August 26, 2021

We are on our fourth day of riding the Dalton Highway to Prudhoe Bay and back. Twenty miles from the end, Diana says over our intercom system: “I am over this road!”

So am I, but we have another twenty miles and I am using all of my concentration to focus on the greasy, slick road.

When we finally reach the pavement at Mile 0, she has another comment: “That was the most adventurous, exhilarating, beautiful, and frightening experience I’ve ever had on a motorcycle.” It’s hard to disagree with that.

The Dalton Highway was built in 1974 as a supply road for the Alaska Pipeline. It stretches 414 miles from north of Fairbanks to Prudhoe Bay. Sections of it have been paved, but the majority is still dirt and gravel. You may be familiar with the Dalton if you’ve ever watched Ice Road Truckers on the History Channel. Yep, that’s the road we are on. Our friend Dave, who lives in Fairbanks, has offered to ride with us on his 700 Tenere. He has driven as far as Coldfoot (the halfway point) in a pickup, but hasn’t been north of there. We have spent several days watching the weather, and discussing our best approach. We have decided that we will take four days to do the round trip, spending the night in Coldfoot, Deadhorse (Prudhoe Bay) and again at Coldfoot on the way back down. There is no gas available for 245 miies between Coldfoot and Deadhorse, so we have to carry at least one extra gallon each to cover the gap. As Dave, who is a retired military pilot, reminds me: “You can never have too much fuel unless you’re on fire”. So I opt to carry a two gallon Rotopax container in place of our normal one gallon water container. The gas stops available are at:

Mile 56: Yukon River Camp, just after the Yukon River Bridge, the only bridge across the Yukon River in Alaska. The bridge is a half mile long, paved with wooden planks, and has a 6 percent downhill slope heading north.
Mile 175: Coldfoot Camp
Mile 415: Deadhorse

When I say there is no gas between these places, what I really mean is that there is no anything between these places. It is truly uninhabited wilderness, save for a pipeline following along beside you.

Phil Freeman, author of “The Adventurous Motorcyclist’s Guide to Alaska”, sums up the Dalton Highway like this:
“414 miles of frost-heaves, broken chip seal and grated dirt surfaces, the Dalton Highway has its challenges. On a good day, you can ride it wide open. On a bad day, you can go home in a helicopter. Every year motorcyclists are killed on the Dalton Highway. This road offers the rider the adventure gamut. Almost half of the highway is paved or chip sealed. The other half can be smooth or baseballs. There are relatively no places to stop along the way: no gas, no convenient stores, no McDonalds. There are stretches of up to 245 miles without gas. You are literally riding through pristine wilderness. There are no tire shops or police stations. A wrecker to the Arctic Circle from Fairbanks is a $1,600 bill.”

The Dalton Highway can be a different experience from day to day and from mile to mile. In normal summer conditions, it can be gravel, dry, and dusty, except where the water trucks have sprayed it with water, creating a slick surface. August, however, is not summer in Alaska. August is “rainy season”. Traveling the 414 miles (each way) of the Dalton Highway in the rain can be treacherous with any vehicle, much less a motorcycle. Now add a passenger, and full gear, for a total weight of around a thousand pounds and take off down a greasy, slimy, muddy road with most of the other traffic being 18-wheelers, who own this road, as it is still today a haul road to the oilfields. Add to this a ridiculously bad modification (a high front fender kit on our motorcycle) that basically causes the mud to completely block out the headlight and my helmet face shield, so not only can the oncoming trucks not see us — especially in the fog and clouds of Atigun Pass –, but I can barely see them. Now ride like this for six hours each day. Yes, I am exhausted.

So was it worth it? From a risk standpoint, we probably pushed the limits, though the ride up to Deadhorse wasn’t bad. We had a sit-down meeting each evening to discuss our next move. When we arrived at Coldfoot the first night on our way north, the weather was good, with temperatures in the upper 40s to low 50s, and no rain. The problem, of course, is that because of the nearly 500 mile roundtrip to Deadhorse and back to Coldfoot, you have to consider all weather possibilities and make a decision: if you go north, and the weather changes, you may or may not be able to make it back the next day. The weather systems on either side of the Atigun Pass can be vastly different. Forecasts are wildly inaccurate at best. And this late in the season, we were taking an even bigger risk, because snow was predicted just three days later. We agreed that we would take one section at a time, and turn back if things got too bad.

