…each one offering new knowledge. Or a route to conquer new lands. Maps get at the fundamental question of “where is this place in relation to everything else I know?” Or answering the question ‘what do I want?’ in the case of kings (actual and would be, wink, wink, nod, nod) and conquistadors seeking new lands to conquer.
My earliest encounter, as I remember, was with the colorful US state map puzzles in elementary school. In figuring out the spatial relations of states borders with their identities, geography was revealed. Classroom globes and Nystrom pull-down maps gave me a sense of the scale of place. It was also around that time when a subscription to the National Geographic magazine introduced maps with their rich colors and cultural details. I also learned that Greenland is not larger than the African Continent once the Mercator Projection illusion was explained.
Then came California State Automobile Association maps that guided my fledgling journeys from the nest as a newly licensed driver.
Around that time, topographic maps of the Sierra became the next oracle at whose feet I spent hours in the off-season exploring potential backpacking adventures for the summer. From learning how to use a compass for navigating crosscountry routes, and as I developed a love of sailing, marine charts taught me to read water the way the backpacker reads terrain and how a compass heading would get me safely from point A to B on land as well as water. A collateral effect to marine maps was to avoid submerged hazards or wayward currents in the Central Coastal waterways of California, since boats with holes in the hull don’t float very well.
There was a time that whenever traveling I went out of my way to find sources of maps whether at gas stations, visitor centers, bookstores, marinas, or any other map wielding enterprises I might encounter, anticipating yet another magically satisfying guide to my curiosity about the world.
My favorite daydreaming map from ravenmaps.com
60/40 the “Golden Ratio”
Whenever I read about an unfamiliar place or see such a place in a YouTube video, or on television, or come up in conversation, I always seem to open Google Maps to see that place in the context of geography and topography. It’s generally the story in the piece about the place that leads me to look up that particular spot. As I’ve come to expect rapid change in the evolution of technology, Google Earth and Maps, presented a whole new way to satisfy my curiosity of a place. I go to Google first to get the big picture. I’m really trying to read a place, not just locate it. I sort of see a 60/40 split between the context of a place and its location on a map.
Each view in the Google cartography catalog is like a different chapter about a place in context. Satellite view gives us the ground truth—the actual colors and textures, the patterns of development or wilderness, how light or dark it is, whether it’s green or brown or white. We can see things like agricultural patterns, the density of settlement, the relationship between built and natural environments. Terrain view tells us the story that gravity tells—where water flows, what’s difficult to cross, why settlements are where they are, what views people might have. It’s the view that the backpacker and sailor in me probably gravitates toward instinctively, because I’ve learned to read consequences in contour lines. And the Standard view gives us the human overlay—the names, the roads, the political boundaries, the infrastructure. It’s the interpreted landscape, the one that shows us how people have organized and named and connected things that makes up the context.
Using all three together, I’m essentially triangulating—getting a more complete picture than any single view could give me. I’m catching things like: “Oh, this town that sounded random is actually at a mountain pass” or “This coastal city has a natural harbor that explains everything about its history” or “These two places that seem close are actually separated by serious terrain.” It’s almost a form of due diligence before my imagination fully commits to a place. It’s like I need to see it from multiple angles before I really know it. Thanks also to Wikipedia et. al. for providing further context.
Cartographic Curiosity
That reflex to open Google Maps when I encounter a new place name—I think that’s the same cartographic curiosity in my past experiences with maps, just a bit more evolved. I’m not just passively receiving information about a place; I’m actively situating it, understanding its neighbors, seeing how it fits into the larger puzzle, but not as confusing as the four corner states in that elementary puzzle. It’s a form of engagement, really. Different map types have probably shaped different aspects of my curiosity. The topo maps from backpacking taught me to read landscape in three dimensions on a two dimensional plane, to anticipate what’s around the bend. Marine charts taught me about hidden geography—the shapes beneath the surface that matter just as much as what’s visible. Each type of map is almost like learning a different language for understanding a place.
For bicycling and motorcycle adventures, Plotaroute and Rever deliver both planning and real time features of tracking terrain. Interestingly, Butler Motorcycle maps are a throwback to the AAA roadmaps of yesteryear (although AAA roadmaps are still available and updated from their predecessors). Butler maps differentiate between different types of road criteria (road undulation/twisties, elevation change, scenery and peril) in the traditional folding paper maps, albeit in waterproof and tear resistant forms. From the Rever (in collaboration with Butler Maps) website: The recommendations are illustrated on the map by color-coded overlays indicating the quality and/or type of road. Those are illustrated as follows:
As you can see, the Butler/Rever collaboration offers the benefits of using an app in real time on the moto rather than stopping to drag out and unfold a paper map, which in the wind presents challenges of a different sort.
The Butler Paradox
I use Butler Motorcycle maps in planning my “moto-adventures” along with digital and other resources. I’ve written about them in my blog, sisyphusdw7.com using the maps in the context of their rating system of roads as G1, G2, and G3 and my parodying them by rating some blasé road out of Huron, California on which a blind intersection or straight away sight lines obscured by rolling hills and impatient cagers, speed-drunk, make for peril that Butler chooses to define a little differently. From my blog, 2021 Spring Mojave Moto: To See a National Park Devoted to a Tree…:
Pouring over Google satellite views of our intended route was subordinate to the Butler Motorcycle Maps criteria of Lost Highways and PMT’s (Paved Mountain Trails) and G1-3 routes. These byways are also a throwback to the roads I’ve pedalled over in another time and place and that I’m trying to reprise on the moto before riding off into the sunset.
“A Butler Lost Highway [is one] of faded center lines, crumbling shoulders, and long lonely miles putting these roads in a category of their own. These are the roads that seem lost in time. It is what these roads lack that make them worth the journey.”
“A Butler PMT sweeps through the remote forests and mountain ranges of California that are paths of pavement that leave even the most seasoned riders searching for ways to describe their riding experience. These roads are exceptionally tight and twisty and other unique opportunities to explore the less traveled corners of California.”
Those descriptions are from the editors of Butler maps. I’ll add the first of a few more categories of my own, the Jones PARoC‘s (Paved Ag Roads of California), or, “Two lane roads astoundingly arrow straight with right angled intersections bordered by crop obscuring sight lines and stop signs, double yellow line disregarding, pucker inducing, impatient cagers of questionable sobriety trying to pass anything with ≥ 2 or ≤ 18 wheels.”
My parody ratings, PARoC’s (Paved Ag Roads of California) highlight what Butler Maps don’t show—the agricultural hazards, the blind intersections hidden by orchards, the deceptive rolling hills where you can’t see what’s coming over the crest. A perfectly straight farm road could be a G3 in the Butler system but a terror rating in the Sisyphus system if it’s got dust-covered blind corners and ag equipment pulling out unpredictably, which in the agricultural heartland of California, is a year round hazard, as are speed-drunk cagers. These PAROC’s are theG-ratings for anxiety rather than joy. A perfectly straight farm road could be a G3 in the Butler system but a terror rating in the Sisyphus system if it’s got dust-covered blind corners and ag equipment pulling out unpredictably or oncoming cars passing slow moving trucks.
The Paradox Explained
On a recent episode of The Lowdown hosted by Neil Graham The Best Motorcycle Ride in America, Scott Calhoun, a co-founder of Butler Maps, told the origin story of this tool I, like thousands of other riders rely on. I better understand how they decided what made a road a G1 versus a G3, what criteria mattered, how they balanced twistiness with scenery with pavement quality with traffic. Butler Maps are really selling a curated experience, aren’t they? They’re not just showing you how to get somewhere; they’re saying “these are the roads worth riding for their own sake.” The map becomes aspirational—a collection of possible adventures rather than just routes.
While my blog may be a shameless imitation, my integration strategy is straightforward—using Butler roads as the backbone or highlight reels of longer journeys, the sections I’m actually looking forward to rather than just enduring to get somewhere. A G3 road isn’t necessarily “better” than a G1—it’s just different. A newer rider, someone on a heavy touring bike, or someone who just wants a scenic cruise without technical demands might specifically seek out G3s. Meanwhile, the experienced rider on a nimble bike looking for that flow state of linked corners gravitates toward G1s. And G2s are that sweet spot—interesting enough to be engaging, but not demanding your full concentration on every curve. Aristotle would recognize it: the mean between extremes, neither a boring slog nor a white-knuckle terror.
The fact that I’ve chronicled a couple dozen of these multi-day, multi-state rides on my blog suggests I’ve become something of a cartographer myself—documenting not just the routes but the experience of riding them, occasionally noting when Butler’s assessment matched mine, when conditions had changed, and what I discovered that the map couldn’t show.
Into the Unknown
There’s also the aspect of using a map as a security blanket in planning any outing, whether on foot, a bicycle, motorcycle, (BTW, I’ve catalogued dozens of rides on Plotaroute, Rever, and Google Maps with links on my moto blogs), or a sailboat on the bay, basically, any adventure into the unknown. It’s nice to have a preview of what awaits and some degree of preparedness for the inevitable, unknowns. Maps don’t eliminate the unknown, there will always be unknowns, but they shrink them to a manageable size. You can see the big climb coming, know where the water crossings are, anticipate when you’ll be exposed or sheltered. It’s not about controlling everything; it’s about not being blindsided
A dramatic coastline or mountain range can grab you on its own merits. That’s the 40% of a map’s utility I noted earlier. The geography itself poses questions about how it formed, what it’s like to be there, how people navigate it. But that 60% of a map’s utility, context, means the stories attached to places are what really animate them for me. A town becomes more interesting when you know it was the setting of some historical event, or that someone you’re reading about lived there, or that it’s mentioned in a documentary about a particular way of life.
Shrunken to a manageable size
Those two elements probably feed each other, don’t they? The context makes me look at the map, and then the geography adds new dimensions to the story. You hear about a remote town in Nevada, say Jarbidge, and look it up—and suddenly you’re understanding why it’s remote, what kind of journey it would take to get there, and what the surrounding terrain tells you about how people live. The map fills in what the story left out, or sometimes contradicts what you imagined. Just in case you’re curious: Jarbidge, Nevada
By cataloguing many of my rides on my blog, in Plotaroute, Rever, or Google Maps—I’m essentially building my own atlas of personal experience. Each mapped route is a record of a negotiation between what I hoped to find and what I actually encountered. I sometimes look back at those routes and remember specific moments: where we stopped, where it was harder than expected, where we found something surprising.
The “preview” aspect is interesting too. I’m essentially doing reconnaissance from my desk or phone—checking grades, finding bailout points, seeing whether that road actually goes through or dead-ends. The multi-state rides require a different kind of planning too. I’m not just stringing together good roads; I’m thinking about daily mileage, where to stay, weather patterns across regions, the rhythm of challenging sections versus easier cruising. The Butler roads become ingredients in a larger recipe I’m composing. For motorcycle rides especially, knowing what kind of curves are coming, whether the pavement is likely to be good, if there are services along the way—that’s not just convenience, it’s safety.
OMD, (Obsessive Map Disorder)
That’s Larry on the right and me on the left on the Chief Joseph Trail, WY-296, at Dead Indian Pass in Wyoming in July, 2002
I cannot complete this “Confession of OMD” without noting the Western States bicycle rides with various groups of knuckleheads that were planned by our dear departed friend, Larry Johnston. It has contributed to the scope of my relationship with maps and trip planning—from those National Geographic maps of childhood to literally crossing entire states under our own power, relying on Larry Johnston’s meticulous planning. Bicycle touring in July—when most people avoid being outside—speaks to a particular kind of commitment. And doing it state by state through the West, we experienced the geography in the most intimate way possible: at bicycle speed, feeling every grade, every wind pattern, every temperature shift. That’s reading the map with your legs and lungs. The planning for those trips was critical—water sources, daily mileage limits, places to resupply, lodging, bailout options if someone struggled. In my tribute to Larry, the friend who did that cartographic labor of love for the group, I hoped to honor the often-invisible work of the planner. Someone has to be thinking three days ahead while everyone else is just focused on the day’s ride.
I hope that my current motorcycle and bicycle itineraries with distances and profiles on Google Map and Plotaroute links embedded on sisyphusdw7.com are carrying forward that same ethic. I’m not just documenting my trips. I’m creating usable maps for others, the way Larry did for us. Each route I share is another invitation, the kind I first accepted when I put together those state puzzles so long ago…
Sisyphus and his Associate are on the road to the Ruby’s in NW Nevada
An August Ramble in the Sierra
Where, How Far, and When?
Lake Thomas A. Edison and the Mono Creek watershed
A recurring theme of Sisyphusdw7.com is place, distance, and time. There’s meeting people, too. Concerning the long form of this blog, I’m no Peter Egan. I admire Peter Egan as I admire John Steinbeck and Edward Abby. There are many others, (Wallace Stegner, Gerald Haslam, John McPhee, Bill Bryson) all of whom write of their observations of place, in time, often in travel, some fictionalized, that inspires this modest fellow’s aspirations for travel observation in my time.
While the clock and calendar cannot be denied, let’s see what Sisyphus is obsessed with these days now that there’s less of his future and more of his past.
What Determines Where and When We Ride?
To move from one location to another, exposed as one is on a motorcycle, consideration of conditions within a region, the climate and the impact of geography determines where and when we ride. Particularly over the reach of our explorations in the Western States, the majority of which involve camping on these exploits I have reported in Sisyphusdw7.com.
Elements such as weather and climate, elevation and terrain, population and public and private land use, state boundaries and their individual laws and civic codes, and road surface conditions all combine to determine the routes we take. We find ourselves rambling through regions as our best guess to where, how far, and when these elements will combine to yield the best results for a memorable ramble.
How Far?
When considering how far we can travel, time is of course a huge determinant in the distance we can reasonably cover notwithstanding all of the other variables. Using a somewhat knotty calculation, I arrive at an itinerary that is far from certain given any of those variables noted above that one might encounter. Our motto: Start slow and then taper…
Of the three rides planned for 2025, two are at present, complete. The spring ride to Three State Parks, over five days in perfect weather along the central coast over good roads, with modest daily mileage, combined for a memorable ramble.
The most recent summer jaunt, the August Ramble in the Sierra, three days in the Sierra over rough backroads was, despite a challenging sand crossing on Kaiser Pass Road, aces.
More about that ride follows.
A longer, seven day Ramble in the Ruby’s slated for early/mid September in Northeastern Nevada is too far out at at this time I’m writing to have reliable weather forecasts, but the unreliable 15 day forecasts are looking good. So, it will be whether weather will determine where, how far, and because we’ve established when to roll, how this ramble in the Ruby’s will pan out.
For the longest time, we wanted to head north and east to explore the basin and range of Northern Nevada, perhaps Oregon, Idaho, Montana and Wyoming.
From your middle school math and science class, you may recall that Time = Distance / Speed. As the speed grows the time needed to travel a given distance will decrease and vice versa. Come on Sisyphus, that’s intuitive, why all of the equation stuff? I taught middle school kids for 24 of my 37 years as a teacher. I tried my best to impart the beauty of something that we take for granted, like time and motion, stripping it of the multitude of meanings to a simple formula that when applying a few data points, can lead to an irrefutable conclusion. You know, like “there’s less of his future and more of his past”.
Remember, one of the variables listed above was individual state laws and civic codes and speed is governed in California and generally enforced. In other words, enforced speed limits increase the time and reduce the speed and distance one can travel. Not to mention the vagaries of weather, influences of terrain, road surfaces, and availability of food, fuel, and lodging whether camping or moteling.
Whether the Weather
Long, lonesome, isolated desert roads are wonderful. Unless it’s 100+ degrees or a state trooper decides you’ve exceeded the speed limit. So, to travel at least near legal speeds, you really prefer cooler weather.
