Much has happened since we last spoke! Aside from enthusiastically announcing that Pilot Guy and I got married, and that I have a new beagle in my life, I’ll skip the adventure resumé. There is one matter relevant to the following post, however, that of my not-so-very-new-anymore status of Arizona Master Naturalist. And now, while I summer in Utah, I’m working on the online portion of the Utah Master Naturalist Watershed Investigations course. It seemed only natural to turn at least one assignment into a motorcycle camping trip. This post itself is my assignment.
I sling my old black and red “Euro-Sport Jumbo Hauler” - whump! - over the seat of the Ducati and contemplate my unique geographical position. Living at the northeast corner of the Great Basin watershed for the summer, the Duc and I are parked and perched nearly astride the lip of an enormous bowl that covers practically all of Nevada, much of Utah, and bits of surrounding states. The only method by which a drop of water can escape this topographic configuration is by evaporation.* Not one river here ever reaches the sea.
With departure preliminaries complete, I head north through Cache Valley, gazing upon the mountain ranges to the east and west. Some 17 million years ago, after our wild west scrunched itself to form the Rocky Mountains, geology reversed course. The leftern half of the continent stretched westward to the breaking point. Valleys dropped down and mountains bounced up, thus shaping an enormous part of the Great American West into something like an irregular ruffled potato chip, or what geologists call “basin and range topography.” Small mountain ranges, oriented north to south, interspersed with wide valleys, such as the one I’m soon to depart, still striate our landscapes, all the way from northern Mexico to southern Oregon.
It’s not long before I cross the Bear River, guilty party to one of the most catastrophic floods in geologic history. The Bear River might fairly claim innocence, though, pointing the finger at the flood of lava that rerouted it southward some 55,000 years ago. No longer could the river’s waters ultimately reach the Pacific Ocean. Forced, as water is, to both adhere to the laws of gravity and take the path of least resistance, the Bear River coursed into the granddaddy of today’s Great Salt Lake: Lake Bonneville. The lake kept filling, and filling, its level rising higher, ever higher, for 37,000 years, at which point it had swelled to cover some 19,800 square miles. Water, having followed the rules of the game, now had its revenge. The Bear River’s input, unbalanced by evaporation rates in the cooler, wetter climate of the Pleistocene Epoch, so filled the lake that it overtopped and then tore through a natural dam at Red Rock Pass. A flood lasting weeks, maybe months, ripped and roared, gouged and scoured its way through southern Idaho, scattering enormous boulders and “petrified watermelons” across the state and beyond, winning a round in the geological game of rock/water/lava. The water, having played the long game, ended up exactly where it wanted to go in the first place: the Pacific Ocean. Topography hasn’t given up, though, as it continues to direct the river into today’s Great Salt Lake. Two new players, aridity and human constructed water diversions, have shaped the likely outcome of the current round of our game into something wholly different. I ride past the informative sign at Red Rock Junction, popping over the lip of the Great Basin Watershed. All is quiet now. But the geologic scoreboard remains.
I look for the scablands and scoured canyons I know to be visible near Pocatello, ID, but scablands of the Department of Transportation variety invite my attention instead. Seeking my own path of least resistance, I meander through constructions zones, and, near Blackfoot, ID, come to a standstill in triple digit weather, wilting in the heat and 35 lbs of safety gear, waiting for a lane closure delay to release me. I pass the time in contemplation of the Snake River Plain, with its fertile, volcanic, soil, capable of delivering steak house potatoes and French fries to the nation. The signs of volcanic activity have been all around me, from suspiciously shaped mountain tops, to black basalt still exposed from ancient flood waters, to the nearby lava showcase of Craters ofthe Moon National Monument. Indeed, the eastern portion of the Snake River Plain itself is the very track our continent slowly drifted over the Yellowstone Hotspot, which, in its current location, now gives that national park its geysers and colorful simmering pools. My immediate concern, however, is one of meteorological activity, not volcanic: traversing the plain and its seemingly ever present wind, wind, and more wind. The line of traffic finally begins to move, the land flattens out, and the little Ducati and I begin to battle our way through 60 miles of high, hot, crosswinds.*
Hydrologically speaking, I entered the Pacific Northwest Watershed, enchantingly titled “17,” by the USGS**, at Red Rock Pass. I’ve left the Sagebrush Ocean, so associated with the Great Basin (although plenty of not-really-sage-but-Artemisia seems to have sloshed over the basin lip along with me), and have entered the land of salmon and flowing rivers. Unsurprisingly, then, my target for tonight, Challis Hot Springs, is on the banks of the Salmon River. By the time I arrive, I am hot and exhausted. But the most perilous reach of my journey still lies before me: the gravel stretch from the campground entrance to site T19.
