Today was not unlike so many other great days; it seems like many days built into one.
It started late; as George will explain, most of breakfast time was centered around George's interview with Joey. I will let the interview speak for itself; my general feelings on this subject are well known, but I have to say that this one was interesting.
George has show a lot of internal courage this trip. His back has been bad, but he was up for
adventure. So we headed out of Mexican Hat to do a dirt road around the "Monuments" called "Valley of the Gods." It was not challenging and truly magnificent. 30 miles of dirt road past the red rock canyons and these spires
that frequently feature a larger rock on the top hanging on by what appears to be epoxy. No one there; almost total solitude; it seems amazing to see wall to wall people at the Grand Canyon and two hour table waits for dinner and absolutely no one at these spots that are a little out of the way but so worth traveling to.
Out of the Valley of the Gods and the up the dirt switchbacks of the Moki Dugway to the top of this incredible Mesa and then back on asphalt. For about 20 miles. As devoted followers will remember, our trips are frequently characterized by walls of black that are visible for miles ahead. We stopped to take a look and a jeep coming from the opposite direction stopped to tell us that the roads were covered with white (ice) ahead from the hail. We thought we saw the front moving west to east, so we stopped for a bit. George explored a nearby ditch, took more Advil for his back and then . . . disaster. He had lost his left glove.
Let me digress about the day George bought these gloves. It was the Harley dealer in Meredith, NH and because George does not believe in spending money on himself, he opted for the ten dollar vinyl pair which he thought would go well wit the rest of his gear -- the key components of which were purchased from Craigslist. But these gloves has been on a lot of great trips and they have sentimental value.
We spent a full hour looking through the clay and the scruffy bushes near the bikes, the ditch -- wherever we could remember (increasingly hard) that George might have wandered. Usually these stories end when George finds the lost item in his pocket, but, alas, no such luck; our first really lost item since I misplaced my gps in northern Quebec only to find it 500 miles later wedged in the front forks of the bike. We checked there too, but no luck.
The weather broke and it was time to leave. I dutifully fished out a sock and seamlessly handed George my new, $90 pair of BMW GS gloves (they match the bike) and put the sock on my left hand; it's about 48 degrees. George did not hesitate as he took the gloves. No words were exchanged. These things are understood.
The thing about socks on hands is that they do not accommodate thumbs. Or clutch handles. But I was able to manage.
I have to say that there is absolutely nothing between Mexican Hat and Hanksville, which is over 130 miles away. Nothing except the most
magnificent scenery I think George and I have ever
experienced. You must drive Utah route 93 when you have the chance. So many dirt roads, snowy mountains, desert plateaus, huge vistas and the Glen Canyon National Recreation Area. Crossing the Colorado river was
remarkable. Yes the river goes through this area but it is not what it used to be; the lines 50 feet above the Canyon wall make it clear that this was once (before the dam) a much wider and wilder river than it is now. So around the river are these huge mud/sand flats and beyond them the canyon walls. It is so vast, so unspoiled and, again, no one is around.
We are stopping so much that progress is slow. It's 4.30; two hours of daylight and we are 28 miles from Hanksville where there may be a motel. (Reservations are not part of these trips). Rocketing through a twisty canyon and the around the last bend to blackness. This one was not
ambiguous; lightning and thunder right in front of us.
Fortunately there was one of those rare bridges as Utah 276 goes left and down to Lake Powell. (40 miles). I hate lighting and motorcycles; they don't match and I have had bad experiences with lightning and mountain climbing in Wyoming. I tell George I am ditching the bike (metal) and going under the bridge. If necessary for the night. But George is in a festive and adventurous mood and says we should head south to Lake Powell because there is a tiny town on the way (26 miles) named Ticabo. It seemed presumptuous to me that such a dot on a map might contain lodging or food and this is far far away from cell phone towers so no inquiry was possible.
I resisted. But the front was slow moving and it looked like it might mean a night under the bridge. Going south down a one 26 mile cul de sac seemed insane but when George gets upset with me, I am no match; so off we went. Besides, I got to make the decision to go north at a dicey time of year to Utah; so I owed him one. His plan had been to spend three days going 150 miles to Flagstaff and then relaxing at a spa.
I have to give him credit. We are in a motel it Ticabo and had a very nice dinner at the Chevron station. We may go to Lake Powell tomorrow; have not gotten there yet.
This trip may be the best yet. It started off slowly with little planning but has come together beautifully. The remoteness and wild beauty of where we are, exposed on these little machines, is something I don't recall experiencing. And we still manage to get along -- well, as it turns out -- and these little adventures only solidify our friendship.
The weather looks tricky; there are big mountains where we are going if we don't go boating; but I am certain tomorrow will be another adventure.
Eric
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