Crossing deserts is out at least until things cool down a bit. Hopefully our September 7th departure for the Ruby’s will see a heat regime that’s settling in over Nevada and much of the southwest, abate, at least a bit. That’s about as far as we can allocate the time to make the distance with a nod to how weather variables get a bit more active as fall approaches. Neither Sisyphus nor his associate are big fans of riding in hot, dry, and windy, or in cold, wet, and windy conditions.
We also have a life off the motos and that life defines the elasticity of the calendar. The week of September 7 through 13 works. We can’t make Montana or Wyoming, but Northeastern Nevada ain’t bad.
From the itinerary I prepared the week before we departed on our most recent ramble to Lake Thomas A. Edison and the narrative describing the events:
Chasing the Perseids, An August 2025 Ramble in Sierra
Millerton Rd, Auberry Rd to junction with CA-168 in Prather.
CA-168, Kaiser Pass Rd, Edison Lake Rd to Vermillion Campground
Elevation profile: Huntington Lake (left), Kaiser Pass, Mono Creek, Edison Lake
At 7:00 AM on Tuesday, August 12 we met at the Chevron station on Yosemite Ave. and G St. The temperature was a comfortable 60ish degrees. In between the outset of the ramble and our destination the temps ranged from 65 to around 100 degrees.
After a stop in Friant we enjoyed some cooling, in the shade. Exposed on CA-168, we reached some relief as elevation above Shaver Lake saw a twenty degree cooling. At Huntington Lake (6,665 ft), it was in the mid 80’s in the sun, but shade provided another 15 degrees 0f relief. Once on the final leg to Edison Lake, intermittent shade from the forest canopy alongside the road made for comfortable, yet slow progress on what would be a goat path to Edison.
By the time we reached even cooler temps, we had made it to Lake Thomas A. Edison, set up camp and began resting, rehydrating, and reflecting. In other words, it was mid/late afternoon. The breeze in the shade was delicious. The exposure to the sun, unrelenting until the sun began to set.
Remember T = D / S (Time equals Distance divided by Speed)? Mostly obeying the speed limits along the route from our home that morning to Huntington Lake, where one encounters Edison Lake Rd, aka goat path, was a distance of approximately 116 miles taking roughly 2.5 hours, or 2.5 = 116 / x, or an average speed of 46.4 mph (6th grade algebra). It seemed that there was a lot more rolling at 65 mph+, but speed limited zones and stopping to stretch and have a snack and some fluids will affect the average speed significantly. Something Google Maps doesn’t take into account when calculating arrival times.
The road to Edison Lake took roughly (literally a rough road) 1 hr. and 45 minutes to travel approximately 23 miles or, 1.78 = 23 / x, an average speed of 8 mph. Enough mathing already!
This is the 1½ sized lane
Kaiser Pass Rd is a single lane sometimes paved road to Edison Lake from Huntington Lake. The road hits a steep 12% gradient and feels like a goat path for most of its length: 1½ lanes at its widest, winding, exposed, and riddled with potholes and large missing segments of pavement. The road was built in the early 1920’s as part of the Southern California Edison’s Big Creek Hydroelectric Project, and opened up access to the remote High Sierra. After two years of building, the road was completed in 1922, it enabled vehicles to reach deep into the mountains, connecting critical water resources and creating new recreational opportunities.
At the Pass
The first 5 miles are over a relatively smooth two-lane road, but the final 12 miles narrows to a curvy, paved single lane limited to as slow as is possible on the pegs to keep a motorcycle erect to a max of 20 MPH.
Three sections have dramatic cliff exposure. The decaying sections are pot-holed and to describe as rough is charitable. There are sections where the road is covered by sand washed down from surrounding terrain. There are other sections that have recently been repaved. How the decision to repave was made is a mystery given the condition of the un-repaved sections.
Once past the Southern California Edison Portal Forebay and USFSHigh Sierra Ranger Station, the road narrows further and has many tight switchbacks with steep elevation gains; there are several blind curves carved out of the exposed granite with precipitous drop-offs opposite granite walls.
One of the less perilous single lane stretches of Kaiser Pass Rd
We met several vehicles, head-on, coming down as we were going up. Because we were a bit more nimble than the four wheeled vehicles, the majority of the cars and trucks we encountered were cautious and courteous, allowing us to pass safely.
There were however several folks who seemed to have no concept of yielding to allow our bikes to proceed. This, was you might imagine, stressful. I took to laying on the horn as we approached the blind switchbacks hoping that the speed and windows of approaching vehicles were rolled down and sound systems were turned down listening to Metallica by spirited motorists in off-road behemoths.
A First Encounter with the Gauntlett
Kaiser Pass Road is primarily paved, but there are some unpaved sections, especially as you approach the summit and beyond. The road can become rougher and narrower, particularly after the main summit area, where it transitions into a smaller track leading to Mono Hot Springs.
The bridge across Mono Creek just up from the Mono Hot Springs
After passing several sandy sections of road beyond Mono Hot Springs, there was a slight descent on a stretch of mysterious, recently repaved surface. At the base of the descent, there was a section of about 30 feet of glacial sand washed over the road in what was likely deposited by a seasonal creek that flowed across the road. Other sandy sections proceeding this one were easily negotiated as the depth of the sand was an inch or so atop the pavement.
In the lead, I entered the sand cautiously, unaware of how deep it was. It was not long before I lost the front end of the bike and nearly dropped it. There were two tracks with berms in the middle and on either side. I heard Pete in the coms shouting, “I’m down,” behind me just as he entered the sand.
Since I was supporting some 600+ pounds of motorcycle and gear with my left leg, the bike at a 45 degree tilt, after asking Pete if he was okay, I implored him to make his way as quickly as possible to assist me righting the Moto Guzzi as my boot was slipping in the unstable sand. I didn’t want to drop the Guzzi.
Pete climbed from beneath his V-Strom and rushed over to me. We were able to get the bike upright and I made my way out of the sand, carefully clutching and reeving the Guzzi with Pete pushing me to stable pavement. I then threw down the kickstand to help Pete with his V-Strom that was lying on its side. About that time a good samaritan who earlier had pulled over allowing us to pass, stopped his car and helped us push Pete’s bike as he cautiously throttled, however, spinning the rear wheel in the soft grit. Grit that made its way to my face.
As usual, a malfunctioning GoPro I thought was capturing this leg of the ride wasn’t recording…
I found this short video on YouTube. It will give you an idea of what a portion of the Kaiser Pass Road looks like. Shout out to Alexander Avtanski for sharing.
Arriving at the Vermillion Campground just above the VVR we found it was sparsely populated. Our campsite, selected over the interwebs, was like all of the other campsites, except Site 25 was completely exposed to the afternoon sun. Ideal for Perseid meteor watching, but a tad warm for setting up camp.
There was a small parking area, a table, a fire ring, a steel bear box, and a couple flat spots to pitch tents. Despite few occupied sites throughout the campground, there were tags indicating reservations of up to a two week span including and following our two night reservation.
Home Sweet Homelessness
We thought about poaching a shady campsite that was reserved for a period after we would be leaving. So we hiked back to the Camp Host, who was nowhere to be found, to share our intent. Deciding to not cause any confusion for the host as we would vacate our site spending the next day riding back to Mono Hot Springs then to Florence Lake to explore, we kept Site 25.
The Beasts What Got Us There
Since we were hunkered down for the afternoon we decided to stroll back to the Vermillion Resort to rehydrate, relax, and reflect on the day’s ups-and-downs and check out the dinner menu and beverage cooler.
SysiphusDW7 strolling along the shore of Lake Thomas A. Edison
For those hungry hikers and campers, we [Vermillion Valley Resort] offer fresh baked pies and wholesome hearty meals at the restaurant which is open to both guests and the general public. The VVR Camp Store offers basic grocery supplies, hiker resupply foods and supplies, ice and fishing gear, t-shirts, maps & books. And, most importantly, we offer one of the largest selections of micro-brews and locally-brewed beers in the Sierra Nevada.
They had us on “largest selections.”
Dinner that night was a choice of spaghetti with a meat marinara or a tofu salad. There were micro and locally-brewed beers in this decidedly remote spot in the Sierra National Forest, miles from the equally limited services at Mono Hot Springs. Though the “largest selections” part was a bit of an exaggeration. We opted for the bisguetti.
Huntington Lake or Shaver Lake would have a greater variety of choices for mangia and beve, but the laws of supply and demand provided food and beverage at 7,600 feet at a cost one might associate with a Giant’s game at Oracle Park. The quality of the dinner was surprisingly satisfying.
The Vermillion Valley Store
The free backpacker’s campground in front of the store was chock full of hikers who were preparing to hike out, those who dropped off of the Muir or Pacific Crest trails to resupply, or posers pretending to be hikers for the free camp space, many of whom shared this night’s fare.
Lake Thomas A. Edison
View into the Mono /recesses
The Vermillion Valley Resort (VVR) is at the trailhead to the Mono Recesses and is a resupply site for hikers on the Pacific Crest Trail. Lake Thomas A Edison (also known as Edison Lake) is a reservoir in the Sierra National Forest and in Fresno County, California.
The reservoir’s waters are impounded by Vermilion Valley Dam, which was completed in 1954, 71 years ago, (No need to subtract, I know this as I was born in 1954).
The reservoir and dam are part of the Big Creek Hydroelectric Project. The project is operated by Southern California Edison. The reservoir discharges into Mono Creek, a tributary of the South Fork San Joaquin River. However, some of its water is diverted to Huntington Lake by means of the Ward Tunnel that follows a section of the Edison Lake Road.
The Ward Tunnel power plant discharging into Huntington Lake
Today, these facilities include 27 dams, miles of tunnels, and 24 generating units in nine powerhouses with a total installed capacity of more than 1,000 megawatts. Its six major reservoirs have a combined storage capacity of more than 560,000 acre-feet (690,000 dam3). The waters of the San Joaquin River eventually find their way to the Central Valley to irrigate crops after providing recreation on those six major reservoirs.
Edison Lake from the dam
The lake is three hours away by car from Fresno. Five hours away by motorcycle from Merced. The road in, CA-168, crosses Kaiser Pass (elevation 9,175 feet) and closes during the winter months.
A separate road off Kaiser Pass Rd forks off to Florence Lake. The United States Forest Service does not recommend Kaiser Pass Road for buses, large motor homes, or vehicles towing trailers. We were amazed at how the Mono Hot Springs and Edison Lake infrastructure was hauled up the hill on that narrow path the feds now recommend to avoid. I guess the railroad that was built into the area and since abandoned made for hauling the really big stuff.
A ferry crosses Lakes Edison and Florence twice a day that may be inactive due to extreme low levels of water providing travel service to/from the trailheads and can be arranged through Vermillion Valley Resort or the Florence Lake Resort when open.
Florence Lake
Hikers may follow a trail along the north side of the lake for trail access, linking Vermilion Valley Resort with the John Muir Wilderness trailhead and providing access to and from the John Muir Trail and Pacific Crest Trail. I’ve used the ferry service at both lakes on a couple of backpacks. It was worth it, especially on the return leg.
Chasing the Perseids
Since we were in the high Sierra during the annual peak Perseid meteor shower (See 2024 Perseid Meteor Shower last year’s trip to Bridgeport) we were prepared for a feast of streaking meteors as the skies darkened, at least until the waning crescent moon rose. It was a comfortable 60ish degrees as the sun began to set. Clouds that had been building since morning were now reflecting the light filtered by the atmosphere giving everything the alpenglow that is characteristic of sunrises and sunsets in the Sierra. We were pretty sure it wouldn’t rain and that the clouds would dissipate before prime viewing time.
Clouds but no rain
As temps dipped into the fifties, we did see a few meteors along with many UAP’s (satellites and aircraft as usual) crossing the night sky against the backdrop of the Milky Way. Since we didn’t have a fire permit, there was no campfire to mesmerize us and after downing the last of our $12/can beverages, we retired with the intent of visiting Florence Lake after breakfast the next day at the Mono Hot Springs.
Day 2 – More Sand and a Change in Plans
We did a quick calculation of our fuel levels as we got underway Wednesday morning given that the closest gas, we assumed, was at Huntington Lake. We assumed, since on the previous day we saw vehicles refueling. To get to Florence Lake we had to travel 19 miles back up and down the goat path. To get back to Huntington Lake was another 28 miles of goat path. Fuel consumption at 10 mph over the undulating terrain was much less than the 45+ mpg we would normally get on flatter terrain.
Our plan was to have breakfast at the Mono Hot Springs Resort then head down to Huntington Lake for gas, just to be on the safe side. The restaurant wasn’t open, however, the cook was making breakfast burritos that were available at the Mono Hot Springs Store filled with a modest inventory of snacks, camping, hiking, and fishing supplies and T/sweatshirts. The store, not the burritos. Oh, and beer.
I asked the cashier what they did with all of the inventory in the store when winter closed the road and the resorts were emptied. She said they put non-food items in bins on the highest shelves and any perishable food items were taken down the hill. Non-perishable items were stored in a metal shipping container. Apparently flooding and bears are active during the winter months. Also there is no caretaker who stays for the winter. The store and restaurant are routinely broken into by hungry bears, like Yogi, in search of pick-e-nick baskets.
Onward to conquer the Gauntlet!
After a hearty breakfast burrito we began the descent to Huntington for gas. Once again we were faced with what Pete referred to as “The Gauntlet”, that sandy section of Kaiser Pass Rd we unsuccessfully encountered the day before.
We decided the best strategy was to slow down to a pace where we would “waddle” through the sand, keeping our feet down, essentially walking the bikes through the sand keeping handlebars straight and with a steady throttle.
Pete went first successfully making his way across. I entered and about two thirds of the way through, I crossed from the left wheel track left by four-wheeled vehicles, hitting the center berm and dropped the Guzzi, my right arm tucked into my ribs, as the weight of the bike pressed me into the right wheel track berm. Though the bike was lighter since I ditched the two side cans, it was nevertheless, OUCH!
I was immediately reminded of A Moment’s Inattention where in 2022 I broke my right ankle, three ribs, and injured my right shoulder missing the apex of a tight hairpin low speed curve. Fortunately the sand was much more forgiving than the roadside near Lake Nacimiento and my speed was essentially zero.
I did feel pain in my ribs, but the adrenaline was flowing and after righting the bike, we made our way to Huntington Lake only to find that the gas pump that was operational the day before when we stopped at the China Peak Landing was shut down. Our only option was to ride some 26 more miles down to Shaver Lake for gas. Bummer Batman!
Since it was noonish by the time we made it to Shaver Lake, we topped-off our tanks. What? I had two gallons left in my 5.5+ gallon tank even though the fuel indicator on the TFT said I had less than 60 miles left in the tank… Pete decided to grab slightly less expensive beverages for the evening rest, rehydration, and reflection meteor sighting session to make amends.
Upon our return to camp the Gauntlet was approached for a third, with even greater caution, time. I led waddling my bike, step-by-step, straight as an arrow in the right side wheel track, successfully crossing as did Pete who followed. Too bad it took two failed efforts to figure out the key to deep sand crossings.
Dinner back at the VVR was chicken parm or a tofu wrap. The carnivores opted for the parm. The way dinner worked was when a bell was rung, you scurried to the register to give your name and dinner selection. Then, after maybe a 20 or so minute wait, the chef would shout your name from the kitchen. We enjoyed modestly priced Miller High Lifes (Lives?) at $5 each as we patiently waited enjoying the rhythms of the VVR.
