As noted in my intro,
my husband and I are extraordinarily lucky to live in a part of
the world that is so, so scenic, with so, so many twisty roads
and fascinating destinations. It has so much to offer in terms
of roads and destinations that people from other parts of the US
- and, indeed, other parts of the world - come here to tour by
motorcycle. In less than a day's ride from our home, we can be
next to the ocean, on a mountain, in a forest, next to a lava
flow, next to a lake, or in a desert, and in many of those
places, it can be a place with few or NO people around.
But we also have lived in the Pacific Northwest since 2009 and
we've seen a LOT. We can't take a trip now within a thousand
miles of where we aren't doing at least some back roads for a
second or third or fourth time. And sometimes, the lack of being
able to find a LOT of brand new stuff for us can be frustrating
(yes, we're spoiled and privileged).
We take a two-week motorcycle trip every Fall, and we had no
idea where to go. To get ideas, I first looked at a large map
that Stefan (
coyotetrips) has in his
office that has noted on, with a highlighter pen, every place
we've been by motorcycle: I looked for roads and places where
there were no marks. Then, I looked in a folder I keep on my
computer of cities and sights that I've collected because they
sounded or looked like they might be worth experiencing - those
ideas come from what I've seen on TV, read in someone else's
blog, seen on Instagram, etc.
Looking at the map of our trips, the big obvious gap was
Northern Nevada, close to the Idaho border. And looking at my
folder of inspiration, I had the town of Jarbidge, Nevada
listed: it bills itself as the most remote city in the lower 48
states of the USA, and is the start or the end, depending on how
you travel, of both the Idaho and the Nevada Backcountry
Discover Routes (BDR). It's because of the BDRs that I heard of
it: we like to watch BDR videos, but don't have much interest in
doing them ourselves.
Could we put a trip together leading up to, and then away from,
Jarbidge? Spoiler alert: yes we could! And did! And Jarbidge
turned out not event to be the best place we experienced!
We left later in the year than ever before: the Saturday before
the last week of September. We usually leave the last week of
August or the weekend of Labor Day. This year, we went much
later because of a doctor's appointment I had and because we
hoped it wouldn't be as hot and smokey as it has been in year's
past. It was the right decision: it turned out to be a fantastic
time of year to tour.
The downside is that, through a miscommunication, we almost had
to cancel part of the trip, because the dog sitter I thought was
going to be here for two weeks was available for only one. We
owe our neighbors HUGELY for stepping in at the last minute.
I also was upset at how much doesn't fit - I have gained SO much
weight. It was a challenge to pack what I needed.
We left home on a Saturday at about 10:30 in the morning and
headed South, avoiding Interstate 5 and taking 99 W South
instead - it took longer, and it's not especially scenic, but we
hate interstates SO much. The weather was wonderfully cool
though. We eventually headed East from Eugene on State Road 58.
As we passed through Oakridge, we talked on our helmet
communications system about
Eric
Haws, a legendary world motorcycle traveler who had a
large estate in that area where he hosted dozens of motorcycle
travelers over the decades. We still miss him.
Our destination for the evening was
Lava
Flow Campground, on the east side of Davis Lake in
Deschutes National Forest in Oregon. This was a new camping spot
for us, and Stefan chose it because of the name: we love
anything volcanic-related. Indeed, the site is next to a lava
flow.
There's
only five or six camping spots, each with a picnic table,
but it has two pit toilets housed in the vaulted toilet
building, so it must get a lot of day visitors in high season.
Except for the old guys in on spot who blabbered and farted late
into the night, it was a quiet evening looking out over the lake
at the long-quiet volcanic cones. It was hazy, because of a
forest fire on the other side of the Lake from us,
but
still beautiful. It was cold in the night but never got
near freezing.
If you go: you cannot reserve a spot at Lava Flow Campground at
Davis Lake. We got a spot no problem, and the campground never
filled up, but it could have - at least three cars or trucks
came through to check it out but decided to go elsewhere. And I
have a feeling that its never empty on a weekend on or before
Labor Day. Also, the ride down to the campsites turns sandy in
the curves. I was so happy that I rode both down and up without
falling.
A lot of people that encounter us during a trip ask us how we
manage all of our equipment and food.
We have our
packing lists online. As for food, we have a particular
way of dealing with that: each evening or each morning, we
figure out how we're going to travel that next day or that day,
and where the best place would be to eat lunch or to pick up
supplies for supper and breakfast the next day, as needed. We
try to time it so that within an hour or two of our camp site,
we can stop at a convenience store for beer and/or wine cartons
and other necessities.
More about how we eat on the
road here.
Other than getting up for the toilet, we slept many hours, more
than we do at home. That became the theme of the trip - sleeping
more than nine hours a night. I guess we seriously needed it. We
still managed to get out by 10:15. I was dreading the sandy
parts of the road out of the campground, but I did them just
fine.
We went through La Pine (that city is growing!) and headed to
Oregon state road 31 because it would take us near Christmas
Valley, and I wanted to see it. Turns out, there's NOTHING to
see, and it's a rather boring ride to get there. But it's a
fascinating story:
In 1961, a developer laid out the Christmas
Valley town in Eastern Oregon, including holiday street names
(such as Candy Lane, Mistletoe Road, Comet Street, Vixen Street,
etc.), the Christmas Valley Airport, a water system, a golf
course, a lodge, rodeo grounds and a man-made lake. The
developer, M. Penn Phillips, aggressively promoted the community
in California to retirees and to young, would-be farmers. He
marketed the potential of the land as green and readily farmed.
But the land is, in fact, arid, dusty, windy, isolated and
subject to temperature extremes. Few people actually moved
there. In the early 1970s, the Phillips company faced lawsuits
about misrepresentation of the property. Most people consider
the whole thing a big scam.
The Google Map for the area is incredibly misleading - I have a
screen capture here at right. See all those neatly laid out
streets and what not? 90% of them don't exist. I don't know if
the streets ever existed.
There are few homes in Christmas Valley, many of them double
wides, and what homes we saw are sad. Run down. There were
hardly any ranches or farms - just run down homes on run down
land. We wondered what people do.
We stopped at The Lodge, one of the only tallish structures in
the area, one built when the area was being developed. It is set
back from the road - I'm suprirsed we saw it. I was hoping for
lunch - they had all sorts of "open" signs. It turns out they
weren't really open, not for food, despite the menus and special
of the day board saying otherwise. We left and ended up having a
rather dreadful lunch of all fried food at the nearby gas
station convenience store.
It wasn't one of our most fun riding days...
We connected with US Highway 395, headed South. Stefan said he
wanted to stop at some lake along the way. I wasn't
understanding what he was saying about the lake - I wasn't
registering the name. I was really confused - until I saw the
name of the "lake:"
Alkali
Lake. And, to me, that meant it was likely NOT to be an
actual water-filled lake. And I was right.