Admittedly, it has been a while since I’ve traversed an unsurveyed stretch of slippery gravel with a canyon carving motorcycle loaded with camping gear, and absence has not - no! - made my now quaking heart grow fonder. I contemplate leaving the Ducati in the safety of the office parking lot for the evening, but I cannot live with that level of motorcycle camping dishonor. “It’s a sensible compromise,” I tell myself, walking the heavy Euro-Sport Jumbo Hauler, atop which is lashed my sleeping bag, to my site, taking careful note of any particularly sinister patches of gravel. It’s cheating, but hazards become realities when one is exhausted from heat and wind.
My little strategy serves both the Ducati and me well, and while I have not planned any particular culinary wonders for this journey, I do have one little gem tucked in my topbox. Upon my safe arrival, I reverently peel the foil back from the last piece of brioche made by my trumpeter summer roommate. It’s a tawny burnished slice of perfection on the outside, while yellow, eggy, and buttery French in the inside, just as it should be. Sweet reward for my moderately courageous heart!
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| Bravo, Roommate! Regarding photos: I'm at war with Adobe and its nefarious business practices, which have all but made me quit photography. A couple snapshots from an outdated phone will have to do! |
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| Salmon River, from T-19 |
The next morning is a designated day ride. I leave camp behind, and follow the Salmon River downstream via its namesake scenic byway. I’m mostly a motorcyclist now, engaging with twists and turns in the road, rather than natural history. The depiction of my ride is out of scope for an assignment on watersheds, but a few things need be said. I want to write that I am a swallow, racing the river, and sometimes winning. Or that my lean angle approximates that of the upturned sedimentary layers of rock visible in some nearby mountains. Or that my heart is bubbling merrily, like the happy creeks all about the area. But there is no joyful two wheeled reward for yesterday’s hard fought ride over the Snake River Plain. My riding skills are crap, having slowly eroded over the last decade. My confidence has gone the way of a geologic unconformity, and the sought after state of flow has dried up like a prehistoric terminal lake. I can’t manage to find the right balance of throttle and lean angle, instead toddling around the curves with a mix of trepidation, boredom, and even some embarrassment. I let lumbering vehicles pass me, so I can at least be left alone. Occasionally a spark lights up as I get it right, but it is too quickly extinguished by the next blind right-hander. I give myself an excuse, claiming I’m merely enjoying the view. Were those big-horned sheep? Look! - someone’s wrestling a thrashing entrée in a net! House sized boulders in the river - glacial erratics, perhaps? But my heart is wise to my own maneuver.
There have been very real reasons that have kept me from riding much these past years, most of which have finally resolved, but the River of Habits has been turned a new direction, filling higher, ever higher, a Great Lake of Discomfort and Self Doubt. Repeatedly, I have declared watershed moments, only to flow back downhill, that path of least resistance. My career skills have also melted away, with my body betraying me at every turn since 2019. After every concert, after every corner, I am not elated, merely relieved to have survived, still shiny side up. I was once a flute playing motorcyclist, reasonably good at both. Now who am I? Master Naturalist, yes, and this often brings me both comfort and a quiet happiness, though there is no theoretical reason I should have to choose one for the others. Poised on - or perhaps clinging to - the lip of a basin, opposing forces exert themselves. My life is rich and good, and my heart grieves these two very real losses. Unimportant on a geologic time scale, or on any time scale but my own, their undercurrent nevertheless colors my daily life. Need this be permanent? I do not know which way the water will ultimately flow.
A properly constructed Ham & Swiss will go far in brightening dark thoughts. A bonus pastry provides necessary insurance on the matter. My unexpectedly delicious lunch at Odd Fellows Bakery is so good that I order a second meal to take back to camp. I turn south, battling my way upstream like a salmon making its way up the River of No Return.*** The water glimmers, the pavement shimmers; it’s another hot and windy day.
