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For months I had been anticipating a journey across states, regions, and time zones to explore the grandeur of the Rocky Mountains. Now, nearly a month has passed since my return. Now I face a near impossible task: how does one draft such an experience onto a sheet of paper? Can't be done.

Anyone who rides knows that riding is a personal experience. No two rides or riders are alike. My 17-day encounter with the West is relevant only to me. I accomplished everything I wanted on this journey. Maybe this account of my trip will stir others to seek their own adventure.

There is nothing quite like the feeling of waking in the pre-dawn hours to prepare for an anticipated day. Just imagine dividing the cool stillness in the air, zooming along barren roads, watching the morning grey melt from the horizon while the sun rises.

I completely missed all that. Despite all preparations, "stuff" arose, resulting in a 4 hour delay. Oh well, I'll just make the lost time and miles up over the next two days, I thought. So there I was, zooming through spotted rainstorms, refueling and "gas station grazing" every 100 miles, and traveling with Ironbutt persistence. It wasn't until 520 miles later that I stopped to catch my breath just west of Ishpeming.

So far the trip was a rush - the wrong kind of rush. Why was I trying to set personal time/distance records on a diet of Snickers and Gatorade? It was time to scrap the itinerary and start over.

1. No schedule. Wherever I am is where I am supposed to be.
2. No chain restaurants. Every meal must be a one-of-a-kind dish.
3. Accept the bad with the good.

Trudging through the monotonous landscapes of Michigan's western Upper Peninsula, Minnesota, and North Dakota give one a lot of time to think. Not much happened this day, it was a good day for making time.

Beware of the birds in the land of 10,000 lakes. Minnesota has crows the size of small planes. Another bit of advice: on average, 1 in 6 exits in North Dakota have gas stations, so keep a close eye on your gas gage. I once put 3.68 gallons in my 3.7 gallon tank in North Dakota.

Oh yeah, and I crossed the United States longitudinal continental divide at the 277 mile marker in N.D. Yeeeeeeee - Haaa!

Fortunately, I stopped to camp last night when I did. Had I continued in the enveloping darkness, I would have missed out on some wondrous stretches of scenery. The Theodore Roosevelt National Park occupies a great deal of land in western N.D. Spacious, rolling plains suddenly give way to sheer cliffs painted with rainbow bands of white, red and grey/bluish clays. Buffalo freely roam in large herds for miles around. There really is a town called "Home on the Range" in this are. Guess what song was stuck in my head for the next 80 miles?

The moment I crossed into Montana, my eyes scanned the horizon for the mountain ranges displayed in travel brochures. It wasn't for quite a while these Kodak moments arrived. Entering Montana from the east is to experience a grand, barren, stretch of nothing. Temporarily discouraged, I reminded myself I was no longer in Michigan, and that familiar smile of adventure shone once again beneath my face-shield.

Desperately in need of refreshment, I veered onto an ill-kept gravel road leading to a sporadic arrangement of collapsing buildings, a picnic table, and a pick-up truck parked in front of the only building without shattered windows. A weather-beaten sign once proudly read "Ingomar." The finish of the restaurant/general store/bar brought me back to the early 1900's. I enjoyed a sun-brewed ice-tea and learned the history of Ingomar with two gentlemen celebrating their 50th high school reunion. Ingomar was once the sheep-shearing capitol of the world, boasting over two million pounds of wool in their peak years. Although the roads leading to and from Ingomar were less than interesting, I did enjoy the secondary benefits of motorcycling; learning about times and places I would never know about but by chance

Gotta go? The "Bull Pen" is Ingomar bar/restaurant/general store/
just around the corner. post-office.
.
Heading northwest out of Ingomar, the horizon slowly began evolve into a series of dark, grey, jagged lines. Promises of adventure to come. By nightfall, I had made it to Eastern Glacier National Park and found refuge in a hostel. I had gone from buffalo ranges to scrub-grass desolation to plush alpine forests all in one day. And it was all uphill (pun intended) from here.

Day 4 - July 16 Today's Theme: So that's what "range cattle" means...
Miles: no record

Anxious to glide through crisp mountain air, I awoke my trustworthy companion early and throttled along "Going to the Sun" road - a spectacular adventure void of guardrails. Several miles into GNP I encountered a new road sign: Range Cattle. Half a mile later I quickly learned this means free-roaming cattle. Range obviously means "no fences." Guess who has the right-of-way?

GNP is everything people say it is. A description cannot do it justice. Go there.

A full day of riding brought me through the rest of my planned visits in northwestern Montana and into Idaho. My day's stop was a highly-recommended campground on the Snake river, bordering Washington, Idaho's "Hell's Gate National Park." The name "Hell's Gate" is appropriate. The entrance to this national park is marked with black iron bars haphazardly welded. "Hell's Gate" is smack in the middle of suburbia. The main attractions are fishing and boating, not a pastime I could accommodate with my bike. There's even a dusty concrete factory on the other side of the road. If the establishment was trying to emulate a hellish depiction, they succeeded. I wish I could remember who recommended this as a good camping destination. I'll be wiser next time. Just for the heck of it, I crossed the expansive bridge over the Snake River and enjoyed a few miles in Washington before calling it a day.

