THE DETOUR
A memory long ago
JULY 1975
Note: Much detail has been omitted from this trip
because this is not a story about the trip itself but, about a sudden detour
from the trip plan. The events of this
one trip would be the subject of a book by itself.
I had pushed the BMW out
through the tight cellar door and onto a concrete area covered by an upper
porch on the back of the old farm house, and packed it for the trip. This adventure would be the third trip west I
had ever made and I needed to be totally self-sufficient. In those days inexperience sometimes added to
an overly large and heavy cargo. It's
difficult to pack light and be able to handle any mechanical situation that
might come up. In 1975, there weren't
many safety nets to help out a motorcycle if one should fall apart along the
road in some forgotten piece of asphalt that doesn't even appear on a map. I had a habit of tempting fate by seeking
those out of the way roads and places but I really trusted these BMW bikes and
this 1974, R90/6, 900cc model was a good one. I put full faith in her to get me back home
from whatever dark, unheard of place I drove her into. I remember in 1974 on a
trip west that I passed only one motorcycle on interstate 70 all the way to
Denver, Colorado and that bike was broken down under an overpass in
Kansas. I never forgot it and worked
hard to avoid getting into that situation.
I packed for the worse event
that could happen, and in such a way that I might be able to extricate myself
from peril without aid. Aside from the
spare, headlight bulb, inner tube, plugs, points, condenser, carburetor
diaphragm, throttle and clutch cables and one quart of favorite oil; I also packed my torque wrench, feeler gages
and one spare valve adjuster bolt and nut.
Those adjuster bolts, if stripped out, would be impossible to find
anywhere – even in any town. The bike
came with a factory tire pump so I was set.
I stuffed all that junk into one of the two saddle bags and under the
seat with a few items on the luggage rack with the clothing. I even mounted a pair of stiff walled Avon
tires which were reputed to get four times the mileage as the traditional
Continental tires. They handled horribly
in corners but longevity was the goal here. Changes of clothing were packed on
the luggage rack covered by a tarp with the jackets and rain suit in the
remaining saddle bag. The North Face
back pack tent was tied on top the whole mess. Professional luggage in those
days was not really easy to find. A bag
located on top the gas tank called a tank bag held gloves and other items that
would be needed on a daily basis during the ride. I was all set to leave in the morning. This trip had no defined ending date as I had
nothing to come home for and nowhere to be so I'd be on my own. I like that – Don't you?
The morning sun was just
rising as I donned the nylon jacket with zip out liner. I never liked leather and dislike jackets in
general and I couldn't wait for the sun to come up when I could ride in my
favorite garb – sweatshirt, jeans, tennis shoes and light driving gloves. I walked around her for a last look and all
was well. The gas tank was filled
yesterday and everything appeared to be in order. I mounted up, switch on and hit the ignition
and heard that familiar sound of big pistons firing in that horizontal
engine. A squeeze of the throttle raised
the engine a couple hundred rpms. That’s
all that’s needed. No need to twist the
throttle for high revs while sitting still.
I pulled out from under the porch into the yard, stopped, put my left
foot down and turned round to my left for one last look at the farm house
before setting off. Mom walked out onto
the back porch and waved before lifting her apron with her right hand to cover
her mouth and nose. She always got tight
when I'd go on these trips. She repeated
the act of hiding her tears with an apron again, another time in 1966 when I
looked out the rear window of a car to see her standing on the kitchen porch,
apron held up to her eyes, as a friend drove me to the airport. She stood there and watched us drive away and
I kept watching until I couldn't see her anymore – Destination Pittsburgh
Airport and eventually Ft. Benning, Georgia.
I kicked the transmission into
neutral and waved back with my left hand and she disappeared back inside the
house. I was suddenly alone as I motored
down the sidewalk in the yard and up past the barn to the road and realized I
was on my way west - and "alone" became a welcome feeling.
I headed for interstate 80 into
Ohio and that turned into I 80/90 and somewhere near Chicago the road turned to
I 90. Chicago is horrible to drive
through at night. I remember it was
multiple lanes and the interstate seemed to circle around the city with numerous
exits that would appear every mile or so.