There is an internet hub at the resort with several charging towers and for a fee, starting at $10 dollars for two hours of service. Needless to say there was nothing on Netflix that either Pete nor I wished not to miss. Nothing, nor, not? A triple negative?
After witnessing a finger-into-the-chest, ass-chewing by one of the VVR staff ostensibly over an alleged graffitiing of the rest/shower room by one of the blokes in the interned shed, who needed the contrived drama of a Netflix flick? We saved $10 staying off-grid, enough for two more Millers, but opted for two Arrogant Bastards. That put us $12 in the red. But mom, the magic beans were at least equivalent in value to the cow if not more valuable.
Random sights along the shore of Lake Thomas A. Edison
The meteors and UAP’s were pretty much the same as the night before. A mom and three-year-old daughter on a Strider bike whose family arrived after dark the night before to an adjacent campsite, were enjoying a little romp around the campground road.
The three year old was fearless as she descended a gentle slope back to their campsite. Mom commented that her fearlessness was likely the result of their neighbor’s young boys who had built a modest BMX course in there front yard back home. Apparently the little girl joins them on her strider attacking the jumps with gusto. I speculated to mom that a moto may be in her little one’s future. Mom cringed…
At around the time the generator at the VVR shut down at 10:00 pm, we decided to retire since tomorrow we would break camp and return home with the prospect of one more crossing of the Gauntlet to shape our dreams.
Via Ca-168 to Auberry and Powerhouse Rd., Rd-222, to Northfork Rd., to Rd-221, to Teafords Saddle Rd., to Crane Valley Rd., to Rd-226 to Oakhurst.
CA-4-/49 to Mariposa, CA-140 home.
After a decent night’s sleep except for some rib irritation, breaking camp proceeded, fueled by JetBoiled cafe mochas; Roughing it as it’s known in the post Mark Twain West.
We toyed with the idea of going to Florence Lake (El 7,300 ft) but the Florence Lake Resort, even more spartan than the VVR, was closed. We figured that the road to Florence Lake was likely less maintained than the road to Edison Lake and decided to skip the trip, opting to make our way down the hill before the afternoon heat would make the final 95 mile slog home unbearable.
When we arrived in Shaver Lake, we had a bite to eat at The Hungry Hut. A buuuurger for Pete and a BLT for me. Tasty.
The ride from Shaver on CA-168 was thrilling since riding at or near the speed limit was different, in fact exhilarating, from the limit to speed imposed by the goat paths we’d been on for a couple of days.
After a quick stop in Friant to enjoy a beverage and soak our evaporative cooling vests, we tackled the dry and dusty foothills and flats of the valley. The thing about a cooling vest is that while it does serve to provide the sensation of cooling, it is much like the swamp coolers of my youth. The cooling is tempered by the clammy humidity the vest generates under the mesh jacket. But it beats the feeling of being in an air-fryer.
When I arrived home and pulled into my driveway, the temperature gauge on the Guzzi indicated 99 degrees. And just like that, a warm greeting from SoBe and a cool shower buttoned-up another memorable ramble by SisyphusDW7 and his Associate, Pete.
Cheers!
Coming up on Sisyphusdw7.com, The Ramble in the Ruby’s
The journey details motorcycle travel in California and the Southwest, highlighting seasonal weather patterns, cultural observations, and personal reflections on commercialization versus natural beauty during a scenic adventure to Zion National Park.
Reconciling expectations with reality
With Abbey’s admonition to seek refuge in the desert, it seems to me that best time to travel by motorcycle on secondary “Butler G1-3” or “Lost Highway” roads in arid California and the Western US depends on the direction you’re heading. We live in California’s Central Valley in Merced which has a fairly predictable climate – hot summers, temperate and windy springs, warm dusty falls, and cold, sometimes foggy, wet winters. Though the weather can be unpredictable, weather forecasts are quite accurate, with NOAA reporting a 7-day forecast is 80% accurate and a 5-day forecast is 90% accurate.
If you’re traveling south towards the Mojave Desert, the winter, early spring, or late fall weather is generally more appealing keeping in mind that this region experienced record-breaking 100+ degree days during the summer of 2024.
Heading east across the central Sierra Nevada passes like Sherman, Tioga, Monitor, Ebbetts, and Carson, are typically closed by the first snows as early as late October and don’t reopen until around Memorial Day in May. That leaves the summer months of June through September as the prime window for snow-free roadways in these areas. However, crossing the western foothills to get to those passes can still be quite hot during the summer months, and once you cross over into the high desert and Basin and Range regions of Nevada, the heat can be uncomfortable as well. Fortunately, the southern Sierra Tehachapi and Walker passes provide access to the Mojave year round whether the weather is hot or cold.
Traveling north presents similar weather uncertainties. The summer monsoons that have brought more frequent and severe downpours to the Southwest and Pacific Western states in recent years can impact northern routes as well. While winter weather is generally cooler the farther inland and north you go, the smaller state highway mountain are more likely to close as resources are prioritized for keeping major interstates open. Mustn’t we forget wintertime atmospheric rivers that can inundate parts of the Pacific Coast and far inland. For northern trips, the best bet is generally to travel in the early summer, before the peak heat of July and August sets in across the region.
Regardless of the time of year, it can be tricky to pick the “perfect” 10-day or longer window to ramble the region on a motorcycle. But with confidence in the 7-day forecasts, you can plan accordingly. That’s how you chose your 2024 Seeking Refuge on a Fall Ramble to Utah, – trusting the weather predictions to guide your route and timing.
Off to Mukuntuweap
Photo: NPS/Jason Burton sort of looks like the Paiute shrine of the half peace sign with the ectopic middle digit just to the right
After finalizing our travel plans for a late October ramble, Pete, Sisyphus’s Chief Associate, and I settled on a south-easterly route – heading over Tioga Pass, down the Eastern Sierra, across the Mojave to southwestern Arizona, then north to southern Utah and back west through Death Valley. Our destination for this trip: Zion National Park.
Zion, as it’s known today, was originally called “Mukuntuweap” by the local Paiute people, meaning “straight canyon.” This name was later co-opted by Mormon pioneers who settled the area, just as the Mariposa Battalion had appropriated the name “Yosemite” a century earlier based on the original name given the valley by its Southern Miwok inhabitants. While “Yosemite” at least bears some resemblance to the native “Yos.s.e’meti,” the transition from “Mukuntuweap” to “Zion” feels like a blatant act of cultural erasure. It’s a sobering reminder of how Manifest Destiny has stamped its mark across the western landscape.
For Pete and I, seeking “sanctuary” or “refuge” in Utah seemed a reasonable goal, unlike and with respect to, the preceding generations of indigenous peoples who were displaced from these lands. With confidence in the 7-day weather forecasts, we felt we could time our journey to maximize the chances of favorable conditions. Despite the troubling origins of the name “Zion,” the park remains a place of spectacular natural beauty that has drawn visitors for generations, and we looked forward to experiencing its grandeur and serenity once again.
Well, as we found the grandeur, grand, serenity was a bit more problematic.
Day 1, October 22, 2024 – Merced to Red Rock Canyon State Park
Ready to roll with the awkwardly obligatory send-off photos
No longer requiring a reservation to cross the Sierra Nevada via Tioga Pass (CA-120), we set off from our usual starting point, the Chevron station on G St. and Yosemite Pkwy in Merced. The commuters heading west on CA-140 left the eastbound lanes clear until we descended into the Merced River canyon, where Yosemite-bound commuters flew past us on the brief broken yellow straightaways to which they’ve grown accustomed to passing the more leisurely traveler.
Once we entered Yosemite National Park, making our way up to Tuolumne Meadows was a generally tranquil, unhurried experience. Crossing Tioga Pass itself was pleasant, though a bit chilly. Fortunately, the traffic was not as bad as it can be, reduced to a post-Labor Day crawl that made the descent into Lee Vining a civil affair under multiple layers of warmth and heated grips.
The rip down US-395 at 75ish mph was brisk but not so fast that the landscape became a blur. We stopped in Lone Pine for a late lunch (or “linner”) at the Bonanza Mexican Restaurant, then procured our “3-R” beverages (rehydration, recovery, and refreshment) across the street at the Lone Pine Market, since our intended campsite for the night was rather remote. A 353 mile day and we were home for the night.
Tuesday afternoon…
Tuesday evening…
Ghostly hoodoos and the summer triangle vertices of Altair, Deneb, and Vega, each of which is the brightest star of its constellation (Aquila, Cygnus, and Lyra, respectively)
Wednesday morning…
Day 2, October 23, 2024 – Red Rock Canyon State Park to Parker, Arizona
When planning our route, there’s always room for a bit of improvisation (hint: foreshadowing). Given that my riding partner Pete had traveled through the area earlier in the spring, we opted to avoid the slog down US-395 through the ever expanding exurb of Adelanto and instead made our way to Joshua Tree, by way of Barstow and CA-247 through Lucerne and Yucca Valleys, for lunch. Though longer than the more customary route on US-395, the Old Woman Springs Rd, proved to be a wise decision as it set us up for what would be our warmest day yet, crossing the Mojave on CA-62 and entering the sagebrush and saguaro of the Sonoran Desert en route to Parker, Arizona on a 298 mile day.
East of Twentynine Palms, we found ourselves on what is best described as a lonesome desert road. At the intersection of CA-62 and US-95 at Vidal Junction, we stopped for some “nalgas relief” (Spanish for “ass relief”) and a refreshing agua fria. There, we met a friendly woman trucker hauling produce from Fresno eastward who commented, having witnessed our pained expressions as we dismounted our motos, that our sore backsides were likely just as weary as hers. I imagine her air-conditioned cab compensated of any nalgas disorders…
Dry eyes and weary nalgas, at least there was shade
The remainder of the CA-62 stretch from Vidal Junction to Parker, Arizona, in 95-degree heat, did little to relieve our “nalgas,” now feeling worse for wear. But as soon as we crossed the Colorado River, we knew we had entered at least a new time zone – both literally and figuratively.
Finding the right accommodations is always an adventure on our moto tours. While I had previously stayed at the venerable Burro JimMotel back in 1996. Burro Jim was another 84 miles down the road and so since it’s generally not advisable to ride a motorcycle through the desert in near 100 degree heat for nearly 400 miles, instead, we opted for the Budget Inn in the heart of Parker. In hindsight, I should have checked my old bicycle trip itinerary, as the Kofa Inn may have been the better choice. Alas, the Budget Inn, while functional, definitely lacked the neon “colorful funkiness” of the Kofa, it has fared better than the Burro Jim.
After a recommendation by our friendly host we enjoyed another satisfying meal at the Tierra Caliente Meat Market followed by an excursion to the Terrible Herbst Convenience Store.
Our camera shy host and Pete, resting motos, and poolside relaxation, rehydrattion, and reflection in Parker, AZ
We exchanged pleasantries with a fellow who had his ski boat engine apart in the motel parking lot who assured us the boat would be ready for the weekend on the Colorado River. We then retreated poolside, as close to the Colorado we would get that evening, at the motel for some much-needed relaxation, rehydration, and reflection on the day’s journey.
Day 3, October 24, 2024 – Parker to Aguila and Camp Verde, AZ
As noted, back in 1996 I was part of a group that rode bicycles across Arizona. The first day of that journey took us from Parker to Aguila, with a planned stay at the aforementioned Burro Jim Motel. The riding itinerary described the terrain as “flat and fast with some gentle rolling sections – a scorching paceline.” “Scorching” as the average high temperature in Parker that August of the ride was a blistering 106.7°F.
Wanting to avoid that same searing heat, Pete and I departed Parker early on this October morning. Our first stop was in Aguila, AZ for breakfast. As I reminisced, our 1996 ride had coincided with the famous Race Across America (RAAM) ultra-cycling event. Upon awakening early, before sunrise to beat the August heat, we heard music blaring from afar. We witnessed a slow moving RV approach the motel, its headlights augmented to brilliantly illuminate the road for some distance ahead. Lo and behold, a solitary cyclist was riding on AZ-60, the RV in support for a competitor riding the RAAM. None of our crew were aware of the RAAM taking place.In fact, we later managed to “photobomb” the RAAM coverage as we climbed the “extreme” grades on Highways 71 and 89 near Prescott.
The Coyote Cafe and the Burro Jim; It doesn’t look like “all new interiors” are due any time soon…
Fueled by another fine Mexican meal at the Coyote Cafe, we set out for Camp Verde, a journey of some 221 miles. The AZ-72 to US-60 route sliced through the Sonoran Desert, the flat, arid landscape seemingly disappearing into the distant horizon. But as we approached Yarnell, mountains appeared to leap from the otherwise flat terrain. Alas, a few miles north of Congress, AZ we entered the Granite Mountains near where on June 30, 2013, nineteen of the 20 members of the Granite Mountain Hotshots, an elite crew trained to fight wilderness fires, died as they battled a fire outside of Yarnell. The nearby Granite Mountain Hotshots Memorial State Park is dedicated to their sacrifice. My awareness of this tragedy is in part the result of my two sons who are firefighters.
To bypass the final “extreme” grades, we took Kirkland Valley and Iron Springs Roads at Kirkland Junction, before rejoining AZ-89A later north of Prescott. This stretch provided some enjoyable twisties, with two, two-up rented Harleys mounted by two couples from Indiana leading the way to a scenic overlook just outside of Jerome.
There’s the Mogollan Rimin the distance just over my left shoulder defining the western edge of the Colorado Plateau
This former mountain mining community of Jerome had earned the nickname “The Wickedest Town in the West” during its heyday, when rich copper ore deposits attracted miners, merchants, madams and more to Yavapai County. Jerome’s colorful history is too rich to chronicle here, but a quick link to the Wikipedia page (Jerome, Arizona) provides interesting insight into how this town evolved from a mineral extraction hub to a modern tourist destination.
With the day’s riding behind us, we rolled into Camp Verde, ready to unwind and recharge for the next leg of our adventure. Our first stop was to scout the USFS Clear Creek Campground – a grassy, flat site with shade provided by tall cottonwoods. Perfect. Despite the slightly creepy gravel road leading in, our gracious campground host recommended we set up right across from his site, next to the clear creek for which the campground was named.
After getting camp established, Pete and I headed into town for provisions and refreshments, returning to enjoy a pleasant evening under the stars, transfixed by a crackling campfire as we relaxed, rehydrated, and reflected on the day’s journey.
This was to be a modest days ride, a mere 257 miles on US-89 through Sedona and Flagstaff, across the Colorado River for the second time at Marble Canyon, then US-89A past the Vermillion Cliffs, past Jacob Lake, the entrance to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon (see 2021 Fall Moto: Abbey’s Other, On-the-Road Trip, Part 2), to the Grand Canyon Motel in Fredonia, AZ.
My affinity to this place is lodged in my fond regard for Marguerite Henry’s children’s book, Brighty of the Grand Canyon, that I loved reading aloud to my elementary students. Brighty is a tale about a “lone little burro that roamed the high cliffs of the Grand Canyon and touched the hearts of all who knew him: a grizzled old miner, a big-game hunter, even President Teddy Roosevelt. Named Brighty by the prospector who befriended him, he remained a free spirit at heart. But when a ruthless claim-jumper murdered the prospector, loyal Brighty risked everything to bring the killer to justice.”
Fredonia was where Uncle Jim retreated for the winter in the story of Brighty’s adventures as the little burro that has become the symbol of a joyous way of life. Some people say that you can even see his spirit roving the canyon on moonlit nights—forever wild, forever free.