At the end of dinner and our discussion in Coldfoot, we decided to go for it. There is no reliable weather forecasting way up here. You talk to every trucker that just came from Deadhorse, and you talk to the locals. You look at the forecasts (with a grain of salt), and you decide. We decided our weather window looked good enough.

Day 2

The climb over Atigun Pass was muddy and slick, as it had snowed there just a few days earlier. But the scenery was a great reward for the effort. On the south side of the pass, it is spruce forest and very green. On the north side of the pass, the North Slope begins, and it is tundra. There are no trees whatsoever, but the contrast of the colors of the vegetation against the snow on the mountains is eye-popping.

Here is an excerpt from Phil Freeman and Lee Klancher’s “The Adventurous Motorcyclist’s Guide to Alaska”:
“The road across Atigun Pass is a narrow, hellaciously steep stutter-bump-filled stretch of gravel cut into the side of the mountain and bordered by a rusty, avalanche-battered piece of guardrail. The mountains are steeply pointed piles of black sandstone and shale. Riding through during a heavy rain accentuates the experience, as the sky becomes as dark as the mountains, with rain showers and mist dripping on the land. The whole thing has the feel of Tolkien’s Mordor, a dark, mysterious, and sort of post-apocalyptic place.”

About fifty miles south of Deadhorse pavement suddenly appears. Beautiful, glorious, smooth road. No more potholes the size of my wheels. No more hundreds of potholes in a line. They are still finishing grading the sides of the road, and we are halted, waiting for the pilot car to lead us through the construction. Due to the permafrost, the road here is a challenge to maintain. The state has experimented with several different designs. The current iteration is about a twelve foot elevation, with four six-inch layers of foam built into the base, in an attempt to keep the heat of the road from melting the permafrost.

While sitting in line waiting on the pilot car, suddenly the passenger in the truck ahead of us jumps out. He is wearing hunter’s camo gear. He looks through his binoculars. From where we are, we can see that he is watching a caribou that is crossing from right to left ahead of us, and is about to cross the road. The driver and passenger both reach into the bed of the truck and grab some very high-tech bows and arrows, and begin running ahead into the construction zone. They stalk the caribou for what seems like 20 minutes or so. The caribou crosses the road and seems aware of their presence, at times stopping to look back, then running ahead. The hunters continue to follow the caribou across the tundra. Eventually the pilot car arrives and we head down the road, around the abandoned pickup. Unbeknownst to us, the pilot car will lead us for 38 miles, eventually setting us free just a dozen or so miles before Deadhorse.

We find our lodging (Deadhorse Camp) and check in. Deadhorse is the end of the road, and the reason for the Dalton Highway. Here, eight different oil companies agreed to work together to extract oil and ship it to Valdez, some 800 miles away, via a pipeline. This town (Prudhoe Bay) only exists because of the oil industry. It’s said there are 35 permanent residents here, but 5,000 or more temporary oil industry residents.

Day 3

We wake in Deadhorse to a light mist and near freezing temperatures. Before we head south again, we take a van ride to the Arctic Ocean. There is no public access to the ocean. We are cut off by large oil company properties, so we must be escorted to the Ocean by company security. We are not allowed to take our own vehicles.

After our visit to the Arctic Ocean, we load up and head back towards Coldfoot. The mist turns to drizzle, and the temperature hovers around 40 degrees. The pavement ends and the mud begins. In places, the road surface is predictable and we can run up to 50 miles per hour. In other places, it suddenly turns slick and we have to slow to 20 to 25 mph and tip-toe through. The mud covers my face shield and I end up having to ride with no eye protection. The mud and rain continues to pelt me in the face. It is cold and difficult to maintain more than 35 or 40 mph for more than an hour or so without stopping. We each have about four layers on, plus our riding gear. My heated grips help, but the backs of my hands and my thumbs, along with my face, are freezing.

We make it back to Coldfoot in time for the buffet dinner. I must admit, while it is basically cafeteria food for oilfield workers and truckers, the food is pretty tasty. Of course, I may also be a bit biased because I have been working so hard at trying to stay upright that I am starving.

