Saturday, October 23rd, 2010
Fluttering to the ground a small blue and white card escaped the clasp of my passport whilst removing it from within my documents pouch. I stood astride Mavis with an air of nerves, which I seem to get whenever crossing a border or entering a country (I don’t believe I’m alone in having this repeated feeling?). “Think you’ll be needing that” exclaimed the Canadian border official, chasing after the piece of paper twirling in the light breeze, her jet black boots stomping it to a halt. The morning was fresh and I’d finally reached Canada, be it a small backwater border crossing, a gateway between Montana and Alberta. “Got any guns?! Mace? Any weapons?!” she barked whilst examining my passport and Social Security card. “No” I replied. “Any bear spray?!” she persisted, almost puzzled by my answer to her last question. Perhaps I was reckless not having such items in my possession? “Any drugs, alcohol, cigarettes?” she continued. “Only a can or two of beer” I replied in turn and pointed to the pillion cases either side of Mavis’ girth. The banter continued, “What’s the nature of your visit to Canada?”. “I’m riding through on my way North to Alaska in pursuit of work”. “What do you do” she asked. “I’m a photographer, but I’m looking to work in the GIS area.” An expression of confusion passed over her face. After further verification of my details inside her small hut I was free to travel onwards.
Go figure I got the third degree, there I was, some Aussie guy, producing an American passport, riding one Hell of a motorcycle sporting Texas plates crossing into Canada from bum-fuck-nowhere Montana in the tourist off season…
Initial nerves of crossing the border were not founded on my alleged possession of illicit drugs, nor a consignment of hidden contraband. Rather, my naive assumption the motorcycle on which I rode would not be allowed to travel any further due to unsanctioned modifications, of which she was covered handle bars down. Her speedo displayed only in mp/h, not the metric kmp/h used in Canada. I was certain in my mind to be pushed back to the Lower 48, only to return when Mavis was up to Canadian automotive standards. I guess after all these thoughts were not unwarranted, she never did get the tick of approval by the DMV back in Austin, Texas…
Open roads of Alberta a plenty, Mavis and I hurled ever closer to what awaited in Alaska. What did await in Alaska? A simple question in form, but in context, complex… A question to be answered by time itself, the memories of which the only foundation and basis on which to compare and recount.
Friday, February 5th, 2010
Rain easing overnight, the sun peered through scattered cloud. Droplets of condensation accumulated on the tents interior. Flicking back the nylon door, dew clasped to my hand sending cool shivers down to my toes, still within the warmth of my down sleeping bag. Plumes of moisture swirled from my mouth with each breath, in the frigid air. Mavis leaned dormant outside the tent, puddles of rain on the black leather seat.
Looking over the foreign surrounds, silhouettes only of familiarity from my late arrival evening past. I fished out a sealed can of mandarine segments from Mavis’ side, pried open the top and plunge a fork into its cool contents, taking a large mouthful of the refreshing fruit.
Strolling to the southern banks of Lake Lewis (within Yellowstone NP) I splashed the icy water to my face and gazed across the glassy surface. No sign of a park ranger within a solid “Coo-wee’s” back at camp, I dismantled the tent and loaded up the bike. Back on the road, bypassing the campsite fee box (oops ;), Mavis and I slithered through Yellowstone National Park in the early morning light.
The day was overcast, scattered drizzle making it difficult to gain enthusiasm for Yellowstone (of which I knew very little, at the time). My helmets visor was officially FUCKED(!) Predominantly from the mud bath of the day before and continual fogging and the fine scratches (caused by the gritty mud), obscured my vision completely! Passing the famed “Geyser basin”, briefly I indulged the tourist within and walked out to a steaming Prussian blue pond. With a limited capacity to mingle with RV tourists, I resumed position atop Mavis and continued out of the park to West Yellowstone.