The landscapes of the Southwest that we traversed undoubtedly possess a grand, serene beauty all their own, yet the relentless exploitation of these places by commerce can sometimes overwhelm and diminish that natural splendor. In our quest for “sanctuary” and “refuge,” we’ve found that the very things we seek – the grandeur and serenity of the untamed wilderness – are often sullied by blatant attempts to “augment the experience” through tourist traps, roadside attractions, and other concessions to consumerism.
No matter how breathtaking the vistas, it’s difficult to fully immerse oneself in the natural wonder when the view is punctuated by kitschy souvenir shops, gaudy neon signs, or other intrusive commercial development. The very objective of our ride – to find solace and escape in the majesty of the southwestern landscapes – was undermined by the pervasive influence of those who would seek to profit from, rather than preserve, these precious resources.
It’s a delicate balance – honoring the needs of the modern traveler while safeguarding the integrity of the land. But in our experience, the scales have tipped too far in favor of exploitation, robbing these landscapes of the very qualities that drew us here in the first place. Navigating this tension, and finding those rare pockets of unspoiled beauty, had become a central challenge of our journey.
Jerome, while historically fascinating and successful in reinventing itself as an artsy tourist destination, suffered from the very thing that keeps it alive – tourism. The narrow streets, choked with “experience seeking” souls, detracted from any authentic experience immersing oneself in the rich history of Jerome one might hope to find.
Sedona proved even more jarring, with its commercialization dialed up to eleven through “vortex tours” and spiritual marketing. The official Visit Sedona website promises an idyllic autumn experience: “Sedona, with its vibrant red rocks and golden hues of autumn, offers a season of renewal and adventure… From hiking trails bathed in rich autumnal light to spiritual vortex tours that connect you to the land’s energy, the opportunities for exploration and personal discovery are endless.” Like dozens of bloggers and influencers promoting the Ultimate E-bike Tour of Sedona, or the VIP Sedona Vortex Spiritual and Scientific Tour, or The Original 4 Winery Tour with Charcuterie, et. al. each promotional image showing pristine, uncluttered landscapes – conspicuously absent are the traffic jams and crowds of “vortex seekers” on their personal discovery journeys, seeking the best spas and best UFO tours. Can there even be a “best” UFO tour? Apparently yes, in Sedona.
One might call our own quest for “sanctuary” hypocritical given these observations, but that’s precisely the point. Seeking an imagined sanctuary becomes impossible in landscapes exploited for mass consumption. What we’re sold is a cheapened, commercialized version of what the original inhabitants revered as genuinely spiritual places of unspoiled beauty.
The contrast became stark once we cleared Flagstaff. Until reaching Marble Canyon, commercial enterprise virtually disappeared. Along the route, Navajo Nation vendors sold jewelry and goods from simple roadside stands – no hype, no hard sell. These basic transactions between maker (or agent) and buyer provided local inhabitants with income while maintaining dignity. Their alluring tables displayed exquisite native craftsmanship without promising spiritual enlightenment or personal discovery merely through purchase. Though one might wonder about authenticity versus foreign counterfeits…
“Here the earth, as if to prove its immensity, empties itself. Gertrude Stein said: ‘In the United States there is more space where nobody is than where anybody is. That is what makes America what it is.’ The uncluttered stretches of the American West and the deserted miles of roads force a lone traveler to pay attention to them by leaving him isolated in them. This squander of land substitutes a sense of self with a sense of place by giving him days of himself until, tiring of his own small compass, he looks for relief to the bigness outside — a grandness that demands attention not just for its scope, but for its age, its diversity, its continual change. The isolating immensity reveals what lies covered in places noisier, busier, more filled up. For me, what I saw revealed was this (only this): a man nearly desperate because his significance had come to lie within his own narrow ambit.” ― William Least Heat-Moon, Blue Highways
The Navajo Bridge over the Colorado at Marble Canyon
We eventually reached Fredonia, Arizona’s northernmost outpost, situated on Kanab Creek’s eastern bank. The town sits just four miles shy of the Utah-Arizona border in what’s known as the Arizona Strip – that peculiar portion of Arizona lying north of the Colorado River, wedged between the Grand Canyon and Utah. Thanks to the Grand Canyon serving as a natural barrier, this region has largely escaped the tide of urbanization that’s swept through other parts of the state.
The town’s origins tell a particularly ironic story of American settlement. Founded in 1865 by Mormon pioneers fleeing Utah to evade federal anti-polygamy laws, Fredonia’s name allegedly means “land of free women” – a bit of Mormon pioneer wordplay that requires no further comment. While tourism and agriculture keep the town alive today, that original history of seeking “freedom” from federal oversight adds another layer to our ongoing meditation on sanctuary and refuge.
Beyond campgrounds, we chase the ghosts of road trip Americana – the Supai in Seligman, the Clown Motel in Tonopah, the Y in Chama. The Grand Canyon Motel in Fredonia is another pearl on this string of fading roadside gems.”
the Grand Canyon Motel, a treasure, to be sure
Chuck, the property manager, shared an unexpected piece of history while admiring our motorcycles. The motel’s story intertwines with Theodore Roosevelt’s bold move in January 1908, when he declared over 800,000 acres of the Grand Canyon a national monument. ‘Let this great wonder of nature remain as it now is,’ Roosevelt proclaimed. ‘You cannot improve on it. But what you can do is keep it for your children, your children’s children, and all who come after you, as the one great sight which every American should see.” (History.com)
Chuck claimed that Teddy Roosevelt stayed in one of the cabins. Roosevelt died in 1919. The cabins were built in the 1920’s as hunter cabins. The mathing doesn’t work… Nevertheless, his recommendation for dinner at Escobar’s Mexican Restaurant in Kanab was honest. Even though it was our fourth Mexican meal in as many days, and though we were in a rather ethnically homogenous community, the chili relleno was one of the best I’ve ever had! Me quito el sombrero ante los Escobar!
Following our fine meal, we made a quick stop at a gas station convenience store, the 3-R’s procured, and it was back to Fredonia to watch Freddie Freeman hit the 1st walk-off slam in World Series history as Dodgers topped the Yankees 6-3 in the classic opener. As an avid Giants fan, it was a tough pill to swallow. Hey, no irony in watching the World Series in the land of Brighty of the Grand Canyon…
Day 5, October 26, 2024 Fredonia to Glendale and the Zion Family Ranch
There were two legs on this ramble to Zion National Park. The first leg was from Fredonia on US-89A & 89 to Glendale, the nearest town to the campground. It was a lovely fall morning and the roads were open and traffic was sparse.
The Moqui Cave, in the 60’s (left), and a more recent photo (right)
We passed the Moqui Cave, yet another example of the crass exploitation of what was otherwise an interesting archeological site. Moqui Cave was once used by Anasazi people as a shelter or food store, according to archaeological digs in the area. It was rediscovered by white settlers in the 19th century, and served as a speakeasy in the 1920s during Prohibition. Where the land of free women meets a speakeasy. Speaking of irony, no irony there, eh?
We passed the Kanab Dinosaur Tracks and the Sand Caves road side attractions. Past Mt. Carmel we headed north up the tranquil Madison Canyon to Glendale near where our campsite at the Zion Family Ranch, one of seven “dispersed” (first come, first served) costing $49, was located. In the internet era booking a campsite is like booking any lodging. You put in your dates and supply a credit card number. There was no camp host, no gate code, or any other acknowledgment of our arrival. The site looked unsupervised. I guess that’s what “dispersed” means. I guess that’s how the “Zion Family” ranchers distance themselves from commercial exploitation. I am grateful that they provided “sanctuary” on what was a family’s legacy property. Sorry Paiutes.
Our plan was to set up camp at the Family Ranch, then head into Zion National Park for the day. It was a stunning morning – cool but not cold, with the poplars and aspens bursting with vibrant fall foliage.
Since it was a Saturday, we tried to get an early start to beat the crowds.
Through Orderville east of the park, all was orderly.
However, by the time we made the 26-mile ride to the Zion-Mt. Carmel Tunnel entrance on the east side of the park, the number of cars, trucks, trailers, and RVs had multiplied exponentially. Most of these visitors had entered the park from the western entrance near the town of Springdale. Virtually every turnout was choked with people waiting for a parking space to open.
Zion National Park is undoubtedly one of the most unique and concentrated geological wonders outside of iconic places like Yosemite Valley. Yet, like Yosemite, it seems to be loved – if not quite to death – then at least to near non-existence. The sheer clutter of humanity obscures and detracts from the natural wonder of the landscape. I guess I have adopted a little Edward Abbey attitude about development on our nation’s national treasures.
Despite our best efforts to get an early start and keep our expectations checked, the overwhelming crowds at the park entrance on this busy Saturday dampened our excitement. When you have to busy yourself with watching out for inattentive drivers in stop-and-go traffic or selfie-taking pedestrians who would blindly step into the crawl for that perfect Instagram post was a vivid reminder of the delicate balance between visitation and preservation that national parks must continually grapple with.
The following map of the topography of the region, while no substitute for the real thing, is worth a look:
After a harried 2+ hour “tour” of the park (that you can enjoy in 34 minutes at https://youtu.be/_9hdx9c4SfY), we pulled over in Springdale to assess the situation. Pete and I decided to continue on to Hurricane for lunch and then return to our campsite by taking the longer route on AZ-389 through Colorado City to Fredonia and US-89 back to Mt. Carmel Junction. It was 26 miles back through the park to our campsite. It was 112 miles on our chosen route back. Both could be done in the same amount of time according to the predictive Google maps, ~2.5 hours.
After lunch in Hurricane, we returned to our campsite grabbing gas station sammies in Mt. Carmel junction for dinner along with our 3-R’s beverages. The Zion Family Ranch facilities were quite nice including a heated bathroom with showers. Firewood was available, payment made possible by Venmo. The only human interaction we had was the following morning with a group of off-roaders who arrived after dark that evening as their dogs paid us a visit. Location, location, location… We were in a secluded, natural setting near a very popular, crowded, National Park. It was difficult for me to reconcile the incongruity of the events of the day. Cheers to the 3-R’s!
A longish day before us, some 344 miles, found us on US-89A back to Fredonia to avoid having to navigate the Zion stop-and-go. Rolling past Colorado City, AZ, another controversial Mormon enclave with a “colorful” history, we soon reentered Utah and the Hurricane-St. George metropolitan area, a sprawling urban area in the midst of the intersection of the Colorado Plateau, Great Basin, and Sonoran deserts. After a small navigation error (shoulda turned right instead of left) we found W Old Highway 9, avoiding the more scenic I-15 – if you can overlook tractor trailer rigs – that follows the route of the Old Spanish Trail into Arizona. We were never too far from the Virgin River that is the great spirit of Mukuntuweap as we zoomed across the northwestern corner of Arizona to Mesquite, NV. NV-169/167 took us past the bath-tub ringed, Lake Mead National Recreation Area, skirting Las Vegas through Henderson on NV-564/160. With a tip of the helmet to Blue Diamond and the Red Rock Canyon National Conservation area (see our spring 2024 ride on sisyphusdw7.com: Red Rock Canyons Ramble), we abruptly made a left turn off of NV-160 west on the Tecopa Rd that eventually took us to the Cal-Neva border and CA-127 to Shoshone, CA.
What was at least our sixth stay at the Shoshone RV Park and Campground, sixth meal at the Crowbar Cafe and Saloon, and sixth procurement of 3-R beverages at the Chas Brown General Store, we were set for what has become a favorite night under the stars (and a few sprinkles and some noisy coyotes) in a village that manages the whole preservation vibe, uncorrupted by crass commercialization, we have come to highly regard. There’s also the issue of the lack of water sustaining a population of 22, modulating the delicate balance between local habitation and the visitation of Death Valley bound tourists with preservation.
Our plan was to camp at Taboose Creek, midway between Independence and Big Pine along the Eastern Sierra, then make our way to Kernville overnight before returning home. At a stop for lunch in Panamint Springs, another of our favorite “balanced” destinations, we overheard a conversation by a couple of locals of 50 mph winds stirring up that afternoon. Thus confirmed our concern that a rapidly developing frontal system would likely close Tioga Pass and would require changing those plans. New plans: We would bomb to Kernville for the night, some 288 miles, and get a roof over our heads.
Setting out, the predicted winds materialized and our ride down Panamint Valley and Wildrose-Trona Rds eventually to CA-14 and CA-178 over Walker Pass was like riding a bucking bronc through drifting sands obscuring the road with fine dust breaching the seals of our helmet’s visors. I’ve ridden in rain in the Rockies, fog in the Central Valley, searing heat across the Mojave, and snow flurries on the Paunsaugunt Plateau. I’ve pedaled across the Big Horn in Wyoming in a thunder shower with hail pelting me on a bicycle, exposed to lightning. I’ve weathered a Sierra thunderstorm and cross country skied in a whiteout. Maybe because I survived all of those, my fear of calamity was only slightly moderated. I was scared s*#tless. But, as of this writing, I survived!
I was in the lead and when we arrived in Lake Isabella where a right turn onto CA-155 would have taken us to Kernville. The wind, menacing dark skies, and light precip compelled me to forge ahead our next stop, Hart Lake, just north of Bakersfield to fuel up and make a plan for the night. We had made 276 miles and the afternoon shadows were lengthening. Our three options were to slab back to Merced on CA-99, the Bloody Highway, to zig and zag through the foothills ensuring a well after dark arrival home with the specter of a collision with Bambi, or shoot across the Tulare Lake basin to Coaling to stay at the Best Western Plus, where we stayed on the infamous,A Moment’s Inattentionramble.
North on CA-65, west on CA-46 and north at Blackwells Corner, the last place James Dean was seen alive, an on to CA-33 where we arrived at the Best Western just as the sun set, 391 miles later.
We arranged for a room and after unloading the bikes we headed into Coalinga for our ritual of finding nourishment and refreshments. It had been a long day of “riding hard” as Pete would snarl, and I was completely exhausted making decisions. Taking the lead, rather than hitting the State Foods Supermarket or any of the fast food joints or taquerias, Pete pulled into the Coalinga Valley Market on Polk St.
Entering this store, after such a long day and our decision making capacity compromised, we wandered around in circles through the floor to ceiling canyons of packaged food items. The market was well stocked, but the only thing fresh in this store was at the carniceria.
Such a colorful desert…
We found the beverage selection limited, but that didn’t stop us from landing a couple of 24’s. As for food, I ended up getting a tin of smoked oysters and Lays Kettle Jalapeno chips, striking a nutritional balance between proteins, fats, and carbs. Pete got a can of low sodium Spam, preferring a balanced saturated fat, protein, and even at 25% less sodium, salty fare. The rest of the evening is a blur…
No wind, crickets, ravens, or coyotes at the Best Western Plus in Coaling Station A
Approximately 91 miles north on CA-33 to Hudson Rd, a zig and a zag to CA-152 & 59 and presto, home from an 8 day odyssey that may seem from this narrative that at times wallowed in disappointment about the vibe, but, was by any definition an adventure: an exciting ✔ or very unusual experience ✔; a bold, usually risky undertaking ✔; hazardous action of uncertain outcome ✔; filled with peril ✔, danger ✔, risk ✔, chance ✔, fortune ✔ and luck ✔. All the boxes checked!
I harken back to a conversation during the relaxation, rehydration, reflection hour(s) around a campfire in Three Rivers a few years ago where we met Chris Baer, a white water adventurer who was running the Kern during a massive spring runoff, who when asked, “So, what’s the favorite river you’ve paddled?” His reply, without hesitation, “The next one…”
I’m looking forward to a winter of bicycle riding and maybe I’ll hit the slopes, mended ankle permitting. Until then I’ll be searching my AAA maps, Butler Maps, Google Maps, and fellow moto-touring YouTubers for what will invariably be my favorite, next ramble. Until then, thanks once again to Pete for indulging me as a brother rambler, only slightly overwrought .
