To Clark–My Motorcycle Hero

Living in Washington State it’s sometimes easy to forget the unique variety of things to see and do in our own borders.  And sometimes it takes a friend to remind you there may be new challenges and things to see under your very own nose.  Thanks Justin.

The Hook Is Set

That’s exactly what my long-time friend from the old neighborhood, Justin “Nooch” Mays, did for me in the Spring of 2011.

“Dude, do you want to ride the WABDR with me?”

“What’s the WAB-DuR?”

“It’s a trail from Oregon to Canada through the mountains we could ride on our XR’s….it would take 6 days and we’d camp each night.”

“6 days?  My butt hurts after 4 hours on my bike and I can’t pack things…..like even a tent.  You want me to traverse the spine of Washington State on a dirt bike and camp for 6 days?”

He found my buttons with, “I’ll pack the tent.  C’mon dude!”

I sighed, “OK, let’s do it.”

I had too.  I was being called out.  I’m, after all, a two-time Iron Butt Rally finisher and proudly state I’m “One of the World’s Toughest Riders” on the top of this blog.  I’ve ridden dirt bikes since I was 6 years old and a neighbor with a couple years of teenage quad experience is the showing me up?  He buys a Honda XR650L  nicknamed the “USS Sofa” and is more hardcore than my Baja winning Honda XR650R he nicknamed “The Tasmanian Devil”?

I don’t think so.

And I’ve regularly slept in the hardest of Iron Butt Hotels including concrete picnic benches in the middle of Nebraska, on freezing 6000 foot Wyoming passes slumped over my running motorcycle and cranked electric clothing, and woken up looking at coyote puppies in the face in the scrublands of Eastern Oregon….and I can’t rough it in a tent a few nights?

The Reality

Once my testosterone level settled down a little bit I did what I always do and started thinking pragmatically about things, hit Google, and was pleasantly surprised to find that the enterprising WABDR folks had wrapped a tidy bow on this adventure.  They made it so when you traverse Washington’s mountains it’s ideal for riders to either camp for 6 nights AND/OR stay in hotels each night if they want to.

Divided into 6 legs, where the longest was 122 miles, it was perfect for a dirt bike with 150-175 miles of fuel range.  Stevenson, Packwood, Cashmere, Chelan, Conconully, and Oroville are all bergs I’ve been to.  I know each has fuel, a cafe or grocery store, and most have cheap motels.     And a video trailer of the adventure made me a quick believer that a lightly packed XR650R would not only be able to do the ride, but do it very well and in probably 1 or 2 days quicker.

The Best of Plans

It was March and with Memorial Day coming up we thought it could be a good ride if the weather was nice.  But looking over some SNOTEL locations I found 14 feet of snow on some of the the trail …..which meant that it would be virtually impossible to do until later in June or possibly July.  Instead, we thought it would be better to try a shake down cruise to Hoquiam and see if we could ride several hundred mile days, and found that was very doable.

And Justin’s college schedule meant his next window of availability wasn’t until the end of Summer over Labor Day weekend.  Perfect!  I had Friday off work and we’d have a long 4 day weekend to do as much of the ride as we could.

I also had a full rally season on my FJR and as September approached I started really looking at my bike and how I’d pack basic things like a toolkit,  food, water, a sleeping bag, a fleece in case it was cold, tire repair kit and inflation device, maybe a pair of pants and shirt in case we went to a bar or restaurant, and settled on a set of Aerostich panniers I ordered up.

Final Week

As the final week approached I had put off many of the things I needed to finally do including mounting the pannier bags, changing the oil, changing my front tire, tightening the chain, changing the oil, and dealing with a leak on the rear tire.  All in all I did what anybody usually does and waited until the last week to fix it all.  I compensated by spending my way out of the jam and let professionals do the tire work and found I needed a new sprocket as the original one was chewed beyond belief.

I also mounted the panniers with small bolts to the basic plastic of the XR and rode 15 miles with them attached to make sure things wouldn’t fall off.  It wasn’t pretty, but worked pretty well.  The straps of the pannier put most of their force on the seat and not the side plastic.  The exhaust side plastic pushed into the exhaust a little, but monitoring it I found it only melted the plastic slightly.

Guess which sprocket is the new one and which is worn out.

Day 0, September 1, 2011. Mile -180 to 0

Hitching a Ride in a Chevy

A few days before Justin and I were to ride the 180 miles to the starting point I called dear old Dad up and asked if he was available to haul our sorry asses down to Stevenson in his pickup.  Dad is my inspiration and model for 40 years of motorcycling and if he hadn’t had prostate cancer and issues with the plumbing I KNOW he’d would have wanted to ride with us.

It was a riot and partly bittersweet to ride down with Dad.  He even bought us dinner helped unload our bikes, and wander back home without riding.  I knew that had to kill him….dang prostates.  It was a little solace that he’d get to see a bit of our adventure on my SPOT GPS transmitter.  And we’d call and share video…and this report with him.

