Thanks for the article in the newest issue of Taylor Magazine, Synergy, page 45.
Home- family love
8/2
My mom and dad arrived in Dubuque, IA around 2:00am. I pushed my cart out onto the dim lit parking lot and watched them pull around and park next to my little yellow cruiser. My insides were hosting a heated fight between gladness and shame as I approached their car.
My parents got out with big smiles and wrapped me up with hugs. Gladness won. The "situation" meant nothing; they were excited to be with me and I with them. They didn't even seem to mind the 8 hour drive from Upland and were giggling about some comedian they had listened to on the way up. My mom gave me a hard time saying that if I could have planned this little mishap a bit earlier she could have spent some time shopping in Galena, IL
We loaded the bike into the trailer they had borrowed, and as if it were planned, we rode the final 450 miles home together. The final reading on my motorcycle's trip odometer was 12768 miles, but I think the real reading includes that final leg that we rode together.
Thus, after 71 days and around 200 empty and fills, Alex and I had traveled a total of 13,218 miles through 34 states and Canada. We have seen much, met many, and learned a lot. We are grateful to have had the opportunity to take this trip and are very thankful to all those who supported and encouraged us both on the road and from home. We truly could not have done it without you!
Here is a picture of my gas receipts from the trip.
My mom and dad arrived in Dubuque, IA around 2:00am. I pushed my cart out onto the dim lit parking lot and watched them pull around and park next to my little yellow cruiser. My insides were hosting a heated fight between gladness and shame as I approached their car.
My parents got out with big smiles and wrapped me up with hugs. Gladness won. The "situation" meant nothing; they were excited to be with me and I with them. They didn't even seem to mind the 8 hour drive from Upland and were giggling about some comedian they had listened to on the way up. My mom gave me a hard time saying that if I could have planned this little mishap a bit earlier she could have spent some time shopping in Galena, IL
We loaded the bike into the trailer they had borrowed, and as if it were planned, we rode the final 450 miles home together. The final reading on my motorcycle's trip odometer was 12768 miles, but I think the real reading includes that final leg that we rode together.
Thus, after 71 days and around 200 empty and fills, Alex and I had traveled a total of 13,218 miles through 34 states and Canada. We have seen much, met many, and learned a lot. We are grateful to have had the opportunity to take this trip and are very thankful to all those who supported and encouraged us both on the road and from home. We truly could not have done it without you!
Here is a picture of my gas receipts from the trip.
Dubuque- I've died and gone to Walmart
8/1
After a fine breakfast at the local Spirit Lake diner, I set out for Chicago to visit a few friends as my last stop before heading home. I decided to take smaller highways east through the remaining portion of Iowa. The drive reminded me of Indiana as the landscape flattened and corn rose up on either side of the road. I was enjoying the pleasant sunny day and dreaming about home when a terrible "pop" sounded from beneath and behind me. The sudden outburst was immediately followed by a repeated loud knocking coming from the same direction.
I knew immediately what had happened and quickly but steadily guided the bike to the right shoulder. I got off and looked down at my rear wheel. The chain had broke as I had thought. I had not, however, expected the battering it had done to the rear fender. Instead of unraveling from the sprockets after breaking, the chain became wrapped around the spacer between the sprocket and the hub of the rear wheel. This left a portion of the chain free to whip around and cause a tremendous amount of damage.
I hoped that the damage was merely cosmetic because I had a spare chain and sprockets packed on the bike. I was in a bit of shock and stood back to take a deep breath and assess the situation. I was unhurt and the bike was still upright. The road was busy, but the bike and I were safely on the gravel shoulder. I checked my phone. The service was limited, but I had two bars. I walked west to pick up the splintered pieces of yellow and chrome from the road and to determine my exact location. I was about 35 miles west of Dubuque, IA on Highway 20 near 285th Ave.
I returned to my bike and gave it a closer examination. I had to pull the rear fender away from the wheel. The chain had smashed it to bits even tearing through the supporting metal frame. The damage exceeded the cosmetic, though. The support between the swing arm was smashed and the chain had also torn trough a good deal of the electrical. The damage was beyond what I could fix on the side of the road with the tools and parts that I had.
I phoned my parents, explained the situation, and told them I would give them a call when I had a plan. After calls to AMA Roadside Assistance (thanks Dr. Esclamado :) ), the insurance company, and many friends in the Chicago area, I was picked up by a big, orange flatbed truck and dropped off in the parking lot of a Walmart in Dubuque where I was to wait for my parents who were now on their way up with a trailer. Prodigal son... parents get the call... meet the son on the road... hmm.
The tow truck pulled away and I sat down in a heap on the curb with my bags piled around me. This was not in my master plan. I loaded my belongings haphazardly into a stray cart and walked solemnly through the electric, sliding glass doors announcing my arrival in America's heaven.
Saint Peter sat watch holding the keys, a blue sticker gun. She took one look at my dishevelled self, thought I was a homeless wanderer, and kindly explained that I couldn't be in the store. I gave her this empty stare for a few moments and then relented explaining my situation. She pointed to a separate room outside of the kingdom's walls, a Purgatory, which, by the way, conveniently sells subs and is decorated with posters of the savior, Jared.
There I sat reading my bible waiting for redemption.
After a fine breakfast at the local Spirit Lake diner, I set out for Chicago to visit a few friends as my last stop before heading home. I decided to take smaller highways east through the remaining portion of Iowa. The drive reminded me of Indiana as the landscape flattened and corn rose up on either side of the road. I was enjoying the pleasant sunny day and dreaming about home when a terrible "pop" sounded from beneath and behind me. The sudden outburst was immediately followed by a repeated loud knocking coming from the same direction.
I knew immediately what had happened and quickly but steadily guided the bike to the right shoulder. I got off and looked down at my rear wheel. The chain had broke as I had thought. I had not, however, expected the battering it had done to the rear fender. Instead of unraveling from the sprockets after breaking, the chain became wrapped around the spacer between the sprocket and the hub of the rear wheel. This left a portion of the chain free to whip around and cause a tremendous amount of damage.
