Amuse-Bouche: Tidbit from the Air

When you get scolded via email by a reader (I have readers??) for not having posted in waaaay tooo looong, it’s time to write.  I’m at least two good sized moto tours further behind than usual, including but not limited to: the Ducati’s first ferry crossing, a hunt for Chimayo chiles, a Huckleberry Helicopter ride, an embarrassingly slow run of my beloved Highway 12, another Ducati mechanical mishap (two, really, if you’re counting), a fruit stand campsite, and then – even better!- an actual orchard campsite, getting detained at an international border, saving a goat, and - oh, right - and milking a sheep. (Really).  But I – let’s all say it together, now! – “haven’t had time to write.”  I know, I know…

So here’s a quick post that has something to do with neither motorcycles nor food, unless you count lunch at Chicken Nuevo*, my guilty little secret, located conveniently close to the airport.
I had my first “Air-to-Air” photography gig last weekend!** For you and me, that means shooting, er, I mean photographing, airplanes in the air from – yes! – another airplane.

Let me begin by reminding you that I’m in no way a professional photographer***.  No, I’m not even a rabid amateur one. I don’t even own a decent camera. If fact, every time I’m ready to buy a decent camera, some disaster happens, like my car self destructing, or my beagle needing high dollar surgery, or, most recently, my former tenants trashing my house.  Evidently the universe is telling me, quite loudly, that I should really stop camera shopping.  So I was, despite being friendly with a few pilots, a teensy bit surprised to have this activity come my way. “Really??? Yeeeeahhh!”

A real aerial photographer would insist that the doors be removed from the platform aircraft, and wear a special safety harness, such that she (or he) not fall out of the bumping and rolling formation flying aircraft.  Said real aerial photographer might even be able to hang out of said platform aircraft to optimize angles and such, which sounds wickedly fun.  I want to be a real aerial photographer!  Not having a harness, I opted for the more conservative doors-on configuration.  The blue tinted, scratched, light reflecting windows were a challenge that marred, oh, say 90% of the photos beyond repair. A good 9% of those remaining were ruined by the simple fact that I don’t really know what I’m doing.

Camera vs. microphone made communication with pilots in both aircraft difficult.  Higher! No! Lower! Say again?

But the pilots did know what they were doing, thank goodness, because formation flying requires adept communication and piloting skills.  Our “photo mission”, as it was reported to Air Traffic Control, consisted of our platform aircraft (Cessna 205), and five subject aircraft (two Cessna Citation Jets, one Beechcraft/Raytheon Premier Jet, a Beechcraft King Air, and a Beechcraft Baron, if you care about such things.)  It helps if your platform aircraft is as fast as or faster than the subjects, but we made do.

Even light turbulence presents a challenge, it turns out. A real aerial photographer would have an awesome and gyroscopically stabilized camera, and the biceps to hold all that gear up for hours.  Instead, my borrowed camera and I just bumped around a lot, as we twisted ourselves into various contorted forms. And since the photos were requested, you know, NOW, I had to cull and edit on the fly. (Hah!) Delicate lap top mousing is also difficult even in light turbulence, as it turns out.  I even got a little queasy staring at the screen too long.
 

High speed editing… on the fly.

It was all wildly fun, and surprisingly exhausting.  Here’s a sampling of my, no, our,**** work over the two or three hours we spent in the air.

Citation Jet No. 1.  Meh.

Twin engine prop planes are far more photogenic. (Beechcraft Baron)

Beechcraft/Raytheon Premier Jet

Beechcraft King Air

Citation Jet Number Two 

Bye, Bye, Citation Number Two!

Coincidentally, when we returned to earth, and were refueling, I stumbled across this magazine article, which describes the topic better than I do.

Three pilots, one photographer, six planes, hundreds of gallons of fuel… it was not a day to be proud of my carbon footprint.

* Don’t let the fast food atmosphere fool you.  It’s actually… good!
**Imagine that!
***Evidently someone on the ground mistook me for a well known (in the field, anyway) aerial photographer, not by my photos, to be sure, but by the combination of my appearance, I guess, and the fact there was a camera hanging around my neck.
****Not your usual landscape photography, it was a team sport to be sure.

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

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.