Day 4

On the morning of our fourth and last day, we wake to more drizzle in Coldfoot. Dave talks to the locals and the truckers, and the consensus seems to be that the road will be muddy but passable. As we are getting gas, a woman in a 4×4 Sprinter adventure van approaches and shakes her head. “Every time I see one of you guys on the motorbikes, I question your sanity.”

“Me too”, is all I can reply.

I have determined that the chain on the bike is worn out, but should make it to Fairbanks. We decide to aim for Yukon River Camp, our last gas stop, and see how we feel. We again get a short break leaving Coldfoot as there is a section of pavement before the mud begins. Once the mud starts, the rain starts also. Then the clouds and fog. It is a workout to go sixty miles at a stretch.

We continue to self-assess as we move closer to Fairbanks, eventually realizing that the “end is near”, and it looks like we will make it without any tip-overs or trip-ending mechanical failures.

The DOT treats the roads with calcium chloride salt, which is used as a binding agent. On wet days, it will not only have you sliding all over the road, but the mixture will stick like glue to every inch of your bike and gear. When it is muddy, it has the consistency of wet pumice. Wiping it off of my face shield is like dragging sandpaper across the shield. It has the same effect on motorcycle parts: by the end of four days, the drive chain is trash; the rear brake pads are completely gone and the brake rotor is scored; Dave’s front fork seals are leaking so badly it’s hard to believe there were ever seals there. I spent $20 at the car wash just getting the big bits off of the bike and our suits, another $100 on replacement face shields, and $185 on a new chain and brake pads.

We have conquered the Dalton Highway in less-than-ideal conditions, two-up on a loaded motorcycle. This nearly 1,000 mile round-trip has been the most abuse I have subjected our motorcycle to. I am concerned about the wear and tear we have caused, but convinced that it will survive the rest of our trip home, at which point I intend to do some major disassembly and cleaning.

I am thankful that Dave chose to ride along. He added a sanity check that helped all of us stay safe, and we enjoyed the time spent together. AnneMarie was also a wealth of information about Alaska, and prepared some amazing meals for us during our time in Fairbanks, both before and after the Dalton (she needs to start a YouTube Food Channel!). We hope to return to Alaska in the future to do some further exploring and spend more time with Dave and AnneMarie.

Our cook and tour guide in Deadhorse might have summed it up, when he learned that Diana and I had arrived both on one motorcycle: “Huh. You don’t see that up here.”

There’s a reason for that…

August 28, 2021

A few days before we left Fairbanks, we received news that our tour in Denali National Park would be shortened by half, due to an increase in landslide activity. And then, yesterday, even more unpredictably, our tour would get even shorter.

Denali National Park is over six million acres. It was created in 1917 to protect the Dall Sheep from over-hunting. There is essentially one dead-end road through the park, which runs 94 miles from the park entrance west to Kantishna. With very few exceptions, personal vehicles are not allowed to travel this road beyond the first 15 miles or so (and then only with a permit). Tour buses and transit buses take visitors the entire distance; the transit buses haul campers and hikers to various drop-off points, while the tour buses include a naturalist who narrates along the route.

Well, normally the buses run the entire route, and that’s what we intended to do when we booked the tour several weeks ago. However, three days before we arrived, the road was shut down at Mile 42 due to increased landslide activity. There has been landslide activity at this point in the road since the 1960s, but the rate of the movement has increased dramatically in the last year. The slide runs under the roadbed, and it used to cause cracks in the road surface that needed repair every two to three years. In 2018 the road began to slump a half an inch per day. This year, the landslide began moving downhill at ten inches per day, and the road slumped three and a half inches per day. The park had to close the road because they haven’t been able to find a solution to keep up with the slide.

With this in mind, we left Fairbanks — in nice, dry weather finally — and arrived at our cabin on Carlo Creek, about fifteen miles south of the park entrance, with the understanding that we would basically be doing the first half of the bus tour, out and back. That was Thursday. Friday was a day off for us, and we used it to do some basic maintenance items.

We decided to retire early Friday evening, as we had to ride back up to the park entrance early on Saturday morning in order to make our 7:30am tour. About 8pm, I looked out the window at the bike. It was snowing. In August. And it continued to snow for several hours.

Fortunately, it let up in the middle of the night, and the temperature stayed just above freezing. When we left for Denali this morning, the view was totally different than when we rode in on Thursday.