Checking into the hotel we were able to stash our bikes right next to the room under a set of stairs and settled in for the night.  I had only gotten a couple hours of sleep the night before and crashed hard and early.

Day 1, September 2, 2011. Mile 0-210

LEG 1 – Bridge of the Gods to Packwood (122 miles)

Getting up before sunrise we packed quickly and efficiently.  My bike started up rather quickly once I remembered how to turn the fuel to the on position.  By 6:15 the sun was coming up with the whisp of a few clouds in the dewy Gorge morning.  Stevenson hadn’t woken up yet and we motored through town with our throaty exhausts bouncing off the buildings of the county seat.  We rode 4 miles west to the turn-off to the Bridge of the Gods and with a $1.00 toll Justin announced quite emphatically, “I’m not paying money to go over that bridge.” and I didn’t really care either about 1/2 mile…so stopped and took a picture of the bridge from the Washington side.

Throttling back through town I pulled into the Venus Cafe and saw they weren’t open for 40 more minutes and picked the little gas station to fuel up, oil our chains, and start the morning with a champion breakfast of a stale ham & cream cheese bagel, two boiled eggs, and a cup of coffee.  Mmmmmmm….good.

Aiming further east we rode past Stevenson to the little berg of Carson and turned left for our first true leg towards Canada.  The sun poked over the horizon with long shadows and cold morning forest bedeviling what was the middle fo the summer.  The paved highway with center and fog lines gave way to a smaller asphalt road that began twisting into the mountains.  The temperature dropped even further as houses and signs of humanity diminished.

Dirt biking as a 10 year old with Dad in Ukiah, OR; snowmobiling in my teens, twenties, and thirties; and surveying in the mountains of Montana in college all had contributed to my basic knowledge of  Forest Service roads and their omnipresent web through American forested West.  Coupled with a very cool Butler map of the WABDR given to me by my friend Dennis–I knew in advance that Forest Service Road (FS #6808) would be on the right and we’d exit paved civilization for a mostly dirt existence the next 4 days.

What I didn’t realize is that at almost every road intersection, every fork, or every turn in the road that pointed the wrong way compared to the sun and internal compass–I would stop and engage in a map ritual.  Uzip the right pocket of my Aerostich, remove map, look for a 2 to 4 digit road number, decide which way to go, gesticulate some non-verbal direction to Justin with corresponding nod or confused look, put map back in pocket, snick first, twist throttle…..repeat at the next intersection.

Months later it still amazed me that you COULD ride a dirt bike across Washington State!

I purposely hadn’t tried to download the GPS bread crumb trail for this adventure–mainly because I didn’t have a RAM mount to attach my big and bulky Garmin 478 to on the bike nor did I have a beefy electrical system I could tie into 12 volts easily to power it.  Besides, I decided old school with a paper (or Butlers are actually this very cool plastic) map would improve my map reading skills and there was no clock to beat as I usually have in competitive rallies.  I think this was a wise choice.

Early on we had a great view of Mt. Hood that was hard to take a picture of because of the contrast.

Wrong Turn…..The First of Many

And about an hour into the j0urney I promptly got lost for the first time and headed up a dead-end road.  I apologized and Justin smiled, “No problem.”

And I got lost a second time a short time later and naturally blamed it on Justin, “Fuck!  Good job Magellan….why did we take that turn?”….to which he just laughed.

The reality would become that there were a variety of reasons we’d take wrong turns.  Most of the time it was because I didn’t read the map correctly, occasionally because there weren’t signs at intersections, and even more than once the map seemed a bit off or a road wasn’t listed on it.  We’d get better at navigating it after discovering that the road number had a 2 or digit number on some signs in a small font on top and a bigger three digit number below it.  Our trial and error method figured out roughly:

Two digit road numbers were bigger ones….main ones in the area. (e.g. 53)

Four digit roads would start with the two digit main plus a sub-road number.  There were many, many of these on the trip. (e.g. 53105)

And there also three digit below were sub-roads of the sub-roads…..I think.  They tended to be shorter little stretches less than a mile or so in length…usually skidder roads.  (e.g. 5310 with a 300 below )

So, if you came to an intersection that had 53 going left, 53 going right, 5310 going another direction and a 5310 with a 300 below it yet another direction….you probably didn’t want the last one.  You’d usually want the 1st or 2nd, but just because it went north to the next turn didn’t mean it was the right one as it could turn south around the next corner.  The map really helped.

Regardless of whether I read the map right it didn’t matter a whole bunch because there would either be a choice at the next intersection to to get you back on course or that backtracking meant you would just ride a beautiful road a second time with a different perspective.  Even wrong turns were right!

Pacific Coast Trail Brethren

We weren’t’ alone on this journey even though it was in the back woods.  We’d pass the occasional pickup truck or sedan going off to do whatever it is the locals or tourists do on a Friday.  We even ran across a man with a backpack walking near a “trail head” marking.  We stopped and made small talk as he appeared far crustier than we were dusty.

