September 9 to 22, 2001 - by David Denbigh
This ride took us from Vancouver to the south rim of the Grand Canyon, Arizona. Along the way we found new roads, new friends, and many memories.
There were straight highways through endless desert, twisty roads through steep-walled river valleys, high mountain passes, and everything in between. Canyons made like magic kingdoms, and magic kingdoms built by the gamblers of America. A wedding in 'la la' land, and down-to-earth conversations with riding buddies. It was a full two weeks. Sunday, September 9, 2001, I arrived on my trusty '92 K1100LT at John Valk BMW in Vancouver at 7:30am. I rose early, wanting to make sure I wasn't late for the stated departure time of 8am. No one was in sight, no lights were on, and no donuts waited. (John usually has donuts for the sugar deprived.) Where was everyone? I was concerned that I had the wrong date. Didn't the ride start at 8am? Just before 8, bikes started to pull in. This was the first hint as to how this ride was going to be. Okay, Dave, slow down, relax. You're not late, you have the right date. This was to be a 'do your own thing, get to where you are going however you want kind of event.Everyone milled about. My riding buddy Kelvin Barlow on his 2001 F650GS joined me. We were anxious to get going. Ian Kennedy, a retired teacher on a '96 R1100R, joined us for the first leg. Ian also writes for Motorcycle Tour and Cruiser magazine. Look for his article on this ride in a future issue.
The first night would be at Grand Coulee, so we crossed the border at Sumas, into beautiful rural countryside, with lush green farms and small towns. Sedro Wooley (what's with those names in Washington?) was the first gas stop.
Here we met Joe Kranister on his R1100S and Bernie Magee on a Honda Magna. They, along with Ian, would be our consistent riding partners the rest of the way. Joe is 56, a retired grain inspector.
He has endured two strokes that have rendered his left arm very weak, yet he rides like hell, his arm resting on his leg most of the way. He has a fondness for his briar pipe.
At every stop, out it would come, and even a single puff might be enough to soothe the cravings. When the ride continued, he would tamp it out, stuff it in his pocket and away he went.
At one point, Kelvin caught up to Joe, who was on the side of the road madly stomping on his riding jacket, like some lunatic doing a jig. Seems he didn't tamp well enough, and the result was a fire on board at speed, in a rather unfortunate place, his pocket.
The bowl had caught the wind, and like a blast furnace, the fire intensified, and burned a hole right through the briar, the leather, and Joe's enjoyment. Bernie, a Liverpudlian pipe fitter, spent most of the trip with a form of penis envy, trying to prove that his Magna was just as fast, reliable, and worthy of attention as the other brand most in evidence. '200kph, comfy, and only $7000!' was an oft-heard refrain.
He told stories and jokes every day for the whole two weeks and never repeated himself. A lot of his stories were true incidents, but it was hard to tell truth from shaggy dog saga. He needs to be on stage, he'd make a killing.
The North Cascades highway is a real treat. Tight corners, fast sweepers, and wonderful viewpoints. The turquoise of Ross Lake at the summit is almost unnatural. Lunch was enjoyed in Winthrop, the small, western theme town on the lee side of the pass.
Bikers of all description cruised in, all sporting wide grins from their experiences on one of the gems in bikedom, Highway 20. Grand Coulee, the dam, is impressive, and worth a visit. Every night, they put on a laser light show on the wall of the dam.
One should probably see it, once. The size is incomprehensible, and they try to impress with statistics comparing the size of the images with known edifices like the Empire State Building.
The soundtrack is so jingoistic, and full of praise for the benefits the dam has wrought, that I had a hard time keeping my dinner down.
The village of White Bird, Idaho, saw the arrival of 17 beemers, (and one Honda), which effectively doubled the population. Excuse my hyperbole, but the sign did boast a population of 175 and that seemed a stretch.
We approached White Bird from the north on Hwy 95 down a long steep hill with many high-speed turns. It's worth it to take the time to ride into the village and find the old road. It winds its way back up through a series of switchbacks, meeting the highway at the top of the hill. Our friend Gil, from Vernon, later reminded us that many of the new highways in the states bypass the old roads, leaving them intact. This means that many interesting twisty sections just need to be found and ridden.
Such was the case at White Bird.
Leaving Hoots Motel, (yes, that's its name) we rode to Ketchum, Idaho, just west of Sun Valley. The route took us to Banks, and then east through Stanley. The road to Stanley from any direction should be on every ride's agenda: lots of twisties, alpine vistas, and
very little traffic.
We continue with Dave Denbigh's "Grand Ride"
In the Sawtooth National Rec Area I stopped to take a photo. As I got off the bike, I was greeted by the flashing lights of a park ranger's truck that had pulled up right behind me. I thought, "Where the hell did he come from?" I consider myself an aware rider, but that gave me a start.
He told me I had made an illegal passing maneuver a while back. The only vehicle I remembered passing was an old VW van going full-tilt up hill. We must have blistered by at 50mph! Just don't do it here buster, especially where there are those pesky double yellow lines.