I hoped that the damage was merely cosmetic because I had a spare chain and sprockets packed on the bike. I was in a bit of shock and stood back to take a deep breath and assess the situation. I was unhurt and the bike was still upright. The road was busy, but the bike and I were safely on the gravel shoulder. I checked my phone. The service was limited, but I had two bars. I walked west to pick up the splintered pieces of yellow and chrome from the road and to determine my exact location. I was about 35 miles west of Dubuque, IA on Highway 20 near 285th Ave.
I returned to my bike and gave it a closer examination. I had to pull the rear fender away from the wheel. The chain had smashed it to bits even tearing through the supporting metal frame. The damage exceeded the cosmetic, though. The support between the swing arm was smashed and the chain had also torn trough a good deal of the electrical. The damage was beyond what I could fix on the side of the road with the tools and parts that I had.
I phoned my parents, explained the situation, and told them I would give them a call when I had a plan. After calls to AMA Roadside Assistance (thanks Dr. Esclamado :) ), the insurance company, and many friends in the Chicago area, I was picked up by a big, orange flatbed truck and dropped off in the parking lot of a Walmart in Dubuque where I was to wait for my parents who were now on their way up with a trailer. Prodigal son... parents get the call... meet the son on the road... hmm.
The tow truck pulled away and I sat down in a heap on the curb with my bags piled around me. This was not in my master plan. I loaded my belongings haphazardly into a stray cart and walked solemnly through the electric, sliding glass doors announcing my arrival in America's heaven.
Saint Peter sat watch holding the keys, a blue sticker gun. She took one look at my dishevelled self, thought I was a homeless wanderer, and kindly explained that I couldn't be in the store. I gave her this empty stare for a few moments and then relented explaining my situation. She pointed to a separate room outside of the kingdom's walls, a Purgatory, which, by the way, conveniently sells subs and is decorated with posters of the savior, Jared.
There I sat reading my bible waiting for redemption.
Spirit Lake- through Stugis, the Badlands, and Wall Drug
7/30
I woke up early to begin my ride through South Dakota. Prior to this summer my furthest journeys west were a pair of trips to the Colorado ski country with buddies from college. We would leave late, all pile into a car, and head west on I-70 through Kansas. Flat and still, we would barrel through its moonlit fields emitting waves and disturbing all tranquility. Kansas is the fast before the feast and we scorned its very existence.
I expected South Dakota to simply be an extension of Kansas. I was pleasantly surprised, however, as I rode through rolling hills and steep flat-topped buttes. It wasn't long into my route east that I came across the Sturgis Rally which was just starting up. As I passed through and rode on, it was clear I was the anomaly. Everything on two wheels was in the other lane headed to Sturgis.
While I chose to forgo a stop at Mt. Rushmore, I did take the time to drive through the Badlands. The scenery is a bit difficult to appreciate returning from the west, but I did enjoy the drive. The highlight of the day, however, came in Wall, SD, where, after probably 40 miles of advertising billboards, I stopped at the very famous Wall Drug for a fresh doughnut, 5 cent coffee, and the world renowned free ice water. I found this picture of a Typical Wall Drug billboard online. Looks like they start advertising in the South Pole.
From there, I pushed on riding east to Spirit Lake Iowa. My friend, Keith, who will be traveling with me to Ecuador at the end of August was vacationing with his family at their family cottage on the lake. I arrived with the trip odometer reading 12479 miles and was graciously invited in as family and enjoyed a few days on the boat and jet ski.
I woke up early to begin my ride through South Dakota. Prior to this summer my furthest journeys west were a pair of trips to the Colorado ski country with buddies from college. We would leave late, all pile into a car, and head west on I-70 through Kansas. Flat and still, we would barrel through its moonlit fields emitting waves and disturbing all tranquility. Kansas is the fast before the feast and we scorned its very existence.
I expected South Dakota to simply be an extension of Kansas. I was pleasantly surprised, however, as I rode through rolling hills and steep flat-topped buttes. It wasn't long into my route east that I came across the Sturgis Rally which was just starting up. As I passed through and rode on, it was clear I was the anomaly. Everything on two wheels was in the other lane headed to Sturgis.
While I chose to forgo a stop at Mt. Rushmore, I did take the time to drive through the Badlands. The scenery is a bit difficult to appreciate returning from the west, but I did enjoy the drive. The highlight of the day, however, came in Wall, SD, where, after probably 40 miles of advertising billboards, I stopped at the very famous Wall Drug for a fresh doughnut, 5 cent coffee, and the world renowned free ice water. I found this picture of a Typical Wall Drug billboard online. Looks like they start advertising in the South Pole.
From there, I pushed on riding east to Spirit Lake Iowa. My friend, Keith, who will be traveling with me to Ecuador at the end of August was vacationing with his family at their family cottage on the lake. I arrived with the trip odometer reading 12479 miles and was graciously invited in as family and enjoyed a few days on the boat and jet ski.
Spearfish- camping alone
7/29
From Wyoming I had quite a bit of land between me and home with not a lot of intent to stop and see much. I left the Grand Tetons at around 7:00am and started riding east. After battling through miles of road construction, I ran into some nasty cold, wet, and windy weather just east of the Bighorn mountains. Realizing that I needed to take a break to unthaw, I pulled off the road to refuel. My fingers were so cold I couldn't feel the turn signal switch with my thumb to indicate my turn.
I managed to fill up and then went inside to warm up. It was still early morning, and I wasn't very hungry, but I ordered a bowl of chili and a cup of hot chocolate from the food counter inside. It didn't matter that chili wasn't much of a breakfast food or that hot chocolate was far from a good complement. They were both producing steam, and I sat down at a booth and hovered over them as if I was warming myself around a campfire.
The chili was bad and didn't mix well with the chocolate, but I left the gas station warmer than when I entered. I even managed to put my pen to a few postcards.