I was supposed to flunk high school chemistry - the teacher was
a friend of my Mom's and gave me a very generous C at the end of
the year - but I do remember that alkali is somehow the opposite
of acid. And I know that a lot of dry lakes out West have an
alkali base. And that is the extent of my knowledge about
alkali. Indeed, that's mostly what we saw:
a
vast white basin that from afar looked like it had very
blue water in it, but in fact, upon getting closer, was a dry
bed. Still, it was beautiful, interesting scenery to ride along
on the right, and with mountains on the left, as we headed
South. I found out later that much of it has been poisoned by a
chemical waste storage company that, just like so many, didn't
bury waste in an environmentally-appropriate manner. And, of
course, no one is in jail as a result.
The landscape had become MUCH more interesting at last. We
pushed on to Lakeview, Oregon. We parked in a gas station
parking lot to figure out where to camp for the night. While
there, we met two French Canadians on very nice street bikes who
couldn't believe we were camping so late in the season. Per
looking at Google Maps, we backtracked for the road to Mud Creek
campground, about 35 minutes northeast of Lakeview, Oregon.
I
loved this campground: it's forested, it's away from the
not-at-all busy road that goes by it (which is oh-so-quiet at
night), it has seven spacious sites, most of which aren't right
next to each other, each with a picnic table and fire grate, it
has a well stocked vault toilet and, shock of shocks,
potable
water from a pump! And it's FREE to camp there! I was
giddy at how beautiful and isolated it was. I chose the campsite
across the drive from the toilet, because I'm an old woman and I
don't like walking far. We unpacked, set up the tent, and then
walked to the pump with our collapsible sink, with me mooing to
the cows out in the pasture, looking at us suspiciously. We
didn't drink the water - with that many cows around, we were
suspicious of the quality - but used it for dish washing.
We took a walk on the red dirt drive way passed the other
campsites, and one was occupied. We guest immediately that it
was a homeless couple. They were rough looking but nice
and had a big, dopey dog I fell in love with. They were waiting
for things to cool off down in Arizona and then intended to head
that way. I hoped their very beat up looking car would make it.
The next morning, they were walking to the toilet and saw our
motorcycles and the guy said, "Wow, I would never have guessed
you were bikers! I thought you probably had some big fancy
camper!" I laughed, but then I thought - why did he think that?
'Cause the last word that would come to mind if you saw us while
camping is "fancy." Maybe because I was using a walking stick -
a collapsing hiking stick that Stefan got me for Christmas so I
could easily pack it for motorcycle trips.
Homeless folks in national forest campgrounds is now a common
sight. It's something I encountered maybe twice in all my time
camping in the 1990s. Now, I pretty much expect to find someone
living in a remote campground. So far, all have been quite
cordial or they never come out of their tent or camper.
It was cold that night but, once again, not near freezing. I was
so stoked that my sleeping sack inside my sleeping bag was
keeping me oh-so-snug. I just wish I'd brought gloves for when I
was off the bike. And the stars at night - wow. Super dark skies
with perfect bright stars. I think we saw the Milky Way every
night we camped. I was in my happy place.
Morning came and, after breakfast, we packed up and were
eventually back on Oregon State Road 140. The one and only shop
in Adel, Oregon was closed - Adel is just not a town travelers
can count on. But luckily, we didn't need it. As
civilization
disappeared, we were on the lookout for the turnoff for
the Historic Shirk Ranch. And while there is a turnoff, there is
NO sign for it. You need to look for it before your trip and put
it into your GPS: it's BLM Road 61064. The road was gravel and
then, almost immediately, a mix of dirt and gravel - and
sometimes, deep ruts from when a very large truck went through
right after it rained. In rain, this road would absolutely be
impassible. I think the road might even become sandy if it goes
too long without rain. It was a mostly flat ride, but tricky -
in fact, Stefan almost went over once. We knew we needed to stay
on the road for 12 miles, but we were both getting antsy, as
there had been NO sign on the highway for it and no sign on the
road as we progressed. I knew about the site from
the
Bureau of Land Management (BLM) - I think they may have
tweeted out a photo of it once upon a time and I saw it and
saved the info.
We were about to hit 12 miles exactly being on the road. We came
over a little hill -
and
there it was! There's still a surprising number of
structures in tact at the site. David L. Shirk purchased the
property in 1883 and built most of the ranch's extant buildings
and structures around 1910. The abandoned ranch is now
administered by the Bureau of Land Management. It's wide open
and still in great condition. The main house is the biggest draw
- you can still go inside, even up the stairs. There's also lots
of buildings scattered around and a deteriorating water tower.
Thank you to all that have visited and even camped there and
didn't destroy things or leave trash - we were stunned at how
well the site is maintained.
We
took SO many photos at the ranch. The sky was perfect for
such. Seriously, go look at them.
Unfortunately, we hadn't brought enough water, at least not to
also visit the petroglyphs also in the area (though we later
learned they are much farther away than we thought at the time -
the site is 30 miles away from the ranch). By the time we were
done with walking around the ranch, we had enough water for
maybe one huge gulp of water each, and that's fine if absolutely
nothing goes wrong and you have access to water in a few miles.
But in this high desert, with almost no people around, if one
bike has problems and you have to leave someone with the bike
while the other person goes for help - NOPE. So, we'll save the
petroglyphs for next time.
I
love Oregon state road 140. For every mile that's boring
there's two that are SPECTACULAR. Soon after the turnoff for the
ranch, and several miles after Lakeview, the road climbs the
shear face of the 1,000 feet (300 m) Doherty Slide. As Wikipedia
puts it, "The ascent is steep, the road narrow, and there are no
shoulders nor guardrails. Heading east it provides a
spectacularly exciting view for any front seat passenger as the
cliff face is impossible to see giving the impression of being
high in the air with no support." So, yeah, you can imagine what
it's like on a motorcycle. I had gone down the road on the other
direction, heading West, years before - meaning I was on the
inside lane. But this time I was going up, on the OUTSIDE lane,
right next to that sheer drop off. And it's all uphill - no
stopping, no slowing, or I would be SCREWED. But I made it just
fine.
Now we were in Nevada, at last for a bit. And it wouldn't be a
motorcycle trip without having to stop because of road
construction and wait for a road worker truck to follow, and
that was our reward once we were atop the slide and in the
middle of Sheldon National Wildlife Refuge - we'd camped there
years ago, but it was too early to do so now. I love it when
we're in the front of any traffic line
so
I can talk to the flagger - they always are interesting
people, never from the area. This time, the guy's first language
is Spanish so I took the opportunity for some Spanish
conversation practice. He was a sweetie. We talked about the
wildlife he saw in the mornings, the commute from Winnemucca
each day, etc.
