Touring: Why We Do It

(Annual Migration 2015…. errr, Return Migration 2013)

The pain of this year’s Annual Migration can be summed up in one photo.



Even worse, not one of my motorcycles is here in Utah with me. (Yet.)

So, I’ll sit and dream for a bit, I guess.

To date, I’ve been reluctant to pay tribute to heart-lifting exuberance, the melancholy sweetness, the humbling wonder that is motorcycle touring, because, frankly, I’m not equipped to do so. The lonely open road? The wind through your... helmet?  The majesty of the American West?  These phrases are both terribly trite and painfully insufficient.  Why do I ride for hundreds of miles a day, often in heat, cold, rain, and discomfort, anyway?  For my Annual Return Migration, 2013, Pilot Guy followed me home in my Fearsome Toyota.  Turns out he wasn’t just driving, but snapping photos of me, too.  Elusive words, you fail me! This! This! These photos say everything I can not.

El Capitan/Agathla Peak, near Kayenta, AZ

Harvest on… hooves?

You may remember last spring, when I returned home from my Flatistan Tour of Duty, Li’l Burro and I took a celebratory ride in the desert.

This year*, I once again find myself savoring the wonders of springtime from the saddle.  The blooming desert is almost too glorious to bear**. Oh, happy homecoming!

Eventually, the gaudy display does become unbearable. I may have stomped my foot angrily, and said a little too loudly, to no one in particular: "Would you just look at this ridiculousness?!"***

Cholla blooms outshine their younger siblings, but it’s worth taking notice of the plain green buds, because…

Can you see the shimmery bead of sap at the base of each bud's thorn?

… you can eat ‘em!  It helps to travel properly equipped****.  Depending on the length of your tongs, harvesting the buds can feel downright dangerous.

My ride is right at home amongst the wildflowers.

Not what you expected, eh?*****

* I've been home about a month now.  For a probably never to be blogged Flatistan Eating/Kayaking/Unmotorized slide show, click here.
**Springtime in the Sonoran Desert is not without its dangers. Pilot Guy documented one of our encounters last month. 
***Seriously, it's ridiculous. For more photos, see here.
****Toss the ciolim, as they are called by the Tohono O'odham, vigorously in a mesh strainer to knock off their spines. Stand upwind!  Or singe or roast them off, if you prefer. You must boil the buds for at least 15 minutes to denature their oxalic acid, and, incidentally, release a wealth of calcium!  I think I'll use mine in a pico de gallo to go with some heavily spiced tepary bean hummus I made recently.
***** Introducing “Junior!”  Li'l Burro can't wait to meet him!  Truth be told, I've been riding Junior sporadically since September, but this week I have officially leased half of him for the next two months. I'll actually be home!  I'll save you the trouble of asking: I'm leasing the left half. Never fear, the iron horses are still being exercised...

Grand Canyon North Rim, Utah Pink Sand, and a “Grilled Cheese Sandwich.”

I’ll tell you a little secret.  I was actually weirdly ambivalent about this trip.  I’d already crossed Arizona on these roads, what, 4?, 6 times this summer?  Ho hum, said the spoiled motorcycle tourer.  Truth be told, I really rather would have taken Li’l Burro to investigate the magical land of the best morel hunting I might ever see.  I could have taken him north, instead of the Ducati, and passed by the hunting grounds on my way home, but he’s not really made for 400 mile days.  And the Ducati is definitely not made for the many miles of rough road leading to the hunt.  But I had agreed to this group ride, and missed meeting these riders in Colorado back in June, so with little fanfare, I lashed the Euro-Sport Jumbo Hauler* to the back of the Ducati, and set off into the Southern Arizona… fog?  Yes! Fog!  It’s an awful shame that motorcyclehouse.com misdirected the Finger Visor Wiper Three Pack I ordered** after my rainy return from Utah.  One of those would have been handy.

Anyway, I digress.