The weather became worse as I made the pass through the Bighorns, but I emerged on the eastern slopes to sunny skies and warm air. Mountains have an amazing effect on weather. I dropped my postcards off at the post office in Buffalo and kept on trucking. I crossed the border into South Dakota as the sun was getting low in my mirrors. I needed to find a place to camp and soon. I picked up a South Dakota highway map at a rest stop and set my sights on the nearest state campground. The little park just north of Spearfish, SD wasn't ideal as I had hoped to make it to the Badlands for the night, but after a summer of experience, I knew the importance of setting up camp before dark, and I still needed to buy food.
I stopped at the local grocery and bought soup and bagels. By the time I exited the store a steady rain had begun. I grabbed my rain gear from the bag which was strapped to my bike and went under the store's awning to put it on. By the time I mounted the bike and ignited the engine to life the rain had turned to a down pour and I became discouraged. Cold, wet, hungry, and alone I envied the four teenagers who scurried through the parking lot giggling as they jumped in their parent's car to drive home and watch a movie. I wanted to ask them if I could join.
Perseverance, the trained and determined motivator, kicked in, and I pressed on according to the plan. Fortunately, the rain passed, and I arrived at an empty and very eerie Belle Fourche Reservoir with the trip odometer reading 11994 miles. I set up camp quickly and quietly as not to wake any sleeping giants. The setting was very quiet and still. I was the only person in the park and there were no fisherman on the lake. The sunset lit up the post-storm sky and provided probably the most brilliant display of the summer. It felt like my lone companion, and after my bowl of soup had been wiped clean with the bagel, I tucked myself away in the tent under its watchful care.
From Wyoming I had quite a bit of land between me and home with not a lot of intent to stop and see much. I left the Grand Tetons at around 7:00am and started riding east. After battling through miles of road construction, I ran into some nasty cold, wet, and windy weather just east of the Bighorn mountains. Realizing that I needed to take a break to unthaw, I pulled off the road to refuel. My fingers were so cold I couldn't feel the turn signal switch with my thumb to indicate my turn.
I managed to fill up and then went inside to warm up. It was still early morning, and I wasn't very hungry, but I ordered a bowl of chili and a cup of hot chocolate from the food counter inside. It didn't matter that chili wasn't much of a breakfast food or that hot chocolate was far from a good complement. They were both producing steam, and I sat down at a booth and hovered over them as if I was warming myself around a campfire.
The chili was bad and didn't mix well with the chocolate, but I left the gas station warmer than when I entered. I even managed to put my pen to a few postcards.
The weather became worse as I made the pass through the Bighorns, but I emerged on the eastern slopes to sunny skies and warm air. Mountains have an amazing effect on weather. I dropped my postcards off at the post office in Buffalo and kept on trucking. I crossed the border into South Dakota as the sun was getting low in my mirrors. I needed to find a place to camp and soon. I picked up a South Dakota highway map at a rest stop and set my sights on the nearest state campground. The little park just north of Spearfish, SD wasn't ideal as I had hoped to make it to the Badlands for the night, but after a summer of experience, I knew the importance of setting up camp before dark, and I still needed to buy food.
I stopped at the local grocery and bought soup and bagels. By the time I exited the store a steady rain had begun. I grabbed my rain gear from the bag which was strapped to my bike and went under the store's awning to put it on. By the time I mounted the bike and ignited the engine to life the rain had turned to a down pour and I became discouraged. Cold, wet, hungry, and alone I envied the four teenagers who scurried through the parking lot giggling as they jumped in their parent's car to drive home and watch a movie. I wanted to ask them if I could join.
Perseverance, the trained and determined motivator, kicked in, and I pressed on according to the plan. Fortunately, the rain passed, and I arrived at an empty and very eerie Belle Fourche Reservoir with the trip odometer reading 11994 miles. I set up camp quickly and quietly as not to wake any sleeping giants. The setting was very quiet and still. I was the only person in the park and there were no fisherman on the lake. The sunset lit up the post-storm sky and provided probably the most brilliant display of the summer. It felt like my lone companion, and after my bowl of soup had been wiped clean with the bagel, I tucked myself away in the tent under its watchful care.
Grand Tetons- "whoa bear"
7/27
In the morning we headed back into Jellystone, but after a few disappointing hours at Mammoth Springs and Old Faithful, I was ready to get away from the hoards of people and back into the mountains. It was a challenge to find a spot where you could view Old Faithful without feeling like you were waiting for the Chicago Bears to rush onto the field. They have stadium seating and lodges built on three sides.
We were several miles down the road toward the Grand Tetons when I received a call from my friend Brad. He was with a group from Taylor and Wheaton that had been doing field study in the Black Hills and were now touring through Yellowstone. He and the group were at Old Faithful, and so I turned around at the opportunity to see him and to relive the great spectacle one more time.
It was faithful.
My fellow travelers had gone ahead to secure a camping spot for the night in the Tetons. They left me a message as to their location, and I arrived at the turnout after dark with the trip odometer reading 11457 miles. I pulled onto the gravel road and noticed a sign on my right that read, "No fires or camping without permit." Hoping my friends had gathered the appropriate permits I continued on down the road. I pulled in next to their parked cars and followed the distant flickering light to a small fire surrounded by two tents and my friends who were warming themselves and dishing out hot, freshly prepared vegetable soup. I hardly mentioned the sign at the bottom of the hill prohibiting all of the actions we were participating in. They shrugged it off and said that there were others just down the road in a camper. After a long day, and with the setting wonderfully prepared: warm food, warm fire, friends, and tents, I didn't object.
We sat around the fire eating soup and going through every conceivable bear situation. I tried my best to recall the various deterrent techniques outlined in the video I was required to watch before heading into the backcountry in Glacier NP. We had fun clapping and exclaiming "whoa bear" with various accents and inflections. I hope the bears sitting watch in the shadows were as amused as we were. The girls seemed to think that the bottle of parking lot pepper spray and the can of aerosol hairspray would provide ample defense against a full grown male grizzly. I begged to differ.