Laundry day, finally, after 2,500 miles. I was starting to get saddle-sore at this point (not bad for a stock seat). The heat and the miles were taking their toll.

Several hundred miles after Hell's Gate I was skirting among Idaho's Sawtooth Mountains, very appropriately named. The roads traversing Idaho soon redirected my thoughts to the purpose of this trip. There is so much beauty around us if we stop to appreciate it. From the cloud-scathing mountains to a fern-covered forest floor, nature is something to marvel at. Idaho is not filled with occasional moments of splendor, Idaho is one great moment. Again, go there, see it for yourself.

I nearly lost my breath on my way to the next destination, Craters of the Moon National Park. While casually riding, a rather predictable landscape suddenly became interrupted by large, jagged clumps of earth and stone the size of Volkswagens. This new scenery gives one a shrew's perspective of freshly tilled earth. The landscape, however, was anything but soft or dirty. Walking over the ancient lava fields presented the illusion of stomping on shards of broken black glass. Years of human traffic on these former fields of fire have ground lava trails to a fine dust that erupts with every footstep. "Craters of the Moon," very appropriately named.

It was at this park that I met Gary and MaryAnn Zabriskie, motorcyclists from Utah. They graciously invited me to join them for dinner and breakfast. The opportunity to talk with them impressed upon me how solitaire my trip had been thus far. This was the first time since Ignomar I had the chance to discuss things other than where I was from and where I'm going. I look forward to riding with Gary & MaryAnn on future adventures out West.

Day 6 - July 18 Today's Theme: Just what are the effects of radiation sickness?
Miles: no record

After leaving Craters of the Moon, I turned east toward EBR-1 (Experimental Breeder Reactor-1), the world's first nuclear power plant. The 2-hour guided tour was fascinating and a welcome relief. I actually stood on the reactor core that previously housed uranium-235 in a fission chain-reaction. I noticed I've lost a little more hair than normal these past few weeks... At the EBR-1 site, they even dinkered around with nuclear powered jet engines here in the 1950's and 60's. These engines are larger then most modern two-story houses. Admiring the technology of 50 years ago made me marvel at what might be flying around Area 51 these days.

On my way again, this time at a cautious 60 mph when I noticed my reserve fuel supply was due to run out around 10 miles before the next town. Barely rolling into the next gas station, I squeezed 3.8 gallons into my 3.7 gallon tank. Hmmmm.

As of yet, the trip had become a continuing series of climaxes since Teddy Roosevelt National Park. Never a dull moment. The Wyoming Grand Tetons, next on the list, would surely live up to their reputation.

The majesty of these granite spires piercing the blue sky is comparable to none other. With a mere 200 miles on the day's odometer, I decided to camp in Lizard Creek, one of the many well-furbished Grand Teton campgrounds. Although the roads beckoned, the foot-trails throughout the Tetons were even more irresistible.

After a refreshing swim in glacier-fed Jenny Lake, I enjoyed the sights, sounds, and smells of the "wild west" and caught up on journals and postcards. Camping at the base of the towering Tetons quickly humbles a person and all mankind's accomplishments. Our life-spans and accomplishments are very docile when compared to the seemingly ageless Tetons. The skyscrapers we build, the span of our lives, and even the stylish motorcycles we ride...ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Tetons will outlive mankind.

Since I was in the area, I decided to do the Yellowstone loop. The fascinating roads of Yellowstone were surrounded by random columns of white geyser steam in the cool, morning air. A person could spend weeks at Yellowstone and still thirst for more. The diversity of landscapes and natural wonders within 100 miles of northwestern Wyoming are greater than any other place I've experienced in the states so far. Go there.

Back to the roads....true motorcycling paradise! My advise; enjoy them early in the day and on weekdays. I was here on a Saturday in July. By 10 a.m. the roads were overwhelmed with fifth-wheels and R.V's. The going was scenic and relaxed, to put it nicely.

Motorcycling and wildlife - never a good mix (although I wouldn't know from experience). Many people visit Yellowstone to admire the free-roaming buffalo. At one point I had to abandon my bike and seek refuge in a minivan while a herd of buffalo crossed. My bike looked like a lone boulder breaking the current of a wide, raging river of buffalo. To my surprise, not a single tatonka had been curious enough to lick or kick my bike. Fortunately, the dust was so thick they didn't smell the Snickers and buffalo jerky in the saddlebag. That would have been an interesting explanation to my insurance company.

On to Ft. Washakie

After a brief visit (< 4 hrs) of Yellowstone, it was time to make tracks towards Ft. Washakie, WY, where I was to work at an adolescent work-camp for the next week. With the Great Rockies now in my rear-view mirror, and a parched expanse of rock and sage before me, I was heading east for the first time in a long time.