We arrived at the bus depot at the park and stowed our gear (we wore most of our gear on the bus, just to stay warm). After the bus departed, our driver/naturalist, Brian, advised us that the road was icy and in bad shape beyond Mile 30, and we might not be able to go beyond that. We were the fourth bus on the road this morning. The scenery was definitely spectacular, especially due to all the snow, and not at all what we had expected.

Just as predicted, at the Mile 30 stop, the dispatcher came on the radio and advised that all buses would be turned around at Mile 30. So our 94 mile tour had dropped to 30 miles. We were disappointed, but still happy to have seen the amazing wilderness.

On our way back to the cabin, we stopped for lunch at Creekside Cafe and Bakery, and had a good laugh. A gentleman was buying cinnamon rolls, and the server asked him what size he wanted, “Alaska” or “Texas”. I almost spit my coffee out. That’s how Alaskans refer to “Large” and “Small”. It wasn’t the first time in the past couple of weeks that we’d been told “Oh, you’re from the second biggest state.” But it was the funniest version.

And then there’s this:

We are headed south again tomorrow morning, closer to what people here keep telling us is “the Alaska you always see in the brochures”.

In February 2016 I rode into the small village of El Chalten in Los Glaciares National Park in Argentina, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mount Fitz Roy. It was raining and the clouds were low, and if I didn’t know better, I would have thought there were no mountains anywhere around. I crawled into my tent that night in the rain, and slept well. The next morning dawned clear and bright, and on the way out of town, I was greeted with this spectacular view:

Today reminded me of that day in several ways. As we left Healy headed towards Anchorage, the rain and snow had stopped and it was bright and clear, with temperatures in the upper 40s and low 50s. About thirty miles south, we began to see the elusive Denali.

You can’t see all the people climbing up from here…probably nobody this late in the year, but I’m no expert. On average, around 1200 people a year attempt the climb, and about ten percent of them complete it. During peak climbing season (late May to early June), the mountain can have between 500 and 600 climbers on it. Last year, nobody climbed Denali due to the pandemic. This year the routes re-opened but the numbers were considerably smaller.

We’re happy that the weather helped out and gave us a beautiful view of the highest peak in North America.

August 29 – Sept 4, 2021

If you’ve been reading along from the beginning (way back in 2015), you may have noticed that I occasionally title my blog posts with a twisted hint of a song lyric. Like this one, thanks to the 1970 James Taylor hit. This is usually caused by having way too much time on my hands while riding along, thinking about my next blog post. I kind of like it though, so I think I’ll try to work in more song references.

It’s been more than ten days since we’ve had enough wifi to post anything, so once again, it’s time to catch up.

We left Denali and headed to Anchorage, basing there for two nights. This allowed us to do a couple of things: the first morning we headed further south to Seward, and boarded another ship for a tour of the Kenai Fjords and glaciers. We couldn’t have asked for nicer weather, after spending so much time in the rain. In Seward it was in the low 60s and clear blue skies. The seas were calm, allowing our captain to take us to places he said he could only go a couple of times a year.

We returned to Anchorage that evening, and the next morning we took another set of PCR tests to allow us back into Canada. We weren’t sure if we could find a lab closer to the border, since there isn’t much along that route (Tok, the closest town to the border crossing, is 90 miles away and has a population of about 1300). We had to time our tests so that we would arrive at the border within the required 72-hour window, yet we were headed to Valdez for a couple of days first, and Valdez is still 350 miies from the border.

After receiving our negative COVID results, we left Anchorage and headed for Valdez. There is no direct route. “As the crow flies”, it’s only 75 miles between the two towns, but by road it’s 300 miles. We got lucky and had decent weather almost the entire way, only catching the rain as we approached Valdez. Then it rained nearly the entire time we were there.

The ride through Thompson Pass and Keystone Canyon into Valdez is very scenic, but there isn’t much in the town itself. There are boat tours out to the glaciers from here as well, and we saw a number of tour buses in town. One bus load of Korean tourists were staying at our hotel. I was curious how it was that a busload of Korean tourists could get into Alaska, since supposedly the US was still closed to foreign tourists. So I asked. It turns out they may be Korean (originally), and speaking Korean, but they live in Los Angeles.