To the bemusement of a few french tourists, I pulled up in the town of West Yellowstone. Drenched head to toe, I ripped off my helmet and ducked for cover under the easement of a country store as an isolated hail storm passed over. Grabbing a pipping hot espresso, the warmth slowly permeated through the paper cup and thawed the numb in my fingers. My mesh riding gloves truly needed an upgrade, despite proving their worth thus far…
Leaving West Yellowstone with a constant vertical ocean falling from above, I asked myself why it’d taken nearly four months to purchase all weather riding gloves!? The difference between blistering cold, numb fingers and warm and dry cannot be described, only experienced first hand… We raced towards Missoula, Montana making peace with the landscape , the climate changes it threw at us and the ever greater distance between Denver and Mavis’ rear wheel.
An unseasonal warm spell welcomed Mavis and I in Missoula, as too my cousin Max, out from New York for study. Max cooked up a storm upon arrival that evening and entertained me for a solid, unexpected week. We explored the town and surrounds, including the beautiful Snake River and a few “locals only” swimming holes.
Having left Denver and a professed love affair in tears within my arms, my heart deviated from the road less travelled. My mind agonizingly portrayed fanciful images of what could have been if I’d stayed in Colorado East of the Rockies, and not given into the calling of the road and the “Hellish” beckoning of Mad Mavis. Each mile closer to Alaska, was yet another mile further away from Denver. Knowing phone reception would be none existent once crossing over the boarder into Canada until returning back to American soil in Alaska (using a US phone service), I rang the girl in question. The conversation only fueled my desire to return to Denver, which would later prove to be a fatal error in judgment and perception.
Departing Missoula on course for Glacier National Park in the north of Montana, I chartered a course for the “Going to the Sun” road (within Glacier NP) to make my passage across into Canada. The road leaving Missoula hugged the edge of the Snake River for sometime before gradually peeling away. “Huckleberry Pie” stalls stood by on entry to Glacier, and regrettably I did not stop for one, only to consult the map. Dropping my right hand back on the throttle, stepping down a gear, Mavis prepared for the assent of the “Going to to the Sun” road pass (a narrow, twisting mountain pass). Possibly some of the most spectacular scenery either side of the roads carriage-way on the trip thus far as we gradually gained height. Spectacular river gorges with soft falling waterfalls some 100m lapses in gravity, water droplets expelled into the air to form a vertical stream of mist, cascading to the rock-forms below. Wild flowers having a last bloom amongst the alpine grasses before the encroaching harsh winter. Reaching the pinnacle of the pass, Mavis took a rest as I engulfed a sandwich prepared by Max on my departure. Up from the West came a howling front, gusting winds and a menacing cloud formation. I stood atop the apex of the pass and leaned forward into the strengthening gail. Snap went the Canon.
Quickly descending from altitude, the wind kicked up ten fold while the Sun ducked for cover. Passing the sweeping lake within Glacier, large waves wipped up on the surface as the wind strengthened. Trees twisted and bent in the force of the formidable winds. Reaching a campground on the the East side of the park, I stopped and looked for a campsite. The wind so strong, I was unable to dismount Mavis without fear of her toppling over. I stood at the entrance to the campground, legs astride the bike, trying to make sense of the camp information board. “Niiiiice bike! Is that a Honda Goldwing?” exclaimed an aged man getting blustered about by the approaching storm front who seemingly appeared from nowhere, cigarette burning away in his mouth. “Wow! I’ve never seen anything like that” he said in his thick American accent. “ ‘82 ain’t she?”. I humored his banter for some time, before realizing the wind was picking up, and if I didn’t find shelter within the protection of the pines within campground, I’d be spending the night with Mavis laying on my lap, in the open.
Mavis and I made camp under dwindling light. The gentleman who greeted us turned out himself to be traveling on a similar vintage Goldwing also, an “’83 out of Chicago”. He took photos of Mavis and kept chattering away. I listened and agreed. “These old Goldwings are amazing. They have a mind of their own. A life presence if you will”. I could only agree from personal experience as he continued. “The day I was supposed to leave on this trip, a huge storm came over Chicago. I thought about waiting it out, but then just decided to take my chances. The bike and I made it through the storm and it was the best decision we made. If we’d stayed in the city, that bloody storm lasted half a week”. He continued on, I too continued to agree. “ There’s just something special about these bikes. You’ll think they’re toast, then all of a sudden, they’ll spring back to life, almost as if they have a life of there own”. “Yes, exactly!” I replied, thinking back to Texas, Vegas, Colorado and all the rest of the trip Mavis has had a mind of her own. “”Yes? Exactly” what?!” the guy from Chicago exclaimed! “Yes I agree with you. You’re right, they do have a mind of their own. Especially Mavis, and by the sounds of it, yours to! I thought Mavis was special, unique”. I said. “Perhaps its just a common thing for this era of bike?” He didn’t take to this, and with that retired to his camp, reconnaissance mission complete with images of Mavis’ sweet digs taken under the cover of darkness.