Back at my shadeless campsite, I urgently, desperately rid myself of helmet, leather gloves, armored coat, heavy protective pants, and boots. I gasp at the shock of it, then sigh relievedly, as I make contact with the cool water of the Salmon River. While my body temperature drops, I have time to peer into the water. Algae that coats slippery rocks is grazed upon by snails the color and size of peppercorns. Tiny fish, a centimeter long at best, cluster at the river’s edge, darting forward with purpose, then enigmatically retreating. Insects swim beneath, stride upon, and fly over the water. Many would call these life forms the bottom of the food chain, but if we exchange pride for humility, we might more accurately recognize them as the very foundation of a food web upon which we, too, ultimately depend. The presence of Bald Eagles, Osprey, and Great Blue Heron all but confirm what I cannot see; there are larger fish beneath the surface of the water, too. Swallows dance over my head, foraging on the wing. Red-winged Blackbirds call from nearby cattails. Later, I walk amongst the cottonwood trees, themselves dependent on the river to keep their feet wet, and the array of bird species astounds. American Goldfinches, Cedar Waxwings, Yellow Warblers, American Robins, Song Sparrows, Northern Flickers, Willow Flycatchers, House Wrens - they, too, are here, because of the river, and not just for the water, but for the insects, as well. Even seed and fruit eating birds, when raising young, will make use of the extra protein insects provide. A fawn silently appears in the path, inexplicably, innocently, even mystically, if you wish, approaching me. At dusk, a flock of Canada Geese arrives at a small sandbar for the night, using the circle of water around them as protection from predators. Nighthawks appear, their pink gaping mouths scooping up insects in flight, like small, acrobatically swimming whales. Above the hot springs – the natural intersection of the earth’s surface and groundwater heated by the same geological process that turned the course of the Bear River so long ago - steam rises and winking stars appear. An orange crescent moon dips below the horizon, suggesting the hour of my own repose approaches. The harsh zip of my tent and sleeping bag briefly interrupts the evening quiet. I am soon a-slumber.
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| You'll have to imagine my Disney Princess moment with Bambi. Video format no worky. |
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| Hot Springs Creek |
Willow flycatchers are remarkably talkative at 4:30am. Departing geese herald the sunrise. The magic of the night has definitely dissipated. My stomach churns slightly at the idea of extricating the motorcycle from its gravel sea. There will be no carrying of the Euro-Sport Jumbo Hauler today! Tent, sleeping mat, sleeping bag, and clothes are all swiftly packed and loaded. There’s only one task left to do.
When I turn the key, the dash display coldly and cryptically announces “000000 Pro.” Has the odometer reset itself overnight? Where is this “Pro” it speaks of?? The starter switch generates silence. Where is the throaty roar, the cheerful rainbow of indicator lights? The Ducati’s brain is surely scrambled, and I need no longer fret about a mere river of gravel before me. I let loose a torrent of my own, swearing at the Italians in their own language. In the face of the Ducati’s recent and devastatingly expensive glow-up, this is unsupportable! I am hammering out a text to Pilot Guy, when a thought condenses, precipitates – drip! - into one sole droplet of hope in an aridifying land. The sticky mode switch. I flick it back and forth, jab the starter switch again, and in a rushing cascade of events – battery, starter relay, solenoid, starter motor, crankshaft – the engine catches, rumbles, lives! The Ducati winks at me, as if nothing happened. I am too relieved to care about the gravel.
*I’ve read that there may be a groundwater connection
between the Great Basin and the Upper Colorado River Watershed near the Ruby
Mountains in Nevada. There’s always a workaround, I guess.
**You can find your very own watershed “address” on this USGS website. My complete address this
summer is 16:01:02:03:03:08. The numbers
refer to ever smaller nesting watersheds, the smallest of which, in my case,
is the “Little Logan River-Logan River” subwatershed. Now if we were talking about food instead of
water, and for once, we’re not, my entire journey remained well within Slow
Food’s “Pinyon Nut Nation."
*** Alternative name
for the Salmon River
Related Posts
To Hell and Back Again (Craters of the Moon pix at the end)
Lost River, Found! (similar route, but I could still ride back then)
Did I Seriously Not Write About my 2015 Migration from AZ to
Canada to Mexico to AZ?? If I had, I’d include it here, since I stayed at
Challis Hot Springs then, too (and had to eat oatmeal with a stick).
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