In the morning I woke early and was happy (or maybe slightly disappointed) to see that no grizzly had torn the door off of the car that had 30 lbs of cherries in the back seat. I made a few phone calls looking for a shop that could replace my worn rear tire. With no luck, I was beginning to get discouraged when I noticed a white truck pull up slowly next to our vehicles. When I saw the green emblem on the door, I knew our fate. It was a park ranger. Emily had woken up just in time to be asked by the ranger for her ID. I provided mine as well and went to wake up the others.
The fine was $125 and would be split among the five of us. This was gracious considering we each deserved a full fine.
We solemnly packed up and headed south to the Jenny Lake visitor's center to make plans for hiking and legal camping for the night. There, we acquired backcountry permits for Surprise Lake. The others went ahead while I went over to the lodge to further my search for a new rear tire. More dead ends. The Sturgis rally was sucking up all of the resources from Wyoming to Wisconsin.
I started the five mile hike up to Surprise Lake around 4:30pm and hauled up to meet the others. The site was awesome, and I had to congratulate them on their fine discovery. After a cool dip in the lake, we cooked up some lentils. Warm, garlic, goodness.
Unfortunately, our bear deterrent techniques worked a little too well, or the girls prayed too hard because although there had been many recent sightings of bears in the area, we saw none.
In fact, I just talked to my friend Brad who made the same hike one day after us. He encountered a bear and her cub on the trail. Unbelievable!
In the morning we headed back into Jellystone, but after a few disappointing hours at Mammoth Springs and Old Faithful, I was ready to get away from the hoards of people and back into the mountains. It was a challenge to find a spot where you could view Old Faithful without feeling like you were waiting for the Chicago Bears to rush onto the field. They have stadium seating and lodges built on three sides.
We were several miles down the road toward the Grand Tetons when I received a call from my friend Brad. He was with a group from Taylor and Wheaton that had been doing field study in the Black Hills and were now touring through Yellowstone. He and the group were at Old Faithful, and so I turned around at the opportunity to see him and to relive the great spectacle one more time.
It was faithful.
My fellow travelers had gone ahead to secure a camping spot for the night in the Tetons. They left me a message as to their location, and I arrived at the turnout after dark with the trip odometer reading 11457 miles. I pulled onto the gravel road and noticed a sign on my right that read, "No fires or camping without permit." Hoping my friends had gathered the appropriate permits I continued on down the road. I pulled in next to their parked cars and followed the distant flickering light to a small fire surrounded by two tents and my friends who were warming themselves and dishing out hot, freshly prepared vegetable soup. I hardly mentioned the sign at the bottom of the hill prohibiting all of the actions we were participating in. They shrugged it off and said that there were others just down the road in a camper. After a long day, and with the setting wonderfully prepared: warm food, warm fire, friends, and tents, I didn't object.
We sat around the fire eating soup and going through every conceivable bear situation. I tried my best to recall the various deterrent techniques outlined in the video I was required to watch before heading into the backcountry in Glacier NP. We had fun clapping and exclaiming "whoa bear" with various accents and inflections. I hope the bears sitting watch in the shadows were as amused as we were. The girls seemed to think that the bottle of parking lot pepper spray and the can of aerosol hairspray would provide ample defense against a full grown male grizzly. I begged to differ.
In the morning I woke early and was happy (or maybe slightly disappointed) to see that no grizzly had torn the door off of the car that had 30 lbs of cherries in the back seat. I made a few phone calls looking for a shop that could replace my worn rear tire. With no luck, I was beginning to get discouraged when I noticed a white truck pull up slowly next to our vehicles. When I saw the green emblem on the door, I knew our fate. It was a park ranger. Emily had woken up just in time to be asked by the ranger for her ID. I provided mine as well and went to wake up the others.
The fine was $125 and would be split among the five of us. This was gracious considering we each deserved a full fine.
We solemnly packed up and headed south to the Jenny Lake visitor's center to make plans for hiking and legal camping for the night. There, we acquired backcountry permits for Surprise Lake. The others went ahead while I went over to the lodge to further my search for a new rear tire. More dead ends. The Sturgis rally was sucking up all of the resources from Wyoming to Wisconsin.
I started the five mile hike up to Surprise Lake around 4:30pm and hauled up to meet the others. The site was awesome, and I had to congratulate them on their fine discovery. After a cool dip in the lake, we cooked up some lentils. Warm, garlic, goodness.
Unfortunately, our bear deterrent techniques worked a little too well, or the girls prayed too hard because although there had been many recent sightings of bears in the area, we saw none.
In fact, I just talked to my friend Brad who made the same hike one day after us. He encountered a bear and her cub on the trail. Unbelievable!
Yellowstone- "Eh Boo-Boo?"
7/26
I woke up to Alex shaking my shoulder. To be honest, I had been awake for a while, watching him pack up through the slits in my eyelids, savoring the last moments on the comfy couch and hoping he would give up and decide to ride into Yellowstone with me.
"Kyle, I'm leaving."
I acted surprised and followed him into the kitchen and out the door helping him carry a few of his items to be strapped onto the bike. We hugged and smiled.
"It's been a good trip, man. Tell Alyse I said hi. Ride safe. I'll see you in Chicago."
"I look forward to it. Call me if you need anything."
And with that, I watched Alex complete one last karate-kick-my-legs-are-too-short motorcycle mount and ride off down the alleyway behind the house. Goodbye wasn't too hard, and I knew I would see him again in Chicago. He was doing the right thing and I admired him for it.
I went back in the house and munched on a bowl of cereal while I sat examining a map trying to determine my route into Yellowstone. It didn't take long for me to pack up (I've had a few days of practice) and soon I was riding out the same alley Alex had exited on about an hour before.
I stopped at a gas station to fill-up and tried to call my friends about a meeting place and time in the park. No luck. A pair of Harley riders down from Canada occupied the pump next to mine. They came over to ask about my travels. They were nice and after chatting about routes and roads they returned to their hogs where I overheard them discussing the days ride. I wanted to turn to Alex and ask him his opinion for the day's route. A brief moment of fear was overcome by feelings of excitement at being alone in a strange place free to explore, free to make wrong turns, and free to embellish my stories. I was the lone perpetrator of all the day had to offer.