We rode on through the gorgeous landscape, making regular jokes
about, "Gosh, we COULD be at the coast instead!" We do this a
lot when we are on a back road in Oregon, going through endless
scenery, with no traffic anywhere - while most motorcycle
travelers are out on the coast, sitting at a traffic light or in
a traffic jam, rarely seeing anything scenic, most especially
the ocean.
We stopped at Denio Junction, something we'd never done before,
because we usually are coming from the North and stop at Fields.
We got a soda and sat down at a table to plan for the rest of
the day, and so I could save my Duolingo streak. I was surprised
at how nice Denio Junction was - the bar and restaurant seemed
well stocked, there's a little hotel, and an RV park across the
street - but I don't think there's any official tent camping. We
decided we would head to North back into Oregon, to Fields, for
a late lunch/early supper, and then to a place Stefan had in
mind for camping. I had wanted to stop at the library in Denio,
because I know someone that works there (she used to be my
neighbor and helped train Lucinda when we first got her), but it
was closed.
We pulled into Fields and Fields Station, the motel and
restaurant there, and I could tell almost immediately that it
had a change in ownership since we were last there. Fields,
Oregon has been a really popular stop for motorcycle travelers
for many years. The Fields Station milkshakes are legendarily
great and I'm happy to say THAT has continued. The food was fine
- nothing to complain about. But the grocery store was mostly
empty shelves. Even the beer cooler was mostly empty. And the
current owners seemed annoyed to be so busy and that people were
asking them questions. As I walked through the empty shelves, I
heard one on the phone, complaining that business wasn't great,
that July had been so hot and no one had been there, etc. The
outside dining area was piled with leaves everywhere - no one
had swept in quite a while. It was in such contrast to the last
time we were there a couple of years before, when the then new
owner sat with us for lunch and seemed so happy to tell us about
the renovated rooms and his plans for the future, and everything
looked so tidy. I think when it comes to Fields, and maybe Denio
Junction as well, is that it's hit or miss depending on
ownership. Fields changes ownership a lot, and that means the
quality varies hugely. If the current owners are reading this
blog, I hope they will read my description later for our visit
to Rome, Oregon - they may want to visit there to get some
business tips.
The Fields Station cook was SUPER nice and, since she was
stopping food service for the day, Stefan asked her about where
he wanted us to camp that night. She enthusiastically endorsed
the idea, noting that it was one of her favorite places to camp.
We headed out on the gravel road, Whitehouse Ranch Lane, toward
the turnoff for Willow Creek Hot Springs, also known as
Whitehorse Ranch Hot Springs. THE ROAD WAS AWFUL. The gravel had
just been laid down. There was no line to follow. The bike was
all over the place. I was getting exhausted from standing on the
motorcycle and sometimes had no choice but to sit down - and
riding on gravel while sitting down is not a pleasant
experience, as you can feel your bike wobbling like crazy and
you don't have nearly as much control. I was ready to turn back,
but then realized we were half way to the hot springs. We pushed
on and, oh-so-thankfully, once we turned off to the far less
developed dirt and gravel road, it was SO much easier.
Willow Creek Hot Springs is an extremely popular camping site
and day visit. I wouldn't ever try it on a weekend. We were here
on a Monday night the last week of September and I was hoping it
would be like our previous night camping. Nope - it was already
filling up with people. There is a kind of parking lot off to
the right as you drive into the area, and then, TA DA, the hot
spring pools are RIGHT THERE next to the road! We could see some
heads bobbing in the water as we rode past. The best campsite,
which is around the side of a hill, was already taken. The three
other camp sites with picnic tables are right next to the gravel
driveway for the springs.
We
got the last site with a picnic table , kind of across
from the pit toilet (which runs out of toilet paper quickly -
bring your own) and
near
the pools.
As we were setting up and placing the motorcycles so that no one
would drive over us in the night, a big truck pulling a trailer
with a side-by-side on it pulled in, turned around, and parked
next to us. At first I was peeved, but then decided it would be
a good thing - he'd block us from the other side, further
ensuring no one would drive over us. And the driver hopped out
of the truck, walked over and said, "would you mind if I parked
here? We aren't even going to be here - we're unloading the side
by side and going deer hunting all night." I said I was actually
happy he was parking there, and we struck up a conversation. HE
WAS HILARIOUS. Total Oregon red neck. Gave Stefan a beer - a
Coors - and then just kept bringing them to him! At one point,
his friend, VERY inebriated, came over too, and he was just as
hilarious. And I said, "Do ya'll mind if I ask you - are you
from
Oregon?" ANd the driver said, "Yeah, we're from Oregon. Oh, are
you surprised? Because, you know, usually, Oregonians are
ASSHOLES." I almost fell off the picnic table bench.
And before he left, he came over and said, "There's a LOT more
beer in the cooler in the back of the truck. Help yourselves!"
And off they went. And it was a great thing that he did, because
Stefan bought a Modelo chelada - a Mexican beer cocktail in a
can - because the thought, hey, I really like Modelo beer, maybe
this will be good. Well, it was one of the vilest things EVER.
This had "the authentic flavors of tomato, salt, and lime." GAG.
I called it a Mexican breakfast beer. Coors isn't bad - there's
just not that much to it. But in this case, it was a WELCOMED
alternative!
We had some supper and enjoyed a
ridiculously
beautiful sunset. Seriously,
it
was beautiful.
The two pools of the Whitehorse Ranch Hot Springs are surrounded
by what looks like endless sagebrush. The single pool is deep,
about 30 inches, and wide, and
it's
split down the middle by a concrete wall that allows
the
side next to the road to be hotter, about 102℉ (39℃) on
that side and about 85℉-95℉ (29℃-35℃)
on
the other. Both pools have soft, muddy bottoms, but there
are boulders immersed in the pool that are perfect to sit on and
relax - but these and all the rocks on the edge can be slippery
when getting in and out.
We finally had everything set up and eaten and could take a turn
in the water. Other dippers were nekkid, but I'm now way too
body conscious to not wear a bathing suit, in contrast to my
younger days, especially given the difficulty I have getting in
and out of anything. I enjoyed the water, and I would have
enjoyed it even more if there weren't a couple of younger folks
there spouting Portlandia nonsense - nothing like hearing people
who have never farmed or ranched talking about how farmers and
ranchers should be doing things, people who have never lived off
the land but talk about how easy it would be to live off the
land, people who don't walk over to the pit toilet and, instead,
pee near a water source.
That night, I slept as well as I had anywhere. It was much
warmer than previous nights. The sounds of coyotes in the
distance after a beautiful sunset, and the starry sky I saw
every time I got up in the night, made it all magical.
I wonder how many other natural hot springs are in the area?
