has everything you need; food, beer, fuel, lodging, camping, etc… I liked it there.

Camping the night before the big adventure.

My bike before I start strapping shit to it.

Add water and gas (1 gallon each) using Rotopax.

Add saddlebags and the very handy tank bag.

Then… all hell breaks loose and you hope the RokStraps will save you.

[When I left this story I was in my Dodge blasting down the highway with a motorcycle on a trailer and some camping gear in the back seat. I was heading south out of Montana; muttering under my breath “me and my fuckin’ adventures”.

The Cliffs Notes recap is that I intended to ride the very remote thousand mile long Wyoming Backcountry Discovery Route (WYBDR) on a diminutive little Yamaha TW200. I didn’t have enough time to do the whole thing so I had a half-assed plan to do half the trip and then bail out to a U-Haul to get back to my truck. I would be doing my “half BDR” solo and “backwards”. Because of course I was.]

I needed (chose) to start at Burgess Junction WY. That’s waaaaaaay up in the Bighorn Mountains. (You might think Wyoming has only one mountain range and that’s the Rockies but such notions are oversimplifying. The Bighorns aren’t exactly small.) I could come to Burgess Junction from the east on a mountain pass that showed up as a squiggly mess on the map (route 14). Or I could come from the west following a slightly less squiggly line (route 14A).

I chose the western access, last fueling up at Lovell WY. You don’t know what you don’t know and the less squiggly road was far more um… interesting. The climb from Lovell to Burgess Junction was long, steep, and impressive. I’d just serviced my truck and I was damn glad I’d done so! Route 14A is closed in winters and I know why!

Wikipedia tells me that my truck and I climbed over a pass at 9,430′. I personally estimate it at 50,000′ but I’m biased. Once I got “over the hump” things leveled out (sorta) at a great beautiful high mountain prairie. With great relief I let the truck’s engine cool down and practically idled into Burgess Junction.

I didn’t expect many services but thought Burgess Junction WY might be a small village. It’s not. There is damn near nothing up there except the Bear Lodge Resort. (There might be other resorts a few miles away hidden in the National Forest. I didn’t explore the area.)

Luckily I’d planned to launch from Bear Lodge Resort anyway. I’d made arrangements to leave my truck there during my ride. (This was more like “yah’ whatever, park it where you want” than a formal secure lot.) I had reservations (which were unnecessary this late in the season) and camped in their expansive though shabby campground. I ate at the completely adequate restaurant and found myself reluctant to let go of the Lodge’s Wifi. There’s no cell service up there and it felt like I had a million loose ends to tie up… which was more stress than reality.

It was my first night in my new tent and the first real test of my camping gear on site. I’d bought a Lone Rider ADV tent and will forever fret that I spent oodles of money on it. (The acquisition of the tent is a story in itself.) Anyway, I’d set it up once to make sure I had all the parts and this was only my second use of it. The same is true of my Big Agnes Diamond Park 15 Degree bag. I’d originally intended to carry lighter cheaper gear but now I was in the end of the season and weather conditions could get crazy fast. So, I’d bought “the best”. My air mattress (which is NOT optional for these kinds of sleeping bags) is a Therm-a-Rest NeoAir Topo (which I inflated with a Giga Pump 2.0). I even had a pillow: the Nemo Fillo.

I spent years honing my “truck camping system” to deploy fast, fast, fast. This smaller, lighter, more complex gear takes longer to deploy. This frustrates me but I wanted the right level of comfort (in part as a safety thing) and had sacrificed the simplicity of “I tossed a tarp on the ground and slept there like a dog”. Choices must be made.

Nearby free range cows were making a racket. Other than that it was dark and quiet. At first I thought my fancy sleeping bag was a stupid affectation. Later, as the air cooled I zipped up and snuggled in. By dawn I’d decided every penny spent was worth it!

I’d slept OK but the high elevation wore on me. Bear Lodge is at about 8,300′.

Back at the Bear Lodge’s restaurant I practically crawled into my cup of coffee trying to wake up. I clung to wifi like a urban wimp. I decided to treat myself to the last shower I’d have in a while. This cost $3. Then I had to “rent” a towel for an additional $3. I didn’t like the idea of “renting” a towel and further the towel was literally threadbare. But, hygiene is good.

Plus, I was procrastinating.