Back on the road I exercised my freedom and made a last second decision to turn east heading toward the Beartooth mountains. This would allow me to ride highway 212 from Red Lodge to Cooke City over the Beartooth pass. From there, I could enter the park at the northeast entrance and hopefully by that time receive word from my friends on where to meet.
The ride was both beautiful and challenging, and I was careful how I navigated the tight, mountain turns with a worn back tire. The road led me past some spectacular mountain viewpoints and eventually to the treeless tundra surrounding the summit. Road construction slowed my decent and I arrived in Cooke City staring at some potential rain.
I entered the park with rain gear on and soon encountered all three of the things that caused me to dislike my time in Yellowstone: rain, road construction, and miles of tourist traffic. The ride west to Mammoth Springs was wet, slow, and void of any of the magnificent scenery that I had found so captivating during my time in the other parks to date (and even on the ride in).
I finally arrived in Mammoth Springs with the trip odometer reading 11346 miles and managed to meet up with my friends Emily and Liz before the sky let loose again. We found refuge under a store awning and stood huddled together eating the bread, cheese, cherries, and apricots that they had brought from Washington.
The rain eventually passed, and we went our in search of a campsite for the night. We decided that leaving the park would be our best option for vacant, cheap, tourist-free camping and we exited through the north entrance all piled into Emily's little Toyota.
A few miles down a bumpy, gravel road (that made me thankful I had left my motorcycle back at Mammoth) we came across an ideal spot on a lake, surrounded by mountains, and with plenty of firewood to get a roaring blaze started. We settled in, set up the tent, and Liz began making homemade tortillas while Emily and I gathered wood for the fire. The evening was fun and we enjoyed the company of two on Liz/Emily's friends that made the drive down from Colville, WA and would be joining us over the next few days.
We sat around the fire and talked through the essentials: books, travel, and fruit. Great stuff!
I woke up to Alex shaking my shoulder. To be honest, I had been awake for a while, watching him pack up through the slits in my eyelids, savoring the last moments on the comfy couch and hoping he would give up and decide to ride into Yellowstone with me.
"Kyle, I'm leaving."
I acted surprised and followed him into the kitchen and out the door helping him carry a few of his items to be strapped onto the bike. We hugged and smiled.
"It's been a good trip, man. Tell Alyse I said hi. Ride safe. I'll see you in Chicago."
"I look forward to it. Call me if you need anything."
And with that, I watched Alex complete one last karate-kick-my-legs-are-too-short motorcycle mount and ride off down the alleyway behind the house. Goodbye wasn't too hard, and I knew I would see him again in Chicago. He was doing the right thing and I admired him for it.
I went back in the house and munched on a bowl of cereal while I sat examining a map trying to determine my route into Yellowstone. It didn't take long for me to pack up (I've had a few days of practice) and soon I was riding out the same alley Alex had exited on about an hour before.
I stopped at a gas station to fill-up and tried to call my friends about a meeting place and time in the park. No luck. A pair of Harley riders down from Canada occupied the pump next to mine. They came over to ask about my travels. They were nice and after chatting about routes and roads they returned to their hogs where I overheard them discussing the days ride. I wanted to turn to Alex and ask him his opinion for the day's route. A brief moment of fear was overcome by feelings of excitement at being alone in a strange place free to explore, free to make wrong turns, and free to embellish my stories. I was the lone perpetrator of all the day had to offer.
Back on the road I exercised my freedom and made a last second decision to turn east heading toward the Beartooth mountains. This would allow me to ride highway 212 from Red Lodge to Cooke City over the Beartooth pass. From there, I could enter the park at the northeast entrance and hopefully by that time receive word from my friends on where to meet.
The ride was both beautiful and challenging, and I was careful how I navigated the tight, mountain turns with a worn back tire. The road led me past some spectacular mountain viewpoints and eventually to the treeless tundra surrounding the summit. Road construction slowed my decent and I arrived in Cooke City staring at some potential rain.
I entered the park with rain gear on and soon encountered all three of the things that caused me to dislike my time in Yellowstone: rain, road construction, and miles of tourist traffic. The ride west to Mammoth Springs was wet, slow, and void of any of the magnificent scenery that I had found so captivating during my time in the other parks to date (and even on the ride in).
I finally arrived in Mammoth Springs with the trip odometer reading 11346 miles and managed to meet up with my friends Emily and Liz before the sky let loose again. We found refuge under a store awning and stood huddled together eating the bread, cheese, cherries, and apricots that they had brought from Washington.
The rain eventually passed, and we went our in search of a campsite for the night. We decided that leaving the park would be our best option for vacant, cheap, tourist-free camping and we exited through the north entrance all piled into Emily's little Toyota.
A few miles down a bumpy, gravel road (that made me thankful I had left my motorcycle back at Mammoth) we came across an ideal spot on a lake, surrounded by mountains, and with plenty of firewood to get a roaring blaze started. We settled in, set up the tent, and Liz began making homemade tortillas while Emily and I gathered wood for the fire. The evening was fun and we enjoyed the company of two on Liz/Emily's friends that made the drive down from Colville, WA and would be joining us over the next few days.
We sat around the fire and talked through the essentials: books, travel, and fruit. Great stuff!
Livingston- parting ways
7/25
We took off our cowboy hats, hung up the flannel, and left the ranch life behind. Our next destination was not far, only about 30 miles south to Livingston, MT, but this would be our final leg of the trip riding together.
On the way out of Wilsall we pulled off to the side of a country road to discuss the situation. Alex, engaged to be married in September, had spent a long two months away from his fiance. Final details for the wedding ceremony and reception were due in a week and he felt that it would be best to be with Alyse as they made those decisions together. If he left, it would be a 1,400 mile trip, in two days, riding alone. It also meant that I would be finishing the last 2,000 miles of the trip solo.