All the Best,
Sisyphus
sisyphusdw7.com Sisyphus and Associates, Much Ado About Nada
The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, a proverbial phrase fittingly describes the writer’s extensive desert adventure. Facing wintry challenges, they embarked on a meticulous journey, blending familiarity with the unfamiliar for an enriched experience. From Red Rock Canyon State Park in California to the Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area in Nevada, the trip featured unique geological landmarks, encounters with motorcycling enthusiasts, and unexpected surprises along the way. Amidst the landscapes, historical sites, and wildlife encounters, the narrative captures the essence of exploration, camaraderie, and personal reflection. Reflecting on both the joy of seasoned travel and the allure of venturing into the unknown, the writer shares their aspiration for a future adventure, blending nature’s diverse offerings and the prospect of new companionship.
The content provides insights into the challenges and pleasures of the extensive desert trip, offering a captivating blend of personal experiences, historical references, and geographic details.
April 7 – 12
Red Rock Canyon State Park, Kern County, CARed Rock National Conservation Area, Clark County, NV
“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step” is a common saying that originated from a Chinese proverb. The quotation is from Chapter 64 of the Dao De Jing ascribed to Laozi, although it is also erroneously ascribed to his contemporary Confucius. (Thanks Wiki…)
This saying teaches that even the longest and most difficult ventures have a starting point; something which begins with one first step.
This spring’s first step took place as the holidays (Thanksgiving and Christmas, 2023) following Austin Bound, Austin Nevada That Is, launched me into planning our next winter/spring desert adventure. Winter’s heavy snowpack was still blocking the familiar Ebbitts, CA-4/Monitor, CA-78, Sonora, CA-108, Tioga, CA-120, and Sherman Pass Rd, Forest Rte 22S05, all passes we’ve taken from our home in the Central Valley of California to cross the mighty Sierra. Late winter/early spring storms threatened closing our more familiar southern routes including Alta Sierra, CA-155, and Walker Pas, CA-178. Tehachapi, CA-58 would only be considered in desperation to avoid defeat.
Timing, as they say, was everything. Variables informing my route planning included setting a week’s worth of time for a journey of a thousand miles with calendar approvals from the invitees, a cautious eye to 15 day weather forecasts, securing what has become the nuisance of a campsite reservation (given our age induced entitlement, we don’t boondock), and deciding what new features of riding, camping, and repeating would make this spring trip to the Mojave different from those of the past.
I’ve always wanted to compare California’s Red Rock Canyon State Park to Nevada’s Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area. Note that there are “Red Rock Canyons” in California, Nevada, Arizona, Colorado, Utah, perhaps multiple-named features in each state and probably anywhere else there’s oxidized iron in the soil through which a river once flowed. Laozi would be proud of narrowing the scope of our journey of a thousand miles to just two red rock canyons in two states.
This tour’s invitees included Pete and Andy. Pete was “from-the-get-go” a go after prodding him to actually look at a calendar and check in with his partner Cheryl to clear seven days. Andy was crickets until two days before our planned departure after indicating he’d be available after his wife Toni’s birthday in early March. But he bowed out due to an odd impairment from dragging baggage in Guatemala. That’s an excuse for the books…
If you have followed the exploits of Sisyphusdw7.com, then you are familiar with Pete and Andy. Pete rides a Suzuki V-Strom and Andy sports a Moto Guzzi Norge while I mount on a Moto Guzzi V85-TT. You’ll also be familiar with Andy’s absence on all but one trip, Riding Under a Fool Moon, and Pete’s perfect attendance on each moto adventure I’ve chronicled on Sisyphusdw7.com since its inception in 2016. Next time, eh Andy?
Click the links of the daily headings to see the route maps.
The first leg of the journey of a thousand miles began at our usual meeting place, the Chevron station on G St and Yosemite Ave in Merced. There happened to be four fellow bicycle riders who were meeting for a Sunday morning ride when I arrived to meet Pete. Loaded and ready for rambling, as is often the case describing our plan to our cycling friends, a faraway look in the eyes of one of the bicyclists was punctuated by, “I wanna go! I wanna go!”
This first step of the journey included some 200 miles through the San Joaquin Valley floor skirting farming communities of Dos Palos, Firebaugh, Mendota, Tranquility, Lemoore, Corcoran, Allensworth, and Wasco. We even passed near the community of Neufeld, perhaps named for members of Andy’s farming lineage. Passing by Corcoran, a lake called “Pa’ashi” by the indigenous Tachi Yokut tribe, that had disappeared 130 years ago from California largely by way of the diversion of the Kings, Kaweah, Tule, and Kern Rivers for irrigation and to a lesser extent, periodic drought, and now, after a series of severe weather events in 2023, the lake had returned.
Images from NASA’s Aqua satellite orbiting the earth show the progression of flooding in the Tulare Lake Basin from March 2 through April 28, 2023
As a result of mitigation by stakeholder groups, the lake is now receding. What may also be receding are dreams of high speed rail in California as funding of the controversial project is questioned. Below is a drone image courtesy of hsr.ca.gov taken near Wasco in the southern San Joaquin Valley where the viaduct is being constructed to raise the rail-bed above potential flooding.
Could this become the high speed rail to nowhere?
Leaving the valley, we traveled another 100 miles through the pump-jacks of the Kern River Oilfield, along the outskirts of Oildale, through the Kern River Hart Memorial Park, and then meandering through the Kern River Canyon past Lake Isabella, over Walker Pass on CA-178, to south on CA-14, all en route to our first campsite at Red Rock Canyon State Park. The California version of a Red Rock Canyon.
These images are within a mile of one another, the Kern Oilfield and Kern River-Hart Memorial Park. You decide which is which…
Many of the pump-jacks appeared to be new and they were dipping and rising en masse in what must be the expression of how us ‘Meri”can”s have nearly achieved oil independence. Who needs high speed rail when up through the ground comes a bubblin’ crude? Just in case, I’m joking. Though I ride a fossil fuel consuming motorbike, I support alternatives for mass and individual transit (high speed rail and bicycles) that don’t entirely depend on the crude.
The Kern River Oil Field covers an area of 10,750 acres (43.5 km^2) in a rough oval extending over the low hills north-northeast of Bakersfield, in the lower Sierra foothills, hills which are now almost completely barren except for oil rigs, drilling pads and associated equipment. This area is the densest operational oil development in the state of California: Midway-Sunset southeast of the Kern River oilfield, which has more wells, is almost three times as large in surface area, for a lower overall density.
There are others, like the McKittrick fields I’ve featured in a previous Super Bloom post. Yielding a cumulative production of close to 2 billion barrels (320,000,000 m^3) of oil by the end of 2006, it is the third largest oil field in California, after the Midway-Sunset Oil Field and the Wilmington Oil Field, and the fifth largest in the United States. Its estimated remaining reserves, as of the end of 2006, were around 476 million barrels (75,700,000 m^3), the second largest in the state. It had 9,183 active wells, the second highest in the state. The principal operator on the field is Chevron Corporation. (Thanks Wiki…)
The contrast between the verdant ag lands of the valley floor and the desolate oilfield, from which the last barrels of carbon were being extracted, is striking. For a detailed history and updated production figures, check out: Kern River Oilfield. Our impact on the environment for feeding our civilization is fragile when you consider that as few as 150 years ago the indigenous peoples of the region lived in relative harmony with nature.
The temperatures were just right until we began climbing up to Lake Isabella. Clouds and a passing cold front made for a chilly section of CA-178, the Kern Canyon Road. Along with a couple of “Roadwork Ahead”, “Prepare to Stop” signages as two lanes merged into a single lane, a chilling scene unfolded as we came upon a motorcyclist who was writhing on the road having apparently been thrown from his bike that was lying against the canyon wall some hundreds of yards away…
Be careful out there… (Pardon the expletive), with the Steve Miller Band, Further On Up the Road
Once we made it to the divided four lane portion of CA-178 as we approached Lake Isabella we experienced a brief respite from the twisty canyon road traffic traveling down the Kern River Valley with a lunch stop at The 178 Bar and Grill.
Eat you heart out Jamie RobinsonIn moto parlance, I believe this gallimaufry would be called a one into four…
The sun broke through the clouds and we enjoyed a little thermal respite besides that transmitted through heated grips on the motos. It’s always a challenge to insulate against the cold and heat when moving from one elevation/climate zone into another, namely the Sierra to the Mojave, regardless of the season. Passing through the small lakeside communities of South Lake and Waldon, we then passed through the more rural agricultural communities of Onyx and Canebrake. It’s there we began the climb over Walker Pass (el. 5250 ft) where, coincidentally, the Pacific Crest Trail intersects.
The pass was charted as a route through the Sierra in 1834 by Joseph Rutherford Walker, a member of the Bonneville Expedition who learned of it from Native Americans. Walker returned through the pass in 1843, leading an immigrant wagon train into California. In 1845 the military surveying expedition of John C. Fremont used the pass. He suggested it be named after Walker. Walker Pass was used in 1861 by cattlemen from the San Joaquin Valley and the Tejon region of the Tehachapi mountains to drive cattle to the silver boomtown of Aurora near Mono Lake. Aside from the paved road, the pass is essentially unaltered since Walker mapped it in 1834. (Thanks Wiki…)
Join Sisyphus with Dwight Yoakam and Neil Young on a hyper-ramble over Walker Pass
The view from Walker Pass to the vast expanse of the Mojave desert is stunning.
At the intersection of CA-178 and CA-14 we headed south, arriving at Red Rock Canyon State Park in just a few minutes. This state park has no reservation campsites, however, each site has a table, potable water and pit toilets are available, some even open air stalls! There is a fee that we paid, including a $2 senior discount and our reasoning that since a second vehicle added $6, our two 2-wheeled motos were the equivalent of a 4-wheeled vehicle requiring no additional fee. Having no pen or pencil we left the envelope in the drop box (duh) keeping the tag just in case a friendly ranger or maintenance worker checked in with us suspecting turnstile jumping dirtbag motorcyclists.
The campsite at Red Rocks State Park in eastern Kern County
The area was once home to the Kawaiisu people. Some petroglyphs and pictographs are found in the El Paso Mountains and represent ritual sites from ancestors of the Coso people were early indigenous inhabitants of this locale. They created extensive carvings in rock within the El Paso and neighboring mountains of Red Rock Canyon and conducted considerable trade with other tribes as far as the Chumash on the Pacific coast.
The colorful rock formations in the park served as landmarks during the early 1870s for 20-mule team freight wagons that stopped for water. The park protects significant paleontology sites and the remains of 1890s-era mining operations.
Providing several unique, dramatic areas, and close to Los Angeles, since the 1930s Hollywood has frequently filmed at Red Rock Canyon, including motion pictures, television series, advertisements, and music videos. (Thanks Wiki…)
A blustery welcome to our first night campsite on the Red Rock Canyons Ramble…
Pete’s selfie-ish photo that might have broken the internet if only he had social media…
The nearest provisions were at the Jawbone Canyon Store, whose motto is, “Let them eat dirt!” around 7 miles further south on CA-14. That is where we thought we were going to get our dinner and 3R’s beverages after setting up camp. By then the wind was howling out of the south. When we arrived at the store that is popular among the ORV crowd around 5:30 pm, on this Sunday, the store was closed, so I guess, eating dirt was our option.
A quick search of Google Maps indicated that California City, about 14 miles further south, appeared to be a settlement of some consequence, so off we went battling sidewinds as the sun began to hug the western horizon.
After fueling up, procuring our favorite beverages, along with a bag of Fritos and a bundle of firewood at the One Stop Market, apparently in the midst of billion dollar lottery fever given the size of the crowd buying quick-picks, we headed back to camp after a 340 mile day. Fritos would have to do as our hearty lunch in Lake Isabella would sustain us…
Twas a bit windy through the night, however as the sun arose on Monday morning, the wind had settled down.
Good Morning Red Rock Canyon State Park
Neither Pete nor I are paleontologists, but are both fans of the Flintstones. We agreed we had found the remains of stegosaurus rubrum…
There are some rocks worthy of being described as red…
Ill mio bella rosso moto…
A shorter day by ~100 miles lay ahead as we planned to sprint south on CA-14 to Redrock-Randsburg Rd en route to dawdle a bit in Randsburg on our way across Death Valley to Shoshone, one of our favorite stops.
Randsburg California, or Rand Mining District as it is also known, is considered to be a “Living Ghost Town”. Holding on to the very brink of existence, this small mining community is located in the Northern Mojave. Outdoor recreation booms here: ATV, dirt bikes, 4x4s, motorcyclists. RVers & car clubs are welcomed. Weekends can be busy with tourists, local horsemen & desert dirt boys, but on week days you’ll have the place to yourself. An old fashioned soda fountain at the general store & a real old west saloon, hours vary with season. The Joint is the local bar. Randsburg is a great place for interesting desert photography. (Thanks to the Randsburg.com website, the domain for which is 4-sale)
It was around 9:00 am on a Monday morning and in spite of the promotion about how people are dying to go to Randsburg, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Wait, there was a dog barking at us from afar. We did pretty much have the place to ourselves except for a couple of local spirits.
Pete was intrigued and wondered how much was that little Yamaha in the window. The Bulltaco was probably a better deal…
Is that an apparition appearing in the photo?
Next we were off to Trona on, what else but, Trona Rd and our favorite Trona cafe, Esparza’s for breakfast. You could consider that Exparza’s has a lakeside location. Except for the fact it’s Searles Lake. What the restaurant lacked by way of a view was more than compensated by the delicious fish tacos. I only hope they weren’t fresh from Searles Lake…
Eclipse? What eclipse?I’m here for the tacos…
From there it was off to Death Valley via Trona-Wildrose Rd with a tailwind for a change. At the intersection of the Wildrose entrance to the park and the CA-190 Townes Pass entrance, there appeared a sign warning against the faint-of-heart tackling that route. We came upon a couple who we speculated were on rented Harleys, harleying their way to Death Valley, in full Haley regalia; riveted black leather jackets with fringe and matching chaps, hers with fringe, the chap’s, fringeless. They came to a sudden and mildly confused appearing stop as we approached at customary cruising speed on those long lonesome straightaways, safely under 100 mph. We passed, losing their tableau in the rear view mirror. I hope they chose well. It would be sad if they suffered like those bleached Randsburians…
Right on CA-190 and the first real “super-bloom” was evident.
Panamint Valley superbloom
Geraea canescens, commonly known as desert sunflower, hairy desert sunflower, or desert gold, is an annual plant in the family Asteraceae that was showing off. Telescope Peak from the west, sporting some late spring snow, is still feeding Lake Manley on its eastern flank.
Death Valley was in the very pleasant mid-60’s when we arrived in Furnace Creek for a fuel stop. Ill Mio Rosso likes expensive stuff. Pete’s V-Strom uses the budget stuff.
Yikes! The downside of supply and demand…
We contemplated taking CA-190 to Death Valley Junction, then CA-127 south to Shoshone. But, seeing an actual Lake Manley in Badwater was something worth the slightly added distance, heat, and traffic.
Pete channeling Ansel AdamsGet me out of that ATGATT
Channeling Ansel Adams, Pete busied himself composing a photo of the Seldom Seen Lake Maley as we pealed away layers of insulation.
It’s sometimes hard to capture the scale of the vastness of terrain, especially that of Death Valley. Below is Telescope Peak from the east at 11.049 feet taken from 282 feet below sea level at Badwater with Manley Lake in middle-ish ground.