When we asked where he was headed and coming from he said his trail name was “John Deere”.  He’d started two weeks earlier in Santiam, OR and said he was doing the “PTC”.

Justin hadn’t heard that acronym before and I quickly whsispered, “Pacific Crest Trail” in his ear.  It is a hiker’s journey from Mexico to Canada with the Washington portion in parallel and occasionally crossing the WABDR.  In fact, the PTC is by all account inspirational to the WABDR even if they have different philosophies of human power vs. that of a noisy and fun internal combustion engine.

Not sure what he thought of motorcycles, I offered a compliment that he was a real man to hike the thing and we were pale imitations with our gasoline powered bikes.

He would have none of it and said he was fine with bikes.  And seemed genuinely happy we were out in the forest too exploring things.   The whole time he was munching an apple telling us how good it tasted, and I’d learn that it was common for local hikers to stock provision boxes on the PTH with things like fresh fruits for hikers to enjoy more than the staples of jerky, granola, and non-perishable food stuffs.

John even obliged us by taking a picture of Justin and I with just a smattering of dust.

I’d later find John a bit of a regular hiker and expert on the PTC and happy our first encounter was so positive.

Fuel Management, Lunch, and Friends

The first leg was the longest between civilization at rated at 122 miles by the WABDR map.  Justin was fretting fuel supply a bit and me taking a few wrong turns and adding on 10 or 15 miles didn’t add to his comfort level at all.  I wasn’t worried as I I thought my bike had a 4 gallon tank with 150 to 200 mile range before hitting reserve……and thought his tank was about the same size.

And as we got closer to Packwood the Forest Service roads gave way to wider, more car filled, washboard gravel.  Dust hung in the air and filled my sinuses up at the same time the drop in elevation made it a warm summer afternoon.  Justin hit his reserve about 125 miles in and the signs said 13 more miles to Packwood.  I wasn’t on reserve and entirely unconcerned.  We even had a 1 liter fuel bottle stashed in one of my smallish side bags–a reasonable concession I had made with Justin so I could sleep in his tent that night.

And as we rolled into Packwood we fueled up and found out my gnarlier beast capable of eating rear tires for lunch actually got better mileage than Justin’s Barcalounger–probably due to a higher compression ratio and more efficient water-cooled engine.  My iPhone calculations suggested he got 44 mpg and I got 48 for the first leg.

Packwood was infested with a Labor Day flea market and thousands of tourist sheeple.  But it also had several of my IBR friends, Tobie and Lisa, as some of the lookie-lous.  I called on Justin’s phone knowing my AT&T service was non-existent and pleasantly surprised to find they were about 100 feet away from us going to have lunch.  Score!

After lunch they asked us back to the cabin and I jumped at the chance because of the wonderful little structure they made.  It’s a testament of minimalist living–a 10′ x 12′ one room cabin with an incredible view until the fully retire and build a larger one.

Justin approved and liked the swing Tobie erected.  And I found out it was one of the “Blue” chairs from Mt. Bachelor that I might have ridden 30 years earlier.

LEG 2 – Packwood to Ellensburg (~120 miles)

Tobie and Lisa offered to let us camp at their place, but it was just too early in the day to call it quits.  I thought more than ever the Canadian border was doable in 4 days and wanted to take a bite out of the next leg before bedding down for the night.  And chomp on it we did.

We road the 35 miles of Devil’s pavement from Packwood to Rimrock Lake.  This stretch was the one piece of slab WABDR organizers couldn’t erase from the equation, we accepted the penance with buzzing in our hands and heads.  Dual sports with license plates make this kind of riding a chore, but in small doses it’s par for the course.

As we went up Bethel Ridge Road the character of the journey changed from one of forested mountains, glades, and trails to basalt strewn ridges, dust, and panoramic vistas.  It was also popular with 4x4s and we’d play leapfrog with a Range Rover full of tourists as we overlooked the vastness of Eastern Washington pushing up against the mighty blue of the Cascades.

Things Get Real

After we enjoyed the view we looked over the map and had our first real WABDR choice.  The main route showed as “advanced” with an alternate “easier” route.  We, of course, chose the advanced route and immediately found a very twisted road through a meadow full of muddy bits and ruts.  The Tasmanian Devil went into full whirlwind mode and showed off to his USS Sofa cousin.

Downed trees started to cross the trail and we’d hop over them in an increasingly slow crawl.

Then as I stopped to ponder hopping a log or taking a right around a particularly nasty bit…Justin crashed to my left.  Seems he had a choice of impaling me or falling down and going boom by himself.

I’m glad he fell down all by himself.

His pants had a nice rip, his shin hurt like hell, and the bike lay fallen like a bad TV commercial.

And after we got it all back upright….Justin asked, “Dude.  Can we take the other route?”

I wholeheartedly agreed.

Things Get Personal

As we descended down towards Highway 410 we stopped for a few minutes in a valley where the geology was spectacular…and I fired up my GoPro for an amateur interview as the golden hour of evening started.