I got the strangest sensation that the road went uphill on some kind of
steel structure like a bridge that took traffic to a height above ground
level. It was eerie. Traffic was heavy; I was in the wrong lane and missed my exit and
was forced to drive clear around the city once again on that six lane joke of a
road. Then the rain started. It turned heavy in short order and I had to
lay flat against the fuel tank to take advantage of the small handlebar mounted
windshield. The second time around I
just got the bike over into the exit lane maybe twenty seconds, just in time to take the exit ramp that would
allow me to leave this crazy nonsense and continue across Illinois and on to
Wisconsin.
I remember leaving Chicago and all the lights
and traffic and eventually the only light visible was the light on the front of
the bike. The tensed muscles from
dealing with the fast moving traffic of Chicago and the steady rain pounding
the windscreen brought on fatigue and I knew I'd have to stop and grab an hour
of sleep. Already I was straining to
force my eyelids to stay up but they fought back and would close and I'd
instantly force them open again. The
night was black and the rain continued and it appeared there was no inn available
for a weary rider to seek reprieve from the elements. Then a most welcome sign appeared that said,
"Rest Stop." I pulled in and
found a picnic table to lie under. I
carried a small tarp for this very purpose.
I had set my mind against staying at any motel on the way to Wyoming or
any western destination back when I started this traveling thing. The Midwest to me was a place I had to
traverse to get to the Rockies. I'd not
ever stay a night in the Midwest if I could help it. I have driven night and day for many trips
west over many years and never stayed in Midwestern states longer than a few
hours.
The bike was parked close to
the picnic table, the tarp spread under the table and I laid down on the side
of the tarp, grabbed the edge and rolled over onto the plastic pulling the tarp
with me which covered me over and under.
I lay there like a pig in a blanket until sleep came, which was
instantly.
I slept for three hours and
my eyes suddenly opened wide and I was ready to go. I unrolled myself from the tarp, instantly
folded it up and attached it to the luggage rack on top of all the other
paraphernalia with two bungee cords. I
couldn't wait to get the wheels rolling.
I wanted to get through Wisconsin and Minnesota as soon as possible and
make it to South Dakota by night. There
was no schedule but I disliked travelling this flat land with nothing ever on
the horizon to enjoy. How did these
people deal with the boring horizons?
Besides, my blood was hot to reach the Rocky Mountains. They were really what this ride was all about
– Jackson Hole – Grand Tetons -Yellowstone.
I extended my arms out to the side in a stretch and pulled the helmet
down over my head, fastened the strap under my chin all the while scanning the
bike with my eyes. I covered every inch
of her. All was well. Right leg over the seat and switch on, starter depressed and I was off for the
interstate where I'd let the bike settle on a 70 mile per hour speed as she
carried us through the rain and night closer to those ladies in the sky. The real West was just ahead.
Somewhere in Yellowstone
The sun came up and another
day passed by and the next night became day.
Somewhere during those transitions the BMW found Interstate 90 and we
passed a "Welcome to Montana" sign and I knew I'd make Glacier National Park
that day, and I did. I drove through
that magnificent park and did not tarry but kept the wheels turning for Wyoming
and a town called Wapiti. Wapiti is a
Cree Indian name meaning Elk. Wapiti sits between Cody and the North East
entrance to Yellowstone National Park on the Chief Joseph Highway. I wanted to get to Wapiti by the next morning
and decided to pull another all night drive.
That didn't work. I was falling
asleep in the saddle and decided to pull off the road and drive up into the
forest as far as I could and make a camp.
The tent came out for this stop over because I was beat and I needed to
sleep. Rain was in the air and I just
didn't want to deal with rain if it were to visit.