Oh, the magic of motorcycle camping! The wheels needed go ‘round only a time or two, before this trip that was barely on my radar became real!  And good!  Arrival in Arizona’s  Painted Desert - land of brilliant pink, green, and blue – was glorious.  The mild weather – 80 at most! - was a completely new experience for me.  And did I stop to capture those watercolors on SD card?  No. And did I replace the Go Pro camera mount that broke last month, so lazy I could preserve all the wondrous scenes passing by me without the terrible task of actually stopping my motorcycle?  No. Because – remember? – this trip was barely on my radar.  And spoiled little I had said to myself, “Blah, blah, been there, done that, don’t need no GoPro.”  Instead, right about now, I’d kick myself and be forced to dig around for an archival photo that doesn’t show what I’d like it to show and includes the wrong motorcycle, in order to insert it here as a poor substitute.  To be fair, this is quite close to where we camped our first night, so that's something.



I wasn’t even planning on writing about this trip, having not yet written about my first trip to the Grand Canyon North Rim and Coral Pink Sand Dunes State Park, nor the ride during which I actually met the Potato Ranch Riders.  But there are certain things that this conscientious investigative journalist believes the world simply must know.  This, dear readers, is the North Rim Lodge’s,*** with its "breathtaking views and great food,” “Coconino County Grilled Cheese: Fresh Mozzarella Cheese, Sliced Tomato, Fresh Basil on Toasted Zero Carbohydrate Bread.”




I kid you not.  I was served tepid, most decidedly not melted, nor grilled, nor toasted cheese, surrounded by remarkably soggy for-all-the-world-looks-like-Wonder Bread.  And see how beautifully it was presented! The bill?  $12.94.  I am not a food-sender-backer, but this travesty really made the idea a distinct possibility. (I didn't.)  As far as I can tell, they made it a day in advance, stuck it in the walk-in refrigerator, and, upon my order, took it out to oh-so-slightly scorch it in the microwave without actually warming the cheese or removing any of the soggy moisture from the bread.  Had I been Bill, our waiter, I would have absolutely refused this from the line cook who handed it to me.  No. Try again.

Although I was suspicious about the zero carbohydrate bread, and requested that my bread have as many carbohydrates as possible, ordering high calorie items like grilled cheese sandwiches and bacon cheeseburgers was part of my very important Thermo-Regulation Plan B.  (Plan A entails the use of my heated vest, which stubbornly remained in-op for the duration of this trip.  And let me tell you, riding in 45 degree weather without one is not cozy.)

The Lodge did have unquestionably spectacular views. And even a Li’l Burro of its own!

"Brighty," maker of the Bright Angel Trail. For real!

But enough about my North Rim Lodge lunch. Sandwich not withstanding, this little October tour thoroughly shamed me and my blasé projections with its fantastic-ness.  Silly me.

Did you notice that bit of fall color in the last photo? Oh yes, it was autumn on the North Rim and I rode that bright red Ducati with amazement under a veritable confetti of fluttering of orange and yellow leaves.  And I condemned myself once again for not having the Go Pro camera to record that unforgettable experience.

We found more childlike magic when leaping and bouncing down the slopes of the pinky, peachy, salmony - color varies by the time of day - sand dunes of Utah's Coral Pink Sand Dunes State Park.  I got to know my new friends better over dinner and drinks at our campsite, as we admired each others' motorcycles and camping gear, shared stories of rides past, and dreamed of rides in the future.

The Potato Ranch Riders and I parted ways the next morning, and I soon slammed into the crushing reality of wind that so often whips across and through the mountains, plateaus, and valleys of the desert west.  But though the rattling and smashing of the wind brought to mind thoughts of a major structural failure of my vehicle****, it could not blow away the fullness in my heart for these skilled riders, who had so warmly welcomed me into their fold.   I do truly love touring by myself, but it seems group riding, at least with this group, now holds a place in my heart, too.

I wasn’t equipped to travel to the morel fields on my way back south, but I couldn’t help stepping just a teensy bit off the asphalt path on the way home.  This little guy doesn't seem to know it's way past porcini season!*****

Good job, my little Italian Princess!  Porcini Trifolata: That's fancy talk for sautéed in butter, put on some crackers, and savored with a nice glass of wine as soon as I got home.

That night, I hid from the wind in Oak Creek Canyon. Soon thereafter, I hid from the Columbus Day crowds by wandering around this closed campground. (I camped legally, in a open campground, in case you're wondering. Wandering about the closed one seemed allowed.)

Oak Creek Canyon is probably, at this very moment, glorious with fall color.  Never enough time...

As it turns out, not all was lost on the morel front.   Look what was waiting for me at home!