I had all my motorcycle gear carefully planned out but it still took a while to strap up my Nelson Riggs Hurricane Dual Sport Saddlebags. They work great but there’s a spiderweb of straps that must be managed. I had wanted soft bags rather than heavier (and expensive) hard bags but I cursed under my breath over the hassle. It took a while to take down my tent and roll up my sleeping pad and stuff sack my sleeping bag. More frustration came when I tried to put it all on my bike. I obviously had too much shit.

I’d carefully planned everything I’d take. But I’d been too optimistic. In a fit of realism I chucked about a third of my stuff. My nicely programmed Baeofeng HAM handheld? Gone! Extra snacks… reduced! Etc…

Finally, in the most manly “equipment lightening” manner I took my clothes sack and reduced my count of clean underwear by half. That was brutal! But you gotta’ do what you gotta’ do.

It was not the early morning start I’d hoped for, but I’m only human.

I rolled out on my heavily laden little motorcycle late, nervous, and wondering if I was totally out of my league.

This is the whole point. I have a comfort zone, and it’s a pretty damn expansive one, but I was well and truly out of it now.

The first part of my trip was on pavement, which was disappointing. Immediately, I rode smack dab into the middle of a cattle drive! How cool is that?

I worried my lame little bike with it’s lawnmower engine whine might spook the cows more than their usual audio environment of Ford F150s. So I idled by with maximum caution. Now I knew why the cows had been uneasy last night. They, like me, were “in transit”.

I estimated 200 cows and counted 7 cowboys. These were real cowboys. Men on horseback with non-ironic chaps and giant hats that somehow held tight enough to not blow away in the mountain wind. They had grim faces and were working hard. They were accompanied by working dogs, equally busy with the task at hand.

I idled quietly on the opposite side of the pavement. A meek tourist watching a trainload of steak shuffle past; skillfully escorted by horse mounted testosterone and some smart dogs.

I took no pictures. I was there. I saw it. That’s all I need.

I was only 5 miles past where I’d setup my tent. What an excellent greeting to the trail!

Of course there’s more! Stay tuned!

[Note: I’m using real map data so you can follow along on Google Maps or the WYBDR page, should you care to do so.]

“You can’t always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, well you just might find, you get what you need.”

The WYBDR is 8 sections and a little under a thousand miles; starting at the southern border of Wyoming (adjacent to Colorado) and ending at the northern (literally dead ending at the Montana line on a remote dirt road). A section a day is (presumably) a mellow conservative rate of travel; exceeded by many but probably valid for a solo geezer riding carefully on a slow bike. So that’s 8 days.

You can do it faster (and many do) but I didn’t want to lock myself into rosy assumptions. A mechanical malfunction, running out of fuel, a twisted ankle, a bout of food poisoning, heavy rain… virtually anything can cause a delay and undoubtedly something will. I started by counting on 8 days of plodding to include some cushion for “shit happens”.

Meanwhile, the big honkin’ limitation to a dual sport (unlike an ADV) had me completely baffled. I needed to trailer my bike to the trail-head and at the end of the WYBDR somehow get back from the trail’s end to where I left the truck & trailer. I don’t know about you, but I lack the ability to teleport.

It wouldn’t be a short distance either. Being conservative; the time needed to grind my little dual sport across the state is “I’m not fuckin’ doing it”. I’d need a vehicle suitable for not just pavement but interstate highways. Even if I “assume I can somehow pull a Toyota Camry out of my ass” it would take 1-2 days to get back to the truck. What I needed is a one way rental between wherever I end up (where there is no car rental service… because Wyoming) and where I parked my truck & trailer (which also lacks car rental service… because Wyoming). I contacted car rental places all over the state. I got quoted prices between “insane” and “what in God’s name are they thinking”.

I also contacted a few “outfitters”. There are people that rent bikes for the BDR! I had no idea. Then again renting a bike would cost as much as airfare to Paris. (I’m just spitballing here, the point it’s not cheap.) Even if it was free, using a rental would put me on a bike with which I’m not familiar. Yours truly, a solo geezer, did not want additional uncertainties in the equation. Also, my plucky little TW200 would surely hear about it and shiv me in my garage if I left it behind. (A note about the outfitter, he tried really hard to figure out a solution to my dilemma it’s just that there wasn’t one in my budget level. Also, he was very encouraging. “On a TW you’ll make it but you’ll earn it.” He was a really great guy!)