Things Get Beautiful

My hope and plan was to make it past Highway 410 and find a place to camp for the evening.  And as we descended Timberwolf Mountain into Nile Valley the terrain, lowering sun, and picturesque geology conspired to make a perfect evening.  Justin and I had smiles on our face and had epunched through over 1/4 of the whole route in about 10 hours.

Reaching 410 just past the slide area we stopped at a little restaurant and mini-mart.  I suggested getting something to go and grabbing a couple cold beers–to which Justin cherished the thought of.  I could buy only two beers because of limited space and even found myself riding with a turkey sandwich between my legs for the 10 mile ride up the other side of the ridge line.

Things Get Dark

Finding a place to camp took on a unique importance as we really didn’t want to pitch a tent and find out in the middle of the night we were on some local’s property.  Picking were slim as we headed up the side of a ridge line and just past a string of houses we found a little spot near the road that was away from view of passers-by as well as relatively flat.  It looked to me after becoming an expert in logging by watching the Discovery Channel–to be a skidder landing for logging long ago.

As the daylight faded past 7 p.m. we realized we had ridden 13 hours and finished about 210 miles…slightly more than 1/3 of the miles needed to get to the Canadian border.  This was a stellar first day!

The occasional car would pass by on the road and we felt like we were hidden in plain sight.  I’d found out later that we were just inside forest service land and we kept a fire very small.

The sandwiches tasted great and were super cheap.  The waitress charged us $8 for two of them and the cook threw in fries inside tin foil.  The beer was still cool and we were kings of the universe.  The retreating sun’s slow diminished slowly as we took in the day–each in our personal way.

After dinner I whipped out my first flask of a Benedictine liqueur mixed with equal parts Black Heron craft-made brandy.  Nominally known as B&B it was a treat I’d learned from my stepfather several decades earlier and figured Nooch wouldn’t like it so much….but he seemed to like about two-thirds of the bottle very well thank you.

In fact, I had to pull out a flash of Scotch to finish out the evening.  I found myself content that I had fulfilled my part of the packing bargain and would enjoy half of his tent for the evening–even if he had a proper air mattress and I had an Aerostich jacket as a bedroll and pillow.

After a hour of male bonding I couldn’t keep my eyes open and went to bed after stomping out and covering the tiny little fire.  The forest floor was hard, nasty, and Justin’s snoring kept me up for awhile…until I drifted off into unrestful sleep.  Thoughts of cutting his throat and stealing his air mattress went through my head as he’d wake up and shift.

Things Get Weird

I woke up peering through the skylights in the tent and panicked as I saw all the nearby trees lit up by an unknown light in the inky black sky.

I blinked several times and peered around like a confused prairie dog.  Where was the light coming from?

The shapes of trees were obvious in the light and I feared the fire had somehow started back up.  I woke up Justin in a panic, “Justin, somebody’s here!  The trees are lit up!”

He looked around and pronounced, “I don’t see anything.”

I blinked again.

And then it hit me.  I was seeing the reverse of the sky.  The trees weren’t lit…they were the pitch black part of the scene.  The sky was the one lit up….in a pre-dawn glow amongst the stars.  My 5 a.m. mind was playing tricks on me and I said deflatedly, “Oh…..sorry…go back to sleep.”

He laughed and scooched on his air mattress making obscene pleasure noises, and had a fresh thought about killing him again just to get one hour of real sleep.

Day 2, September 3, Mile 211-410

Still on Leg #2 the morning was cool again and I shivered occasionally.  Starting cool was good though since it probably meant not a stifling afternoon in the lower elevations.  We packed up camp quietly, dropped most of the contents of the prior evening’s meal on the forest floor, gnawed on some snack bars, and let out the clutches by 7:30 a.m.  We had to go up to the top of the ridge and then navigate some gravel roads before descending into the Kittitas Valley and largest city we’d visit on the ride, Ellensburg.

Rolling into town we stopped at the motorcycle shop–Justin was going through separation anxiety and fretting about his rear tire.  A tire that had slightly less tread than mine, but I could quickly catch up with using my tire destruction device located on the right hand area of the handlebars.  Twist to shred with 55 hp of thumper goodness.

The store was closed until noon and it was barely 9 a.m.  So, instead we ogled a young attractive woman in the parking lot with a quad loaded in the back of the Chevy.  We’d been in the woods an entire day after all and barely masked our lust.  Sorry ma’am.

Iffy Breakfasts

We parked at the county courthouse as much of the downtown was closed for a parade and picked a soup joint for some breakfast.  The quality was pretty lame as I’d had better breakfasts at McDonalds, but it had protein and warm…it was a better recipe for anybody that had just enjoyed a snack bar earlier.

One fun detail was lodged in my GoPro camera harness on my chest.  A yellow jacket was alive, kicking mad, and head lodged in the buckle.  He had probably been flying along when a Honda hit him at 60 mph lodging his head into the plastic. It was cartoon-like as he tried to unwedge his head from the  device occasionally trying to sting it and the surrounding air into submission.  He could have been there for over an hour.