Early morning presented heavy
dew and fog with an endless gray sky promising rain at any moment. My face was clammy and damp from the heavy
air and I remember wishing I could get a shower. The tent was stowed on the bike and long
johns were added to the riding apparel for the day. My favorite British Commando pure wool
pull-over sweater was quickly pulled over my head and the heavy, insulated
winter riding gloves would feel great on the hands. I carried two riding coats and I selected the
BellStaff waxed cotton jacket to wear on this morning run. It was cold and in
those days waxed cotton Bell Staff was the best of the best. The gloves felt fantastic and we carefully
idled away from the camp area and down a gentle hill out of the forest.
Wapiti is a really clean, western
looking and sounding town.
Unfortunately, it is designing itself to appeal to the tourist
trade. The cowboy/mountain/Indian images
are tourist magnets, as well as the cluster of national parks all in close
proximity. Pancakes, eggs over easy, ham
and toast with coffee tasted great and went down quickly. It's amazing how quickly one can eat and be
on his way when totally alone. The big
BMW would be in Yellowstone National Park before noon.
Somewhere along the Chief Joseph Highway west of Wapiti
headin for Yellowstone
Yellowstone Park is a place
that requires investigation in order to appreciate it. I had been here previous to this and was
aware of the fantastic sights, but I wanted to be in Jackson Hole by nightfall
and spend a relaxing, unhurried and safe night in a civilized campground. I did not stop and rolled right through the
park and into The Grand Teton National Park.
Now, there is one place one cannot just roll through. The magnificence of the Teton Mountains
cannot be ignored. I slowed, stopped
often, photographed and moved on to Jackson Hole where I found a local
campground that looked out over an endless plane filled with elk. Evening found me in the Million Dollar Cowboy
bar as well as the Silver Dollar Bar downtown Jackson, rewarding myself for
making it this far without problems. I
remember driving very, very slowly back to the campground and the little tent. In the morning I would eat an outdoor
breakfast at Moose Junction located on the north edge of town. I've never eaten a breakfast to equal the one
I had that morning. It was
magnificent. Cast Iron pots hung on a
row of long poles and fire beneath each pot cooked red potatoes, baked
potatoes, onions, green peppers, scrambled eggs, molasses, sausages, bacon,
ham, beef and things I lost track of.
There were 12 cast iron pots over the fires. Breakfast while outside watching the sun
come up over the Teton Mountains is indescribable. I've visited that place many times since.
Idaho was just west of
Jackson Hole so I rolled through that state and was amazed at how beautiful it
was and especially the gorgeous high mountain glacier lakes that would simply
appear out of nowhere. It had been cold
since leaving Montana and it was very cold here in Idaho. I wanted to get warm so decided to head for
Nevada and turned onto the first road that had the word south attached to it
and rolled along until I came upon the sign, Welcome to Nevada. Ha, who needs a map?
One must realize that the
descriptions herein are describing events that have happened over a month so
far. Most all detail has been omitted
for this little tale.
Half way through Nevada I
camped on the desert far from the road I was on. I searched the Nevada road map when I got
home and couldn't find that road and have no idea the name of it even unto this
day. I was up at day break and noticed
a flat rear tire. Remember all the stuff
I packed? Yep – I pulled out a 400X18 inner
tube and tire irons from the saddle bag and proceeded to fix the flat right
there on the sand. It was no big deal at
all and I pumped air into the tire with the factory tire pump that came with
the BMW. The defective tube would be patched at the next
campsite. The wheel was put back onto the bike; tent tied down and off we went
in a southerly direction.
So, "Welcome to Arizona",
the sign said. I had been out on the
road for over a month and a half and was getting a feeling that I should be
starting back on a return route. I
decided I was going in the right direction so Arizona turned into New
Mexico. I stopped at a café in a town, the
name of which fails me, for breakfast and a road map check. I noticed a notation about a place called the
Gila Wilderness. Sounded interesting. I decided to sidetrack south and search this
place out. Notice the word
sidetrack. Remember the title to this
tale – The Detour. Yep, you got it.
I rode for a pretty fair
distance through mountainous terrain and eventually came to a sign that said,
"Gila Cliff Dwellings – National Park Service." I never heard of this place. I turned the bike down the road designated
park entrance and drove on. There was
nothing. The asphalt turned to a
sandy/dirt texture and I kept on going deeper into the hills and forest until I
came to a tiny dry creek. It was no more
than a trickle. I drove across and
continued on. I silently thanked BMW for
equipping this bike with a 6 gallon gas tank.
