Shingletown

The view from Patrick's deck in Shingletown.

I would have blogged more on this trip but it's hard to write while sitting on the back of a motorcycle. I can do it, but it's hard to hold a pen while wearing leather gloves and in any case I'm supposed to be holding onto something so I don't go flying off if we have to stop suddenly.

They don't pull over their own kind...

...except when they do.



Patrick charming his way out of a ticket. Or playing a game of cat and mouse - depending on your point of view.

Wagontire International Airport

Craters of the Moon

Strange fields of lava somewhere between Jackson Hole, Wyoming and Boise.

Mr. Pickles

And what road trip would be complete without a stop at Mr. Pickles' burger joint...



...and a little rest and silliness in the big green chair?

Tetons

We stopped for a rest along the shore of Jackson Lake, in the Tetons.

Yellowstone!

The requisite photo at the entrance to Yellowstone... through the windshield.

Ain't No White People Left in California

You have a lot of casual gas station conversations when you're riding across the country on a motorcycle. For one thing, you have to stop a lot. The tank only holds 6 gallons and some stretches of road are pretty desolate - you never really know how far it's going to be to the next station so you fill up when you can. When you do, chances are someone is going to walk over to admire the motorcycle in a terse ritual that doesn't change much from state to state, generally starting off with, "Nice bike."

"Thanks."

"Where ya headed?"

"California."

"Cool- that's a nice ride."

"Yeah."

And so it goes. You see a lot of Harleys along the way, but you don't see a lot of BMWs. And it's a new model. The guys who really know motorcycles see that and they want to delve a little deeper, ask how fast it goes, examine the controversial placement of the rearview mirrors. How's that cruise control working out for ya? Sometimes it takes a while, which is fine with me because we're on a stretch break and I'm not in any hurry to pull that protective coccoon they call a helmet back over my head. Apparently, this motorcycle is similar to the ones the Highway Patrol cops use, which at least partly explains why Patrick has ridden it 11,000 miles in the last 5 weeks without so much as a flick of the siren. They don't pull over their own kind.

People are pretty nice to us considering we're from California. You know what people think about Californians in other parts of the country, especially up here in the northern Bible belt. If a kid from Wyoming tells his parent he's moving to California, all kinds of scary thoughts run through their minds... nude beaches, Liberal politics, Castro Street. So the locals could be excused for being a bit wary, but they aren't. They either ignore us or engage, generally around the motorcycle. What's weird, though, is how you can be having a seemingly normal conversation with a kind and friendly stranger, and then they'll randomly let out some comment that reveals what should be a deep, dark and shameful secret. Only for them, it's just a casual remark. "California, huh? We used to live in California," one lady says, scrubbing the windows of her husband's Ford with a squeegee. "Lotta Mexicans over there."

It's hard to know what to say to that. We did take it from Mexico, after all.

"Ain't no white people left in California," she continues, as if the land we call California had ever been predominently white before the 20th century. But what can you say to a comment like that coming from an otherwise kind and friendly person?

"We're there," Patrick says, "so there's at least two of us."

She had to think about that a minute, and by then we were back on the bike and continuing on our way.

Yellowstone to Jackson

Crazy hot springs bubbling up from the core of the earth.



And bison grazing along the roads and foot paths.

Which brings us through the majestic Tetons and on to charming Jackson Hole, Wyoming, where we watched the fireworks last night over some delicious Thai food. And now it's time to pack up the bike again and make our way closer to home - next stop somewhere in Idaho.

Yellowstone!

One night at the Canyon Lodge in Yellowstone... beautiful!

Cody Parade

Cody 3rd of July Parade

Black Hills to Cody, Wyoming was a long day on the bike. It didn't seem possible, but Wyoming was even windier than South Dakota. Kind of scary at times. The wind hits you and you have to lean the bike into it, then that gust goes away and suddenly you have to unlean it again... you'll be passing a treeline or hillside that offers a little protection, then suddenly - boom! Blasted from the left again. We got off at one rest stop and people were practically watching their children blow away when they got out of their cars. But somehow we managed to make it all the way to quintessentially Western Cody, Wyoming. We'd called around for a reservation over lunch and had a hard time finding a room. Then we noticed what looked like a big street party going on along Main Street. When we checked in at the historic Chamberlin Inn, we asked the girl at the front desk if there was something special going on in town. "Uh, it's the fourth of July weekend," she said. "We celebrate that here." Oh, right! Fourth of July... we'd forgotten all about it. We joined the locals for a drink at the 2nd of July street party later that night, then came out early to watch the 3rd of July parade down Main Street. Lots of beautiful horses and patriotic small town groups marching down the street to applause from the appreciative ranchers and townspeople who'd gathered to watch.