The writer of the Arizona Mushroom Forum took pity on me and generously shared his loot.  Here, I'm turning them into ravioli.

Notable Fact: I do believe this was the fourth (at least) consecutive break-down-free Ducati camping trip this summer/fall.  This could be an exciting new trend!  By my count: This trip, Hell and Back Again, Southward Migration 2014, and the August 2014 Mushroom Foray.

RECIPE:
There's really not much you need to know in order to make a proper grilled cheese sandwich.  I'll list a few important points here, just in case the cook staff of the North Rim Lodge wants to take a look.

• Use a heavy pan, if you have one, use your favorite bread (preferably with both gluten and carbohydrates), and - this is key - butter the outside of the bread, not the inside of the pan.  I'd tell you to butter it generously and to make sure you are, indeed, actually using real butter, but you already know that, right?   As long as the butter is soft enough to spread without tearing up the bread, that's fine. If you want, melt it and brush it on. Either way, just butter the bread, not the pan. 
• Use any cheese you like ("processed cheese product" does not count).  If you want to get serious about distributing the cheese evenly on the bread, grate it rather than slice it.  Do realize that younger cheese melts a bit more nicely than super aged cheese. But super aged cheese tastes better. So best to find something in the middle, but if you do everything else right, it won't matter, really.  Gruyere, Swiss, Cheddar, Brie, a bit of goat cheese, a crumble of Bleu, or a sprinkle of Parmesan or Asiago mixed in, oh my!
• Now, grill your creation (technically, you're sautéing it, not grilling it, but whatever) slowly, slowly, on both sides, so that the cheese turns into that gooey meltiness you're craving just at the same time the bread becomes crisp and golden. There. Perfect, right?  Crrrrrunch! Ooooze...
• If you want to get fancy, you could season your butter (garlic? mustard? smoked chiles?), use a mix of cheeses (Four Cheese Grilled Cheese, anyone?), pulse the cheeses quickly with a splash of white wine (Bonjour, Fondue Sandwich!), add things like bacon, ham, salami, avocado, tomato, onions, chives... but not too much or too many! Yes, you could do these things, but you absolutely will love your sandwich even if you don't, for the simple fact that it's buttery, cheesy, and hot, and crispy on the outside, gooey on the inside.

*Typing that cracks me up.
**And didn’t offer to resend them to the correct address!  I’m not sold on that brand of customer service.
***The North Rim Lodge, in addition to falsely advertising this selection as a grilled cheese sandwich, has a problem with the correct usage of apostrophes, as indicated in its list of main menu items, headed “Specialty Entrée’s.”  Sorry, that was catty, and perhaps unnecessary, but I couldn’t help it.  Oh yes, and they had a hilariously fancy description of their Budweiser on tap, too.
****Okay, so I doubt my bike would blow apart, but the wind is so rattling, so powerful, it sort of feels like it could.  
*****I didn't include my usual mushroom hunting disclaimer this time, but you can see it at the bottom of this post.

What the Rain Brings*… (and a Bonus Gear Review, for Those That Care)

So, yeah, it’s been raining a bit lately.  Our monsoon can certainly be disadvantageous when riding a motorcycle, but it does have its perks.  To wit:

Water in our rivers…

Salt River Canyon

…flowers…

…and… the King!

No, no, not that king, but Boletus edulis, aka King Bolete, known to you and me as a porcini (porcino in the singular, actually) mushroom.  Interestingly, since my return, the Southwest's red capped variety has been reclassified to Boletus rubriceps, or the Rocky Mountain King Bolete.  I’m no less pleased with my find.

Earlier this month, the Ducati, my Rough Rider Happy Pig Mushroom Hunter's Knife,** and I spent three days camping and riding roads I love (Salt River Canyon, AZ 191/Coronado Trail Scenic Byway, and Mount Graham’s Swift Trail Parkway), with a little stop to join a guided mushroom foray.  Not all my finds made the cargo cut (I’m going to have to do something about that!), but I did bring home a respectable little haul.

In addition to the prize shown above, the fruits of my labors included two types of porcini cousins, a big White King Bolete (Boletus barrowsii) and several Aspen Boletes (Leccinum insigne); oyster mushrooms (Pleurotus ostreatus), and that mycological two-for-one fungi, lobster mushrooms (Hypomyces lactifluorum).  When I think what they would have cost me at Whole Foods… well, maybe that Ducati is going to finally start paying for herself!***

Ducati with Shrimp Mushrooms (Russula xerampelina).  I wasn’t positive of my identification at the time I found this batch on an earlier solo foray.