The remains of Lake Manley’s source topping Telescope Peak in the Panamint Range
In no time we made our way on Badwater Rd to Jubilee Pass Rd, the continuation of CA-178 to CA-127 then south to The Shoshone Trailer RV Park. I’ve noted that Shoshone is one of our favorite destinations. The campground is perfect, the Crowbar has the best eats east of Trona and the Chas Brown Market can provide for all occasions including offering a geode for $2800. If I had space for it on the Guzzi, well, maybe. We settled on procuring beverages for the 3-R’s. I’ll ask my grandaughter how to take a selfie without looking at your trigger finger… The lens needs some attention.
Geezer selfies are amusingThe son whose mother raised him so well… A goat roper needs love too
Good Morning Shoshone!Calico Hills trail (Thanks Wiki…)Aerial view of the Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area near Las Vegas, Nevada, looking northeast (Thanks Wiki…)
A short 86 miles to our next destination, the Nevada version of a Red Rock Canyon, commenced by heading east on the Old Spanish Trail Hwy. We soon learned there was no breakfast to be found until we reached Blue Diamond the nearest community serving the National Conservation Area. The community includes a park, private pool, library, elementary school, event hall, church, and a mercantile/gas station. The mercantile (general store) was built in 1942 and originally sold household staples and sundries to residents who were mostly miners at the Blue Diamond Mine. The store has maintained its original external look. Walls inside the store showcase many of the town’s historical photos, courtesy of the Blue Diamond Historical Society, an all-volunteer organization.
Cottonwood Station is a local scenic eatery in the historic village of Blue Diamond, minutes from Las Vegas. Near Red Rock Canyon and Spring Mountain Ranch State Park, Blue Diamond attracts many hikers, mountain bike riders, road cyclists, and guys on motorcycles, like us. There was, to our surprise, a large upscale Trek store next to the eatery. Drop by the Cottonwood Station for a latte while waiting for the wrenchers to adjust your electronic shifters and hydraulic brakes I reckon…
The breakfast pizza was killer! Pete still searching for the eclipse…
From Blue Diamond it was just a few miles to our campsite in the Red Rock Canyon NCA. After procuring a couple of whistle wetters at the Blue Diamond Market where the cashier shared that they would be closed by 5:00 because the owner didn’t want to pay her until 8:30, her preferred closing time, we strategized our dinner plans that would follow a tour of the Red Rock Canyon Loop. But first, a couple of whistle-wetters.
Onward to the Campground… with Sheryl CrowElectrolyte replacement is very importantLess sugar, more wings
Didn’t make it to Las Vegas so we didn’t need to leave. But, life was so bright on a Tuesday afternoon…
Dropping off our gear and setting up our tents, we headed for the park. We passed through an entrance station that boldly displayed a sign indicating reservations were required to enter the scenic loop through the canyon. I noted to the attendant that we had a campground reservation to which she replied that wasn’t enough. So, in my best, “You can’t possibly deny us entry into this fine geological feature of Nevada that would have to take second place to the okay geological feature of California that wasn’t even red if we cannot enter to determine its superiority” plea.
She asked if I had a park pass. I whipped out my National Parks and Federal Recreational Lands Senior Pass and with that she said, “That’s two dollars.” and waved me through.
Nearly speechless, I thanked her, pressed once forward on my shift lever and moved to allow Pete to pass through. When he pulled up next to me he said that he had just paid $10 to get into the park. I later consoled him by acknowledging that his additional $8 contribution to the National Conservation Area helped to support the tricked out bicycle repair station that was installed in one of the turnouts. I assured him it was less than the latte back in Blue Diamond that he was supporting the people’s repair stand.
Still smarting having been fleeced out of $8 by the Feds
Ah yes, as advertised, Red Rocks
Always eager to make new acquaintances, I met Marlon Ma of Wu Tang Chinese Martial Arts Institute. He approached us admiring Ill Mio Rosso Bela, which, by the way, gets noticed far more than Pete’s V-Strom these days. When Pete first toured on his Triumph T120, my little Kawasexy Versys was hardly noticed despite its candy orange color scheme with matching panniers and drybags. It seems that everyone we would meet would get all misty-eyed recalling their love affair with a Triumph from yesteryear. No longer do we see misty-eyes but eyes of wonder and bewilderment as curiosity is voiced, “What’s a Moto Guzzi?”
A new friend Marlon, a Wu Tang masterAsking him to show me the first move…
Marlon was a sport bike guy who also owned a BMW and a Harley. I wasn’t going to hold that against him after I requested and he obligingly shared his first stance and move when encountering a foe that was in every way, vintage Bruce Lee. Marlon no longer lived in New York where he founded the Wu Tang Institute. He now lives in Las Vegas where, coincidentally, the Wu-Tang Clan can be found in their historic, first-ever Las Vegas residency, at The Theater at Virgin Hotels Las VegaRolling Stone Wu-Tang Residency.
This poor chap…… apparently didn’t heed the warning
Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area Loop with Donald Fagin and Walter Becker
After moseying through the park loop, we made our way into Angel Park Ranch, a tony North Las Vegas zip code and found an Albertson’s to procure the evening victuals and, of course, the 3R beverages that would complement the grub as the relaxation, rehydration, and reflection hours awaiting.
Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area campgroundOur evening stroll took us to new heights
Descending the hillside, we ambled through the campground coming upon what appeared to be a tent worthy of gale force winds. Indeed, the gentleman who excitedly shared his tupik said that since he often camped in windy deserts, he found this Swedish Expedition Tent to be ideal. It was designed to withstand winds up to 70 mph. Though it looked somewhat complicated, he said it was a snap to set up. He had a luxurious mattress that covered the entire floor! No blustery tent flapping, rocky floor night’s sleep for this fellow. I guess he could have slept in his van, but if you’ve got a Hilleberg Tara why would you?
A man, a tent, not just any tent, a Hilleberg Tara, and pride…
In the distance we could hear jet fighter aircraft, ostensibly from Nellis Air Force Base just a few miles to our east. As night fell, the maneuvering jets quieted having practiced their tactics, we kindled a fire and reflected as we relaxed and rehydrated viewing Jupiter and the waxing crescent moon.
On the western horizon, Jupiter and the waning crescent moonTo the east, the bright lights of Lost Wages
Good Morning Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area!
A fellow motorcyclist sharing stories over coffee. That lens needs attention again..
We’re accustomed to the sound of military aircraft doing tactical maneuvers as the former Castle Air Force Base is located near our hometown in Merced. The one-time Atwater Air Force installation was home to the U.S. Strategic Air Command, a part of America’s Cold War nuclear triangle. For a time a fighter squadron occupied the base too. With the base closure in 1995 the Strategic Air Command picked up and flew the coop. Nowadays there is a commercial pilot training facility, the Castle Air Museum, UC Merced facilities, the U.S. Penitentiary Atwater, along with other portions leased to Google for development of self-driving technologies (known as Waymo), the County Animal Shelter, and a few local businesses including a brewery, The Tarmac. The fighter jet scream was familiar.
We made our way east through North Las Vegas on NV-604, avoiding I-15, skirting the Las Vegas Motor Speedway and Nellis Air Force Base, home of the USAF Thunderbirds. As noted, all the previous afternoon into the night and the following morning we heard the distant thunder of aircraft, most likely fighter jets, perhaps even the Thunderbirds, working on maneuvers, tactical or otherwise…
Satisfying our machine’s thirst for fuel, we decided to save time and look to the Loves Fueling Center store to select a “delightful” Loves Fueling Center breakfast that we ended up eating in a dog park. Rushing through a fruit cup and blueberry yogurt, we then headed up US-93, the Great Basin Highway, to our next destination the Kershaw-Ryan State Park near Caliente, Nevada.
Yum…Aside from the odor, the shade was fetching,,,
Back when considering the route, searching maps on the interwebs, taking those first steps on this journey of a thousand miles, I happened upon an Atlas Obscura Article about an interesting property next to the Western Elite Landfill that serves Las Vegas. It’s known as RyanHenge. This Stonehenge-inspired solar calendar stands alongside a landfill, in the middle of the Nevada desert. Along with the replica of the ancient Neolithic henge monument in Wiltshire, England with a twist, can be found beautifully restored rail cars once used by Teddy Roosevelt, Annie Oakley, and Wild Bill Cody. There are other vintage vehicles and an interesting collection of animals at the site, including a camel.
Arriving at our campground at the Kershaw-Ryan State Park, yet another novel feature of this ride of the familiar and the unique satisfied, we were disappointed to find our reserved campsite was occupied by a monster motorhome of the lumbering mastodon sort. We knocked about trying to find a ranger and searched for an alternative site checking to see if any of the reservation tags indicated a vacancy for the night. Finally, we did see that the Ranger’s vehicle was at the entrance and so it was fitting to tell him the tale of our misfortune. It all began with a faulty 404 error on the Nevada State Parks Reservation system…
Situated in a colorful canyon, with towering walls up to 700 feet high and a long, verdant valley in between, Kershaw-Ryan State Park is an oasis in the desert, a sharp contrast to the rugged landscape that surrounds it. Natural springs grow a garden of wild grapevines, white oaks, fruit trees and willows, and a spring-fed pond provides a refreshing children’s wading pool. It is not unusual to see wild horses, deer, and other wildlife come to the water. (From the KRSP website that worked…)
Back in early March I was unable to make the reservation on-line due to a glitch on the Nevada State Parks Reservation website. So I called the Parks HQ in Carson City making the reservation over the phone. The delightful parks employee I spoke with assured me that she would send a confirmation email for the site, post haste. Two days later no such email had appeared. I checked the spam folder: nada. I called back to get a different parks employee at the Carson City office who said that her computer was down (hmmm) but that she would check and resend the reservation confirmation by way of email. Just in case, I requested the site and confirmation numbers from her. A few moments later, she gave me the site number, 10. I never received that promised confirmation but my credit card had been charged. I figured that was good enough.
I explained all of this to the very helpful Ranger Evan who was on a Zoom meeting but happily left the call to check his records. I had arranged for one night at the campground. He shared his paper reservation roster that indicated that I had reserved a primitive campsite for 6 days. What-what?! He thought that unusual since they never reserved primitive sites, they were on a first-come first camp basis and besides the fee charged was $60 instead of the $10 single night fee. I was actually charged $25. What-what?!
The remedy was that he handed us the reservation list and said that several sites were available for the night that were reserved for the next couple of nights. He wink-wink, nod-nodded us commenting on the frequency of glitches on the Nevada State Parks Reservation system. He was of the opinion that a cheaper, less robust system was purchased by the State and that was the cause of all of the errors. Alas, a campsite would be found, tents would be pitched, and we would head into Caliente for dinner and 3-R’s provisions.
Take your pick of any of the empty campsites…
Found one next to the donation based fire wood shack…
Just as we departed the entrance shack with roster in hand to select our homestead for the night, an interesting “conversation” piece rolled up, right out of the Black Rock Playa… When I stepped up to the pick-up towing this unique trailer, I inquired, “That’s quite the conversation piece ya have there,” to which a passenger replied, “So you wanna have a conversation?” with a British accent.
Montana Slim’s Traveling Robot Orphanage…
If there’s something that looks a little familiar about this aircraft converted into a Traveling Robot Orphanage by Montana Slim, well look no further…
Amelia Earhart disappeared over the South Pacific in a Lockeed Model 10 Electra. Montana Slim’s plane is a Beechcraft Model 18. Though they look alike, there were only 149 Lockheed Model 10 Electras made primarily in the 1930’s. There were 9,000+ Beechcraft Model 18 manufactured from 1937 – 1970. (Thanks for the checked facts Wiki…)
Montana Slims Traveling Robot Orphanage makes a stop at the Amargosa Hotel and the Angels Ladies brothel just north of the famous hotel.
The plane that’s full of graffiti at the brothel is the same plane as Montana Slim’s a.k.a. Sean Gurrero, a Beechcraft C-18. Check out artist Sean Gurrero’s work:
After a fine dinner at The Side Track Restaurant in the rail town of Caliente, Nevada, a charming and remote ciudad pequeña in the Great Basin of Nevada, we took a quick tour of the burgh as we made our way back to our campsite. We came upon a restored/updated motel Pete had stayed in some decades ago, formerly the Midway Motel, now known as Patty’s Motel. We met the proprietor, Patty, who seemed quite cordial inviting us to check out the venue.
Before…Patty’s Opening…Now…
We declined Patty’s invitation to stay as we were camping, however, this property is on the checklist for our next Nevada ramble! Mixing a little of the new with the familiar, I say…
All day…… into the evening, tactical maneuvers
Another evening around the campfire, relaxing, reflecting, rehydrating and knowing our skies are safe! True to the labyrinth in RyanHenge, Life is Good!
Another gas station fuel-up at Dino’s Sinclair for the bike and a breakfast of cranberry juice and a Kind Bar for the pilot began the long 350 miles across what would be increasingly warm, from the mild spring weather we had thus far enjoyed, speedfest across Nevada.
I would love to have a Sinclair Dino for my grandkids to play on in our yard, in our front yard, and for all the kids in the neighborhood...
This was to have been our longest day, riding some 350 miles from Caliente on the Extraterrestrial Highway, NV-375, through Rachel dropping by the Little A’Le’Inn for a whistle wetting ginger ale and to drop off the morning rental coffee.
A new mural at the A’Le’Inn
From Rachel it was on to Warm Springs on US-6, then to Tonopah where at a stop at the Beans and Brews Coffee House for a turkey croissant samie and RedBull light, we met a fellow on a well traveled DR 650 Suzuki who had made it from Ushuaia, the capital of Tierra del Fuego in Argentina to Tonopah on an epic ramble. Except for shipping his bike from Brazil to San Diego skipping the Darién Gap, he was on a circuitous route back to his home in Salt Lake City after months on the road. He was by all accounts road weary, but given his youthfulness and efficient looking rig, I’m sure the final miles to Salt Lake City would be a fly by.
From Tonopah it was down US-95 through Goldfield, past the shuttered Angel’s Ladies Brothel outside of Beatty.
Angel’s Ladies was a 5,000-square-foot legal brothel situated on a 70-acre ranch which was located three miles north of Beatty, Nevada. It was known as Fran’s Star Ranch until it was renamed Angel’s Ladies in 1997 after being purchased by Mack and Angel Moore. It has been closed since August 2014. Prior to the 1970s, the brothel had been known variously as Circle C Ranch and Vickie’s Star Ranch. On May 28, 1977, an accident during a promotional stunt on the property resulted in the crash of a twin-engined light aircraft. The wreck has been located next to the brothel’s billboard ever since, and used as a spectacle to attract customers from the road. Mack Moore attempted to sell Angel’s Ladies in 2007, but ended up taking it over again two years later as a result of foreclosure. He subsequently sold the business again in 2010, this time for $1.8 million, and continued to run it as a leaseholder. On 10 August 2014 he retired and closed the business. (Thanks Wiki…)
I digress. Then it was west through Rhyolite (see Sisyphus and Associates Tour Rhyolite) and Daylight Pass Road into Death Valley with a quick stop in Stovepipe Wells to shed some insulation and enjoy a RedBull Light and some conversation with the proud parents of an Australian Cattle Dog, like my very own, SoBe. The trio was traveling in Death Valley from their home near Huntington Lake. I’ve written about rambles through all of the places in this segment of our ramble in previous postings in my Much Ado About Nada website, Sisyphus and Associates if you’d care to check them out. Maybe someday I can bring SoBe along on one of these rambles as a most welcomed associate…
It seems we would be just in time for the hottest part of the day when crossing Death Valley. If it weren’t for the heavy ATGATT (All The Gear All The Time) the mercury nearing the 90 degree mark when we descended into Stovepipe Wells wouldn’t have seemed fifteen degrees warmer. Visions of a cool beverage took the place of the distortion of light by alternate layers of hot and cool air as wishfulness overtook an optical illusion induced mirage…
That ain’t no mirage… We just got a jumpstart on the 3-R’s
Since this trip of a thousand miles was a blending of new roads to ramble with some of our favorite, greatest hits destinations, you can’t travel through Death Valley and not stop at Panamint Springs, just outside of the park on CA-190.