God, in his mercy, provided us with some assistance. For Alex: Alyse's dad, a biker as well, agreed to ride out from Chicago and meet Alex halfway in Sioux Falls, SD. For me: a few friends that we had met during our time in Washington would be touring Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons at the same time I would. They invited me to share in their camping and traveling adventures over the next week. And so it was, we were not alone.
With the decision made the next few moments were a bit sappy as we prepared to ride together one last time. We agreed to get back together and reflect once the journey was over.
And with that, we jumped back on the bikes and rode into Livingston, MT. There we met up with Patrick and his wife, both recent Taylor grads. Alex and I loved talking with them about life on Third East Wengatz, outdoor adventures, and his love for off-roading. (My next motorcycle trip will be through Canada and Alaska... Banff, Jasper, Denali.)
We took off our cowboy hats, hung up the flannel, and left the ranch life behind. Our next destination was not far, only about 30 miles south to Livingston, MT, but this would be our final leg of the trip riding together.
On the way out of Wilsall we pulled off to the side of a country road to discuss the situation. Alex, engaged to be married in September, had spent a long two months away from his fiance. Final details for the wedding ceremony and reception were due in a week and he felt that it would be best to be with Alyse as they made those decisions together. If he left, it would be a 1,400 mile trip, in two days, riding alone. It also meant that I would be finishing the last 2,000 miles of the trip solo.
God, in his mercy, provided us with some assistance. For Alex: Alyse's dad, a biker as well, agreed to ride out from Chicago and meet Alex halfway in Sioux Falls, SD. For me: a few friends that we had met during our time in Washington would be touring Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons at the same time I would. They invited me to share in their camping and traveling adventures over the next week. And so it was, we were not alone.
With the decision made the next few moments were a bit sappy as we prepared to ride together one last time. We agreed to get back together and reflect once the journey was over.
And with that, we jumped back on the bikes and rode into Livingston, MT. There we met up with Patrick and his wife, both recent Taylor grads. Alex and I loved talking with them about life on Third East Wengatz, outdoor adventures, and his love for off-roading. (My next motorcycle trip will be through Canada and Alaska... Banff, Jasper, Denali.)
Wilsall- follow your dreams
7/24
Our friend Seth is a perfect example of someone who abides by the "follow your dreams" motto. Growing up in the Midwestern suburbs, going out west and becoming a cowboy on a big ranch was something that Seth was rarely able to experience outside of the occasional Louis L'Amour novel.
After two years at Taylor it was time, and Seth left with his associates degree to pursue cattle management at Montana State. Since he left two years ago, every time I see him he fits the image a little more. But it was always out of context, back here in Indiana amongst corn fields, not on the open range.
Alex and I arrived in Wilsall, MT around 8:00pm with the trip odometer reading 10950 miles and parked on the street between two big, muddy 4x4 pickups. We could see the whole town from our parking spot, and I got out my phone to call Seth. Just as I placed the phone next to my ear, a tall figure wearing a cowboy hat that shaded a flannel that was tucked into a pair of Wranglers that covered the tops of some slick boots emerged from the diner down the street from where we stood.
His walk and mannerisms gave him away immediately. I put the phone away and Alex and I walked down to meet our friend on the sidewalk where he grinned, let out a little laugh, and gave each of us a hug. "Welcome to Wilsall."
Seth acted amazed to see us like we had dropped out of the sky. He poked and prodded our bikes like one of his cattle and kept saying, "I can't believe you guys are in Wilsall." Seth has always displayed this wide eyed amazement and plays that he is surprised by all that is in the world. But he is clever, clever enough to transplant himself from little burbs to big sky.
We followed Seth into the diner where I warmed over some bread and soup while Alex filled with a Montana sized burger. He told us a bit about life on the ranch and the misunderstandings of people back home. "My friends and family back home think I live the romantic life, riding my horse into the sunset and branding a few cattle, all while having a few drinks with my fellow hands. The truth is, it's a lot of hard work." Tromping around in a mixture of mud and manure up to your knees doesn't seem to make it into the beer commercials and paperbacks.
Although we missed the storms, it had been raining all day in Wilsall, and as Alex and I followed Seth's truck back to the ranch he worked on the road conditions deteriorated. By the time we pulled into the final drive up to his living quarters the road had turned to mud. I hit the final turn a little to fast, and standing on the foot pegs almost spilled in mud that would have been tricky to cross in a dirt bike let alone my street cruiser. Safely parked, I looked back at Alex who was walking his bike up the drive. The bikes were covered in mud, but we didn't care.We were there.
That night we rode with him up to a high point on the ranch. The sky was beautiful and we sat pondering life. Friends are good, and relationships are valuable and worth pursuing.
In the morning we whipped up a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and pancakes. Alex and I raided Seth's closet for a game of man-dress-up cowboy style. After a brief trip into town where Seth educated me on boots, hats, and electric fences we returned to the ranch and hopped on a couple of four-wheelers to explore the range. He took us to some beautiful viewpoints.
After a few hours zipping around through the sage brush, it was time to leave. Seth was sad to see us go, but released us after one final group shot.
Our friend Seth is a perfect example of someone who abides by the "follow your dreams" motto. Growing up in the Midwestern suburbs, going out west and becoming a cowboy on a big ranch was something that Seth was rarely able to experience outside of the occasional Louis L'Amour novel.
After two years at Taylor it was time, and Seth left with his associates degree to pursue cattle management at Montana State. Since he left two years ago, every time I see him he fits the image a little more. But it was always out of context, back here in Indiana amongst corn fields, not on the open range.
Alex and I arrived in Wilsall, MT around 8:00pm with the trip odometer reading 10950 miles and parked on the street between two big, muddy 4x4 pickups. We could see the whole town from our parking spot, and I got out my phone to call Seth. Just as I placed the phone next to my ear, a tall figure wearing a cowboy hat that shaded a flannel that was tucked into a pair of Wranglers that covered the tops of some slick boots emerged from the diner down the street from where we stood.