Saturday, December 26th, 2009
With a light drizzle starting to quantify, the Wyoming roads before us glossed over with a shimmery wet shine. The ping of rain drops against the helmets outer shell made a rhythmic chorus of percussion. Sights were set on reaching the interior of Yellowstone National Park on the border with Montana by sundown. Making what was thought to be good time, Mavis was given a rest from the thrashing of days prior. Across the plains we traveled, gradually once more returning to altitude within the Teton Range of the Rocky Mountains. Hitting Jackson, Wyoming (also know by, Jackson Hole) we rode into town, a swarm of traffic engulfed us as we searched the bustling street for a petrol station. The town was most definitely worth the time to stop, look and explore, but with the ever common lack-of-funds setting up “base camp” within my bank account and a falling sun, a decision was struck to grab a quick bite to eat and depart for a campsite within Yellowstone.
Passing the Teton Range and more notably the peak of Grand Teton, the pure majesty of the mountains threw me from Mavis (theoretically speaking). Such unanticipated natural grandeur bestowed a sense of humbleness to myself and the motorcycle on which I rode.
Onwards we rode to the sounds of thunder claps and flashing bolts of lightning striking the ground before us. Trying to capture this moment on film, I reached forward and pressed the shutter button atop the camera mounted to Mavis’ side. The rain soon followed which is to be expected following such dramatic weather as we entered what was thought to be the entrance to Yellowstone National Park. Ahead either side of the road, thick forest interspersed with shallow clearings, revealing glimpses of cascading rivers. Icy rapids tumbled one over another in a race against gravity. Snow capped peaks jutted out above the trees. A few more miles down and the road narrowed to where a small ranger hut stood. “Welcome to Yellowstone”. Unbeknown to me, the Grand Teton NP boundary extended further north before smashing into the great Yellowstone NP.
Light started to escape the day as a large illuminated sign read “Roadwork ahead. Expect long delays”. Further north and I soon pulled up the rear of a line of cars. Workman and plant equipment busied about on the road-surface. A small truck pulled in front of the lead car as I stretched my legs and jumped about. “Pilot car. Follow me” read the back of the work utility as its amber lights pulsated. Like a freight train exiting a siding yard, one-by-one the cars before Mavis pulled away as I hurried to replace my helmet and gloves and start up the bike. The pilot car picked up pace while the sealed road disappeared below, replaced by slick mud, loose gravel and potholes. Vision soon became impaired as the road relocated to my visor and the rest of my body, Mavis’ headlight and my mesh gloves. Unsuccessfully I tried to wipe the mud and grime free of view which was quickly replaced with more in it’s place. Frustrated yet happily bemused, I flipped the visor up and placed my left hand in front of my nose to protect my exposed face from the grime while my right worked the throttle and steering. No time to stop, nor slow down, the mud kept coming while my eyes blinked rapidly to stave off the foreign matter. Five odd miles later the sealed rode returned, the pilot car pealed away and the line of traffic resumed cruising speed. Covered head to toe in mud, I laughed, smiled and then hit myself for thinking riding without a front fender was oh so cool. Crossing a small bridge, I turned off and rode down to a rivers edge. I rinsed what I could free from my gear and splashed the cool water over my face. The helmet visor was completely ruined, small scratches and a light film obscured my view. With nothing else that could be done, I resumed my hunt for a campsite for the night further deep within Yellowstone National Park.