The group, when he stopped me, was spread out along the route. He was going to stop all of us on his way to keeping law and order in the great state of Idaho, and in the Sawtooth Park in particular. He said he was giving us a warning. He didn't have time to write a ticket as he had other important business to attend to. It must have been pressing because he had time to stop each of us on separate occasions.
Day 4 of the Grand Ride, Ketchum to Tooele,(too-willa) Utah, gave us rain most of the day, and a lot of flat, straight, boring riding. The open country seemed endless, then at Twin Falls, a surprise. Where did that canyon come from?
The land falls away steeply to the bottom some hundred or more feet below. A golf course occupies the floor, the green in stark contrast to the dark gray rocks all around.
At several places small waterfalls spilled over the rim, filling the reservoir that is part of this hole in the prairie.
The gateway to the Bonneville Salt Flats from the west is the metropolis of Wendover, which straddles the border of Nevada and Utah. This is a particularly ugly example of Americana. On the Nevada side are several large casino hotels, on the other, not much of anything.
We (actually just Bernie and myself) were craving a good cup of coffee.
The Casino! Surely it would serve a good cuppa! Into the restaurant inside the casino we went. There were about a dozen ìworkersî hovering about. None deemed it important enough to see if we actually wanted something. We finally asked if a cup of coffee would be too tall an order, to which we were met with, "Oh, your waitress will be right with you."
We finally got the desired cups, full of luke-warm Fraser River water. No tips were left.
The first glimpse of the Bonneville Salt Flats was breathtaking. At Wendover, the road cut through the edge of the mountains at the north end of the flats. Before us lay this white expanse blanketing the next 80 miles. And it is flat! And the road is straight! I could only imagine how bright it would be when bathed in sunshine. We had heavy overcast and the threat of rain.
Each day had its highlights. Day 5, it was horses and canyons. On Highway 50 (nicknamed "the loneliest road in America"), between Delta and Holden, we were stopped by a herd of about 50 horses. They were being driven by a bunch of cowboys and cowgirls, some of whom knew what they were doing.
They were participants in a heritage ride and had been on the road for about two weeks.
Bernie wanted to be entertained a little more fully. He sidled up to this young flat-bellied cowhand astride his very tall steed and announced, "I've never actually been on a horse before." The cowboy said in true western drawl, "Y'all can git up on mine if'n ya want."
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Like the 10-year-old Bernie really is, he jumped at this chance. He got his left foot in the stirrup, grabbed the horn, and proceeded to almost unseat the saddle in his ungainly attempt to pull himself up the full 17 hands of the horse's flank.
Success brought a wide foolish grin to this biker as he sat there on the prairie, the horse in full control of the situation. A faint voice was heard, "Sure is a long way up here." His feet didn't reach the stirrups.
The first glimpse of the canyonlands hit us at the intersection of highways 89 and 12.
A craggy rock formation called The Red Canyon; it stood above, and contrasted sharply with, the green vegetation in the foreground. A teaser, like a trailer at the movies, it was a hint of what was to come. We wound our way through this beautifully twisty section, with its hoodoos, deeply cut ravines, caverns and colour. The rock had never been touched by glaciers and so had been shaped only by wind and water.
Bryce Canyon forced me to use an inordinately large amount of film. It should be renamed Kodak Canyon. What fascinating shapes we beheld. A thousand church spires stood tall, carved out of stone by the vagaries of nature. All were painted a pale red, each one unique, yet joined together at the base by deep dark ravines, cuts so deep they seemed bottomless.
To visit this spot is akin to seeing the great masters in some European gallery. Awesome is the hand that created this original. The land of Gandalf, fantastic castles and supernatural beings must surely be nearby. How could there be a place more spectacular than Bryce. How about Zion?
The road winds through, giving a different perspective, one of looking up rather than down. Huge volcanic extrusions, folded sedimentary layers, trees clinging to soil-less rock, water cascading from the plateau land above, and rocks shaped by the wonders of erosional forces.
One feels so insignificant by the vastness of the landscape. So different from Bryce, a brilliant piece of natural architecture. We moved slowly along this temptingly twisty road. There was a lot of traffic, so we had no choice. Bicycles, bikes, cars, and the ubiquitous R
bloody V. Several tunnels slicing the vertical cliffs allowed traffic into parts that would otherwise be impassible. Stop lights at each end held traffic to let an RV through. These ridiculous rolling symbols of American excess have to hug the centerline because of restricted height, so the rest of us peons just had to wait.
The ride continued south past Marble Canyon, and into Arizona, to the big daddy, Grand Canyon. Marble Canyon was memorable for one reason ñ rainstorm.
Being a particularly hot day, I stopped and just let it fall on me. For about 5 minutes the water pelted down, getting me good and wet. Aaah! That felt great! Not one minute after it stopped I was dry, as if nothing had happened. A short but welcome diversion. O
ur first sight of the Grand Canyon was at Desert View, near the east entrance to the park.
I felt disappointment. It is so big, but also more remote, less intimate than either Bryce or Zion. It took time to fully appreciate the place. The lure of the monstrous gorge did eventually pull me in. Riding the highway west toward Grand Canyon Village, viewpoints
tugged at the handlebars, forcing stops to get acquainted. I got hooked and stayed well past the usefulness of sunlight.
(More next time)