I unceremoniously removed my pocket knife and separated his body from his head and flicked the two pieces on the floor.  Yellow jackets are nasty critters.

Freshly fueled we had completed the second leg with 120.1 miles on the odometer.

LEG 3 – Ellensburg to Cashmere (~64 miles)

Climbing slowly out of the Kittitas Valley we were treated to a mountain and a one-lane paved road that was too die for.  An honest-to-goodness screaming road that I could have bombed with even more throttle on my FJR street bike.  It’s a road I’m coming back to one day and very few people on….except for the occasional big camper….ick.

And as we got back into the forest things changed again.  The rocks seemed different than southern Washington and I was quickly reminded that we were filtering around the Mission Ridge ski area.  And breakfast was settling in at the same time our muscles were loosening up.  The air temperature was just right, the trail was flowing, and our bikes were in their preferred element.

A smile was obvious on Justin’s face and we both announced, “THIS is my favorite part now!”

As we edged east a bit we broke out to view the Wenatchee Valley and found a great view to stop for a minute.

We also were treated with a batch of riders that stopped and coming from the Canadian border.  We were both about halfway in our journeys and smiled when I found they from Santa Barbara.  They had shipped their bikes to Seattle, slogged the 300 miles to the Canadian border, would then go to Portland after the ride, then ship their bikes back home.  One was a KTM and the other a BMW and both had hard panniers on the side.

They were the heavy version of bikes for this journey and probably had really cool air mattresses and even electric pumps to fill them up.

Bastards.

They told us about an upcoming section at the bottom of the hill where the road was washed out and while Justin became slightly concerned–I became really excited at something actually technical.  They had made it by removing their panniers–just barely.

We parted and I enjoyed the notion that we weren’t alone on the trail–that others were riding the nascent WABDR and we’d probably see more along the way as the weekend continued.

Trials Bike Anyone?

Descending the hill closer to Cashmere we found a trail with a sign saying it was closed due to a washout and undeterred I rode right past the sign.  Not sure what laws I had broken, but this road was one that we couldn’t really skip unless we wanted to go into Wenatchee and ride the slab to Cashmere.

Toward the bottom we encountered the first wash out and we let some mountain bikers go by on the way up.  Walking the trail it wasn’t that hard and only had one little foot high lip to pop over.  With my bike parked I noticed it overheated a bit and lost a little coolant, but didn’t sweat it much…that’s what reservoirs are for.

We both made it and went onto the next section…which was much more serious.

The washout was 3-5 feet deep and took out most of the road.  In one bike length section there was just barely a scab of a road remnant on the far left side against the hillside and I decided I could get my bike over it.  Edging the front tire onto the lip I knew I was either going to make it fine, the rear wheel was going to drop and I’d have to gas it to stay on, or I’d end up as a heap of red Honda and yellow Aerostich in the bottom of a 4 foot deep ravine.

BRRRAAAPppp!  I made it!

Justin saw my maneuver and edged his bike to the lip.  He asked if I’d ride his bike across and gladly did it.

The success of my first bike should have made me more brave, but as I had eaten up a little bit of the lip with my bike….I had time too much time to think about my feat and found myself nervous on his bike.  He positioned his body in the ravine and would act either as spotter to help the bike through or as an airbag for 400 pounds of bike and 250 pounds of rider to crush–I’m not sure which it was going to be.

So, I blipped the throttle.

BUuuuurrrrrp!  I made it….sorta.

I had cleared the area, but tipped over into the hill on the left.   Totally ungraceful, but we were across.

A Light Lunch?

After that it was a smooth decent into Cashmere with pear orchards lining a wonderfully fun and twisty asphalt road.

We stopped for lunch and found ourselves eating more pizza and chicken wraps than we should have and it showed in the next leg.   Note to self…dirt bikes and pizza shouldn’t mix.

Actual mileage for this leg was 67.4.

LEG 4 – Cashmere to Chelan (~100 miles chopped to ~80 miles)

A batch of ADV bikes were parked in front of the pizza joint Justin picked and they were running hard side bags and stacked with supplies.  They commented how they were headed the same direction as us and had come to the closed road and went around by going to Wenatchee and riding up ????.  Yuck!

They were going to spend the evening in Cashmere, but since it was still early afternoon they were going to ride back south a bit to see how far they could get up the trail that was closed from the top side.  We told them details of where the drop-off was at and they went on their merry way.

This made me smile as Justin and I were able to stick to the WABDR and not bail on a challenging part.  Running light had paid off!

For us, staying in Cashmere in the heat of early afternoon just didn’t make sense and my big hope and plan was to spend the second night in Chelan, get a shower, and have a juicy steak and glass of red at Campbell’s Resort.  So, we fueled, found more trail to blast through, stopped once to adjust and lube my chain (the XRR seems to do its best to stretch it) and enjoy the nice afternoon.