Three days in a motorcycle top box doesn’t do much for mushrooms.

These could use some food styling. Or at least some arranging.

What activity could be truer to the Eating on Two Wheels philosophy than tearing through canyons and across mountains, with an occasional stop to harvest wild mushrooms?

*Mushroomers will realize I’ve borrowed the idea of this title from David Arora’s excellent guidebook, “All That the Rain Promises, and More…”
**I am not making this up. Such a product actually exists, and turns out to be pretty useful.  You should see the box. It's hilarious.
***Doubtful
_________________________________________________________________
Some notes on mushroom safety:

• You can’t just go around taste testing mushrooms. Do your homework, including but not limited to: lots of reading, looking at a lot of specimens in the wild, and getting an expert to confirm your identifications, at least until you get awfully good at it.
• Once you are comfortable identifying an edible species, perform a standard controlled edibility test to confirm that particular species agrees with you.
• I’ve noticed it would be awfully easy to get lost in the woods while hunting mushrooms.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
• If you happen to overtake the sheriff at well over the speed limit outside Eager, AZ, just give him friendly wave as you return back to your side of the road.  This way, he won’t pull you over.  (Oopsy!)

Dining Notes:

• Elements Bistro Coffee Shop, Show Low, AZ: Wait, is it legal to serve burgers but not fries?  The burger was tasty, the salad a healthier option, I suppose, but, but... I wanted fries!  A splurge on the cinnamon roll for dessert may have reached the mythical point of too sweet, but was worth the calories.  I'd stop there again.

Gear Review with Preliminary Ranting:
About a year ago, I broke down and bought a textile “ADV” touring suit.  This was no small thing for me, because until then I’d only been willing to wear gear that was considered good enough for the track when riding on the street.  Call me crazy, but I’m pretty conservative about the sort of gear I trust with my personal safety.  But dirt and mud does not do much for leather, as it turns out, and at my equally conservative off-road speeds in the desert, one can argue that the danger of heat exhaustion quickly becomes just as clear and present as the danger of a “get-off.”  I really, really  wanted an Olympia X-Moto suit, and actually waited a season or two for one, but  - phooey on you, Olympia!!, - despite my hounding, they still won’t offer it for women. (I think the entire line is now discontinued.)  Until now, I’d only worn my new suit on Li’l Burro adventures, but I made an exception for this trip, and wore it on the Ducati. It’s simply easier to fit a hiking (or mushroom hunting, in this case) outfit on under this suit than my usual touring/track gear.

I’m going to take this opportunity to rant about a few "design features" of much of the all season gear available, first.  Hello?  Gear designers? Are you listening??

• Why put the waterproofing layer on the inside of the jacket??  Honestly, do you have any idea how heavy and uncomfortable a soggy outer layer is?  Do you know how long it can take to dry?  (You can see how much I love an actual rain suit at the bottom of this post.)
• Mesh on the outside, warmth on the inside.  Okay, I’ll admit I’m probably in the minority on this one, but I will never, ever buy gear with this configuration. No amount of quilting or wind resistance of the inner layer will make up for the fact that there’s an ice cold breeze screaming through that mesh when the temperatures drop.  If it’s mesh, it’s not all season gear. Period. (The X-Moto suit had a cool solution for this issue.)
• Protection on the “impact zones.”  Who says I’m going to land on my elbow in a crash?  I’d like the entire suit to be made of the most protective fabric, not just part of it.  So there.  400D just doesn’t cut it.
• Having a belt and calling the jacket “cut for women.”  Having to cinch up a belt and crumple a bunch of fabric around the waist isn’t exactly a good example of a streamlined hour glass design. Still, I like the belt option.  Both a belt and a tapered waist would be better.

Okay, now that I’ve gotten that out of my system, I’ll admit that, overall, I do like my Firstgear suit. Here are the details.