To make matters worse, my calendar had a great big steel anchor holding it back! I had to be in a place at a time and there was no escaping it. That place was not in Colorado, near the start, but Montana, near the end. Which made it doubly impossible because I’d need to ride the dual sport 8 days heading north, sacrifice a goat to spontaneously generate a street car rental, only to need at least a day to cross back to my abandoned truck way down south near Colorado, and then I’d have to turn back north again! (And it depended on making the rental magically disappear.) Nobody wants to drive across Wyoming four times (once on a dual sport). That last drive north with the empty trailer, hoping to find my bike locked to a fencepost or some shit, load up, and then somehow get to my hard deadline up north would probably kill me.

I was screwed!

I could wait until after the deadline. But summer is fleeting. At 9;000’ elevation snow could happen any time.

I made a compromise. I’d go before the deadline of doom but split the difference on the BDR. I planned to do only ½ the WYBDR. For that, I won’t apologize or mope. Life is short and it’s better to do something that’s half-awesome than do nothing at all. By the way, great herds of people fall into the trap of doing nothing because the ideal is impossible. Don’t be like that. “I’ll do that cool thing when I’ve got more money, or when I’m retired, or after I accomplish this or that career milestone.” Fuck that! Do what you can. Do it when you can.

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation.”

I finally worked out a complex schedule. It was a dumb plan but it was the only thing I could come up with. The only thing going for it was that it was at least theoretically possible.

Here goes:

I’d park on the north end of section 7 (Burgess Junction, WY). Section 8 (which dead ends and basically loops back to Burgess Junction) could be (reluctantly) ignored.

From there I’d head south (“backwards on the map”) through three sections. I’d camp at Ten Sleep, then at Shoshoni, then at Atlantic City. That’s 3 of 8 sections.

The next section seems to have the reputation as the biggest, hardest, longest section. That would be (viewed backwards) Atlantic City to Alcova. There are several places where there’s “optional” parts of the trail. Atlantic City to Alcova has an “expert” option (which is printed on the map) and a “new” section (which was on my GPS units). I planned to avoid the expert portion, then somewhere in the middle of section 4 turn completely off the BDR entirely.

This is where my plan got fuzzy. I’d skip around Alcova and take a line I’d found on a map called Poision Spider Road. It’s a dirt road, which (on the map at least) led straight into Casper. There are no services anywhere out there. (And I’d heard that Atlantic City didn’t have much.)

I’d just have to find someplace and camp… I guess. I gave myself 2 days to get from Atlantic City to Casper… with no real idea how that 2 days would work. I figured I had gear and food and (hopefully?) enough gas. Somehow it would happen.

At Casper I’d rent a one way U-Haul. (And I made reservations well in advance.)

I’d drive it to Sheridan with the bike in the back. I might sleep one night in the U-Haul or avail myself of a hotel. (I’m only human.)

Dropping the U-Haul at Sheridan still put me and my dual sport well away from my truck still parked at Burgess Junction. The main paved pass from Sheridan at low elevation to the high elevation pass would leave my little bike gasping for air and crawling. I’d have a line of pissed off people with real modern cars behind me. I’d probably get flattened by a Freightliner.

The alternative were some Forest Service roads that cut cross county to Burgess Junction. It looked like one very fun adventure day’s ride to close the gap. Obviously I was geared up for it. Would I have the time?

After getting to Burgess Junction (assuming I didn’t melt the TW200 grinding up the pass), I’d load on a trailer, catch a night’s sleep, and then get back to “civilization” with my Dodge. I wanted to arrive for my “deadline of doom” appointment no later than the evening before. That way I could go to a hotel, get a real night’s sleep, and take a shower in the morning. My goal being to look less like a madman than I really am.

Well that’s what I had come up with. It was a plan. It was not a good plan. It was a bad plan. Maybe it was a “plan”. Life is like that.

With a lot of trepidation I turned south from I-90 at Billings (stopping at REI for last minute gear). I remember mumbling under my breath “me and my fuckin’ adventures”.

You know the plan is doomed. You’ll have to keep reading to see how…

I don’t like when “adventures” involve shopping. However, sometimes you need good gear. Luckily, my bike didn’t need much. The essentials remain totally stock and all I added was small details. I’m as impressed as anyone that it worked. I ran that poor beast to somewhere around 9,500’ elevation on a bone stock carburetor! Honey Badger is tough as nails and didn’t give a shit. So long as I kept it in a low gear she’d climb to the moon… at the speed of patience.

Before departure I paid a shop to install handguards. They look cool. I probably overpaid but I like the idea of not breaking fingers or bending levers if I dump the bike. I did an oil change too. I wanted handlebar risers but parts weren’t in stock locally and I had no time to wait. I wanted to change the chain but ran out of time.