As the sun arced in the sky I decided to cut off one part of the trail to give us time in the early evening to find a motel in Chelan and avoid a chunk of pavement both of us had been on before.  It took off about 20 miles or so and started to seriously warm up as we descended into the 1100 foot elevation of Lake Chelan.  I stopped for a quick dip in the lake and Justin decided to stay hot, but dry.

Tourist Hell

As we rolled into Chelan I should have known better about finding a room without a reservation.  Heck, I had been here 3 weeks earlier and knew this place was a sold-out summer resort destination.  When I asked for a suggestion from one hotels they said, “Wenatchee….there might be something in Wenatchee.”

Fudge muffins! (or something like it)

I was already cranky from the heat and I knew this wasn’t going to make my riding partner any happier….so glossed over that particular remark, but knew he had already arrived at the same conclusion.  I tried to mitigate things by suggesting there was the chance of a magical hotel with occupancy in Manson and we’d score it very cheap, but it was increasingly obvious we were going to spend a second night camping.  Justin knew this and wanted to start going north from the lake along the trail.  But, I also knew that once we found somewhere to camp we’d need some dinner to eat and libation to unwind.

Fueling he noticed my bike had no coolant in the reservoir and I worried a bit.   One more thing to add to the heat, waning daylight, and evaporating good spirits.  We’d ridden for 10 hours already today, 13 hours the day before, and the prospect of riding another 2 hours before making camp added to the fatigue and crankiness.

I knew once we did find a camp site we’d be hungry and want a good stiff belt, so I quickly grabbed some Black Velvet from the liquor store on the way (it seems like something locals would drink), a couple sandwiches from Safeway, and a gallon of water that went in my bike, in our Camelbaks, and in us personally.

LEG 5 – Chelan to Conconully (~70 miles)

Lost Again

Then we were off towards the waning sun.  After quartering back from Manson I was having trouble finding the trail to Antilion Lake and settled on Echo Ski area.  The map showed a trail and I had snowmobiled the area years earlier and freelanced instead.  Locals were thick including a mountain biker and dog….going through an area I wanted to ride, but covered with giant signs about no motor vehicles.  Even with the sun waning we knew we’d be camping somewhere very soon and didn’t like the idea of explaining to local PoPos why we scared somebody and their dog.

So, one more detour and I was able to get farther north, farther away from civilization, and farther up the hill.  We were running out of daylight and the road just kept meandering around mountainsides with no flat areas to camp or signs of hope of camping.  In one draw I noticed the faint markings of a skidder road and Justin nodded to try it.  It, at least, headed into a draw away from the main road.  Overgrown with weeds it headed up a draw and I was flabbergasted to find a hunter camp site complete with wood supply, fire pit, flat spot for a tent, and even an old metal Coleman cooler to act as a table for dinner and drinks.  This was definitely one of those 4 digit roads with a digit number underneath…even there had been a sign.

Justin nodded approval and we got a fire started as the final color washed out of the fading twilight.

 ”I Like to Get Real Fucked Up”

I pressed the “OK” button on my SPOT to indicate we’d found a place to rest for the night knowing friends and family were watching and Justin perked back up asking what kind of sandwiches I bought.

“One roast beef and one turkey.”

“Dude, can I have the roast beef?”

“Absolutely.  I even got mayonnaise and mustard packets!”  He smiled at that.

I set up most of the tent as he got the fire going and he asked what I got for booze.

“Two pints of Black Velvet!” remembering years earlier as the drink of choice playing paintball.

“Dude, you couldn’t get something different?”

It seems the tastes of my long-time friend have improved since last night when we went through $25 of Benedictine & Brandy.

“Well, you said you didn’t care and I grabbed plastic pints because they’d fit in my bag and were $7 each.  They’ll taste good after the third swig.”

He disagreed, but drank with a scowl anyway.

We heard the sound echo through the trees of a motorcycle or 4×4 on a nearby trail and wondered if they’d turn in to our cubbyhole of a road, but the sound trailed off soon after.  We were spending our second night in the middle of nowhere and Milky Way spilling above our heads.

Life was good.

I didn’t seem to notice any quality problems with the BV and found it washed down my turkey sandwich quite nicely.  Justin cringed every time I did this and handed me the second bottle to dig into.  Somehow I managed to drink more than my half of the booze and felt thoroughly sloppy and happy about it all evening.

I lay my socks out on the warm rock next the fire and dried my bare feet in the glowing fire like perfectly done smores.

Exactly how I got in the tent I don’t remember, but I was told the next day I fell asleep in 12 seconds and didn’t care one lick about an air mattress.  When you’re truly tired…you have no trouble sleeping on the ground.

Day 3, Sunday, September 4th, Mile 410+

Light Again

One eye popped open in what I knew would be a hangover.  I heard Justin rustle and asked him to put cream in my coffee and that I liked my eggs over easy since he was cooking breakfast.

He chuckled and said something about, “I’ll get right on it.”