Panamint Springs Resort is a small, rustic, western-style, resort located in beautiful Panamint Valley in Death Valley National Park that provides lodging, camping and RV services, a restaurant and bar, and a gas station with a well stocked general store. (Thanks PSR…)
Just as the refreshing beverage was beginning to sate our thirst, a young mom, with a newborn strapped to her by way of a front sling, walked up the steps to the Panamint Store. I had to acknowledge how wonderful it was to see the little one getting exposed to a desert adventure. Only a few weeks old, the proud mom said that she had already been to three national parks! About the same time the woman’s mother walked up and lo and behold the conversation revealed that I began my career teaching with her mother who was at the end of hers. Furthermore, the young mom was the daughter of a rancher I knew back home. So, Kevin Bacon, beat that… two degrees of separation.
Now, I imagine for most people, when the word “resort” is used to describe a setting, this might not be what their imagination congers. I, on the other hand, could not imagine a more fitting word, defined as: a place to which people frequently or generally go for relaxation or pleasure, especially one providing rest and recreation facilities for vacationers. It ain’t the Furnace Creek Inn, but for my money, it’s every bit as satisfying! There could be fewer rocks in the campground, but alas, it’s the desert and what would the desert be without rocks?
Relaxation, reflection, and rehydration on the menu at the Panamint Springs ResortIt never gets old…
No braying burros or noisy Boy Scouts or laughing religious retreaters from our last stay at the resort keeping us up throughout the night: Panamint Spring 2023
What was to be either a route to Kernville or Three Rivers adding another night to a sixth day’s travel, was now subject to a brewing spring downpour in the forecast for the following Saturday. So we decided to ride some 360 miles after a longish 350 mile day across Nevada from Panamint Springs back to our homes in Merced on our sixth of seven planned days, Friday.
Another glorious Panamint Range/Valley sunrise
We decided to ride like the wind (except it was into the wind) retracing our route back on CA-190 south to Trona for a last breakfast at Esparza’s.
I’ve written in the past about how Pete’s metabolism is remarkable. Pete had eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, biscuits and gravy. My chili verde was superb! I gained weight on the trip. Pete lost weight…
There was no eclipse to regale this day but we did meet a local fellow who was a resident of Trona for some 20+ years. When Pete asked what it was like living in Trona he replied that it was all right, that there wasn’t much to do, and he said that he had “caught cancer” and was in need of chemotherapy, which, not surprisingly, wasn’t available in Trona. We assumed he worked in the mineral extraction business, but who knows, living in Trona on the shores of Searles Lake is perhaps carcinogenic itself. We bid him blessings and the best of luck as we headed south to Ridgecrest.
From Trona not far south on the way to Ridgecrest on CA-178 you’ll find an interesting geological feature, The Fish Rocks.
Passing through Ridgecrest, we hopped on to CA-14 south for a few miles before heading west CA-178 over Walker Pass, a reprisal of our first day’s route of this Red Rock Canyons Ramble. Figuring the pass (el. 5,250 feet) would be a bit nippy, we insulated up. It would be at Hart Lake Memorial Park just north of Bakersfield where we stopped for fuel and swallow a RedBull Light that we de-insulated as the valley temperatures were rising.
Saturday in the park, I think it was the Fourth of July… No, wait, it was Friday, April 12. We were in a park though…
North through Oildale, east to Shafter, north on CA-43 through Myricks Corner, Wasco, Neufeld, Elmo, Pond, Kernell, Allensworth, Angiola, past the Tule River Viaduct, Corcoran, Hamblin/Hanford, zig-zagging by way of the GPS through Caruthers, Raisin City, Rolinda, Kerman, Ripperdan, Parkwood, to the Pilot Travel Center on Ave 181/2 where I pulled over for fuel, but was talked out of it by Pete who was tired of stop signs every couple of miles and traffic backed up due to road construction. It had been slow going and was pretty warm, especially having to stop-and-go on several segments of the route.
I had just about enough fuel to make it home and so he compelled me to jump on CA-99, against my better judgment and where at the CA-152 and Hwy 99 exchange we were nearly run off the road by an indecisive cager who did a multi-lane change confused by the left lane exit to Los Banos and the through route north on CA-99, cutting us off and driving us to the shoulder of the road.
At that point, Pete led us to the LeGrand exit where we once again zig-zagged merrily on county roads with little traffic the rest of the way to the security and comfort of our family, pets, and homes.
Epilogue
I began this post by acknowledging that a journey of a thousand (and 212±) miles starts with the first step. For me the first step is in imagining how I might recreate the cheer and satisfaction achieved on all of the other rides I’ve chronicled while recognizing that the balance of the familiar with the unknown and how it brings the greatest ROI. I guess that as a geezer, I enjoy seasoning travel with a sprinkle of sentiment being careful not to overdo it by marinating in nostalgia.
At the same time, I reckon I’ve lost the desire to just hang it all out there and come what may, ride with abandon as I know it’s tougher to assemble a coherent narrative without taking the time to immerse in the adventure. Since on most of these rides, despite being retired and relatively free to ramble, the calendar no longer waits for procrastination or indecision. Hence, we return to the familiar to glean from the present what we overlooked in the past. As for the unknown, there’s always satisfying our curiosity with the novel, offbeat, unique, or strange. Take for instance RyanHenge or Montana Slim’s Traveling Robot Orphanage, not something you come across on a given day.
And as the calendar waits for no hesitation to plan the next moto adventure or my increasingly fidgety travel lust only marginally deteriorating with the specter of another night in a rocky, blustery, and frigid campsite or a smoke filled, sweltering, torturous lonesome highway, I can’t wait to begin planning the next, and perhaps, most epic ride. I think the next one will head north as spring meanders toward summer and where a volcano or two, some redwoods and rivers, and maybe a “popularly priced” motel populates the route. Maybe the forest floor duff will erase the memory of a stoney desert floor and we’ll hybridize our accommodations on this next foray.
As always, stay tuned for Sisyphus and his Associates next episode. Hey, just drop a line if you’d like to join us…
“The day I keep my gratitude higher than my expectations, I have a very good day.” Ray Wylie Hubbard on the attitude of gratitude.
Climate Change or Climate crisis? New Bike Shakedownor…
Searing Valley heat or refreshing mountain breezes? Two days of riding or dreaming of two days of riding? Overnight in my home with my lovely wife or overnight in a campground with fellow dirtbag Pete? Initial service on the Moto Guzzi prematurely or put some miles on the thing to meet the mileage requirement? Let’s check in on Sisyphus’s attitude.
If you presumed the entrée into this discourse reflects what has up to this point been the nature of my blog, you would have correctly identified my choices as mountain breezes, two days of riding, and overnight with a dirtbag over searing heat and dreaming of riding. As for choosing to spend overnight with a dirtbag, until my lovely wife agrees to join me on an overnighter two-up, well then Pete on his own bike will have to do. As for the oil change, read on.
Picking up Bella Rossa, a beautiful Moto Guzzi V85-TT E5 Adventure on April 27
Though things were heating up, we had enjoyed an uncharacteristically mild late spring after a brutal winter. That’s brutal for California. You might say the spring was yielding perfect riding weather (see Where Has Sisyphus Been? https://sisyphusdw7.com/2023/06/17/where-has-sisyphus-been/).
At that time, the beginning of April, the Moto Guzzi was merely a dream. Little did I know the 2023 Super Bloom would be my last ride on the venerable Kawasexy Versys. You see, after appealing to my wife in a four page single spaced, 10 point font essay, Life is Too Short for Later, and yammering about “my next bike” for over a year, I had finally convinced her of the intersection of my wants, needs, and deserves. Wallah, I purchased a 2022 “new” Moto Guzzi V85-TT on April, 27 in Elk Grove, 114 miles north of my home in Merced. As part of the negotiation with my wife, it was determined that the garage wasn’t big enough for two motorcycles. The Kawasexy would have to go (see way below).
A busy May traveling, and a June filled with Pete’s obligations, my appointments, a birthday, Father’s Day, and family gatherings took a bite out of moto adventuring. Funny how life interferes with moto adventuring. All of these interruptions prevented taking the new V85-TT out for more of an adventure than a trip back to the dealership. It was now nearly two months later and I had only put 400 miles on the bike, all of them in bringing the moto home and returning to have some OEM farkles (accessories) installed six weeks after signing on the dotted line, coincidentally on my birthday. Apparently airplanes bearing motorcycle parts from Italy travel at the same speed as slow boats bearing motorcycle parts from Italy aka supply chain issues.
Since the all important first service on the bike would need to happen after 1,500 km (It’s an Italian bike and while the Owners Use and Maintenance Manual is in English, all measurements are Eurometric, so, (to convert 1,500 km × by 0.62137119223667 = and yield, 932.056788355 miles), I needed to put another 500ish miles on the bike to reach the 932 mile first service milestone.
I had been planning a major ride of nearly 5,000 miles up the eastern side of California into Oregon, across Idaho, Wyoming, into South Dakota, back down and across Wyoming, Colorado, and Utah then across Nevada to return home for late summer/early fall given our changing climate. Before I could do that, the bike needed to visit the fine mechanics at Elk Grove Power Sports. As I am want to do, I proposed an overnighter to Bridgeport, CA to capture those 500ish miles. I could then get the initial service done by the dealership roughly keeping it within the mileage requirement and the bike would be ready for the 11 day ride across the Western US.
What Happened to Uncharacteristically Mild Late Spring and Early Summer?
We set off from our meeting spot at the Chevron on the corner of G Street and Yosemite Avenue on Wednesday 07/19 at 7:00 am. Since it was an overnighter and we were quite familiar with crossing the Sierra to get to the East Side, I hadn’t done my usual deep dive into logistics. Tioga Pass was still closed and besides, the traffic into the park was chaotic. That left Sonora Pass on CA-108 or Ebbitts and Monitor Passes on CA-4 and 89, respectively.
From Merced to Bridgeport is roughly 150 miles or about 3-4 hours over Sonora Pass on CA-108 depending on how many nalgasrelief stops (NR‘s) were made. We were leaving Merced predicted to reach 108 degrees on that day to arrive in Bridgeport which was predicted to reach 92 degrees. Since going over Ebbetts Pass (8,730 ft. elev.) and Monitor Pass (8,314 ft. elev.), toss in a side trip to Markleville for lunch and a fuel stop in Topaz, it would be 189 miles and take about 4 hours, more or less including for NR‘s. We though it a better more forgiving route over CA-4 and 89, temperature wise because of more sustained elevation, plus we’d arrive in Bridgeport a little later when presumably it would be cooler.
Approaching the Stairway to Heaven
First stop at Camp Connell at 4,760 ft. elev.
If there’s no rain or snow falling from the sky and you’re not in a cloud, the temperature decreases by about 5.4°F for every 1,000 feet (9.8°C per 1,000 meters for the Euros) up you go in elevation. We set out on a comfortable 64 degree morning. By the time we reached Jamestown, 1,427 ft/435 m, the temperature had risen to 85 degrees. Since Merced is at 171 ft/52 m we had gained 1,256 ft of elevation, so the temperature should have been around 77 degrees (85-7.7058 degrees). Hmmm. I doubt I have many Eurometric followers so I’ll dispense with the metric figures. It wasn’t until we reached Camp Connell, (4,760 ft. elev.) above Murphys (2,172 ft elev.) and Arnold (3,999 ft elev.) that we began to feel the temperature dropping. It was nowhere near 25 degrees cooler according to the 5.4 degree decrease factor per 1,000 feet of elevation gained. It was more like 65 degrees, pretty much what it was when we set out from Merced a couple hours earlier, of course, relative to the rise in temperature back home as Earth rotated.
I bought a Mega Millions Lottery ticket with the prize nearing a billion dollars at the Camp Connell Store. I figured my luck was changing because it was getting cooler. Maybe if I won the lottery I could chase cooler weather around the globe. At least I could make the owner of the Camp Connell Store giddy since our guitar solos didn’t. Sadly my changing luck only included the brief respite from the searing heat on this trip. The only thing changing is the climate and without a great deal of concerted effort, will our grandchildren and their children not suffer what is beginning to manifest itself with greater and greater extremes of weather events.
Yes, it’s summer and higher temperatures are expected, but, even higher temperatures we have seen of late have set all time recorded temperature records. And, temperatures are expected to be record setters in August into September as El Niño strengthens. Don’t believe me? Go outside. Or, check out: Dr. Daniel Swane at https://weatherwest.com/ for “just the facts, ma’am.”
Too bad Joe Friday isn’t around to convincing folks of the factualcrisis nature of our changing climate.
Not to waste all the mathing I did earlier, in crossing Ebbetts Pass we did not experience a 46 degree decrease in temps from lower down the west slope. But, it was cooler and very pleasant.
We stopped in Markleeville for a return to the Cutthroat Brewing Company for lunch. It was warm, having lost elevation from Ebbetts Pass, bordering on 90 degrees at 5,531 ft. elev.. Fish tacos and a BLT later, we decided to head to Topaz Lake, NV, but not before a fellow with what I believed was a German accent on a BMW 9T paused to admire the Bella Rosso. He noted the Guzzi’s beauty and said he had toyed with the idea of getting a V-85 TT, but replaced his old BMW with a newer BMW. I told him that since my bride was a beautiful Italian, there was only one motorcycle for me. He turned, put on his helmet, started the bike and rode off. I suspect he was feeling a bit envious if not down right covetous of my Italian bride inspired bike over his Brünnhilde…
Try the Cutthroat in Markleeville
More Mathing, Climate, FWLS and Navigation
Fuel Warning Light Syndrome (FWLS): 44.6 miles is cutting 50 miles a little too close for comfort
My fuel gauge showed only two of seven bars and the little fuel pump warning light had come on somewhere between Ebbetts Pass and Markleeville. I hadn’t had the opportunity to test the fuel capacity to mileage aspect (FC:MA) of the V85-TT though I remembered reading on one of the forums that you’ve got at least 50 miles, maybe more, to empty when the little light comes on.
Turns out that in Topaz, I filled the 6.076 gallon tank with 4..06 gallons of fuel. So, I had a little over 2 gallons in the tank. At Moto Guzzi’s User’s Manual estimated 48 mpg, I had another 96 miles before empty. The Guzzi TFT was telling me I was getting 51 mpg. At the more conservative Guzzi estimated 48 mpg x 6.076 gallons, that would net 291.648 miles on total full tank cruising range. Since our fuel stop was 173 miles from Merced, and I began the ride that morning with 6 of 7 bars showing on the fuel indicator display, I would have theoretically had 118.6 miles left with the last two bars and fuel light displayed.
That begs the question, what does a bar indicate on the fuel gauge? Nowhere to be found in the User’s Manual. By way of arithmetic wizardry, if I divide 6.076 gallons by 7, the number of bars on the gauge, then each bar would represent 0.95371429 gallons per bar provided the bars represented equal volumes. With two bars displayed, that would amount to 1.90742857 gallons remaining in the tank. At 48 mpg, I could make it 91.5565714 miles before running out of climate changing fossil fuel. User’s Manual, forums advice, or my arithmetic assumptions? How’s that attitude shaping up?