I spent one afternoon removing the skid plate from the bike and scraping more Dalton Highway mud out (probably ten pounds worth). Between that and removing the mud on the rear wheel, I was able to reduce the vibration that I was feeling. While cleaning the bike, a couple of BMWs rode up. Jens and Kelly are from Lake Tahoe, and rode their BMWs up to tour Alaska; their last Alaska tour was on bicycles! We talked for a while before they returned to their campsite on the eastern edge of town.

The next morning we left Valdez in the rain, heading back the way we came and on towards the border. We had discussed spending the night in Tok, as our 72 hour PCR test window would allow us until around 11am the next morning to cross. But it was still fairly early in the afternoon when we reached Tok, and we decided to go ahead and cross the border, and stay in Beaver Creek, an even smaller town on the Yukon, Canada side. As we were getting gas in Tok, Jens and Kelly rode up. They had reached the same conclusion, so we decided to cross and meet up in Beaver Creek.

When we got to the border, there was actually a line of cars waiting to cross (mostly RVs and a couple of 18 wheelers) We were about twelve vehicles back, and it ended up taking about an hour to get through. As we sat in line talking with Jens and Kelly, a couple from Pennsylvania in an RV got out and walked back and started talking with Jens about his BMW GS. Jens said, “you look familiar. Do I know you? Did you ride an older BMW R80GS in Baja a few years ago, and broke down?”

Sure enough, they had ridden together in Mexico. Even in a place as big as Alaska, it’s still a small world.

After crossing into Canada (much easier and friendlier this time), we stopped for fuel and lodging at the 1202 Inn (named, as most things here are, for the milepost on the Alaska highway where it is located). Jens and Kelly chose to pitch their tent (for around US$10 for a campsite with a picnic table and electricity). We decided to splurge and get the “budget room” at US$40. All I can say is the bed was comfortable and the sheets seemed to be freshly laundered. The rest of the room hadn’t been cleaned, repaired, or updated since it was built some 50 or more years ago. It was a little creepy, but it slept just fine. Although the tent probably would have been just as good for thirty dollars less.

We had a great conversation with Jens and Kelly about their travels through Vietnam on two small Honda XR150s, and we introduced them to house sitting (which, by the way, we have three more sits confirmed over the next month, which will thankfully help lower the overall lodging expenses).

The next morning we said our goodbyes. Jens and Kelly headed for Whitehorse, as they planned to continue home via the Alaskan Highway. We turned off at Haines Junction, and once again re-entered the United Staes just north of Haines, Alaska. We thought we were done with the mud for a while, but it turned out there was eight miles of highway missing just before Haines.

We spent the night at the Salmon Run Campground outside of Haines. We were the only guests aside from some family members of the owners. Sadly, they explained that in the past year, they had taken in $1100 total due to the pandemic. Haines is one of those places that is hard to get to when you can’t drive through Canada.

Just north of the Salmon Run Campground is Chilkoot Lake. The last half mile or so of the road up to the lake is beautiful, and is a popular place to watch the bears.

We had the entire next day to relax, as we were boarding the 7:45pm ferry in Haines. This gave us some time to catch up on some things, and interview for yet another house sit in the Austin area for when we return (which we just found out we got!). I can highly recommend the Rusty Compass Coffee Shop in Haines. Great coffee, and free wi-fi.

Although we were in Alaska only a total of about three weeks, we hit a number of the high spots. There is certainly a lot more to see, and I already regret not making it to Kennicott-McCarthy. That’s at the top of my list for the next Alaska trip, along with the Bald Eagle preserve on the way into Haines.

It’s a long ride to Alaska, but there’s a lot to see on the way there, so we might as well do it again some time in the future. Or we could just be tourists, and fly there I guess.

Nah….

September 4-8, 2021

The 1982 Split Enz song was “Six Months In A Leaky Boat”, and that’s the song I can’t get out of my head as we ride off the ferry in Bellingham, Washington. It’s only been three and a half days, and as far as I know, it wasn’t leaking. It was a long four days though. I guess I’m just not cut out to be a cruise ship tourist. I know this wasn’t a cruise, and I’m sure a large part of the attraction for many cruise participants is the buffet. No buffet here. Meals are served on a regular schedule, and a limited menu, and they cost extra. In fact, even a room costs extra; you don’t have to have a room to ride the ferry for four days from Alaska to Washington. You can’t stay in your car, or your RV, but you don’t have to have a room. Patience is a good thing to have, and it’s probably best if you’re not someone like me, that wants to be constantly in motion. I never took up golf for the same reason: too slow. Motorcycle racing? Yes, please. Skydiving? Sure. Ferry = low/no adrenaline ride, at least until the open ocean gets things rocking.