Crane Hot Springs, one of my favorite places on Earth, is 140
miles away. I'm sure there are SO many more. It's worth noting
that neither Whitehorse Ranch Hot Springs nor Crane Hot Springs
are on
this
Lonely Planet 2024 list of the 10 best hot springs in Oregon.
The next morning, I thought about taking another soak, but that
would mean packing a wet bathing suit and trying to dry it out
that night, and it didn't sound worth it. So we had coffee,
enjoyed
the empty landscape and packed up. I was dreading getting
back out on Whitehouse Ranch Lane, and at first, continuing down
the road (not going back the way we came), it was just as bad as
the part from Fields, but then it changed and became the kind of
manageable gravel road I like.
The
landscape was gorgeous. We arrived eventually at US
Highway 95, getting several loud honks and a thumbs up before we
pulled out onto the road by a guy passing in a trunk with a KTM
on a rack on the front.
We headed North on US Highway 95 and stopped at the junction
with state highway 78, in the parking lot of
an
abandoned gas station, small market, cafe hotel and RV site.
You see so many abandoned gas stations and markets and what not
when you travel out West in the USA. They are in varying
condition - some could be easily fixed up, some are doomed and
impossible to recover. I think a hotel and convenience store and
gas station could make it most anywhere, if the owners are
willing to do all the work, but a restaurant or cafe out here is
so difficult - you just never really know how much food to have
on hand. We were just leaving with when a Tweeker showed up in a
pickup. We knew he was tweeking when he got out of the truck and
started walking to find a place to... I dunno. Pee? Scary to
think he was driving.
Stefan had seen something called the Pillars of Rome on Google
Maps as he was scrolling in and out, looking at our route, so we
took a gravel road off the highway to check that out. It turned
out to be
a
striking geological landmark in the Owyhee Canyonlands:
volcanic formations rising up about 100 feet. We road by them
but didn't stop. We just kept going, expecting the road to
eventually take us back to the highway, and it did. There's no
park or designation for the Pillars, other than a brown sign
with the name across from
the
cafe and motel in Rome.
Rome Station is a restaurant and small market, and it's had
consistent ownership for decades - and they know how to make a
good meal quickly! They also have cabins and a camp site -
I would hate to have to tent camp there, right next to the
highway, but I'm glad it's there, for those that need it. The
cafe is run by a terrific family that are happy to answer
questions about nearby sites - they can usually tell you if the
roads to Leslie Gulch or the Pillars of Rome are passable. The
market is small but well stocked - I have no idea why Fields
can't be like this place in terms of inventory. I will always
make it a point to stop here, even if I don't really need to,
just to support them. I asked the owner if she had a "down"
season and she said absolutely not, that traditional tourist
season (last weekend in May to through first weekend in
September), hunting season (usually August 1 through all of
November) and fishing almost all year round, plus so many people
camping, keep them busy all year.
At this stop, Stefan and I started splitting a lunch, and we
kept doing this throughout the trip - not every day, but a few
days. It's so easy to overeat on vacation. This was a good way
to stop that.
Stefan knows I'm a huge fan of the Corps of Discovery Expedition
- also known as the Lewis and Clark expedition - and I'm a
particular fan of Sacagawea, who, according to
Undaunted
Courage author Stephen Ambrose, saved the members at least
a few times, and maybe more, through her negotiation with local
tribes they encountered and through her abilities to find food.
She also saved Lewis and Clark's journals and papers when the
boat carrying them up the Missouri River sank. She was every bit
as important to that expedition as Lewis and Clark - they
absolutely would not have made it without her. Her image
deserves to be alongside every statue, every silhouette, every
painting of Lewis and Clark. And, yet, she is all but forgotten
after the journey: no one is certain what happened to her, when
she died nor where she was buried. I was so excited when the
Sacagawea dollar came out. We need to dump the paper one dollar
bill and have that instead (Washington has plenty of honors).
So, with all that said... Stefan knew that Jean-Baptiste
Charbonneau, the son of Sacagawea who was born during the
expedition, was buried near our route,
so
we visited the Charbonneau grave site. I was so happy to
visit this site and to honor both his memory and that of his
mother. He lived a remarkable life: he was educated by William
Clark in St. Louis, then spent six years in Europe, learning
German, French, and Spanish. Upon his return to North America in
1829, he roamed the far west for nearly 40 years, as a mountain
man, guide, interpreter, magistrate, and gold prospector. He
died nearby where he is buried, near the Oregon/Idaho border.
We headed back to 95 and continued north, stopping in
Jordan
Valley at Basque Station, and parking in the precise
location we did the last time we were there in 2016 on our way
to Silver City. Then, it was really falling on hard times and
was in stark contrast to when we were there in 2011 and had been
bustling. It seems to be back on the upswing. As I stood there,
I thought about
when we were there in 2011 and I had
met a very short woman motorcyclist who was SO supportive back
then, when I told her I was a very new rider, giving me all
sorts of great advice - like never, ever being ashamed to say,
"Hey, can you help me push my bike out of this space?" Now, 13
years later, I'm a much better rider - but not afraid to say,
"Hey, I need some help here."
We didn't need much from the store - I mostly wanted some kind
of fruit, and was pleased to find some fresh apples at the check
stand. The window was
plastered
with signs for events to support Donald Trump. It broke my
heart. Trump hates rural people. Working people are just people
to be exploited for him. He holds these people in utter contempt
- and they vote for him. His policies will harm them in so many
ways - and they vote for him. These people are not stupid, but
they believe somehow that he's going to help them, despite him
NEVER having helped them. I think that even if he was captured
on audio saying what he really thought of them, the way Lonesome
Roads is at the end of
A Face in the Crowd, they still
wouldn't turn on him.
You might be wondering what's up with a place being called
"Basque Station" in Eastern Oregon. This area, plus parts of
Idaho, drew a LOT of Basque immigrants.
As
noted in The Oregon History Project:
The first Basques immigrated to the United States in 1850
from northern Spain and South America. Most traveled directly
to San Francisco with visions of gold and fortune. Like most
immigrant miners, the Basques were turned away by nativist,
anti-immigrant exclusion, but they found solitude and economic
possibilities in California’s San Joaquin and Sacramento
valleys. By the 1880s, they dominated California’s sheep
herding industry. With the expansion of the industry,
encroachment of cattle ranchers, and completion of the
railroad lines, Basques migrated into northeastern Nevada,
southwestern Idaho, and southeastern Oregon.
Most Basque immigrants came to Oregon between 1900 and 1920 and
settled in Vale, Ontario, Rome, and Jordan Valley with
intentions of staying long enough to earn money to return to
Spain and buy a business or farm. The first Basques in the
Northwest highly valued the vast open range east of Oregon’s
Steens Mountain because it was ideal for continuing the
sheep-herding traditions of their ancestors. Before long, Basque
men sent for their wives and children to join them in Oregon. By
1945, there were nearly 10,000 Basques in the Northwest, most in
Boise.