Zion National Park – What I Did THIS Summer

What did I do this summer? I worked.  A lot.  And when I wasn’t working, I was practicing.  A lot.  My car died and left me stranded in Utah, and my dog, motorcycle, trailer, stuff and I hitched* a ride in an un-air-conditioned van with only one operating window to get home to Tucson.   My dog passed on to greener pastures soon after our return (not due to the hot as hell journey, for the record), and one of my jobs got really wonky, which is going to make the next eight months a real challenge.  (I am vehemently - and I mean vehemently! - opposed to my new and  highly unimproved seven day work week.)  Not the best summer, I’d say, but there was one wonderfully bright spot.  One precious four day respite where I packed in 800 miles on two wheels, 27 miles on two feet, 1028 river crossings (approx) and 1 scratched camera lens.  Go big or go home, don't you think?

Zion National Park! 

Inspiration Point

No doubt the rain opened up a few campsites.  Usually the park is full for the months of July and August, but we were lucky and secured walk-in a spot (late in the afternoon, even!) at South Campground.

Riding Hwy 9 (Mount Carmel-Zion Highway) again.  Unlike last year, this year I was allowed to stop and take pictures.  Except I didn’t.  Because it was raining.

After setting up camp, we stretched our legs in the drizzle on a short hike to the Emerald Pools. The pain you feel upon discovering your camera lens is fatally scratched is directly proportional to the grandeur of your location.  Ouch.  I’m glad I had a little back up Lumix in my tank bag.

Dusk on the Kayenta trail, as we return from the Emerald Pools.  The pools weren't so emerald in the rain.

Good morning, Ducati!  Time to hike to Inspiration Point (shown in the first photo of this post.) 



We got a little off trail here, but it was worth the trouble.  I thought the only place you saw stuff like this was the cover of Utah guidebooks.  Magical to see it for real!



We sacrificed a chance to hike to the famous (and treacherous, I'm told!) Angel’s Landing that afternoon to complete preparations for the next day, our one chance to tackle “The Narrows – Top Down.”  Listed as one of National Geographic’s “America’s Best 100 Adventures,” this 16 mile river trek brings the hiker down the Virgin River, through graceful pastures, by spouting springs, past waterfalls and hanging gardens, and into majestic and mysterious narrow gorges with walls soaring up to 2000 feet overhead.  The slot canyon sections (marked on our map in a caution tape shade of  yellow as "NO WAY OUT!") meant that flash flooding could be a real danger.  I was only willing to attempt it if the flash flood potential rating was “low”.  A hopeful inquiry at the back country permit office revealed that it was high today, medium two days later, and on the day we had designated for the expedition… low!  We slapped down ten dollars for our back country permit and took some time to strategize our gear and transportation.  Dry bags, shuttles, and enough food to get me to the moon and back (plus a little extra).

Food find!  The Springdale Candy Company is a cut above your typical country fudge shack.  As a reward for our research and prep, we took critical tastebuds to dried apricots, candied oranges and candied ginger, all covered in lustrous velvety smooth chocolate.  We absolutely could not pick a favorite.

Quality stuff

Well before dawn, we stumbled and yawned by the light of headlamp about a mile to our shuttle.  It stung us more than a little, but logistics did not allow for the two motorcycle arrangement (the hike is not a loop), so we reserved shuttle seats with the Zion Adventure Company.  With a bit of a shrug, we rented the strongly recommended neoprene socks (to wear with our hiking sandals) and hiking sticks.  The ride to our starting point of Chamberlain Ranch would take an hour and a half, consuming precious daylight, if the shuttle could make it through the slippery mud at all.  If not, no hike for us!

We hit the trail and cautiously dipped toes into the gently flowing stream…  HaHA!  We are INVINCIBLE!  The All Powerful neoprene socks protected us from cold water, sharp rocks, flash floods*... even my pedicure handily survived the assault of 16 miles of toe bashing.  And my hiking stick?   How I HATE YOU.  Must I drag you along for the entire day? I considered abandoning it, and paying a fee for its, um, "loss."

We begin in gently rambling pastureland.  The value of the neoprene socks was made immediately clear. The powers of the hiking stick would be revealed later.

 

In order to find the smoothest route, we crossed the river more times than we could count.  I wonder if the 16 mile estimate takes this into account.

Not too deep here. Yet.  Even so, I was beginning to suspect that stick was going to make itself useful.  The method? Plant stick against current, stumble, stumble.  Plant stick against current, stumble, stumble.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  Approximately 1028 times.