Ahead was a huge cow off to the right.
Then I noticed it wasn't a cow but a bull. He was enormous and I stopped the bike to
think. The result of that thought
process was "what the hell" and I kept going. The bull looked up and then continued eating
grass.
I'm at least four miles from
the main road at this point. Where were
the cliff dwellings? Then I saw a shack
at the side of the road and I stopped in front of it and dismounted. A guy came out of the tiny building and
addressed me with a "hi". He
had dark gray pants on with a light gray stripe running vertically from belt to
bottom cuff. Suspenders held them
up. He was about 6 foot tall, stoop
shouldered and slender. A sleeveless T
shirt served as his upper garment. He
had a ear to ear smile so I felt comfortable with the situation. He introduced me with his name that I have
long forgotten but he followed up his name with Park Ranger. This guy was a park ranger. Then he brought me up to date with the Gila
Cliff Dwelling situation. It seems the
national park service has been excavating the cliff dwellings for years and has
only recently completed their surveys of archeology and were preparing to
officially open the park in a couple months.
In short, I was in a national monument that wasn't open yet. National monument – not a National Park. He told me that no one has come back here as
the road hasn't been paved and I was the first intruder he had come
across. I apologized for the intrusion
and he offered that I may as well go ahead and have a look at the surroundings
if I wanted to. I wanted to. He insisted I leave the bike at his shack
and go on foot but gave me a time to return.
I had been to Mesa Verde
before and these cliff dwellings were no less impressive. How magnificent they were far up on the cliff
faces. Absolutely amazing! How could the inhabitants get water up there,
and why were they up there to begin with?
The questions kept coming to mind.
I climbed up to one of the lower structures and entered one of the adobe
rooms. This was amazing. I wish someone would have been with me to
share these moments. I was there three
hours and I needed to get back to the bike.
I thanked the ranger, mounted up and idled on down the dirt road. I
could hear thunder far off to the north but the sky was blue above and I wasn't
worried in the least. Then I heard a
distant roaring sound that came from out ahead where I was riding toward. It was the strangest thing I ever heard. It sounded like water roaring but, I didn't
pass any ponds or streams on the way in.
The sound got louder the further I went until I drove around a corner
and was stopped dead in my tracks.
The shot above is the
following morning when the water dissipated and I could cross. The volume of water the night before was
incredible.
There ahead was a flash
flood. The water that was roaring
through an arroyo was deeper than the bike was tall and it was maybe 30 feet
wide. This was absolutely amazing! This was where the tiny little trickle of
water was on my way in. Then it all made
sense. The thunder far off to the north
and the dark sky – all of it equaled flash flood. There was nothing left to do but park the
bike, sit down and lean back against a fallen tree and wait for the water to
dissipate.
I have photographs of this
little event but they are on slides that reside in cassettes with 3000 other
slides of west trips. I do, however,
have a couple pics showing the requirement to remove the front wheel posted in
this tale.
Late afternoon turned into
sundown and still the water roared. At
some point near early morning the sound diminished until it finally disappeared
and I eased the bike across a narrow stream of shallow water to the other side. I hated to have to drive the bike through
this wet dirt because I drove all the way from Pennsylvania and the iron horse
stayed relatively clean. But this wet
dirt road would hold more surprises than just a dirty bike.
The next morning was sunny
and promised to be warm - maybe 60 degrees.
The flash flood was reduced to a wet road. I wondered why this road was gravel and dirt
with concrete placed only at this particular place. It was put there to handle the continual
flash floods that no doubt occurred routinely on this spot. Without the concrete – the gravel surfaced
road would be washed out with each flood.
Made sense. I saddled up, drove
through the water and picked up the speed a bit to maybe 20 miles per hour.