Tuesday, October 13th, 2009
With a black smear of road surface under toe and the swirl of engine noise humming within my helmet, Mavis pulled me west away from Denver. Split emotions churned in my mind as I left new friends and the city behind. It felt as if ten thousand elastic bands were attached to my back, pulling me off Mavis and back to Denver. With each mile we traveled west, another band would snap until finally all that remained were loose ends flapping in the breeze.
Unplanned yet on a mission to reach Alaska before the falling snow, we raced over the Rockies towards Utah. Rolling through the Rocky Mountain National Park, Mavis’ electrics started to play up. First the indicators, then the brake, then the front headlights. I stopped and fiddled around. Finding an alternate solution to the faulty headlight switch, I rewired the headlights direct to a 12V source that came on with the turn of the ignition key. The indicator fault was due to a loose connection and with a spray of WD-40 and some tape, came up trumps. The brake light just seemed not to work, but after much deliberation as to the problem, resumed functionality.
First night away from Denver in two weeks, I sat amongst wildflowers by a lakes shore high in Grand Mesa. Staring at the reflection of a full moon glistening on the smooth surface I delved deep into thought, searching for the motivation to submit myself to such an adventure as the one currently taking place. Having met such incredible people along the journey and seeing such magnificent places, the recurring questions I ask upon myself is why keep moving on? In pursuit of what? But within the questions lay the answers, as if one stays stationary and enjoys the surrounds and comforts of the familiar, the foreign is never found nor experienced. And without the exploration of the unexperienced and foreign, new sensations would not be obtained, nor felt and the power of the familiar would be lost. I throw a rock in the lake and watch as the ripples disperse outwards to the waters edge making a faint lapping sound on the rocky bank.
Waking the next morning to the sounds of a park ranger “knocking” on my tent fly. “Anyone home in there?” he asks. I roll over and pretend no one is. He persists and eventually I open the tent door. As I’d ‘forgotten’ to pay the required campsite fee, the gentlemen was just trying to obtain payment for the night. Fishing around in my wallet, I produced some scrunched bills and hand them his way. We spoke a little and he asked where I was heading. A look of horror glazed over his face as I told him I was on my way north to Alaska. “It’s a bit late in the season for that isn’t it? You’re going to freeze on that bike. You know where you should be heading?! Lake Apache in Arizona. I used to work down there. There are two sisters, the Schuster sisters. They own the marina, just tell them I sent you and I’m sure they’ll give you a job.” The heat of Arizona verse the cold of Alaska did have a considerable amount of appeal.
Browsing the map I contemplated the potential shift in direction. Fixing some breakfast thoughts bounced around my head like a rubber ball in a glass sphere. Should I stay close to Denver? Was Arizona a place for me? Would Mavis and I actually make it to Alaska? All valid questions, none of which I could answer satisfactorily at the time. I packed up camp and got back on the road.
Rolling down into Delta just south west of Grand Mesa, I found myself torn as where and what to do? Alaska was such a distant reality, obtainable only by self realization and inventive uses of limited resources. $300USD in the bank, a maxed out credit card and a thirsty motorcycle eager to go the distance. The sun was gleaming on that day as I came to an intersection. Head south back down to Arizona and call it quits for the winter, or turn north and brave the unknown and the unexplored. As these thoughts crossed my mind, to my right a Union Pacific freight trundled along, mustard yellow box cars trailing behind brushing past corn fields swaying in the light breeze. A maroon pickup truck overtook me on the left as a cattle dog in the tray, one blue eye, gazed into mine. A bumper sticker on the rear of the cabin window read “Think positive thoughts”. Alaska was my destination, and no matter how poignant the distractions I was to encounter along the road, Alaska was the goal, and nothing less would do!
With the recently publicized motivation found off the rear of the pickup truck, Mavis and I hurled along I-70 towards Moab, Utah. Not so much a direct link in the chain to Alaska, but a desired destination to explore. Arizona, Denver and all the alternative options were now a distant thought. Mentally drained with a sore bum to boot, we turned south off the interstate and headed towards Moab. Arches National Park was a priority visit after missing the opportunity to explore the rock formations on my way east from Las Vegas to Denver nearly a month earlier. Large red stained “flat top” formations encroached on the roadway as we neared the town. Within Arches National Park we rode, exhausted and lacking enthusiasm for it’s natural beauty. B-lining to the Delicate Arch, I parked the bike and walked over for a glimpse of the famed rock. The hype of the formation truly outweighed its splendor. “Snap” went the Canon and a frame was exposed. Getting back on the bike, I pulled the throttle back with force, Mavis roared and we sped off away from the park.