Pretty deep here!  I do believe I was being washed away towards a small but threatening waterfall (not shown). I can thank my hiking partner for photographing the moment.  As you can see, real dry bags are essential equipment.  A zip lock bag is not going to do the job.  We had to swim a number of times.

And after we made our first really deep, really serious, perhaps even a teensy bit scary river crossing?  Oh, hiking stick!  Where have you been all my life?

Bestowing blessings upon the previously despised hiking stick at the end of the day.  We were told that trekking poles would not survive the trip, and when we got to the end of our hike, we believed.

 

I do believe I have never been on a more simultaneously awe-inspiring and heart breaking hike.  This is truly the stuff that defines our American West - grand and wild, and achingly beautiful.  Yet  we had so little time to sit back with mouths agape at the wonder of it all.  As we calculated our progress using landmarks and a timeline, we soon realized that if we continued to hike without stopping we would (hopefully) reach Sinawava Point (the end of the trek and the northern most shuttle stop in the park) around sunset.  Pause to unpack the 2lb (that doesn’t count the lenses!) dSLR camera I had been lugging (not mine), along with the necessary tripod (the low light conditions of a slot canyon really demand one) and we’d be bumbling over that tricky terrain in the dark.  No thanks.

Press on, press on!  And so we did, snapping grainy, blurry photos in the few moments that were not fully occupied with river crossings and unstable footing, using the waterproof camera (also not mine) attached to my pack by a retractable lanyard.  Thank goodness for that!

Constraints of time, equipment (because we didn’t have time to unpack the drybags that held the good stuff) and light really hampered our ability to capture this spectacular place on film.  This photo comes close, though, which is why it is one of my favorites.

Even though we breezily complete mountain hikes in half the published projected time, this hike humbled us like no other.    Slogging almost the entire 16 miles through a rushing river and over slippery rocks and boulders (there is no actual “trail”) is slow going and hard work.  And, (what luck!), the usually clear water was muddied from the rain in the days before, making all those algae covered stones invisible.  We had to test the depth of the water and find secure footholds for each step by feel using our feet and hiking sticks.   The river flow that day, measured at 81 cfs,*** was enough for me.  We found ourselves neck deep (or swimming) plenty of times and I was, quite frankly, simply washed away by the current more than once.  In the end, we would need every minute of the listed 12 1/2 hours for our journey, and surely would not have emerged before dark without the aid of our hiking sticks.  Although completing this trek in one day felt like a lifetime accomplishment, I don’t recommend it as the best way to appreciate its richness.  If time had allowed, it would have been far better to make use of one of the back country campsites along the way, allowing two full days to explore this magical route.  Next time, (the more I do, the more my “to do” list grows!) I’ll hike in and back out from the south end, covering far fewer miles yet somehow seeing much so much more.   And that would leave me just about enough time to take in Angel's Landing, too, no?


*Okay, “hitched” gives the wrong impression.  The driver of said van was caravaning with me to begin with.
**Not really.
*** Cubic Feet per Second.  Anything under 70 is considered ideal or “easy,” 80 is on the upper end of “mild" (good grief, knowing what I know now, I wouldn’t sign up for the “moderate” rating of 100 cfs),  and thru permits (needed to hike “Top-Down,” as we did) are not issued at flows greater than 120 cfs.  The average for the month of August is about 50 cfs.

100 Miles is Not Enough (Hyrum Canyon)

Sometimes your day insists your ride be confined to only one tank of gas.  Regrettable, but it beats not riding at all.  Today I took my first northern Utah ride of the season, but still had to fit in quite a bit a work.  My usual first ride is to Bear Lake via Logan Canyon, but as it is Sunday, I opted for the less traveled Hyrum Canyon.  At least I call it Hyrum Canyon. Maybe it’s called Blacksmith Fork Canyon.  I do know for sure it’s a nearby 15 mile stretch of UT 101 that leads to the Hardware Ranch Wildlife Management Area.

Here’s the “bat cave:”

The bat cave!

Can you hear songbirds chirping?  Listen a little closer.  You can also hear the low rumble of a Monster 696 from within.  I’ve never had a garage before, and while I usually stay in a free student apartment each summer, this year is different. I’m renting (you’ll figure out why another time) a 1925 bungalow from a friend, complete with grass, shade trees, flowers and the Logan River in my backyard.  I gotta say, it feels pretty cool to be hiding what you like to think of as your ferocious machine in this little country shed!