Firstgear Kilimanjaro Jacket (size WXS):

• Likes: Gear that fits me is hard to find, but this jacket fits perfectly! Score one for Firstgear!  It may not be pretty or fashionable, but I’ll opt for a nice full high-viz color scheme every time. This one sings with color!  I was pleasantly surprised with the effectiveness of the venting. August in Arizona?  No problem.  For me, anyway.  (To be fair, on this trip I was travelling at Ducati speed. I’ll have to update next time I use it off-road.  It’s been a while.)  The pricing is beyond reasonable. The outer layer is waterproofed as well as the inner liner.  So clever!  (Nothing will stop me from packing that afore mentioned rain suit, however.)  Pockets, pockets, pockets!  No shortage of pockets! (I don’t even come close to using all of them.)   Removable winter liner and armor are both included: I almost forgot to mention those, since I would not consider a jacket without both of these things. 
• Gripes: The phone pocket is just a bit too small for an iPhone with a cover.  Which means you’ll be fighting to get your phone in and out of your pocket. It’s annoying enough that I may have a friend with needle and thread skills adjust it for me.  Lord help you if you have a giant Android.  If it has a left hand zipper pull, it’s not redesigned for women.  (I am zipper deficient. Motorcycle camping involves an awful lot of zippers, as it turns out.)  400/640D dernier is wimpy.  Bump it up, Firstgear.  The shoulder vents are a bit tricky to operate while actually riding. And if you’re wearing a backpack, forget it.
• Overall: I’ll admit it, I like this high-on-the-bang/buck scale jacket.  But I will probably continue my habit of using it just for dual sporting.

First Gear TPG Escape Pant (Size 6. I have an older model, and I’m suspicious they don’t make them for women anymore, but here’s the info, anyway.) 

• Likes: Again, these actually fit me! (Happy dance!)  Again, the two little vents offer surprising air flow.  What? An actual pocket for your keys?  (Race track pants do not provide this nifty feature.)  The snapping/velcro liner cuff at the ankle keeps water and drafts out, and is much appreciated!  Like the jacket, the necessary armor is included.  There is a zipper connection between the pants and jacket.  It’s not full circumference, but it’s something.  They, too, are reasonably priced, especially since I bought an older model.
• Gripes: They are designed for women in that the hips have, you know, hips, and the waist has, you know, a waist. But I think Firstgear forgot  that, when you put on pants, the waist has to fit over the hips to get to the waist. I have a bit of a struggle with this part, especially with the winter liner, but once they’re on, I find them quite comfortable.  Unless you get pants with a full leg length zipper, they will never be easy to get on/off over boots: there is no hasty escaping from the “Escape Pant.”
• Overall: Yep, I’m happy with my pants, but will likely reserve them for dual sport use, or occasional commuting when I need to wear something other than UnderArmour beneath.

No Excuses. Well, yeah, some excuses. (A Number of Occasional Other Matters)

If you’ve been following my Sort Of Sabbatical Phase One By The Day Posts, you probably decided long ago that I finally succumbed to the spectacularly distracting Pacific Coast Highway views and crashed the Ducati into sparkling azure sea.

I didn’t.

So that's good.

Today I thought, as a writing exercise, I’d relate the long list of excuses that brought my posting to a halt.   Do enjoy!

My computer has been acting suspiciously since my return from Sort of Sabbatical Phase One.  Specifically, it has been giving me error messages when I back up my data.  I have, mostly, been successfully ignoring this problem (Me - 1, Computer - 0!), except for the minor side effect that I am not particularly motivated to work on my photographs if there’s a decent possibility I might lose all my work.  Surely you understand.

Then I went on Sort of Sabbatical Phase Two.  Of course I took photos. You’ll see them later.

Then I came back.*  My computer did not fix itself in my absence.  Harrumph. (Computer - 1, Me - 0) After some time-consuming yet unsuccessful attempts to rectify the problem, I went back to my original plan, namely, ignoring the problem.  Not surprisingly, this tactic brought on those same pesky minor side effects.

Then I went on Sort of Sabbatical: Epilogue.  Of course I took photos.  You’ll see them later.

Then I was sequestered, pretty much without internet or phone, for a week in a tiny town in northern New Mexico.  I lived in a retrofitted Airstream trailer, complete with kitchen and farm animals.  I didn’t eat any of the farm animals, but I did  have some two-thumbs-up tapas at La Boca in Santa Fe.  Overall, the week was fantastically hilarious.

It's not often I open an Airstream trailer door.  Even less often do I find a horse begging for a snack on the other side of said door.