Our little hidden niche had worked out very well and was what we really needed the night before.  Wandering around in socks I pretended the area was my home, scratched my ass, hawked a thick loogy into the bushes, took a needed morning constitutional, and found several Coffee Nips in my Aerostich for breakfast.  Again…it’s the little things in life.

“Mmmm…that cup of coffee was good!”, as Justin packed up the tent and smiled.

We got back on the road by 8 a.m. and knew that we could easily make the border today…..doing this adventure in just 3 days.  We were hauling ass, enjoying our ride, and covering some seriously beautiful ground.  And other than a slight twinge of a dehydrated hangover….I felt stronger riding than the previous two days.  We were hardened WABDR veterans!

On the trail again I quickly found our way back to the designated trail, got lost again, and found the trail again.  This routine had become comforting and I couldn’t help, but think about those early pioneers of the state that couldn’t just reach into their bag and pull out a GPS or have a detailed map like I did…or the massive network of Forest Service roads to connect distant places.

Free Breakfast!

Rolling down slope from the mountain we found our way onto the Methow Valley Highway and in front of an interesting sign in the little berg of Carlton.

It looked like a restaurant, but we quickly figured out it was Sunday church service and were fine with that.  Nice folks and a really, Really, REALLY good breakfast.  Homemade waffles that had fruit and nuts in the batter and done to a golden perfection on a quality commercial waffle griddle, fresh yellow water melon from a local’s garden, and an apple that was perfectly crisp and tart.

We dropped $20 into the donation basket and would have stayed for the non-denominational service, but it we really needed to keep on the road to get to the border by afternoon.

Conconully

I’d lived in Washington all my life, but had never been to Conconully or even heard of it before visiting on last year’s Dam Tour.  It’s a very small little town that has only road coming into it from the east towards Omak and Okanogan.  The town has allowed dirt bikes and ATVs to be ridden on public streets without license plates or presumably drivers licenses–and has a little cottage industry of rentals.

The town is also on a man made lake, sits in a nice little valley, and is at the convergence of many crossroads and trails of the type that typify the WABDR.  It also has a gas station, cafe, and campground…a near trinity of what WABDR riders  like.   I don’t know exactly why, but I just love this little town!

And we even found three other WABDR riders having lunch.  We joined in to shoot the breeze for 15 minutes and took off on our last leg of the journey.

LEG 5 – Conconully to Geocache & Border (~80 miles)

One would think I’d become an expert map reader by this point, but the last leg confused me slightly.  I found out later I’d added about 20 miles to the route and went through a burned out area of the forest, but think it was a happy accident.  Yes, if we’d started at the border I doubt riding dozen of miles through charred remains of a forest would have seemed right, but after 500 miles of mostly forest riding the alternative landscape provided a very nice change of pace.

It’s as if the Washington Mother Forest  told us, “Okay boys.  You’ve seen my pretty made up side…now see a different part of me.  I trust you.”

And it was a special treat to see how forest heals up. And in one stretch of her plastic surgery you could see the road meander over the next mountain.

This stretch is also where Justin and I took probably the best group photo with a big pink granite boulder to keep us company.

A bit after the burned area we found a nice valley with a great visual approach with dust trails….more camera time.

About 20 miles later I spotted a geocache and also figured out that this container was the symbolic end to the journey.  Yes, we’d go to the border, but this little tupperware container contained receipts, business cards, and other reminders of those that have ridden before us.  And it lay just a few hundred feet off the road at the top of a beautiful overlook.  The Captain Morgan pose is cheese, but this is the only picture I have of me doing it.

Riding to the final border stop we were treated to one more Washington State vista–a wonderful view of a valley near Palmer Lake.

And riding the last 25 miles north we found ourself within spitting distance of the Canadian border.  I don’t want to belabor things, but I had significant disagreement over how close we should and could get to the Canadian building.  I’d love to had a picture with a friendly Canadian wearing an RCMP style uniform, but think borders are strange places.  I was quite adamant I wasn’t going to risk having to explain to Canadian officials why we had accidentally brought a firearm into their country nor explain anything at all to twitchy American officials post 9/11.  And in hindsight I probably sounded like Mother Hen telling Justin what to do…or not do.  Sorry my friend.

My best guess was that the border was halfway between the two building and we could get closer, but I’d later find out that were running parallel to the border for some time and about as close as we could get without crossing the actual border anyway.

(Justin notes)

After the border I made a beeline and hoped for the true trinity of motorcycle perfection.  A motel, a restaurant, and a bar all within close walking distance.

10 miles after the border crossing Oroville failed two of the three, and we rode farther south despite the protest of my ass.

15 miles later Tonsasket had gas and a motel, but I didn’t see any obvious bar on or near main street.  My drying eyes complained bitterly, but I donned my dusty goggles and road south even further with the throttle twisted.

25 miles further Omak seemed to deliver with two restaurant options, a motel, and a bar that promised they were open until 2 a.m.  I’d later find out it was beer and wine only and had a lot of annoying drunk folks.