Hyrum Canyon is not national park material, but it is just full of perfect little vignettes.  Like “Snowy Mountains Emerging from Canyon’s Mouth.”  Or “Magestic Tree with Rushing River and Wildflowers.”  Or “Magpie on Fence Post”.  (I didn’t bother with this one.  While I can coax a decent landscape or food shot out of my Canon G11, I find it quite worthless for anything that moves.  You know, things like people.  Or animals.  Or motorcycles.  *sigh*)

Any road has it oddities, too.  Like “Water Bubbling from Beneath the Asphalt.”  (Does this have something to do with the current flooding?) Or “Enormous Testicles of Upward Climbing Deer.”  (Seriously, they were impressive.)  And I can’t forget “Startled Sheep.”  Which perhaps could just as well be named “Startled Motorcyclist.”  (Just who startled whom?)  That one was fairly exciting, at least from my point of view.

I do have a few actual photographs to share with you.  They are not the most beautiful scenes I saw today, but each one did fit four strict requirements.

1. I thought it was pretty.
2. The lighting was decent.
3. I was not too chicken to pull off the asphalt to take the photograph (this road doesn't really have a shoulder to speak of).  I have short legs.  Anything more than .0398%* grade and at least one of my feet is not going to be able to touch the ground.  If it’s my left foot, I have to let the bike free fall to land on its side stand.  Call me crazy, but I like to know that bike it sitting safely on the stand before I let go.  If it’s my right foot, then I can’t even lift my left foot to engage the side stand.  Yes, I could free fall that perilous three inches to the right to stand on that leg, but you assume there is firm footing on which to catch 350-400 pounds of motorcycle.  You also assume I am not unreasonably concerned about this incredibly awkward scenario.  So much for feeling cool.  Now the Ducati is lower than my Kawasaki, so that’s an improvement.  Except that any courage I may have gained from this edge is overshadowed by that fact that I really, really do not want to drop my shiny, not held together with packing tape,  never been horizontal (imagined extreme lean angles not withstanding), still new to me as far as I’m concerned, motorcycle.  I freely admit I’m a fair weather photographer.  I’m not gonna risk, or even enter into a paranoid perceived risk of, to be more accurate, dropping my bike for a photograph. I’m just not.
4. There is probably an RV, farm machinery and a slow moving SUV that I can’t get around right away, so I might as well pull over anyway.    Let me tell you, if the road is free and clear (which today, it was almost the entire time) I ain’t stoppin’!

You might imagine that’s an awful lot of information to process whilst flying ‘round the bend in full sport mode.  You are correct.  It is.

Today's vignettes:

Scrumptious Looking Grass in Springtime Meadow

 

Wooden Cart-Thingy (There was a row of 16 of these carts, actually.  Weird.  Where did they come from and why?)

 

Pond: Cattails Not Shown

Ducati with Field of Wildflowers in the Distance

Funny.  Not one of those photos looks like a canyon.  Well it is.  You'll just have to trust me on that one. Probably not a coincidence that this flatter area affords me a better shot at finding a place to pull over.

Dinner tonight?  Kielbasa (which didn't seem very kielbasa-like, but still was very tasty), a salad of baby greens and crusty bread, all scored at the local farmers’ market yesterday morning.

100 miles.**  Not. E. Nough.  I think I’m getting up early tomorrow to hit Logan Canyon.

* Okay, I made that number up, but you get my point.
**Yes, I said the canyon is a nearby 15 mile stretch, but I did indeed manage to squeak in 100 miles today.   I bet you can figure it out.  ;-)

Ducati's First Camping Trip! (Monument Valley, UT - Four Corners Day Ride)

I’m up early to begin my day ride.  Since I don’t have to break camp I’m looking forward to a quick get away.  Except… not.  The wind in Arizona really is worthy of a title, like the Santa Anas or Le Mistral, but as far as I know, it’s just referred to as “that damn wind.”  In any case, it seems to roar along at 40mph for days on end each spring.  It took me longer to secure my tent for the day than it would have to just pack everything up.  For what it’s worth, I’ve been getting pretty good at setting up a tent in the wind single handedly.  First stakes, THEN poles!