Up Hwy 128 we blazed, along the Colorado river the road weaved and cornered. The 40 odd miles of the Hwy were amazing, with a spectacular 360degree Utah horizon view, something previously only seen and experienced in cartoons and images. The red cliffs leaned inward on the road and river as Mavis reached speeds of 100mph! Frustrated, but without reason, I slowly calmed and regained composure. Perhaps the feeling of the unknown and the formidable battle between want, necessity and desire to reach my set goals was taking its toll.
Racing against the sun and the seasons, Utah brushed past as we headed north along hwy 191 towards Jackson, Wyoming. The chosen route was a perfect riding road, plenty of corners and not much traffic. The Sun dipped below the horizon and Mavis’s skull lights flickered on the road ahead. Tailing a car in front with the notion if a deer or other large game animal were to wander onto the road, the car in front would take the brunt of the force leaving Mavis and I safe to continue on. “Open Range” cattle proved to be the more unpredictable obstacle, as the car in front and I encountered on numerous occasions. Thankfully with only close encounters.
Giving up on reaching Wyoming that evening, I choose to rest the night by a lake in northern Utah just off the main route. Eventually finding Starvation Lake State Park, we made our way in. Skipping the self paying fee box in the shadow of a lone street lamp, we bumped along the dirt road. Unable to find a campsite, due to the darkness of night, we circled around for some time. Turning off into what looked like a nice spot, Mavis’ rear tyre suddenly sank into the loose sand under wheel. I stuck both feet out to prop the bike up and shoved back on the throttle. Sand flew up and out the back, illuminated by the red running light. Gradually with an increased heart rate, we inched forward to harder ground, leaving a deep channel behind. Setting up the tent under yet another clear sky, I flipped back the tent fly and lay watching the stars above.
The following morning I woke to a beaming sun and a beautiful, crisp clear lake. Jumping straight in, I flapped about for a while before deciding to get on the road. Fixing a cup of green tea I packed up the tent and riding gear. In hurry to nowhere fast, we pulled into a petrol station to fill up. Mavis gulped up a few gallons of gasoline and I downed a fountain cola in a paper cup and a blueberry muffin. Within an hour, a sugar headache kicked in and my head throbbed and ached inside the confines of the helmet. Passing by the archaeologically rich fossil country in Utah’s north east corner, we crossed the border over into Wyoming.
Having filled up the petrol tank to the brim back in Utah, and knowing I could get close to 200miles on one full fill-up I did some calculations and figured I’d not need to refill until reaching Pinedale, Wyoming some 190-200miles north. Across the blustery Wyoming landscape we raced. 80mph and we still didn’t seem to be making ground. 90mph and things started to feel progressive and upwards into the triple digits Mavis pushed. A recently constructed new road surface provided the perfect proving ground for Mavis to challenge the land speed record. Caught up in the moment, it slipped my mind our fuel economy was burning away with every mile. Rain and thunder clouds brewed to the north west and a headwind picked up force. A road sign read “Pinedale 10miles”. Oh boy it was cutting it fine, but I knew we could do it. A little further down the road and Mavis lost power! “Oh fuck” I yelled to myself. Simultaneously I glimpsed up the hwy. A petrol station seemed to appear out of nowhere as we rolled off the road. Mavis gave a last puff of power and the engine cut out. With the momentum we already had, I effortlessly pushed the bike next to the pump. I jumped off and smiled. The feeling of running out of juice just as you turn into a petrol station is a great pleasure in life.
Tuesday, September 29th, 2009
Stationary, but not without motion, Denver was in need of rest from Mavis and I, as too were we. Looking on the map trying to figure route plans north into Canada and onwards to Alaska, Badlands National Park in South Dakota kept popping up. With a bike like Mavis and a park name like that, the two were made for each other.