According
to the Basque Museum and Cultural Center in Idaho:
Most Basque immigrants first settled in communal
boardinghouses. There, they could join fellow Basques, speak
Euskara, eat familiar food, and obtain contacts for
prospective jobs. Many Basque women worked in the
boardinghouses as domestic help, and many eventually became
proprietors themselves of the boardinghouses. Boardinghouse
proprietors helped immigrants with translating, banking, and
medical issues, and they helped tremendously with the
immigrant transition to new ways of life in America.
By the 1950s, the sheep industry had declined and with
it, the rate of immigration and therefore, the need for
boardinghouses. Most second-generation Basques had obtained
educations, English skills, and their own homes.
So while in this area you will still see Basque names, you will
meet people of Basque heritage, and you might see Basque artwork
for sale, Basque communities are pretty much gone. There are
still Basque heritage days celebrated here and there - would
love to go to such. We tried to find a Basque restaurant for
supper a few times on this trip, but it never worked out.
Anyway, the main focus of the day was to get to Leslie Gulch,
which has long been on Stefan's list of places to visit. He
didn't tell me much about it, other than it was worth seeing. As
we neared the turnoff for it from US Highway 95, a road which
Stefan had marked on his GPS, we came to road construction, once
again stopping in a long line of traffic, waiting for either a
road construction car to follow or a signal that we could drive
through. But our turnoff would be soon after we started driving
through construction - would be we be allowed to make the
turnoff? It turns out we were allowed to leave the convoy, but
the turnoff wasn't marked by a sign for Leslie Gulch - instead,
there was a small sign from Oregon State Parks for Succor Creek
State Natural Area.
We turned off and Succor Creek road quickly became gravel. It
was a winding road through spectacular hilly ranch land. About
nine miles in, we went through an intersection with McBride Road
- there was no sign to take the left, and we almost went the
wrong way. There's a tiny school there, Rockville School - there
are less than 10 students there (last school year, there were
three). After a few more miles, there's a left to turn onto
Leslie Gulch road, and we saw our first sign for the gulch. I
won't call Succor Creek road and the road to Leslie Gulch easy
gravel roads for me, but they weren't extremely difficult. For
me, the roads required a lot of attention and a lot of standing,
and here and there were some thick gravel. At one point, a KTM
rider was coming towards us and we stopped for a quick chat. He
was loving the road. He had chosen not to camp at the gulch,
however, and was camping rough somewhere up in the hills - not
sure where.
Note: there's also a campground if you stay on Succor Creek
Road. Word is that Succor Creek Road becomes much more narrow
and that trailers and RVs are not recommended.
The closer we got to Leslie Gulch, the more dramatic the hills
and the more deep ruts that started to appear here and there in
the road, though it still wasn't too difficult - just took a lot
of concentration. We also started seeing really beautiful rock
formations riding out of the hills, and they were getting taller
and more frequent. I was surprised when we got to
the
top of the hill for the entrance to the gulch and, at
last, there was not only
a
sign, but there was an open gate - meaning that gate is
sometimes closed. And I thought that was so cruel - there should
be a sign MUCH earlier telling you if the gate is open or
closed.
Once
we
descended down into the gully, the road was steeper, and
more hard packed dirt than gravel. It wasn't any more
challenging than the gravel, it just presented some new
challenges. And in rain, it would be impossible to drive.
The
rock formations were now breath-taking, and bright orange
in the setting sun. I was flabbergasted at how beautiful it all
was. How could I have never heard of this place?
About 25 miles in on these roads that we had taken from US
Highway 95, we came to the Leslie Gulch campground. We both
misread the site and thought all but
the
two sites by the road were full. There's a pit toilet and
every site has a picnic table and a fire pit. We thought every
site had a shelter too, and that we had chosen the last one, but
we realized after about two hours that, in fact, there is a
single site in between each sheltered site, these without
shelter but still with a picnic table and fire pit. The sites
are very close together, except for the one we had chosen, by
the road.
It would have all been perfect, even right by the road, except
for one thing. Well, actually thousands - millions - of things.
Flies. I've never seen so many flies in my life. They coated our
motorcycle jackets and pants after we took them off. They
covered the table and benches. They were all over the motorcycle
tanks. They wanted to be all over us. We were MISERABLE. We were
in this gorgeous, dramatic place and we were MISERABLE. The heat
wasn't helping. The sun was going down at a weird angle for us -
all of the other camp sites were in shade, but we were baking.
So we gathered up our supper and walked across the dirt parking
lot to an empty picnic table in the shade to eat. There were
still flies, but nothing like there was in the sun. At last, it
began to cool off and the flies started to disappear, and we
could finally fully enjoy the surroundings.
I couldn't stop thinking about the movie
Picnic at Hanging
Rock. Were the rocks watching us? We took so many photos
of this valley of rocks - and the photos just do not at all do
it justice.
Sunset
was amazing.
According to info on the Interwebs, the campground is open from
March through November. The sites are first come, first served.
There's no water or electricity available. Be sure to bring
PLENTY of water (which we were doing now diligently) and a light
source and toilet paper (the vaulted toilet was clean, but out
of paper). And PLEASE pack out all of your trash - don't put it
in the pit toilet.
I was so hot by the time we parked at the campsite, I just
stripped off my clothes right there, put on lighter clothes, and
started drinking water. After
we
set up the tent and Stefan changed clothes, he rode
further down the road to the lake. I was done riding for the
day. There are also people who rough camp down by the lake, BTW.
The night sky was, needless to say, STUNNING. So many stars! And
it wasn't cold, so we enjoyed the fly-free night as late as our
tired bodies could muster after such a full day. Every time I
walked to the toilet in the night, I would stop and stare up at
the sky, enjoying the Milky Way and so many constellations each
time.
When we woke up, we used our time efficiently, knowing that the
moment the sun hit the camp site, the onslaught of flies would
return. And they did, but by then, we were mostly packed up - we
just worked very hard to make sure they didn't get in the tent
as we packed it up.
Most of the other campers had packed up and left by the time we
were close to being ready to leave. I was glad, because I didn't
want anyone driving behind me as we traveled out of the gulch
and, eventually, back to US Highway 95 on the gravel roads -
it's not always easy for me to find a place where I feel safe
enough to pull over and let them by. As we traveled back out of
the gulch, Stefan stopped repeatedly, trying to take photos to
capture the canyon in the gorgeous morning light.
The
ride out of the gorge was just as gorgeous as the ride in.
Stefan was stopping over and over to take photos, and
they
are wonderful, sometimes even
breath
taking- but still not as beautiful as actually being
there. Every view is worth a photo.