I struggle with days like these.  Am I a motorcyclist or photographer?  Getting good photos really breaks the flow of a ride, but it’s also difficult to pass by the spectacular scenery of this part of the country, each view seemingly better than the last, without stopping for a shot.  Since these spectacular views occur at least every quarter mile, and stopping on a motorcycle to retrieve your camera is a bit more complicated then if you were in a car, (even more so with the maddening wind that blows everything out of your tank bag or top case each time you open it, and whisks away your riding gloves no matter how attentive you might be) you can’t really expect to get anywhere if you’re going to get serious about your photos.   So today was the sort of day I was going to have to choose to be one or the other, and, given the weather and the fact I wanted to ride several hundred miles, it made the most sense to play the role of touring motorcyclist.  I missed some great shots – the light glinting out of the storm clouds onto the enormous rocky shark fin outside of Kayenta, AZ,  the freshly fallen snow peeking out from behind the red rocks of Bluff, UT…  it all only gives me an excuse to go back.

I dodged spring squalls, tumbleweed the size of Sub-Zero refrigerators (I am not exaggerating!), and dirt road construction zones turned to mud soup by the rain on my loop through Monument Valley and the Four Corners area.  Note to self and anyone else considering the trip:  the views are much better if the loop is made counterclockwise.   Another excuse to return.

Time for a rest and lunch at the aptly named Twin Rocks Cafe, in Bluff, UT.  Funny, on my return from this trip, the passenger sitting next to me used to live in Bluff and work at this very cafe.




Four states in one ride:  Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo!




I stood in a long line at the grocery for the privilege of this fine meal.  More excellent dining in Chinle.  Eeek.  Given the wind I've been telling you about, consider the miracle of this photo, taken whilst seated upon my motorcycle in the grocery store parking lot, holding the camera in one hand, fending off more aggressive pan handlers and securing my meal from the wind with the other.




Not exactly the “Oh Glorious Light!” moment of yesterday, but the day was beautiful in a different sort of way.  The gloomy weather had me thinking in black and white, so I leave you with this one photo -  ghosts in the mist of Monument Valley, UT.  An unusual sight for sure!

I am pleased to report that my Ducati met the mud for the first time on this ride, and my tent spent the day unattended in 40mph winds.  Both remained upright!

Ducati’s First Camping Trip! (Canyon de Chelly National Monument)

Arrival, Canyon de Chelly National Monument.  No entrance fee, AND free camping! 
First task, grab a campsite and take a breather, gazing at the trees above me…




And now, because I skipped the Blue Mesa Trail hike in Petrified National Forest, I had time for the White House Trail…



 
Oh Glorious Light!  I couldn’t have been there at a better time of day…



 
For some reason I found myself thinking of cupcakes and swirls of chocolate frosting…





Here they are, at the bottom of the Canyon, the “White House Ruins.”   You can’t see it in this photo, but one of the buildings is whitewashed, giving the ruins their name.


 

You can see in the bottom left of the photo below how the ruins are built into the steep canyon side…


 

I also had time for a ride out to Spider Rock…


 \

And a peek at Junction Overlook, where Canyon de Chelly meets Canyon del Muerto…


 

I made a friend at my campsite that evening.  She quickly appeared every time I arrived, or emerged from my tent…


 

Not one of the heritage breed Navajo-Churro sheep, but a sheep in a Navajo canyon, nonetheless…


 

No camping trip is complete without a night time photo of your motorcycle!  (Cool  red seat cowl removed before departure to accommodate my tail bag.)



I’d stay in this campsite for one more night.  Next: Day Trip to southern Utah!

Ducati’s First Camping Trip! (Petrified Forest National Park)

Next stop (after a handful or two of the granola I had made before I left my house and kitchen, and after having an unusually colorful experience assisting an out-of-fuel motorcyclist),  Petrified Forest National Park.

The "Giant Logs" Trail.  Yup.  It's wood that's been turned to rock.

The wood, er, rock, er, whatever... really is this colorful!

You can take a short hike here, off of the Blue Mesa Loop road.  I regretted not doing so, but the time saved allowed me an even cooler hike at my next destination.  You can't do it all when you can't ride at night.

The Painted Desert, as seen from Lacey Point...

...and again from Pintado Point.  I wish my pictures could be bigger without getting cut off.  I gotta figure that out.  Maybe I need to skip this fancy "caption" feature.  I'll try that on one of my next posts.

And then I motored north, past a really cute restaurant.  I should have turned around.  Why didn't I turn around?  Instead I had an awful meal in Chinle, AZ, where I was quite aggressively chased across a parking lot by pan handlers before my feet even touched the ground.  I was going to have to rectify my poor judgement later.  But I had arrived at my next stop, Canyon de Chelly National Monument.