His walk and mannerisms gave him away immediately. I put the phone away and Alex and I walked down to meet our friend on the sidewalk where he grinned, let out a little laugh, and gave each of us a hug. "Welcome to Wilsall."
Seth acted amazed to see us like we had dropped out of the sky. He poked and prodded our bikes like one of his cattle and kept saying, "I can't believe you guys are in Wilsall." Seth has always displayed this wide eyed amazement and plays that he is surprised by all that is in the world. But he is clever, clever enough to transplant himself from little burbs to big sky.
We followed Seth into the diner where I warmed over some bread and soup while Alex filled with a Montana sized burger. He told us a bit about life on the ranch and the misunderstandings of people back home. "My friends and family back home think I live the romantic life, riding my horse into the sunset and branding a few cattle, all while having a few drinks with my fellow hands. The truth is, it's a lot of hard work." Tromping around in a mixture of mud and manure up to your knees doesn't seem to make it into the beer commercials and paperbacks.
Although we missed the storms, it had been raining all day in Wilsall, and as Alex and I followed Seth's truck back to the ranch he worked on the road conditions deteriorated. By the time we pulled into the final drive up to his living quarters the road had turned to mud. I hit the final turn a little to fast, and standing on the foot pegs almost spilled in mud that would have been tricky to cross in a dirt bike let alone my street cruiser. Safely parked, I looked back at Alex who was walking his bike up the drive. The bikes were covered in mud, but we didn't care.We were there.
That night we rode with him up to a high point on the ranch. The sky was beautiful and we sat pondering life. Friends are good, and relationships are valuable and worth pursuing.
In the morning we whipped up a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and pancakes. Alex and I raided Seth's closet for a game of man-dress-up cowboy style. After a brief trip into town where Seth educated me on boots, hats, and electric fences we returned to the ranch and hopped on a couple of four-wheelers to explore the range. He took us to some beautiful viewpoints.
After a few hours zipping around through the sage brush, it was time to leave. Seth was sad to see us go, but released us after one final group shot.
Glacier NP- a long post
7/21
The road to Glacier NP was nice, but Alex and I were not too interested in the scenery. We were ready for some mountain backpacking. We arrived at the park a little late to enter and decided to camp a night outside of the park. While buying some food at the local supermarket, the cashier led us to Flathead Lake, a beautiful, large, recreational lake southwest of the park. The only problem was that everyone else found it nice as well and had taken all of the vacant campsites by the time we arrived. In a situation that felt frighteningly similar to our drive up Oregon's coast, we took some advice from a lucky camper and headed east towards Swan Lake.
We arrived after dark and found a site next to two fellow bikers. They were out from Denver on a two week trip off-road through British Colombia and were now on their way home. We shared our food with them: hot soup (the generic, chunky-in-a-can kind), baked beans (the expensive smothered-in-savory-brown-sugary-sauce-and-BBQ kind), and bread (the normal-needs-no-explanation-found-in-every-kitchen-in-America-sliced kind)... a new favorite. One was a physician's assistant and the other a fifth grade teacher, they had some wild stories. It made me wonder what my teachers and doctors were doing when they weren't molding my young mind or operating on my delicate body. Hmmm?
The next morning, with the trip odometer reading 10525 miles, we rode into the park, went to the backcountry office, and acquired permits for Otokomi Lake. The six mile hike in was mild and mostly tree covered but it did allow us to christen our new sandals on the trail and is an ice cold waterfall.
We arrived at the lake a few hours before sunset and quickly set up camp. It was immediately realized that we would be dealing with mosquitoes as long as we were within a mile of the lake. Memories, or nightmares rather, from Yosemite began to run through our heads.
With the tent set up we wasted no time in setting up our poles and walking down to the lake. Expectations were high as we had been told that the fish were spawning. What we had heard was true, and the big fish were in the clear, shallow water. They were rising all over and Alex and I hammered them as they ate almost anything we threw at them. We caught about 20 beautiful, big Yellowstone Hybrids.
This would have been fish heaven, but the mosquitoes nearly carried us off. We left the lake and returned to the tent to escape the fighting beasts. We even skipped diner after an unsuccessful attempt at cooking a meal in a cloud of buzzing bloodsuckers.
In the morning we packed up food and water and scrambled up the nearest peak with the buzzing in hot pursuit.
Our goal was to hit the ridge and then make our way around the bowl that surrounded Otokomi.
The climb to the ridge was more than we had bargained for and took several hours. The loose, flaking, red rock made for a slow accent. Finally at the top, we were able to see new snow capped peaks and mountain lakes in the distance.
Alex and I were low on water and made it a priority to follow the ridge to a wonderful mountain lake not far from where we stood. Distance and depth can be deceiving and we worked hard scaling some pretty hairy ridge lines to reach the precious goal. Fortunately, we ran across a stream running from a snow melt and were able to filter some water that would sustain us as we worked toward our mountain prize.
After some wild vertical that tested our nerve and skill a little more, we arrived at the lake, removed our packs and garments, and dove from the rocks into the icy blue below. It was a refreshing dip, but we exited like dogs, paddling ferociously to the waters edge and scrambled to land shaking and shivering.
After drying, we cooked up a huge meal. The night before without food left us with double the daily ration and we enjoyed the healthy, full clean-up.
Drunken on the food or full of our ambitions and pride we packed up and attempted the most difficult climb of the day (and probably our lives to date :) ). The route from the lake to the high ridge above was steep and we soon found ourselves pushing our limits. Rocks would loosen under the weight of our hands and feet and fall tumbling 2-300 feet to the next floor below. When the climb became nearly all vertical, Alex stayed behind while I pushed on hoping to find a feasible route. I hit several dead ends and gave into the voice of reason and sense and turned around.
The slow climb down was even more difficult. Alex and I called out foot and hand holds for one another. A few hours later and we were back at the mountain lake. Now we still had a rather sizable decent to our campsite at the lower Lake Otokomi. While there were sections of slow going, we made use of several snow melts and slid hundreds of feet on each which was a blast! Check out our methods of decent...