All of a sudden the bike
became very heavy in the front end and I couldn't hold it up with the
handlebars. I let it slow down and
slammed my feet down onto the ground repeatedly to help hold the thing up until
it would stop. I thought surely I had a
flat front tire as I swung my right leg over the seat to dismount. The tire was not flat. There was mud packed between the wheel and
the fender but, that shouldn't do anything.
The rotating tire should just keep on wiping against it as it
rotated. I walked up to the wheel and
reached down to check if there was left or right movement on the axil which
would indicate a frozen wheel bearing but when I grabbed the tire to proceed
with this check my hand closed around solidified mud. What!?
The mud that had gathered atop the tire and
under the front fender solidified with the heat of that rotational friction and
dried the mud into a substance the consistency of a brick. I had never seen anything like this in my
life. I pulled out a big screwdriver and
chipped at the brick material. I
couldn't dislodge it from under the fender.
The wheel would have to be removed.
1.
What you see under that
fender is like concrete. I had to put
the big screwdriver against the stuff and hit it with a ballpeen hammer to chip
it off. I now understood what the settlers
built their desert homes of. I was
becoming concerned because I had about a half mile to travel to get onto
concrete road. I put the wheel back on and proceeded for
another hundred yards where I had to stop and remove the wheel and repeat the
adobe material removal again. This would
take all day. I removed the fender and
continued on until I hit the concrete road that lead out onto the main state
road.
And so another memory was
made and as difficult and trying as this part of it was – I wouldn't change a
thing. I took many pictures of the Gila
Cliff Dwellings but they are on slides and unfortunately reside and probably
impossible to find on one of seven Kodak cassettes that are residing somewhere
I can't imagine. I did manage one day
many years ago to use a photo copier and a magnifying device to get these shots
here, and a few more, onto disc. It's an
unreal process.
The sun was high in the sky
and a gentle crosswind came at us from the left side with a sharp gust now and
again to wake me up and remind me what I was doing and where I was. I glanced into the rear mirrors and watched
the Gila Wilderness disappear into the distance behind us.
I can't remember the state
routes travelled anymore and it's not important anyhow. I do remember I didn't want any part of
Oklahoma, been there done that, and selected a couple roads that looked like
they would allow me to miss the state by cutting below the top of Texas but I
became very disoriented while traveling and decided to just bite the bullet and
blast across Oklahoma, Arkansas and into Tennessee.
I had been on the road for three and a half
weeks so far without staying anywhere at all and I was looking forward to
getting across Tennessee to the Smoky's where I knew some folks at the Cherokee
Indian Reservation over the Tennessee border in North Carolina. After a day or two there I'd head up the Blue
Ridge Parkway and work my home through Virginia, West Virginia and Maryland to
Pennsylvania.
The bike was carrying a lot
of weight and I always was careful with the clutch and shifting. Slow and easy was the way to go. Caution and moderation were the rules when
throttling the engine – never pushing it or stressing it with near lugging and
high RPM blasts were childish and unnecessary.
I tried to maintain a steady 70 miles per hour which was a cakewalk for
that big 900 cc engine. But I wanted to
get across these two states and I eased the speed up to 80 miles per hour with
short periods at 90 miles per hour and kept to those speeds until the wheels
crossed over into Tennessee. It took all
day. all night and a bit to get to the Patriot State.
I had never been in west
Tennessee before and actually never west of the town of Knoxville and I wasn't
really sure where that was. The Blue
Ridge Parkway was the only thing I ever cared about in Tennessee. I found out that Memphis wasn't the place I
imagined in my mind and right there I knew I was gonna travel Interstate 40
east and get across this prairie and into the mountains. Nashville was a real disappointment. I pictured rustic scenery with tractors and
wagons and people dressed like farmers.
Instead I remember traffic.
That’s my memory of Nashville.
Didn't see the Nashville Cats and
The Grand Ole Opry would be impossible to find, not that I cared, and
Thunder Road was not filmed near here but over toward Knoxville as I remembered. I just wanted out of there and into the
mountains. I couldn't make it across the
state in one sitting. An aching body
and weary eyes that kept trying to shut demanded a stop. I found a campground near the town of
Monterey just off the interstate, put up the tent and died.