The mesas and valleys in northwestern Wyoming are painted in beautiful bands of red and white. Occasionally, cliffs of deep red clay and stone proudly project themselves. The backroads in this area are dotted with abandoned silver mines and ghost towns. Several heavily barricaded roads indicate mines in search of more precious materials: uranium.

Along the way, I entered the Shoshone Nation on the Wind River Indian Reservation. That's right, a nation within a nation. No passport is needed, but upon entering you become subject to the Shoshone laws and authorities. Many United States laws do not apply here. Over the next six days I had the opportunity to help kids from around the states rebuild homes for the Shoshone people.

While working in the Shoshone Nation, I explored Sinks Canyon, some 40 miles south. This raging mountain stream has been carving into the Rocky foothills for generations. It acquired the name "Sinks" after it was noticed that at one point the water cascades to an underground cavern (100 cubic feet/second), and reappears less than a quarter mile away. Interestingly, the water that goes underground does not reappear until 2 hours later (determined using a dye test), and in much greater quantities. This suggests an elaborate series of caverns and lakes underground, never before seen by human eyes.

The erosion caused by this river is most evident in the smooth, natural waterslides. After a long hike, I was rewarded with a natural waterslide that plunged twenty feet into a calm pool. The swim was quite a reward after the rugged1 ½ mile hike up the canyon. The Sinks Canyon jagged walls are renewed each year when water seeps into cracks, freezes, and dislodges rock. While hiking, be aware for falling rocks and boulders up to the size of cars and small houses.

The Return

Day 15 - July 27 Today's Theme: From smoke to choke.
Miles: no record

At last, it was time to steer towards the rising sun. After two full weeks of hard work and adventure, my mind and body were beginning to long for home. During my stay in Ft. Washakie, 13 forest fires had erupted among the arid Rockies and were rapidly consuming the dry brushlands. The once visible mountain ranges were hidden beneath a shroud of smoke. The air smelt bitter and dusty, and I was glad not to be heading west.

Central and eastern Wyoming are as "western" as I've ever seen. Much of the land is yet to be tamed. Part of me hopes it never is. It was encouraging to see land where roads stretch to the horizon, void of powerlines. Wild horses were skittish and intimidated by my presence. Ant hills can be measured by the cubic foot. Sage and juniper dominate the landscape and permeate the air. This area holds a unique beauty.

On a whim, I turned north and took 20/16 East through the Big Horn Mountains, which turned out to be a National Scenic Byway. What luck! The weather was turbulant as I drifted in and out of clouds along the switchbacks and mountain ridges. Dark, powerful clouds continued to swallow up the mountain tops. I dressed for the occasion of rain, but somehow escaped all the cloudbursts.

This is one road-sign I wish we had back home!

After crossing Powder River Pass at 9,666 feet, I slowly descended (coasting with the bike off) for nearly 7 miles. In the distance lay the Black hills of South Dakota. Although it was still a week before Sturgis, the motorcycles were beginning to outnumber automobiles. I made it to the biker's Mecca, The Devil's Tower, and walked the loop. Pictures or descriptions do grasp its' magnificence. Go there.

I set up camp for the night in Spearfish, a town eagerly anticipating the Sturgis rally. Every store sought to capitalize on the biker festival, selling Harley trinkets and novelties of every description. If there were a JCPenny in the area, I wouldn't be surprised if they chose to market HD blouses and three-piece suits that week.

After a short tour of the town, I dined on a 100% "free-range" buffalo burger. GAG! Judging solely on this experience, I think I understand why buffalo were hunted only for their tongues and hides in ages past.

This is one road-sign I wish we had back home!

This person is one of many scaling "The Devil's Tower" that day.

The Badlands were not all I anticipated, especially after what I had seen in Teddy Roosevelt N.P. I chose not to enter the national park, which was all gravel roads. The scenery is interesting, but nothing that I had not already seen in North Dakota or Wyoming. The Badlands are a good place for making time.

It was at this point I decided I had about reached my limit for adventure. The original itinerary called for a quick jaunt around Lake Superior's northern shore. But after nearly 2 ½ weeks in the saddle, I needed to go home. I still resolved to stay off the highways, but the focus of the quest was now to take the most easterly route rather than the most interesting route.

Blazing through Iowa was no easy task. There was little to occupy my mind with the plethora of corn fields surrounding me. The odor of hog farms was a pleasant reminder I had not lost my sense of smell.

After I had recited "The White Album" and several other albums to pass the time, I crossed into Illinois as the sun continued to sink and fill my rearview mirrors. The sky turned from a light pink to a deep orange, while stars began piercing the growing darkness. I was reminded this would be the last sunset of this trip. So much time and preparation had gone into what I had experienced the past 16 days, and it was worth it.

Several hundred miles later, at 1:47 a.m., I rolled into my driveway. Nearly 6,000 miles of optimum, trouble-free adventure. After peeling my bug-gut crusted leathers off, I showered and slept like a baby. The adventures of the past 16 were more than I'd hoped for. It was the time of my life, but don't take my word for it.

Jeff Hall
Dr. Scooter
US-MI-Grand Rapids