We landed in a flophouse for $60, showered up, and had a pretty good dinner of stuffed pork chops and pasta respectively.  It was official….we rode the WABDR.  John Deere, Bilbo Baggins, and Nooch were all right….it’s good to get out and see the nooks and crannies of the world we have such little time to explore.

 

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I’ll certainly be writing this one up…and have 10 Gigabytes of raw footage from my GoPro camera.  I’ve got some good video, pictures, and a story to tell.  In the meantime, a little teaser of it all.

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Justin headed to Seattle at 6:30, buy I slept in and meandering through primitive gravel roads and had a fresh pear for breakfast, plum for snack, and peach for dessert….but caved for lunch since it’s the only joint open.

Epic ride!

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Well, whatever of the WABDR we cut off yesterday to get to Chelan..we did more riding through backcountry today.

Plus a geocache and a potential national incident with the border patrol….I cringed but Mays had a point.

Hauled ass to Omak since Oroville and Tonasket did not have the required trinity of hotel, restaurant, and bar with walking distance and open on a Sunday night.

Showered and ready for a beer and grub!

Update: 3 beers and stuffed porkchop later…I’m going to bed.

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Great night last night. We found a hidden little hunter camp complete with firepit and wood. Then free breakfast in Carlton!

Going for border today!

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No Vacancy in Chelan. Looks like we’re camping north of Manson.

We’re seriously tired, need a shower, and a little cranky,

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We had a phenomenal ride between eburg and cashmere. Planning to push to Chelan and buy Nooch dinner.

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Camped near 410 last night and having breakfast in Ellensburg. 210 of 600 done.

We’re having a ball!

Met a guy hiking yesterday who had been doing the PTC for 2 weeks and started in southern Oregon…all hiking. We suck:)

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Front tire replaced with a new tube, rear tire tube replaced, new rear sprocket (the old aluminum one resembled a pizza cutter with bumps where teeth should have been), and new chain guide for about $300 maintenance.  Oil changed, chain adjusted, lubed, and 30 miles on the clock to make sure it rides OK.

Also a new set of Aerostich saddle bags that are about as big as I dare put on this dirt bike.  Needed items include a tool kit, liter of spare fuel, tire repair kit, inflation source, bear protection, lights, and a flask of cheap rum to pawn off on Nooch as if a gift when he asks.  Nice to have things like GPS tracker, GPS unit, fleece, sleeping bag, power bars, sun block, spare set of gloves, camera, video camera, charging cables, duct tape, and a second flask of good single malt scotch.  And, finally luxury items like a pair of pants, t-shirt, and underwear, and a third flask of REALLY good Johnny Walker Green Label I won’t tell Nooch anything about.

Nooch is carrying a tent, chain lube, and who knows what else….I hope he brought his own booze too.

I’m sure by Friday evening I’ll remember something I forgot and always have a wallet with cash and credit cards.

 

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My good friend, Justin “The Nooch” Mays, and I are trying something we’ve never done before.  We’re riding the Washington Backcountry Discovery Route on our Honda XR650′s over Labor Day weekend.

We’ll be commuting from the Tri-Cities down to Stevenson, Washington on Thursday, September 1st and start riding into the backcountry Friday morning for what we plan is 4 days of riding.  We hope to get as much of the 600 mile route done as possible…while still enjoying the experience.  The WABDR is set up in legs where civilization (aka gas, hot meals, and hotel rooms) are about 100 miles apart.  While we’re planning to rough it in tents most of the time we’re not turning our bikes into pack mules and have to live on them without the comforts of civilization for 4 days straight…..we can always land at a motel in somewhere like Ellensburg with a well stocked bar in walking distance.

Perhaps a video of the first leg to give you a taste of the ideal ride:  WABDR Video

Captain Stubing (Justin) will be piloting a Honda XR650L nicknamed The USS Sofa.  It’s an air-cooled and steel framed dual sport wheezing out 30-35 hp.  It’s as reliable as a Timex, almost as fashionable, and electric start that will be the envy of at least one in this party.

I’ll be riding a 2002 Honda XR650R model nicknamed The Tasmanian Devil.  It’s a water-cooled and aluminum framed dirt bike belting out an uncorked 50-55 horsepower.   While I’ve made it street legal I ‘m entirely too old and fat to make it truly worthy of its Baja 1000 inspired heritage.  Regardless, it will be the envy of at least one rider as the other laughs at him on top of steep pitches.

I’m sure we’ll be comparing, contrasting, and downright teasing each other how our bike is best during the adventure.  And the  WABDR is a combination of forest roads, technical sections including rock and water crossings, and a little paved road.

And by the end I’m pretty sure we’ll be cussing at each other and our bikes at least a little.

And I’ll be transmitting our location via SPOT transmitter during the ride and hopefully posting on this blog occasionally from my iPhone as we get into cell phone range.

Regardless, the WABDR promises to offer a view of Washington State from its spine that neither of us have ever seen before.  Enjoy watching.

Sincerely,

Matt “Old Man River” Watkins and Justin “The Nooch” Mays

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