For those who aren’t familiar with the Alaska Marine Highway between points in Alaska and south, here’s a very short version of how it works:

Pedestrians (backpackers, bicyclists, etc) board first. Most, if not all, of these people do not have rooms on the ship. They make their way as fast as they possibly can to the upper rear deck of the ship. Here there is a large covered area with chaise lounges and heat lamps on the ceiling. They throw their backpacks on a chair, and that is their claimed living area for the next four days. Those that arrive too late for a chair pitch their tents on the open deck.

Motorcycles board next. You must tie your motorcycle down, and you must provide your own tie-downs. Oops, I forgot about that. I carried straps on my 250 lst time for just this purpose. This time I have to improvise, and I end up using the bungee straps from our camping bag. They’re not really tie-downs, but they seem to do the trick.

Cars, RVs, large commercial vehicles, etc load next. Those carrying pets are not allowed to take them above the vehicle deck. The animals must ride in the cars the entire four days. Owners are permitted to go down to their vehicles once every six hours or so to let their dogs out of the car to do their business on the vehicle deck. Every dog I ever had would have chewed the seats completely out of the car by the second day out of sheer boredom or nervousness.

The ferry makes several stops along the way. We stopped in Juneau from midnight to 3am, in Sitka, and in Ketchikan for a couple of hours each. You are allowed to go ashore during this time, but we chose to stay on board, as between the odd hours and the short time limit, it didn’t seem worth it.

The first time I took this ferry (from Skagway to Bellingham in 2004), I didn’t get a cabin. And being on a motorcycle, we were too late to claim lounge chairs under the heat lamps. We set up the tent, but ended up lashing it to the railing because the wind was so strong (and there’s no place to drive stakes into the deck, obviously). After one day I put the tent away and ended up sleeping on any available chair or couch inside the lounge areas when possible. Seventeen years later, we spent the outrageous extra amount for a cabin, and spent most of our time there, sleeping. The cabin is about five feet by twelve feet, but that includes the two bunks and the bathroom. So there isn’t really any place to sit other than the bunk. Other than the fact that there is a door on the bathroom, it doesn’t look much different than the typical prison cell.

For the price of the ferry ride (without meals), we could air freight the motorcycle to Europe, and buy two coach class air tickets, and be riding in Europe within a couple of days. I had regrets several times during that four days, wishing we had saved the expense and just ridden back through Canada with Kelly and Jens. But today as we sit in Idaho, we’ve heard that Kelly and Jens are stuck in northern BC due to weather (which was my main concern and reason for taking the ferry). So I guess it was a trade-off of sorts.

At least we didn’t spend six months on a leaky boat. It just seemed like six months.

Fun Trivia Fact: Split Enz’ song was banned in 1982 by the BBC because Britain was in the middle of the Falklands War, and the BBC thought a song about leaky boats during their naval war was inappropriate. Never mind that the song has nothing to do with the Navy, the war, etc.

September 8-11, 2021

We rode off the Alaskan ferry and headed south, back to Coupeville and boarded yet one last ferry across to Port Townsend. After a quick visit at a local coffee shop with my niece, we rode across the top of the Olympic Peninsula, through Forks (famous for a number of things, including the filming location of the Twilight series, and more recently the now infamous attack of a family on their bus in a case of mistaken identity), and on to the Hoh Rainforest. The Hoh is one of my all-time favorite places. It has an other-worldly feel to it, and is so green and so dense that noise is almost completely muted. As we rode the nine miles from the highway to the visitor center, I couldn’t help but hum the Star Wars theme, and I could envision Ewoks on Speeder Bikes racing us through the trees.

Unfortunately, but as we had known all along, the campground was full and there had been no cancellations for the day, so we turned around and rode the nine miles back to the highway, and continued south to Ocean City, Washington, where we stayed in a small cabin (hut?) a block from the beach.