We were soon out of the rocks and back in
the
beautiful rolling ranch lands. There were cows on the
road, so
I
did a bit of herding.
Whoopee, ti-yi-yo, git along,
little dogies.
Temperatures had been all over the place for us so far - cold at
night, cool in the mornings, really hot in the day. It's not
pleasant to be in motorcycle gear in the heat - especially
regular jackets, instead of our summer jackets. But given the
cool weather we had been experiencing, so far, I was feeling
like we'd made the right choice. But starting at this point, and
for the next few days, it was quite hot, into the 90s, and for
that time, I wondered if, in fact, we'd made a mistake. But
spoiler alert: the last week of the trip was quite cool, even
cold, including below freezing in the night. The regular jackets
were definitely the right ones for our trip.
At
the Rockville School intersection, we decided to take the
left onto McBride Road
to
Marsing and let that take us back to US Highway 95, just
because it would be different. It started off paved, which was a
shock, and it used to be paved the whole way, but most of the
pavement is gone, and a partially paved road can be worse than
no pavement. The pieces of pavement still there had sharp edges
and were incredibly disruptive to the ride - we welcomed
stretches where the pavement was long gone. At last, we were
back at US Highway 95 and headed to Marsing.
I didn't realize we were in Idaho - we had crossed the border on
the last gravel road. In Marsing, we stopped at a Subway for
lunch and Internet access - but the latter wasn't working. The
town looked big enough for a public library, and US public
libraries have great, free, public Internet access, as well as
air conditioning, bathrooms, comfy chairs, librarians... so I
asked an employee where it was. It took her a second to think
about how to tell me - she at first said, "Make a right where
the such-and-such used to be..." The library is behind the fire
station, and it has a wonderful name:
the
Lizard Butte Library. It was the oasis we needed and, of
course, the librarians were charming and helpful.
If you
travel in the USA and are camping for much of the time, the
much better option for Internet access than any restaurant is
the public library!
After we finished doing some research on roads and sites and
state park opening hours and what not, we took state road 78
South, headed to Bruneau, with a goal of camping at Bruneau
Dunes State Park. It would be our third time staying at the park
and, once again, not on a night when the observatory was open.
Once again, I would NOT be gazing at the night sky through the
Observatory’s collection of telescopes. I'd be looking at it
just through my own, ever-weakening eyeballs. Oh, well, it's a
dark sky park, it would still be gorgeous.
Before the park, we stopped at Bruneau, at the Bruneau One Stop.
It's a convenience store and cafe (fried food) for supplies.
They didn't have small cartons of wine, but we didn't have far
to go, so I bought a small bottle of wine for my evening.
We rode to the state park and I was determined to camp in the
same spot we did last time, with a walled shelter over the
picnic table (I knew it would be windy), near the bathrooms and
next to the RV section, so we could pilfer electricity from an
empty spot for our devices.
And
I got exactly the spot I wanted. That's the advantage of
going to a place we'd been before: knowing exactly how things
are laid out. It was very early - maybe not even 3 - when we
arrived. And it was HOT. We unpacked, changed out of our
motorcycle clothes, and didn't bother putting the tent up yet:
we both went for showers instead. We also did laundry and hung
it in the shelter, making sure it was secure and wouldn't fly
away. It was still so early, and no need to put the tent up yet,
so we spread it out, folded half over, in the shade of our site
provided by the shelter, and I sat there drinking my wine,
looking out over the landscape, and trying to see the fighter
jets zooming over the perfect blue sky (I did finally see two).
A couple of older women walked over from the sparsely-populated
RV section. One was a former motorcycle rider herself and one
was German. We had a lovely chat. I like when people come over
and chat at camp sites. They usually want to ask questions about
the bikes and where we are from. Because of Stefan's maps on his
panniers, they assume we're far from home. And sometimes we are.
Like so many state parks, most of the camp sites at Bruneau
State Park require reservations to be made online and require
reservations if you want to stay at a site more than two days.
Some even require you pay for everything online even for same
day camping. I have mixed feelings about all of it. What if you
don't have cell phone access? And requiring all this can take
spontaneity out of travel: you can't get to a campground and
drive around and find a site you love that's open, decide you
love it, and just stay there for another day or two - not unless
you can get Internet access and find that the site is open for
when you want it. It also means you have to plan your campsite,
in some cases, days, even weeks, in advance. On the other hand,
it can mean guaranteeing you have a place to stay.
The park wasn't a third full when we were there - but it also
wasn't a weekend. It was out of season, but a lot of places
still filled up on the weekends. The night sky is the main draw
for this park, and that night, it did not disappoint. It was
eerie though to look out across the land late in the night and
see the giant lights of giant farm machinery moving over the
field - it was too hot and dangerous to do such work in the
daytime.
The next day, we stopped by the visitor's center at the front of
the park, something we've never done on our two times at the
park before. If we could reserve a site for the upcoming
Saturday night, we would return so that, at last, we could visit
the observatory. But all of the tent sites were reserved, the
staff person couldn't say if the first-come, first-serve sites
at the horse camp would have any openings, and she was SO vague
on whether or not we would even be able to go to the observatory
if we got a site, how quickly they sell out, etc. She was, in a
word, unhelpful - it was almost as though she was being
purposely so. We gave up and moved on.
We had to get on Interstate 84 heading West, because there was
no other route for where we needed. UGH. While we were on it, a
car pulling a really crappy, homemade trailer, made out of a
truck bed, passed me on the left. And I almost said over the com
system to Stefan, "Whew, there's a scary setup." But I didn't.
They got several yards in front of me and the tire on the
trailer on my side EXPLOADED. I don't mean that it went flat, I
mean it EXPLODED. Plastic and who knows what flew high into the
air and immediately across from the trailer, right where I would
have been. It absolutely would have blown me off of my bike -
and who knows what else. I somehow held it together. We got off
the highway at Bliss and stopped at a convenience store so I
could calm down.
We were off the interstate and heading south on US 30. In my
opinion, we made two really big mistakes on this trip. This was
the first one: we passed a place called
Thousand
Springs Visitor's Center and didn't stop. It was huge, and
clearly something special, and I said, "We probably should check
that out", and Stefan said, "You want to?" And I said "Nah.
Let's keep going." And therefore, we missed the Hagerman Horse,
one of the most famous fossils in North America. It is the
fossil of an extinct species in the horse family native to North
America during the Pliocene and Early Pleistocene - but note
that our horses now are not descended from it (it went extinct).
We were, in fact, entering Hagerman Fossil Beds National
Monument, with an abundance of fossils from the Pliocene past,
when this region was home to mastodons, saber-toothed cats, and
these horses. We did take a turnoff and ride through the
impressive hills of Hagerman Fossil Beds and saw the spectacular
views - but how stupid not to have stopped at what was OBVIOUSLY
something special, even if we weren't sure of exactly what as we
passed.