Do I have to say that by the time I finally made my way back to Tucson, my computer still wouldn’t back up correctly?**  Heal thyself! (Please?)

Then there was the matter of my last post.  I was, for a time, rather distracted by it all.   Recently, I saw a dead dove in the middle of the street.  Its body was crushed, with one delicate wing miraculously still reaching skyward.  I wish I had taken a photo of it.  Because that’s exactly what it feels like to be run over by a bus.  I know, because just as surely as Julia was betrayed by Winston,*** I was thrown under the bus in a manner so clever I almost admire it, by someone who was (supposedly) my greatest ally.  Pfft.  Not exactly the stuff of superheroes.

Then it was September.  It’s generally a lovely month. I ease myself gently back into work, while enjoying all the local day rides I haven’t seen since May. Except this September I was leisurely repairing the Ducati in time for a track day at the end of the month.  (You’ll find out why the Ducati needed repairs round about, oh, Sort of Sabbatical Phase One Day 25, give or take.)  Leisurely making repairs?  More along the lines of “leisurely inflicting further damage.”  No, I didn’t have it fixed in time for the track day.  I still don’t have it fixed.

Then I decided perhaps it would be more efficient to drive 26 hours to retrieve my Kawasaki, which had been residing in TX, than to fix the Ducati.

Then there was the short but all consuming project of my very first paid food photography gig.  I was actually paid (still waiting on the check, to be honest) to cook and photograph the process of making a certain risotto recipe****. I borrowed a decent camera, turned my little house into a photo studio, cleaned my stove, and took the requested five specific photographs.  If I’m lucky, it’ll boil down to minimum wage.  But it was amusing, and I got to eat a great deal of risotto over the next few days.

The ingredients. And a cookbook.  Although I didn't actually use a recipe from this book.  Do you suppose the Risotto page would lie nicely in the middle of the book like this?  Of course not.  Hurrah for color copiers and tape.

It's quite a trick to pour broth AND stir AND release the camera shutter with your toes or teeth. (I know about self-timers.  Couldn't use it. Long Story.)  The lighting on shiny pans can be rather problematic.  After spending hours getting it right, the sun had moved into the kitchen window. Argh.

Then October hit me like a 12" All-Clad Saute Pan.  I’m still standing here blinking stupidly from the how-did-I-not-see-this-coming avalanche of work.  Speaking of side effects, however, it is nice to finally have some paychecks rolling in.

And my last excuse?  I have a new friend in my life!  Remember this sad day?  Well, I’ve been dog-less and dog-longing ever since.  (No sense in getting a dog before the Sort of Sabbatical).

“Miss Molly” arrives and my heart sings!

My nine year old darling came from Southern Arizona Beagle Rescue.

There she is! All 42 pounds of her!  She's already discovered that I'm immune to the sad brown eyes trick. (Boo!)  But I like to walk. (Yay!)

Hard to say who is happier.  What a lovely, lovely conundrum.

There.   No more excuses. Except neither the computer nor the Ducati work yet. And now I have to borrow a proper camera to get a proper beagle portrait.

*By that I mean I continued on to UT.  To work.  A tiny bit.  And ride more.
** Yes, I should just buy a new one.  Or at least reinstall the OS to rule that out as the problem. (I really don't think it is.)  But the amount of work (and frustration) required by either of those things makes Ducati repair seem like fun.
*** "Do it to Julia!" he cries, when faced with his greatest fear, in George Orwell's 1984.  To be fair, Julia also betrayed Winston in Room 101, we just have fewer details. I still hold some respect for both Julia and Winston, though, based on their circumstances and the final scene where they actually own up to it.
****Shrimp, chile, pine nuts, carrots, and black olives?  Really?  I suppose I wasn't paid to approve of the recipe, just to make and photograph it.  What a silly use of some expensive ingredients.