Next morning saw Knoxville go
by and route 40 carried me on to state routes 276 and 19 into the Cherokee
Indian Reservation where I hooked up with an Indian friend and enjoyed their
hospitality for two days. It would be a
short drive to the bottom of the Blue Ridge Parkway from the Reservation.
The two day visit was welcome
and my friends were very tolerant of my "Northern" ways. The evening of the second at the Cherokee
Reservation saw me already preparing to depart at sun-up in the morning. Oil checked, idle and cable pulls equalized,
tire pressure checked and all the lights inspected. She was good to go except for me. I showered and put on the clothes I would be
riding in for the morning departure. I
hate to waste time on motorcycle rides.
I think that’s why I always go it along.
No waiting for cigarettes to burn down, waiting for someone to get out
of the gift shop, or waiting for a late sleeper then waiting till they pack
their stuff then waiting till they tie it on the bike, then wait while they eat
breakfast cause they didn't get up and go to the restaurant when I did to get
that chore out of the way. No sitting on
the step waiting for whomever to start or finish whatever. Greedy, huh?
You bet!
It rained during the night
and I cringed at the thought of starting up the Blue Ridge Parkway in the
rain. But a quick check out the bedroom
window showed wet streets and a horizon that promised a dry start. I walked out the door putting on my jacket
and turned to say thanks and goodbye to Patty.
I almost didn't leave but better sense told me to git, and I did so with
a wave of the left hand as the big bike pulled down the drive and out onto
route 19 through town. The entrance to
the Blue Ridge Parkway was only 15 minutes down the road at Smokemont. The second adventure within an adventure was
about to begin. The Blue Ridge Parkway,
in those days, was a fabulous motorcycle adventure, and it still ain't too bad. Traffic is a lot heavier now days though. I won't get into travel details with this
little tale as the purpose of this story revolves around the detour to the Gila
Wilderness and the cliff dwellings.
There are hundreds of tales that I could tell but this is not the place
for all that.
The twisting road at the
start of The Blue Ridge Parkway was wet and fog presented a thin, damp,
transparent sheet of dampness that required one to wipe off the glasses
constantly. I had to bend forward to the
windshield where I could just look over the top edge to stay dry and maintain
good vision. The fog increased the
higher the road climbed until I found myself straddling the double yellow line
center road just for safety. Funny –
just for safety! Ten miles per hour was
pushing the edge of the envelope for safety as the double yellow line
disappeared at times and instant, panic applications of the brakes were the
result. Fog creates tenseness and the
full time peak alert situation that results in fatigue. The problem is there is no place to stop and
get out of the weather. Ya gotta be
ready for it. Three hours of white-out
and a wind started up that blew the fog to a thin wispy cloud and progress
could once again occur. The throttle was
opened and the big machine decided it liked to settle in at 55 miles per
hour. I gave it jumps in speed to 65 and
70 miles per hour on the gentle curve sections and straightaways.
I didn't stop to eat of sleep
but kept the motor running and followed that snake of a road all the way to
Waynesboro, Virginia - 469 miles. If it weren't for the fog at the start and
the period of rain 5 hours into the ride I'd have kept it going on to
Pennsylvania. In the past I have ridden
from Greensburg, Pa all the way down the Blue Ridge to Cherokee and back again
the following day, so this ride wasn't my first rodeo on this mountain
highway. I grabbed a motel in Waynesboro
to warm up and get a shower.
Early next morning before
daylight the BMW was already at the northern part of Virginia on route 219
north heading for Maryland, West Virginia and then Pennsylvania. I'd be home by 8 pm.
It was a good ride………
Five and a half weeks on the
road makin memories. And that was only
1975. There's going to be 16 more BMWs
find their way into my garage and countless Japanese bikes with a couple
Ducati's thrown in to keep it interesting.
Next little tale will include
a hookup with Hells Angels in San Francisco and a ride up the coast with them to Eureka, California in 1974,
the year before this story.