We were heading south and east for the first place I had
suggested we visit when we were making a list of places to go on
this trip: Jarbidge, Nevada. Which I mistakenly called JarbRidge
the entire time - I didn't realize it was Jarbidge, without that
second R, until two weeks after our trip. I learned about the
town from watching Backcountry Discovery Route (BDR) videos. I
will never do a BDR - I see no reason to, since they seem to be
purposely difficult and the remote, beautiful little towns and
sites they visit can be visited via a much more manageable
gravel road. I'm happy to do a fun gravel road as long as I
don't feel like I'm going to die and there's something
worthwhile at the end of the day.
It was hot, but I was handling the heat okay.
We got confused in the very sad little town - barely a town - of
Rogerson, Idaho, but finally found the road - Three Creek Road -
which would get us to Jarbidge. We knew it was just over 60
miles to Jarbidge, but weren't sure how much of the road was
gravel and how much was paved. That mattered only in terms of
time - I don't mind gravel, but I don't go faster than 30 miles
an hour on it, and usually not even that.
Soon, we were in riding through open, rolling hills and fields.
But open fields are deceptive: out here in the USA, they hide
canyons. Suddenly, we came over a hill and were at
such
a canyon, a deep one, and an old dam with a one-lane road
across it. It's
Salmon
Falls Dam, which was finished in 1912 and doesn't at all
look in great shape, and
crosses
Salmon Falls Creek and the massive canyon carved out by
the creek over oh-so-long. The dam is NOT a good place to stop
and take photos - the large trucks going over it now and again
won't appreciate not being able to get by you, and the ones
coming onto the bridge from the other direction have the right
of way and won't see you until they are almost on top of you.
Note that just before you get onto the dam is a sign for Lud
Drexler Park. We didn't check it out, but the web site says
there's "20 developed campsites with shade cabanas, fire rings,
and picnic tables, irrigated landscaping and vault toilets. The
Park also offers reservoir shore access, a boat ramp, maintained
road access and dispersed camping sites. Potable water and a RV
dump are available on site."
Now the landscape became very empty, with a mountain rise far to
the left. Far in the distance, perfectly perpendicular to us, we
could see a large cloud of dust that extended from whatever was
causing it all the way to the horizon on the left. And whatever
it was was headed to our road. I was surprised once the vehicle
turned off and we met it that it was a large truck. I guess
there is a large mining operation somewhere up in those
mountains.
I was under the impression that Jarbidge was in a canyon. Stefan
thought it was on top of a mountain. I was hoping I was right,
and also hoping the ride down to the canyon wouldn't be
ridiculously difficult. Why did I want to visit Jarbidge,
Nevada? We were watching a Backcountry Discovery Route (BDR)
video a couple of years ago and this oh-so-remote town was
featured and I thought, hey, that looks interesting. I have no
interest in doing the BDR myself - but I'm happy to travel some
gravel and dirt roads for an interesting destination, and
Jarbidge looked interesting.
The road from Rogerson was paved for almost 45 miles, until you
are out in the middle of nowhere and there's
a
sign for an airport - which is just an airstrip somewhere
on the other side of a hill, hidden from the road.
As
we paused, I made jokes about how we should just head up
to the airport and get something cold to drink at the cafe, use
the bathroom, check out the lounge, etc. In actuality, I pulled
out
my
Kula cloth and pee'd in the weeds by the side of the road.
And while pausing there for a rest before the gravel started, I
saw
a
sign for the Idaho Centennial Trail. I'd never heard of
it. Later, I looked it up: "The 995.6-mile Idaho Centennial
Trail (ICT) weaves through the most scenic portions of Idaho’s
wild country, from high desert canyonlands in southern Idaho to
wet mountain forests in North Idaho." I wonder how much of it is
the same as the BDR? Stefan thinks where we stopped is the start
(or, from the other direction, the end) of the Idaho BDR. I had
read that the BDR to this point was easy, and had proposed that
we come to the area via the last leg of it, but Stefan had also
read that it was SO boring, and that the way we were coming in
was way more interesting.
As we were getting to that stopping point, a guy on a motorcycle
was coming toward us. I hoped it was a sign that we would get to
meet some other bikers in Jarbidge.
The gravel started and then the road got a bit more challenging,
going down down down into a gulch, passing the tiny village of
Murphy Hot Springs. We had no idea there were actual hot springs
there, open to the public, otherwise, we might have stopped and
stayed a night on the way back. I think I saw what were cabins
for rent, but I can't find anything online up-to-date about
such.
We pushed on to our destination of Jarbidge.
The
ride through the gulch was lovely and the gravel road was
in fantastic shape. It's less than 16 miles from Murphy Hot
Springs to Jabridge, and we passed a few people camping here and
there, some in designated spots, some rough - I imagine on a
summer weekend all the spaces are full.
At last, we pulled into Jabidge.
It
looked exactly like I thought it would look. We passed a
hotel that seemed to be closed, and a convenience store that was
closed, and some houses and trailers, most of which looked
closed for the season. We arrived in "downtown" and
parked
next to the fire station. The historic bar next door,
the
Red Dog Saloon, was closed until November.
The
historic community hall was closed - they just got a new
floor and wanted the finish to "set." The town was quite empty -
no motorcycles at all. We walked across the street and went into
the Outdoor Inn. It took the waitress a while to warm up to us -
her answers to our questions, at first, were really clipped. But
we bought something - I don't remember what - and she started to
warm up.
Here's
a
sign that says a bit about the town. It's very right wing,
which I knew it would be. But I wasn't expecting the guy driving
around town with a sign that said "Joe & the Hoe Gotta Go."
We had not been able to find the Sawmill Campground as we were
coming into town - it's where most motorcycle travelers stay, if
not at the Outdoor Inn. And even with her explanation of where
to find that campground, we couldn't find it. And Stefan's GPS
was no help. We headed out of town, not the way we came, and
ended up camping exactly where she told us NOT to:
the
Jarbidge Campground. The other campgrounds she recommended
were past Jarbidge Campground and maintained by the NSF, but
sunset was coming and we really didn't want to be farther from
"downtown" than we had to be. Based on the sign, it sure looks
like an official National Forest Campground. I think it used to
be. Once we were back from the trip and I looked it up, I saw
the Humboldt-Toiyabe National Forest web site does not have the
Jarbidge Campground listed. The waitress at the town's cafe said
it was "privately maintained" and not very nice, Indeed, it's in
poor condition:
the
road in is not easy, the bathroom is horrible and clearly
no longer serviced, and some of the picnic tables have fallen
apart. Geographically, it's a nice site though:
it's
tree covered and
mostly
pretty and there are sites that are not right next to the
road.
We
camped right
next
to the river. And it was free.