Back at camp we quickly jumped in the tent avoiding the mosquitoes. This night we went to bed full and free from the pesky little bugs. At one point we counted over 100 on the mesh tent walls between us and the rain fly. Alex and I made a game of flicking them from their landing spot on the tent walls and into the rainfly. If you did it just right it made this pleasant "popping" sound and a few even smacked so hard into the rainfly behind them, they fell to their death. Justice.
We woke up early and tried to pack up before the mosquitoes knew breakfast was out and about. The hike back to the bikes was brisk and hastened to a trip as drizzle turned to downpour. Back at the campstore, the sky let loose and darkness surrounded the mountains. Fortunately, there was a nice big porch where we were able to spread out our stuff, sit down, relax, drink hot coffee, read, write, and visit with the various other people who had gathered under its shelter.
At around 1:00pm the inclimate weather had passed and blue was revealed. Alex and I packed up and lit a shuck for Montanee!
The road to Glacier NP was nice, but Alex and I were not too interested in the scenery. We were ready for some mountain backpacking. We arrived at the park a little late to enter and decided to camp a night outside of the park. While buying some food at the local supermarket, the cashier led us to Flathead Lake, a beautiful, large, recreational lake southwest of the park. The only problem was that everyone else found it nice as well and had taken all of the vacant campsites by the time we arrived. In a situation that felt frighteningly similar to our drive up Oregon's coast, we took some advice from a lucky camper and headed east towards Swan Lake.
We arrived after dark and found a site next to two fellow bikers. They were out from Denver on a two week trip off-road through British Colombia and were now on their way home. We shared our food with them: hot soup (the generic, chunky-in-a-can kind), baked beans (the expensive smothered-in-savory-brown-sugary-sauce-and-BBQ kind), and bread (the normal-needs-no-explanation-found-in-every-kitchen-in-America-sliced kind)... a new favorite. One was a physician's assistant and the other a fifth grade teacher, they had some wild stories. It made me wonder what my teachers and doctors were doing when they weren't molding my young mind or operating on my delicate body. Hmmm?
The next morning, with the trip odometer reading 10525 miles, we rode into the park, went to the backcountry office, and acquired permits for Otokomi Lake. The six mile hike in was mild and mostly tree covered but it did allow us to christen our new sandals on the trail and is an ice cold waterfall.
We arrived at the lake a few hours before sunset and quickly set up camp. It was immediately realized that we would be dealing with mosquitoes as long as we were within a mile of the lake. Memories, or nightmares rather, from Yosemite began to run through our heads.
With the tent set up we wasted no time in setting up our poles and walking down to the lake. Expectations were high as we had been told that the fish were spawning. What we had heard was true, and the big fish were in the clear, shallow water. They were rising all over and Alex and I hammered them as they ate almost anything we threw at them. We caught about 20 beautiful, big Yellowstone Hybrids.
This would have been fish heaven, but the mosquitoes nearly carried us off. We left the lake and returned to the tent to escape the fighting beasts. We even skipped diner after an unsuccessful attempt at cooking a meal in a cloud of buzzing bloodsuckers.
In the morning we packed up food and water and scrambled up the nearest peak with the buzzing in hot pursuit.
Our goal was to hit the ridge and then make our way around the bowl that surrounded Otokomi.
The climb to the ridge was more than we had bargained for and took several hours. The loose, flaking, red rock made for a slow accent. Finally at the top, we were able to see new snow capped peaks and mountain lakes in the distance.
Alex and I were low on water and made it a priority to follow the ridge to a wonderful mountain lake not far from where we stood. Distance and depth can be deceiving and we worked hard scaling some pretty hairy ridge lines to reach the precious goal. Fortunately, we ran across a stream running from a snow melt and were able to filter some water that would sustain us as we worked toward our mountain prize.
After some wild vertical that tested our nerve and skill a little more, we arrived at the lake, removed our packs and garments, and dove from the rocks into the icy blue below. It was a refreshing dip, but we exited like dogs, paddling ferociously to the waters edge and scrambled to land shaking and shivering.
After drying, we cooked up a huge meal. The night before without food left us with double the daily ration and we enjoyed the healthy, full clean-up.
Drunken on the food or full of our ambitions and pride we packed up and attempted the most difficult climb of the day (and probably our lives to date :) ). The route from the lake to the high ridge above was steep and we soon found ourselves pushing our limits. Rocks would loosen under the weight of our hands and feet and fall tumbling 2-300 feet to the next floor below. When the climb became nearly all vertical, Alex stayed behind while I pushed on hoping to find a feasible route. I hit several dead ends and gave into the voice of reason and sense and turned around.
The slow climb down was even more difficult. Alex and I called out foot and hand holds for one another. A few hours later and we were back at the mountain lake. Now we still had a rather sizable decent to our campsite at the lower Lake Otokomi. While there were sections of slow going, we made use of several snow melts and slid hundreds of feet on each which was a blast! Check out our methods of decent...
Back at camp we quickly jumped in the tent avoiding the mosquitoes. This night we went to bed full and free from the pesky little bugs. At one point we counted over 100 on the mesh tent walls between us and the rain fly. Alex and I made a game of flicking them from their landing spot on the tent walls and into the rainfly. If you did it just right it made this pleasant "popping" sound and a few even smacked so hard into the rainfly behind them, they fell to their death. Justice.
We woke up early and tried to pack up before the mosquitoes knew breakfast was out and about. The hike back to the bikes was brisk and hastened to a trip as drizzle turned to downpour. Back at the campstore, the sky let loose and darkness surrounded the mountains. Fortunately, there was a nice big porch where we were able to spread out our stuff, sit down, relax, drink hot coffee, read, write, and visit with the various other people who had gathered under its shelter.
At around 1:00pm the inclimate weather had passed and blue was revealed. Alex and I packed up and lit a shuck for Montanee!
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