Black Hills campsite

Crazy Horse - a work in progress

Mt. Rushmore

From Kadoka, we continued through Badlands, South Dakota. Badlands lives up to its name - a parched landscape of rolling rock formations that probably looked forbidding to the pioneers who were first trying to make their way across the country. If I had read the park guide in the morning, I would have realized that we were within 25 miles of the Wounded Knee Massacre historical site, which I would have loved to see... as it was I didn't know that until we were on the other side of the park. It would have been a 90 minute detour back through that windy, parched landscape instead of continuing toward the more inviting Black Hills.

It's a challenge to get all the motorcyle gear just right. The helmet has to fit snug so that it stays on if you are unfortunate enough to fall off (which I, so far, have not), but not so snug that it gives you a headache, which develops quickly if something isn't exactly right. Mine fits just right until I braid my hair up to keep it from blowing around into a big tangled mat. Add in the braid and I totally change the fit of the helmet. No good. No braid. The leather pants are comforting when you're being blown around the highway by vicious crosswinds, at least if you fall off you'll go a pretty good distance before the road starts biting into your flesh, but just thinking about gearing up in a jacket, gloves, helmet and leather pants when it's 98 degrees outside makes you sweat. As long as you're moving, you create your own breeze to cool you off; if you have to stop, you're counting the seconds til you can get moving again. We have to stop a lot for various road work projects funded by the Obama dollars.

Anyway, by the time we got to the Black Hills the heat was gone, my mask filled with the scent of green forest, and soon our biggest challenge was outrunning a thunderstorm developing from the West. We snagged a campsite just in time for the big drops to come pouring down on us while we set up the tent, then of course the storm just as suddenly disappeared pretty much as soon as we were done. Being so close to Mount Rushmore, we had to make the all-American pilgrimage. We also went to the Crazy Horse mountain sculpture nearby, though, which we thought was more interesting, even though it isn't nearly complete.

The Windy Prairie

Given what I do for a living, I am used to flying somewhere for no other reason than to turn around and come back again. Most students' cross country flights follow that pattern... fly to an unfamiliar airport, land, come home. Maybe get them lost in one direction or another. So it only seemed a little bit weird to land in Fargo Tuesday morning, have a quick bite to eat, then hop on the motorcycle and start heading for California.

For some reason, I always thought of prairie as dry and brown, but the Dakotas are lush and prosperous. Everywhere you go, fields of green wheat undulating in the wind, and fat, healthy looking free range cows. Forget being a vegetarian, we're in beef country and the steaks are fabulous. Towns are small and every one seems to be based around the central grain storage and grinding facility. Even now in the 21st century, the capacity of the grain silo seems to be what limits expansion. Rolling down the road, you see well-kept farm after well-kept farm... very few dilapidated structures, and no litter. None.

Ever since I decided to come on this trip, people have been telling me their scary motorcycle stories of impalement, decapitation and general road rash. But by the time I got to Fargo I really wasn't worried about that. The bike is comfortable, and since leaving California five weeks ago, Patrick has already ridden it some 9000 miles through wind, rain, snow, thunderstorms. Everything but tornados. Riding from Napoleon, North Dakota yesterday we had heat in the high 90s and, since there's nothing to stop it, like mountains or even trees, wind of 25 mph or more gusting straight across the road. Getting blown halfway across a runway by a gust of wind is one thing - at least you're nestled in an FAA approved metal cabin. Getting blown halfway across a lane on a motorcycle demands even more sustained attention than landing an airplane. Add to that several miles of unexpected road work going through the Indian Reservation and yesterday was a real endurance test, but we made it just fine and had a nice evening in Kadoka, South Dakota. Which is where we are now, packed and ready to go except for me typing away here so... more later. Picture is of the grain facility in Napoleon.