A Dangerous Crossing (Joshua Tree National Park)

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Two, Monday June 4

Today I’m adding 100 ounces of water to the 100 I already have on board.  I’ll be riding 300 miles across the Sonoran and Mojave deserts, and, in my opinion, that’s not something that should be taken lightly.  This distance is a moderate touring day for me, and it’s not the heat that worries me (115 degrees just a few days before I left), or the desolation (plan gas stops carefully and don’t count on your cell phone, other people, or the likelihood of finding civilization at all for miles and miles), or even the lack of available water in the extreme heat, but the combination of all three.  Just a few unpredictable seemingly trivial events can conspire to put you into serious trouble quicker than you’d ever guess.  Like not bringing your minimum “It’s a Desert, Bring Water, Stupid” water bottle when you’re just picking your bike up from the shop. And then, instead of riding the three miles home, allowing the bike to divert for a short trip over Gates Pass. The rear brakes lock up of their own free will, you have no water, no cell phone coverage, it’s 100+ degrees, your bike is stuck in the middle of the road on blind curve, there’s no one around, and just 15 miles from home you find yourself hitting the assist button on your newly acquired SPOT GPS Messenger emergency tracking device, hoping one of your friends will get the message and call AAA on your behalf.*  Or, not one, not two, but everyone’s motorcycle breaks down, and no one can go for water, and suddenly you’re all drinking out of a precious muddy puddle in southern UT in August, hiking miles back and forth between this bike and that, frantically trying to get even one of them operational.**

So, yes, I’m a bit on edge for this portion of the journey.  Nevertheless, my bike runs happily, I've stopped checking my luggage in my mirrors every three miles, I do an outstanding job of hydrating (read: I’m glad I’m stopping every 75 miles for gas, because I have to pee constantly), and temperatures only approach 100 degrees.  The Mojave has granted me a pass this time, and I arrive at my destination unimpeded: Joshua Tree National Park.

I haven’t quite reached my campsite, but I’m curious and ready for a leg stretcher, so I hike a few miles on the Skull Rock trail.

Aptly named, no?

Lunch:  The kitchen sink calzones I made, froze, and kept frozen last night at my friends’ house, the recipe development of which was based on the few remaining scraps in my freezer: pizza dough, ground beef, and wilted greens, plus onions, garlic, sliced olives, grated cheese, and just enough bits of dried fruit to keep it interesting.  I wasn’t entirely convinced when I put them together, but after eating them, I’m a fan.

I arrive at Hidden Valley Campground to a miracle:  a campsite with shade!





I can’t stop taking pictures of these crazy trees.  They come right out of a Dr. Seuss book.







I've still got some energy, so I explore a trail near my campsite.

Hidden Valley is, well, hidden.  Large rocky mounds form a full ring around the valley .  Turns out it was a great place to hide stolen livestock.

Now I’m waiting for sundown.  I want to photograph a Joshua tree at night, “light-painting” it the way I did the Ducati last year at Canyon de Chelly..  I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.  With the 300 miles, the worrying desert conditions, two hikes… well, my eyelids are drooping already.  I set up the camera in an effort to keep myself awake, and then lie down "just for a minute." But I succumb, even as there’s still plenty of light left in the day.

I awaken in the middle of the night. The wind is blowing full tilt one minute, eerily silent the next. The full moon is a searchlight in my tent.  I squint, peer out groggily.  Lunar eclipse?  Dream?  Arise and photogra--- ***  I can hardly move, and fall back to sleep before I’ve finished rolling over.

*Happened to me about a week before leaving on this trip.
**Happened to someone I know last summer.
***I may have been dreaming, but there was indeed a partial lunar eclipse visible from the western US that night.

Li’l Burro’s First Camping Trip (Gila Box RNCA and Black Hills Back Country Byway)

Almost exactly a year to the day after the Ducati’s first camping trip, the Yamaha (with joyous bray) and I (still comically overdressed in my Alpinestar Stella Bat Pants complete with knee sliders, fully zipped to my Motoport Kevlar Monroe track approved jacket) lit off for Li’l Burro’s inaugural overnight journey.  Indicative of another unexplored corner of familiar territory, the signs for Gila Box Riparian National Conservation Area and the Black Hills Back Country Byway have often piqued my curiosity, and I knew that my sturdy XT225 and I (or one of us, anyway) were up to the task of more practice on unpaved terrain.

Here’s the Yamaha first draft packing system.  My new top rack arrived, predictably, just as I put on my helmet for departure, and a top box still needs to be acquired, but I managed to carry what I needed with my new saddle bags and go-to tail bag.

Arrival!