We decided to spare me of FWLS (Fuel Warning Light Syndrome) after lunch and travel the 27 miles to Topaz since I only worked out the mathing as I sit here a week later…
Near Monitor Pass… Yup, that’s snow on the distant peaks
Bridgeport Reservoir Marina & Campground
From Markleeville we backtracked on CA-89 up and over Monitor Pass. Again, in conserving the mathing I did earlier, as in crossing Ebbetts Pass we did not experience a 46 degree decrease in temps from lower down the west slope. Neither did we experience a 43 degree decrease crossing Monitor Pass. But, it was a tad cooler, and again, very pleasant.
We dropped down to US-395 heading north to Topaz Lake in Nevada (5,059 ft. elev.). Preparing to stop for road work ahead, I contemplated the sweat beginning to saturate me and whether I might fall unconscious due to heat stroke waiting for the pilot car to take us through the construction zone. It was at least 100 degrees as we waited. Fortunately, the wait ended after several sweltering minutes balancing the bikes on the heat absorbing tarmac and heat reflecting road-cut wall.
After fueling and deciding to avoid yet another prepare to stop episode, a quick Google/Apple search revealed an alternative route roughly parallelling US-395 that would take us directly to our destination, the Bridgeport Reservoir Marina and Campground.
A pleasant detour through rural Western Nevada
Our only reservation was in viewing the not-so-distant thunderheads and flashes of lightning in the easterly direction of NV-208 that became NV-829 in the little community of Smith Valley where we were headed. A few welcomed raindrops began to fall just outside of Smith Valley along with the cloud cover, cooling the route. About 4/5 of the way on NV-208 we came upon a public utility vehicle with flashing lights and a sign that cautioned: Incident Ahead. Figuring there was some sort of vehicle accident we were surprised to see the road ahead had been washed over near Water Canyon as a flash flood had appeared to have just raged across the road, burdened by mud and gravel with trees and limbs held back by what appeared to be a retaining fence up canyon. It’s always the weather upstream that presents the danger of a flash flood downstream.
The Walker River begins in the Sierra Nevada as the East Walker River and the West Walker River. In Mason Valley, just south of Yerington, Nev., the rivers converge to create the the Walker River. The Walker River terminates in Walker Lake. Walker Lake is a terminal lake, meaning that the lake has no water that flows out from it. Since 1882, the level of Walker Lake has declined more than 150 feet. This decline in lake level has caused an increase in dissolved solids making the lake much more saline. The rise in salinity has made it difficult for fish and other wildlife to survive in the Walker River Basin.
The ecosystems and recreational uses of Walker Lake and other terminal lakes in the Great Basin have become at-risk due to consumptive water use. USGS provides scientifically sound data and investigative studies in the Walker River Basin so stakeholders can evaluate alternatives for supplementing flow to Walker Lake while maintaining a healthy agricultural economy.https://www.usgs.gov/centers/nevada-water-science-center/science/science-walker-river-basin
This appears to be a case of the euphemistic “consumptive water use” doing to Walker Lake what the LADWP has done to Mono and Owens Lakes in downstream activity (diversion for “consumption”) presenting a danger to the ecosystem of the basin. From the Bridgeport Reservoir and Marina website:
Established in 1924, the [Bridgeport] reservoir was constructed to aid farmers and ranchers downstream in Nevada. Soon after, it was realized a strong fishery could occur here too. Today, it sustains a population of Rainbow and Brown Trout as well as some Sacramento Perch. A rich ecosystem, similar to Crowley Lake, provides an unlimited food supply for the fish to grow and populate. The Reservoir provides anglers of all ages and skill to catch fish, whether one is Trolling, Still-Fishing or Fly- Fishing.
Shortly after our arrival at the reservoir, a couple and their infant showed up in the tent site just down from us. Dad was apparently a serious fisherman because he had one of the most tricked out fishing kayaks I’ve ever seen. I’d be surprised if he couldn’t catch every last Rainbow and Brown Trout in the reservoir. Good thing CDFW limits catches to 5 trout a day. On the other hand, he may just be a catch and release fisherman and trout could live to fight another day.
The scent of sage filled the air as we set up camp before heading into town for rehydration and dinner.
A quick whistle-wetter at the Big Meadow Brewing Company under misters and shade cloths that made the outdoor seating tolerable if not downright pleasant. Then it was across the street to Rhino’s for comestibles and the place was packed. Pete and I sidled up to the bar to order the night’s meal and this is where I met my new best friend, Brad who joined us by way of an adjacent stool.
It seems Brad is like Pete and me, retired. It also seems like Brad spends a good deal of time at Rhino’s seated at the bar. I engaged him in conversation by apologizing for taking up real estate at the bar by putting my helmet and jacket on the stool next to mine. He replied that we could have left them on the bikes out front because no one in this honest town of some 509 souls would think of taking them. “Besides, if someone would take them, we’d see to it they would never take anything that didn’t belong to them again…” as he snickered, no doubt amused by his reassuring us that the law abiding citizens of Bridgeport were not above or below taking the law into their own hands ala Jason Aldean.
He waxed on and on about his life on the East Side, about the horrendous winter snowfall of 22/23 that was causing him to have to rebuild his home on the reservoir; about his retirement from the Mono County Road Department; about his wild motorcycle antics on his Harley Dyna and KTM Super Duke; about his mountain biking misadventures; and about how he only needs to go shopping in Reno once a month for supplies.
I managed to eat about half of my Rhino salad listening to his Brief-But-Spectacular-Life in Bridgeport. I have to admit that I did envy his living in such a magnificent setting on the East Side. I had respect for what it must take to eek out a living, own property, survive the harsh winters, and enjoy a “Norm” like personage at the local watering hole. And the bartender/ waitress was correct in suggesting the mild buffalo sauce on the grilled chicken in the Rhino’s Salad. I left feeling that Bridgeport really is the kind of place,
Where everybody knows your name And they’re always glad you came You wanna go where people know People are all the same You wanna go where everybody knows your name
Brad was not the only local “color” we witnessed in Bridgeport. We noticed that several stately looking gentlemen who appeared to be conducting some sort of official business while enjoying cool canned grain and hops derived beverages in their plaid rolled-up long sleeved shirts, tractor and cowboy hats. They were seated on the curb near the Superior Court Building and leaning on the bed of a pickup in the parking space in front of Ken’s Sporting Goods. They were there when we arrived hardly noticing our arrival on motorcycles and had yet to conclude their business when we prepared to depart after dinner. Since Ken’s Sporting Goods and The Bridgeport General Store and Market were closed, we noticed an ice-chest had appeared. I suspect this counsel was considering important civic issues and were deliberating in the cool evening air as the Courts building, built in 1880, likely didn’t have air conditioning. There must have been a particularly vexing civic issue under discussion to require an ice-chest intervention…
Nighthawks
Nighthawks or Night Owls?
Edward Hopper said that his painting “Nighthawks” was inspired by “a restaurant on New York’s Greenwich Avenue where two streets meet.” He noted that, “unconsciously, probably, I was painting the loneliness of a large city.”
The waxing crescent moon and Venus at twilight
There doesn’t appear to be anything lonely about the expanses of a rural high desert lake at sunset when the Goodnight Moon, Venus, Mars and Common Nighthawks are present. I was filled with a comforting sense of the organic order of the elements: the water, the fauna, the mountains, the fading sunlight, the sage scented air, and emerging heavenly bodies. There was too much going on surrounding me to feel lonely.
Having procured a few ounces of Three R’s Elixir which stimulates rehydration, relaxation, and reflection it was time to enjoy one of the best parts of moto-camping: The setting sun, the calming 15 mph winds coming off the lake which provided natural air conditioning at our campsite and emergence of the Common Nighthawks, chordeiles minor. The Nighthawks took to wing, their sharp, electric “peent” call the first clue they were overhead. In the dim half-light, the long-winged birds flew in graceful loops, flashing white patches out past the bend of each wing as they chased insects. Along with mosquito repellent wipes, we were fortified against the Great Sierra Mosquito Plague of 2023, reassured that our ariel foraging friends would spare us from annoying little aedes and culex buggers or any of the other 3,500 species described in scientific literature.
Chordeiles Minor courtesy of Wiki
On a previous summer evening, when Pete and I had camped in the same campground, we witnessed the male Common Nighthawk’s dramatic “booming” display flight. Flying at a height slightly above the lake, he abruptly dove for the shore. As he peeled out of his dive (sometimes just a few feet from our heads) he flexed his wings downward, and the air rushing across his wingtips makes a deep booming or whooshing sound, as if a racecar has just passed by. These dives may be directed at females, territorial intruders, and even people since they were flying just above our heads. On this night I guess we weren’t confused as female Nighthawks or territorial intruders. I guess with all of the bad press the Orcas and Sea Otters are getting the Bridgeport Nighthawks felt compelled to leave us be.
UFO or UAP?
In the series of photos above, the moon, Venus, and Mars are visible. At least they were on the shore of Bridgeport Reservoir. Pete and I often remark that every object that registers a different color against the backdrop of space and the distant galaxies or can be determined to be moving, is a UFO. At the lower right is the first real photo I’ve taken of this new unidentified aerial phenomenon. Unfortunately it was neither a UFO nor a UAP, but an IAD, Identified Aerial Drone that belonged to fellow camper.
Our campsite neighbor in space 17 was a woman of considerable moxy who was traveling from Seattle to spend some time with her daughter who was spending her summer camping along the East Side of the Sierra. Our neighbor had two dogs, one small and one medium sized. The small dog yapped as small dogs do to announce their ubiety. The medium dog snarled as dogs of greater statute do to announce their assertion of boundary. Since she was traveling solo, I’m sure the dogs provided some measure reassurance from any malfeasance as well as company. She was sleeping in her Honda CRV, snuggling with her curs. We exchanged campground pleasantries sharing our respective journeys as she produced a clutch of firewood purchased at the Marina Store. She had little idea about how to start the fire as she had place a small box that contained what might have been her dinner that evening under the split pine logs as kindling. Luckily, I had stashed some paraffin fire starter bricks that I bring along for just that sort of occasion. The wind had abated so her fire, with a little coaxing, crackled pleasantly casting a dome of soft golden light dancing over her’s and our campsite.
What would Melanie Daniels aka Tippi Hedren think?
Disappointed about the fake UFO/UAP, we allowed ourselves to suspect these were alien intelligence collecting craft (AICC) made to appear to be Nighthawks. But as our neighbor’s campfire faded and our imagination inducing elixir was kaput, it was time to turn in concluding that our Nighthawks were really our companions to take the edge off of any perceived loneliness on the shore of a rural high-desert lake on the Eastern Side of the Sierra.
Homeward Bound Over Sonora Pass: Highway to Hell
Awakening the following morning after cranking up the JetBoil for a quick mocha before breaking camp, we were faced with a dilemma. It would likely be cold, as in cold, at the beginning of our homeward bound leg over California’s second highest paved pass. It was a mere 19 miles to Sonora Junction at 6,919 ft. elev. where US-395 intersects with CA-108 over Sonora Pass (9,623 ft elev.). Here’s the dilemma: When would we begin to encounter the oppressive heat that was forecast for the day? Pete’s solution, let’s eat. So we made our way to the Bridgeport Inn for breakfast.
The Bridgeport Inn, a beautiful historic Victorian Inn, built in 1877
It’s not getting any cooler Pete, although you do look kinda cool…
The Inn has a quite fascinating history. Sometime after it’s construction in 1877 the Old Leavitt house became an Inn. The tragic story of Sarah, a young woman distraught by her fiancée’s accidental death a short time before their planned wedding, allegedly roams the Bridgeport Inn in Room 16. It was there, dressed in her white wedding gown, that she hung herself. We both ordered eggs, hash browns, and wheat toast, Pete’s eggs were over medium, mine over easy. https://thebridgeportinn.com/index.php/area-history/
Time to add a layer at the Sonora Junction
Sonora Pass from the East Side is gnarly. It is the second-highest pass with a paved road in California and in the Sierra Nevada. It is 321 feet lower than Tioga Pass to the south. State Route 108 traverses the pass, as does the Pacific Crest Trail. The highway over the pass is extremely steep (exceeding 8% for most of the traverse, and up to 26% grades in some locations), narrow and winding between Kennedy Meadows on the west side and Leavitt Meadows on the east.
Fortunately the pass had opened on June 9 and it was July 20, coincidentally the day that Tioga Pass opened, so traffic wasn’t too bad. I wrote about a section of the road and an unfortunate series of events on a pervious adventure. More luck than skill, I avoided a crash when I lost power to the rear wheel missing a downshift to first gear and stalling in neutral around a posted 10 mph hairpin. You can read about the harrowing event in the conclusion of our Utah tour featuring the Burr Canyon: https://sisyphusdw7.com/2020/10/21/burr-trail-here-we-come/
Keeping it low and slow
There’s nothing like following a travel trailer or motorhome on a two-lane double-yellow downhill road. The western slope isn’t as severe as the eastern approach. Slow though it was, especially on CA-108 from Twain Harte to the J-59 La Grange Rd exit, as vacation and truck traffic increased along with temperatures. That despite exposure to a 50 mph breeze on the bike which failed to cool us. It’s the inverse of the chill factor when riding exposed to cold where an increase in wind exaggerates the apparent cold. The heat factor causes one’s sweat to evaporate quickly, without the cooling effect of a more gentle breeze on the body’s cooling system. Now all I need to do if find where I stashed my cooling vest..
I guess we have Lloyd H. Haigh to thank for the route the the Clark-Skidmore Party didn’t enjoy; the two lane, double yellow, slow moving traffic, heat discomfort notwithstanding. After six or so hours we had returned to the air conditioned comfort of our homes, only slightly the worse for wear.
WuMo by Wulff and Morgenthaler
Fortunately at 45 I had opted to stay with the bicycle that I have ridden since a wee lad and which had never been crisis inducing. My sailing, skiing, kayaking, and backpacking phases, all considered good fortunes, are merely dormant. The moto was more of a retirement breakthrough than crisis or a phase for that matter. Though early in my campaign to get a moto, my wife did threaten to divorce me until I convinced her of my insured value. Until then I suspect most friends didn’t take my moto-lust seriously thinking there goes Tom again, Peter Panning. I never considered the unicycle and since I was retired, I couldn’t be fired. Crazy? Nah. Guys just want to have fun and documenting these adventures keeps me out of trouble…
“The day I keep my gratitude higher than my expectations, I have a very good day.” Ray Wylie Hubbard on attitude of gratitude.
By the way, message me if you’re interested in the Kawasexy:
2016 KAWASAKI VERSYS LT with ABS FOR SALE
I’m the original owner of this KAWASAKI VERSYS 650 LT VIN# JKALEEF106DA13018, purchased in 2016, brand new at Hollister Powersports. I’m asking $4,200 for this like-new Versys LT with the following touring features: Its comfortable upright riding position on a comfortable saddle, adjustable windscreen, a 5.5 gallon tank averaging 50+ mpg, and adjustable long-travel front and rear suspension.
The Versys comes with its OEM side cases. I’ve added Oxford heated grips, a T-Rex engine guard and a T-Rex center stand, an SW-Motech Street Rack and Alu-Rack for additional dry bags, a Kaoko throttle lock, a Givi Rear Mudguard, and a Kawasaki Relay for a dual USB port. I will include the tank bag and tail bag as seen in the photos below.
The bike has 28,440 miles with a documented history of excellent maintenance. There are a few scratches on the cases and fairing as the bike has toured the Western US but as you can see, they are minor. It is in excellent mechanical condition. It’s nimble and sporty and not too heavy.
Sisyphus and Associates 