In the morning, we continued a bit further south to Astoria, Oregon before turning east and following the Columbia River to The Dalles, eventually making camp at Maryhill State Park for the night.

In the morning, we awoke to rain on the tent. We packed up and rode in rain the entire day, arriving in Meridian, Idaho that afternoon. It was once again time to change tires on the bike, and we had arranged for tires to be shipped to a hotel next door to a motorcycle shop. The next day I pulled the wheels from the bike, but unlike last time, I let someone else mount the tires. By noon we were back on the road and headed the back way via the Peaks and Craters Scenic Byway to Idaho Falls. We passed through Craters of the Moon lava field before stopping at Atomic City, the home of Experimental Breeder Reactor 1 (“EBR-1”), the world’s first electricity-generating nuclear power plant.

We spent the night at a nice city park (Tourist Park) in Idaho Falls, for $15 a night. As we pulled in, we were approached by a gentleman who said “If all of the sites are taken, you’re welcome to pitch your tent in my site.” He was traveling in a pickup and had a similar sized tent. We circled the park, and found one remaining site. I later walked over and introduced myself, and found out that Michael was traveling similar to us, living out of his Ford truck. He had done quite a bit of world travel, and was interested in traveling by motorcycle. We shared travel experiences before I headed back to our camp.

Not long after dinner, two motorcycles rolled into the campground. Thinking of Michael’s generous offer, I flagged them down and offered space in our site for their tent. Ron and Kevin were from Phoenix and were headed back home after traveling through Montana.

It was good to meet several like-minded travelers and share experiences. We were glad to finally be through Idaho for the last time and headed further east to new places.

September 12-13, 2021

Okay, stick with me here. This song reference is a bit harder to actually tie in, but it stuck in my mind, so here we go.

We had a short day, riding from Idaho Falls to West Yellowstone, actually stopping just short of West Yellowstone at a KOA campground. This gave us a little time to relax, and the weather was a beautiful 66 degrees.

We awoke to 27 degrees. It was a bit chilly in the tent, but another nice day and it quickly warmed up into the 50s again. The west entrance to Yellowstone National Park is one of the busiest, and looked a bit like entering Disney World. There were four or five lanes of traffic extending back into town, and it took a while to get into the park. We had both been to “The ‘Stone” more than once in the past, and Yellowstone wasn’t actually on our “to see” list. We were simply cutting through the northwest corner of Yellowstone to head across the Beartooth Highway.

Outside of the north entrance to Yellowstone is Highway 212, also known in part as the Beartooth Highway. It is a fantastic, twisty climb up to Beartooth Pass, at an elevation of 10,947 feet.

We crossed Beartooth Pass and continued to Greybull, Wyoming for the night. We found a nice campsite in Greybull, and enjoyed the local A&W Root Beer stand across the street for dinner.

So here’s the song tie-in: Key to the Highway (Beartooth Highway, in this case) was recorded by Blues pianist Charlie Segar in 1940, and covered by many different bands since, including the Rolling Stones (as close as I could come to Yellowstone with the Highway). Thus, the Stones and the Highway.

Phew. That was too much work.

Next up: Another musical connection, this time from a movie.

September 14, 2021

From Greybull, Wyoming, we were headed towards the Black Hills of South Dakota. But we stopped a bit short of Deadwood at the Devils Tower. This large rock butte is probably most famous from the 1977 Stephen Spielberg movie “Close Encounters of the Third Kind”. The campground below the base of the tower shows the movie every evening in an outdoor theater that faces the tower, so you can see it on film and you can see it IRL just above the screen at the same time.

I began to wonder, what is it with America’s obsession with the devil and rockpiles? We have the Devils Tower, and the Devils Postpile. Both are in beautiful areas often referred to as “God’s Country”. So what’s up with this?

The 1267 foot tall butte is known by many names, but most locals (Lakota) refer to it as Bear Lodge, and there are many local legends about its’ formation. Many have to do with a giant Grizzly bear chasing little girls. One explanation as to its’ satanic name is that during an expedition in the 1800s, an interpreter for Colonel Richard Irving Dodge misinterpreted the Lakota word for Bear as meaning “Bad God”. Thus Devils Tower.