Despite its loose surfaces (from my perspective, anyway), hills and switchbacks, the Black Hills Back Country Byway is still, you know, a road, and therefore a not too terribly challenging 21 mile journey from Solomon to Clifton, AZ.   The perfect path in my battle with my long held pathological fear of ground that moves beneath my tires! I toddled along, as a novice does, mostly in 2nd gear, occasionally exploring the environs of 3rd, and, in a few areas, approaching the fearsome and highly illegal speed of 30mph (indicated).*  If it had been at the starting line, I may have even beaten my grandfather’s old red riding lawn tractor by a nose.

We start down here...

... and go up...

 

... and up some more, before coming back down to the river.  Off in the distance,  Eagle Creek Canyon.

 
 
Before my return trip, I seek my reward.  Except it wasn’t.  This dish, from PJ’s Family Restaurant, reminded me why, for so long, I thought I didn’t like Mexican food.  Grey, wholly unseasoned beef, wrapped in flabby tortillas, topped with a lifeless sauce, served with beans having a surface like the dry cracked desert floor of Death Valley just didn’t do the trick.  I choked some of it down anyway, it being, basically, a matter of survival.  Serves me right for not opting for the camping standard  bacon cheese burger.  The first meal I had when I got home was chosen specifically to erase the memory.  Enchiladas of slow cooked chipotle pinto beans and freshly grilled nopalitos, inside my homemade tortillas and smothered with my favorite recipe red chile sauce.  Oh, wait, I do like Mexican food! 
 

Blech!

The burro, cooling its heels in the flowers outside my window.

The Gila Box Riparian National Conservation Area is a cooling, trickling, burbling, thirst quenching desert sanctuary, and I find myself disappointed that my photographs don’t really evoke the miraculousness of coming across such a place after riding 150 miles across the parched and seemingly-barren desert.  It shouldn’t be surprising to discover the concentration of wildlife in these precious areas, but it’s still an amazing phenomenon to witness.  Alas, with a camera that shoots a whopping 1.1 frames per second, my time is better spent enjoying the wildlife rather than trying to photograph it.

A sight for sore (and hot, and thirsty) eyes: first glimpse of the Gila River from the Gila Box RNCA West Entrance.

A century or so ago, Arizona was criss-crossed with these lovely life giving riparian scenes but now, while we still have the rivers, they just don't have any water in them!  The conservation area has four perennial waterways within its boundries - the Gila, Bonita Creek, the San Francisco and Eagle Creek.  That's no small thing around here.

 

The cliffs of the "Gila Box" are formed from "Gila Conglomerate."  Now I understand why it's so darn hard to sink a tent stake into the ground here!

All manner of birds I can't name live here (plus a few that I can - vermillion flycatchers, green herons, great blue herons, red-tailed hawks and lots of talkative finchy looking things), several types of actual fish live in the rivers (a really weird concept, if you're from Arizona) and, not surprisingly, hosts of grazing beasts and predators big and small find the area a happy hunting ground.

There could not be a more pleasant place to watch hawks circle like a gang of GXSRs in a Circle K parking lot: Bonita Springs Watchable Wildlife Area

  

Cool respite near Serna Cabin.

 

“Scary Hill!,” I, as a moto-passenger, have deemed them, either singing or screeching (depending) from the back seat.  Yep, even though you can see the lip of this particular hill is, mercifully,  paved, most were not.   My inexperienced technique?  Lean back and raise a toast to the principles of engine braking.

19% grade!  I am Not Making This Up.

One has to be content to let this place slowly reveal itself.  The Cottonwood Trail loops around to many interesting sites, but one would never know that if one started from the campground.

Trail?  What Trail?  Where does it go?  How long is it?  Is it a loop?  Do I have time before sunset? It's not in my personality make-up to not ask these things, and I had to consciously tell myself to shut up and walk.

Here’s an attempt at shooting blind while using a packing strap as a make-shift camera tri-pod.  Not bad, but not especially good, either. Still, I think you can see it was a lovely night, and I enjoyed the stars and the squeak and scratch of the desert critters’ serenade.
 

Li'l Burro under the stars.

Meanwhile, in the paddock, the Ducati is impatiently stomping her dainty little hooves.  A great quantity of quality time is coming soon…

* The posted speed limit for the byway is 15mph. And a good motorcyclist will always admit that, due to a quirk in motorcycle-speedometry, the indicated speed always reads slightly faster than one’s actual speed.