Unwilling to sever ties with Denver completely, nor the lovely Ladies to which it was home, a plan was struck to head north into Nebraska, up to South Dakota, across to the Badlands then loop back into Wyoming before eventually winding up down south in Denver once more in a week. Just in time to partake in a rafting trip on the Colorado River.
With the destination chosen, I waved goodbye to Denver, letting the wind brush past my scuffed weathered jacket as the sun shone and the feeling only the open road can give, resumed top priority in my mind. We hurled along the interstate, eager to turn off to a lesser road and enjoy the landscape of shoulder high corn and recently cut wheat fields at a slower pace.
Stopping for lunch at a small farm town Stirling, Colorado I rounded the main street finding a pub on the corner with a little beer garden out front. Dismounting Mavis, I grabbed the map and found a seat. An aged man in his late 50s, a cane in one hand and a pack of smokes in the other pushed his way through the door and stepped outside as I sat smudging my fingers over the map. Pulling one from the pack, he palmed his pocket and produced a lighter and struck up a flame whilst pacing over in my direction. We got chatting after Marty asked about my “keg” on the back of the motorcycle (referring to my fuel tank, which has a recent addition of a couple”Odell Brewing” stickers, furthering the notion it looks like a beer keg). Asking where I was heading Marty threw in his two cents as to what route I should take, what bars to stop at along the way and who to say ‘hi’ to at them. He’d grown up in farming towns in Nebraska, as I was told and seemed to know what he was talking about in regard to them. He scribbled a few “hot tips” down on a peace of ruffled paper from a pocket and handed it my way, wishing me luck on my trip.
Gradually permeating Nebraska’s vast interior, cruising the peaks and troughs of the undulating plains we made good ground en route to South Dakota. Some have said Nebraska to be dull, boring and repetitive. I somewhat can relate to what they may speak of, but Nebraska definitely grew on me. The beauty of it’s landscape, although at times mundane, was also just as interesting and unique as any other place I’ve visited to date, in it’s own way.
Hindering to the advice of Marty, I bypassed the Box Butte Reservoir Recreation area of which I planned to spend the night and continued further north to Chadron, Nebraska. Eventually we reached a State Park camping area just outside of town, but I was dissatisfied to its proximity to the hwy. Glancing once more at the map a few other campgrounds were located nearby. Another State Park just down the road felt more like a motel, with a check in desk, gravel pits to pitch the tent and $25 for the pleasure to do so. Quickly we exited the town and continued on along the road. A 100 odd miles further north, Wind Caves NP was located and this seemed like a good option to pitch a tent for the night. The sun quickly set and it seemed as if we’d been riding forever. Eventually we saw light of a petrol station and turned off the road to fill up. After paying our way, I reached into my pack and found the map. We’d traveled an extra 50miles north of the turnoff and now were truly in South Dakota. The night was getting cold as the mist started to set in. I decided to try one of the many campgrounds listed on the map within the Black Hills, Custer State Park to our West. In we drove under the cover of darkness. Mavis’ eyes shining little light on our path. Campsite after campsite, they were either full or reserved. My visor started to fog and site of the roads edge was lost. I cursed and continued riding. Nothing could be done but to continue until a place to rest was found for the night. An hour or two later, we ventured into one of the last unexplored camping areas. The place had ample room and I set up the new tent in the dark.
Waking the next morning to the sounds of gunfire, I knew I’d now reached South Dakota. A chipmunk decided Mavis was the perfect vantage point as I fixed some breakfast before setting out for the day. Bellies full off we raced eager to reach Sturgis before veering East to the Badlands. Deciding earlier that if I weren’t to go to the motorcycle rally, I’d at least go to the town, and I did need to replace a balding rear tyre also. The day started off pleasant as we cornered our way along with blue sky’s and a warming sun. A late change brought with it showers. At first light, but gradually as I rushed to put my wet riding jacket on, light hail, then full blown downpour and gusty winds. Coming to an intersection, the sign read “Sturgis North, Rapid City East”. I figured I could go to Sturgis on my return and Rapid City was a more direct route to The Badlands.