We changed into more comfortable pants and rode two up back to
town for supper and beer. It was at this point I started being
confused about which state we were in, a confusion that lasted
for much of the trip, because we went back and forth over state
borders so frequently. And that's not a problem until you start
having to deal with time zones and remembering which one you are
in and what time things close.
We went back to the only place open in town, the Outdoor Inn,
and walked around a bit, looking at the
historic
buildings and houses. I love
little
old houses like this - they make me think of my great
grandmother who used to take care of me out in Reed, Kentucky.
Most homes looked closed, and so many homes seemed not just
closed up for the season, but not lived in for a while. Yet we
saw very few "for sale" signs. The Outdoor Inn waitress said
that, in fact, a lot of homes had been inherited by adult
children who didn't really want them, and they had closed them
up while they tried to figure out what to do with them, some for
years.
Up in the hills,
the
flora was beautiful - my photos don't do it justice.
Sorry we missed
the
historic Murder Walk.
Then we had a really unhealthy meal of fried food. I love fried
food, but this much of it was really starting to get to me. We
asked some questions of the owner and waitress, and learned that
they really don't get that many motorcyclists there, not like we
thought they did, and they don't get many groups doing the BDR,
which was a shock to me. We also found out that the hotel and
campsites would be full the next day and the next, for an event
where runners would run through town and drink beer at stations
along the course. I thought it might be a Hash House Harriers
event, but I can't find anything online for it.
Before it got dark, two motorcyclists pulled up, later joined by
a third guy. I was really excited - I had been disappointed to
not find any motorcyclists in Jarbidge and to hear that it's
really not that busy with bikers most of the time. I thought,
hurrah, we can socialize! But I got to be disappointed quickly:
these guys were super huge ADV Rider snobs. Two of them never
spoke to us, not once. One guy did, finally, turning to us as
though he was deigning to speak with us. He had something
negative to say about anything I tried to talk about. He all but
rolled his eyes when I mentioned some motorcycle destination we
loved, like Silver City ("It's SO overrun. There's just too many
riders and side by sides there now."). When I said how much I
enjoyed the road coming into Jarbidge, he said, "Oh, it was SO
easy. Like riding on pavement." Way to put me in my place, far
superior ADV rider, I so appreciate that. Apparently, everything
we had done on our motorcycles was already "overrun" with too
many people, not challenging enough, not scenic enough. I ended
up being so glad when they left to go camp somewhere where we
weren't - but feeling, once again, like I was a pretender.
I'm no Noraly / Itchy Boots. I'm no Charlie Boorman. I don't
have their riding skills and I never will. I'm usually fine with
that. I'm short, I didn't grow up on dirt bikes, I started
riding when I was 42, and I'm doing the best I can - and having
a fantastic time most of the time. I not only can't do really
difficult forest roads, I don't want to. I love a challenging
road, but only if the end of that road, or along the road, there
is something worthwhile to see, and I don't want to feel like
I'm going to die for the
entire ride. I love to
challenge myself, but I don't want to have to work so hard for
hours on a ride that by the time I get to the destination, my
nerves are shot and I'm so tired I can't enjoy anything. I'm a
year and a half away from 60, and while I absolutely have to
take responsibility for being out of shape, there is nothing I
can do about creaky weak knees and some of the things my body
has decided to do, or stop doing, as I age. If you ride a KLR
and are bummed when you see me, an old fat woman, pulling up on
the same bike as you, or you are out pushing your limits on dirt
roads and you get to the camp site and there's me, the chatty
old fat woman, not a gorgeous thin young biker blogger, and you
feel like I'm ruining your groove - RIGHT BACK AT YOU. I'm out
having a great time, at my pace. It's not your pace. That
doesn't make it not worth doing and doesn't mean I shouldn't be
out there too. So take your brand new, barely used Klim outfit
and your pristine Mosko Moto accessories, and your efforts to
insult an inferior motorcyclist, and shove them up your tight,
snobby butt.
Anyway... we took some bottles of beer back with us to our camp
site, which we had all to ourselves except for across the river,
where someone had parked their RV. We enjoyed the beautiful
night and the sounds of the river. The stars were beautiful. The
gulch was beautiful. The RV didn't run their generator all night
and even when they did, it was background noise mixed in with
the river noise.
Jarbidge hadn't turned out to be the highlight of the trip, like
I thought it would, but it was worth seeing and worth spending a
night in.
The next morning, we packed up and then headed back to downtown,
to have breakfast at the Outdoor Inn. They had biscuits and
gravy, which always makes me happy. I looked at the piano in the
bar and wished I was a good enough player to walk up to it and
play a few tunes.
We walked around town a bit, took more photos, and I got to
enjoy
the
best maintained vaulted toilet ever, which is right smack
in the middle of town and maintained by the NSF. I was so glad
snobby ADV Riders didn't show up. The Outdoor Inn owner tried to
convince us to take a different road out, the one that is just
past our campsite. She said it was extremely difficult and had
crazy sheer drops into the gulch, was extremely difficult if a
car showed up coming the other way, but she'd done it in her car
years before, so we'd be fine! I declined.
We
headed back out of the gulch, back the way we came. And it
was lovely.
We
stopped at exactly the same place we did on our way into town,
where the pavement started.
We
stopped
in sad little Rogerson to pee and to gas up. The cashier
asked us how the road to Jarbridge was and I said it was
absolutely fine. She said that when it rains, parts of the road
washout and that there are travelers who need to be rescued
several times a year.
We headed through the sad gambling city of Jackpot and then to
Wells, Nevada, where Stefan said we'd have to get on Interstate
80 for a bit. Yuck. First, we would go to a McDonald's or Burger
King for wi-fi access, to get a weather report. After taking a
wrong turn and ending up in a run down neighborhood and then
riding through sand to the back of an under-construction hotel
and, at last, a Love's travel stop with a McDonald's, we got
inside, thankful for the air conditioning, and looked for the
wi-fi. And they charge for it. I was enraged. The ONLY reason
you need wi-fi in a place like this is to book a hotel or to
look at a map or get a weather report - all incredibly essential
things. And you are going to CHARGE for that? Screw you
McDonald's and screw you Love's Travel Stop (which I was still
pissed off at per our COVID-19 encounter there on our way back
from Baja). I found an employee and asked where the nearest
public library was. It's about as hidden as it could be - not
anywhere in or near downtown. But we did find it - the Wells
"Mybrary." Once again, we were greeted by a friendly, supportive
librarian, comfy chairs and excellent wi-fi.
We reluctantly pulled onto I 80, headed to Elko. We were riding
in full gear, in sweltering heat. But it would be just 50 miles
and then we would turn off and head to a much more beautiful
place, with trees.
And
then Stefan's motorcycle died.
Part 2.
You
can already see photos from the trip here.
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