Devils Tower is America’s first National Monument, having been established by President Theodore Roosevelt in 1906. Spielberg’s movie forever casts Devils Tower in a different role. Now the campground has a miniature golf course with aliens standing watch, and there are “UFO Parking Only” signs.

By the way, the music for Close Encounters was composed by the same person who wrote the music for Star Wars and Jaws, and with whom I share a last name: John Williams.

In the next two days, we will play “Speed Tourist” and visit multiple tourist attractions…something we fairly rarely do.

September 15, 2021

I flash back to that scene from National Lampoon’s Vacation where Clark Griswold is trying to get the family back in the car quickly at the Grand Canyon. His wife says “Don’t you want to look at the Grand Canyon?” and he turns, faces it, nods a couple of times and says “Okay, let’s go.”

Unlike my prior travels, we have sort of settled into a tourist’s checklist of things to see in this area. There are so many things in such a small area that it almost becomes “Speed Touring”. Because we have upcoming commitments, we have two days in which to see a half dozen or so national landmarks, parks, and monuments.

We have intentionally planned this route for a month later than originally thought. Had we not been allowed to enter Canada and gone on to Alaska at the beginning of August, we would have ended up here during that time, which is also the same time of the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally, an event I have worked hard to avoid over the years. Now, as we ride through the Black Hills, there are Harley Davidsons here and there, but nowhere near the quantity, volume or obnoxiousness of that August time frame.

We ride through the Black Hills to Custer, SD, stopping at the Crazy Horse Memorial, before continuing to Custer State Park’s Wildlife Loop, and then on to Mt. Rushmore. These are all places we learned about in school, and are familiar with, but have never visited before now.

By the end of the day, we are surprised at the amount of scenery and history we have viewed, and we are only half way through this Speed Tour Loop. We find a place to wild camp a few miles down a dirt road near the National Grasslands, and have one of the best nights’ sleep of the trip.

September 16, 2021

After a good night’s sleep, we pack up without making breakfast or coffee, because we are headed to a place that has five cent coffee.

From Wall, we head south to the Badlands.

On the way out of Badlands National Park we see three things that catch our attention: The first is a place on the west side of the road that has a big billboard proclaiming “Feed the Prairie Dogs!” This is a bit of a shocker, since we’ve been hammered with signs for days saying “Don’t Feed the Wildlife”. And sure enough, out in an open field, there are people squatting down, hand-feeding wild prairie dogs, and petting them. Two thoughts come to me:

1. I wonder how many people get bit every day?
2. Why hasn’t every prairie dog within a hundred miles moved here?

The second thing we see on the side of the road is this:



I’m old enough to remember the AMF days of Harley Davidson, when they had real quality control issues. Back then it was fairly common to see both t-shirts and bumper stickers that said “If Harley Davidson built an airplane, would you fly in it?” Well, here’s the helicopter version. (Okay, it’s not really a H-D helicopter. It just has a big bar-and-shield on the side in hopes of getting the Sturgis crowd to pay for a ride.)

And the third is this:



These goats were standing in a large, almost perfect circle in a field. We have had many theories since seeing this as to how and why.

Although it requires a bit of backtracking, I’ve been wanting to visit the Minuteman Missile National Historic Site for a while. The visitor center is on the Interstate just north of Badlands. After viewing a very informative movie there, we ride another seventeen miles back towards Wall to view the Delta-09 missile silo. You can’t enter the silo, but they have replaced the top hatch with a glass dome that allows a view into the silo, which contains what I assume is a mockup of a Minuteman Missile. Or at least a deactivated one.




Even Cold War Missile Operators have a sense of humor.



The Delta-09 missile silo near Wall, South Dakota. There are still many active nuclear warheads in the area, and now that we have seen what the silo looks like from ground level, we actually recognize several more of them as we pass by on our way south through Nebraska.




Looking down into the silo at a Minuteman Missile.

After doubling back, we pass through Badlands National Park again and head south to Wounded Knee. The memorial here is not the official US government type, and if it were, would no doubt tell a different version of history. As a kid, I remember being told about the “Battle of Wounded Knee”. However, since that time it has been, um, clarified that it wasn’t a battle as much as a massacre of local people by the US government.

At the end of the day, we camp at Chadron State Park in Nebraska. We have had two full days of Speed Touring, and are now on our way towards Texas.