The rain persisted, as did the stream of road wash into my face. Reaching Rapid City it was time to re-provision before heading out east. I asked the check-out-chick at the Supermarket what the forecast was and told her where I was heading. She explained that if the weather was bad right there in town, it would be much worse further out in the plains to the East, especially over at the Badlands. With the suggestion to stay in town a day or two, a campground was found just outside of town with a shower and laundry.
Overnight the rain eased a little, but the ground was still damp along with the outside of my tent. After cramming everything back into its place, strapping on the bike a quick feed was in order before we were ready to go, back on the road and heading East. Choosing against the interstate, we hurled along the lesser highway which would take us to the south entrance to the park. An hour or two later and the Badlands NP was insight. As instructed by the sign, we turned down a dirt road. Prairie dogs a plentiful, we passed along the road, followed by a cloud of dust. Four Vultures sat on a fence. A rattle snake slithered across the road narrowly being run down by Mavis. I knew we’d finally reached The Badlands.
Peeling away my helmet for the ride through the park, strapping it to the back, I tied up my bandanna and turned back onto the road. Mavis quickly died and limped to a sudden stop. I jumped off and poked about. Noticing a loose battery contact I gave it a jiggle. It seemed to do the job and we got the wheels once again rolling.
Two campgrounds within the park, one free the other not. I opted for the freebie. Fifteen odd miles later of dirt and loose gravel, Mavis held up her end of the bargain, and despite her less than treaded tyre, performed rather well. On approach to the campground, I noticed a lone Bison milling about in the long grass. Stopping by the roads edge I snapped away on the Canon. Sitting down for a quick bite to eat with some “Buffalo Salami” (purchased from a local supermarket), cheese and tomato sandwiches I found myself amongst a migrating herd of the beasts within the campground. The sandwich didn’t taste the same so I cracked open some vino to wash it down.
A day or two passed and it was time get back on the road. Camp packed up we braced for the bumpy ride out of the park. It was finally time to head to Sturgis via the interstate and Wall in South Dakota. Reaching Wall, we stopped off at the somewhat famous “Wall Drug” to get a breakfast feed. Upon completion, and a little wander about the historic Western town, I found Mavis and threw on my helmet. A young boy raced over holding something in his hand. “You left you’re knife back at the campground” he said, handing my pocket knife, a gift from an uncle back in Portland.
We made Sturgis by late afternoon after a blustery day’s ride via the Mount Rushmore National Monument and the Needles Hwy in the Black Hills. The town was horrible and the only thing going for it was I guess the annual motorcycle rally. Some nearby towns made up the discrepancy in charm as we headed off towards Wyoming.
We raced through the long open roads of Wyoming. Breaching the Century mark by considerable digits (mph) Mavis’ tachometer cable snapped under the speed of the strained RPM’s whilst we whizzed by multiple cars . After all the ‘pussy footing’ about on the way up in regard to camping spots, a decision was struck to head back into Nebraska and hit up the Box Butte Reservoir after all. At one point I felt like the guy on the push bike in “Paperboy” the arcade game. Tumble weeds from the plains bolled about onto the road in front of me as Mavis swerved and dodged them with the agility of racing bike.
Setting up camp to a retreating sun, the cotton wood trees above rustled in the light breeze. I lay on my back atop a picnic table, clear Nebraskan nights sky above and pondered life’s path, stars shimmering away. The following morning, direction less for the day, I fixed a cup of tea in an old tin can and browsed the map. I felt like staying another night by the lakes shore, within the grove of trees. As this thought was struck, the trees above started to rock and sway with a sudden increase of wind. Something didn’t feel right and I decided to leave. Not more than a minute after packing the tent away, I heard a cracking above. A large limb from a tree feel through the branches below and came crashing down to the ground where once my tent lay!
Two and half thousand miles later and I returned to Denver. Mavis’s rear tyre was now a black bald slick and a short rest was needed. A fresh Colorado River rafting trip on the weekend made for a nice break from all the riding.