I’d been fiddling with cheap aftermarket lights ($35!!!) but hadn’t installed them. In 2023 I wired switches but I hadn’t figured out the light mounts. In desperation, I paid a welder to solve all my problems. I was as surprised as anyone when I flipped switches that have been wired but unused all this time and everything functioned. This was done 3 days before departure.

I’d also wired a super heavy duty cigarette lighter. This was meant to power my air compressor. This would go with the new patch kit I’d acquired. I also bought new tubes. Unfortunately, the tubes were too big to carry. They remained behind in my truck.

I installed a plug so I can use my Noco GB20 to jump start the bike directly. That eliminated carrying jumper clips. During the ride I depleted my GB20 trying to keep my cell phone charged. Good thing I didn’t need a jump (and I can bump start).

I installed a sheepskin. The OEM seat sucks. It’s not a perfect solution but it’s DEFINITELY an improvement.

I bought a Tusk Olympus (Large) tank bag, which was the thing I used most (aside from the lights which were life savers).

My bike has Milwaukee Packouts that stack on the Cycleracks back rack. (Note: I get a small kickback from Amazon if you buy anything. I have no association with Cycleracks at all.) It also has Rotopax containers on hard racks; 1 gallon Rotopax gas can on one side, 1 gallon Rotopax water can on the other side. They’re overkill but I used them anyway. No point in going “light” on water and gas, at least until I’d seen a BDR myself.

The Packouts are glorious for afternoon fun rides but didn’t work well for the heavier packing of multiple days. That frustrated me! With the clock ticking, I purchased Nelson Riggs Hurricane Dual Sport Saddlebags. When the saddlebags didn’t fit over the very wide ass of a TW200 with 2 Rotopax, I called them. They recommended a Velcro extension. I ordered it right away and it did exactly what I needed.

I have a tool tube but didn’t like the high mounting I’d used for years. I paid the welder to weld a mounting plate to one of the Rotopax brackets. This moved it lower and it rode flawlessly.

In something not quite panic but approaching one, I purchased a shitload of tools, components, replacement bits, and other emergency errata. I’ll describe it all some other time. I crammed all that stuff onto my heavily loaded bike. It rode well but I needed almost none of it. Does that mean it was dumb? I don’t think so.

I bought a Zdrag. I didn’t use that either. It felt like overkill but then again I only have to need it once.

Also, solo. Solo changes things.

I tested out my existing tent and it wasn’t going to work. I bought a new tent; that’s a story for another day. I tested a cool sleeping solution that sounded great but it wasn’t good either. I whimpered about the cost but bought a new sleeping bag. The tent and bag were big ticket items for this trip but they did indeed serve me well.

At the last minute I picked up an overpriced REI compression sack. It turned out to be worth it’s weight in gold. I got some thermal underwear too. The elite douchebag at REI insisted on calling it “base” (as if “base layer” is too many letters for the truly enlightened). Also they wouldn’t give me a bag to carry my purchases because Greta Thumberg would cry or something. I put up with their shit when I need the very best gear but I dislike REI in general. The store reminds me of the person who hangs an Ansel Adams calendar on their cubicle and then lectures me (who really goes out in the shit) about “mother nature”.

Buying fancy camping gear was particularly nerve wracking. But it had to be done. If “a million miles from nowhere in Wyoming” isn’t a time for good gear what is?

Mrs. Curmudgeon helped by insisting I get whatever I felt necessary. I think she wants me to live. That’s so hot!

I programmed my Baeofeng handheld (HAM radio) with NOAA weather channels and all the WY repeaters… then left it behind. Not enough room. I loaded navigation gadgets with GPS waypoints. I charged everything that needed charging.

I did absolutely nothing about my riding clothes. I have an Aerostich suit, a cheap but full face helmet, adequate boots, and two pairs of gloves (one nibbled on by mice). That’s what I’d wear to cruise the interstate and it’s what I’d use on a BDR. It’s what I own. It was a bit bulky but otherwise OK.

My truck decided it wanted in on the fun. I dropped a shitload of cash rectifying deferred maintenance for the Dodge. This included a rear brake job. A few days after that “annoying” expense I was rolling down a steep Wyoming mountain pass at 9% grade for miles. The brakes functioned like a boss. Money well spent!

Finally the day came. There was no more I could do in the time allotted. I climbed in my Dodge and rolled out with my TW200 “Honey Badger” perched on the trailer.

I breathed a deep breath. I was more nervous than I’ve been in years. Which was the whole point.

You’re never quite as ready as you’d like.