August 3rd, 2010 - Day 4
On the 4th day of my trip I woke up to a much nicer view of Winter Park than the dreadfully rainy one I went to bed with. The view from outside the motel was breathtaking. I have to be honest when I say I love the mountains. It may be due to the fact I live on land that is flat, and the mountains just hold a fascination because they’re different than the norm. It could be because I have a motorcycle now and I love the twists and turns. I like to think that my love of the mountains and valleys is something else, something more primal. Let me explain.
I hate straight roads. While I appreciate the marvel of engineering it takes to cut a straight swath through the surrounding area and have a high speed commuting system from point A to B for convenience, I dislike the fact that we take nature and bend it to our will. But not in the mountains. Yes, some disfigurement occurs, but for the most part we give up, we submit to the mountain’s curves and reaches and make switchbacks and tunnels, there are no “straight shots” over or through mountains. They still hold majesty over us when it comes to ground travel. I respect that.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the twisty roads and the constant up and down of the mountains, it tests your attention, stamina and riding abilities. But alas, the twisty roads and steep upgrades also lead to some major consternation as well, specifically when you get behind a caravan of RVs. I understand the desire to take a room with you when you’re traveling, VISA knows I spent the lion’s share of my trip budget on hotel and motel rooms. But trying to maneuver a behemoth travel home through some of the mountain passes is insane; there are no turnouts, there are no passing lanes, there are no off ramps.
A motorcycle, given dry, clean roads, can generally take any road at or slightly above its posted speed. It’s slightly above those posted speeds that motorcycling becomes more than just a means of transportation or personal conveyance, you and the bike become one. It’s less riding than gliding or flying along the roads. You feel everything the bike feels, when it wants to lean you lean, when it wants a little more fuel, you oblige and it growls in response. The air buffeting you as you travel through it reminds you that there isn’t anything between you and the world but a thin layer of clothing.
I gassed up in Fraser, Colorado after leaving Winter Park on my way to Salt Lake City, Utah, I knew I wouldn’t make it there that day, but had to keep moving. I stopped for lunch and a beer in Kremmling, Colorado, a town that was apparently pretty famous during the silver and gold rushes in the area, it still has a pretty cool looking opera house from what I’ve read. I initially wanted to spend the night there instead of Winter Park, but alas, I never got up as early as I wanted to on any day of the trip.
There’s a particular spot in the mountains, between Kremmling and Steamboat Springs that smelled like citrus, it was a perfect moment, I was coming out of the twists and turns of a few mountain passes without any traffic around and pulled into view of a large valley without any sign of population. Just the world, me and the smell of fresh cut oranges. There aren’t many moments of perfect bliss in a persons life that they can recall perfectly, but that is one of mine.
I had to stop at the Carquest in Steamboat Springs to get some fuses for my power supply - turns out the rated amperage of a device I was using wasn’t correctly listed on the packaging so it kept blowing a fuse - I ended up cannibalizing it for parts later, but I’ll get to that when I get to it.
Between Steamboat Springs and Dinosaur, Colorado you come down the mountains and end up in the desert, it’s actually quite depressing. You’d figure a place named “Dinosaur” would be cool, but alas, that isn’t the case. After Dinosaur I was headed into another state I’d never been in, Utah.
Utah has always been defined to me as a series of stereotypes - dry, Mormon, boring. The first city of any size that I encountered in Utah was Vernal, I was looking for a diner type of food for dinner and ended up at a place called “Wingers” it was in a diner looking building, but wasn’t so much, turns out it was a chain, and their wings weren’t that good.
I left Vernal with the intent of stopping in about 30 miles to find a motel and get some sleep, I passed Fort Duchesne on my way to Roosevelt which was the next town with amenities. Unfortunately, all the truckers that cross the Rockies know this too, so I ended up going back the 30 miles I’d just rode from Vernal back to Vernal to find a spot to sleep.
I don’t want to end this day’s recap on a sad note, but here goes. While I was riding by Fort Duchesne, I noticed a feral dog and her pup, which was nearly her size already, but still had the cute clumsiness of a puppy walking carefully on the side of the road. I didn’t have any cell coverage when I stopped, but I whipped out my phone to grab the coordinates of where they were. When I finally got to the hotel, and after meeting a few Kiwi (New Zealanders) riders that were doing a L.A. to Sturgis run, I paid for internet access so I could find the contact information for a local rescue organization, I emailed them what I knew about the dogs and where I saw them. I never heard back from the rescue organization. I wish I could tell you that those were the only dogs I saw on the side of the road, apparently abandoned by their humans. But then I’d be a liar.
Someday I’d like to start a non-profit that equips bikers that are going to be riding through the desert with collapsible bowls, high calorie food and GPS tracking collars, so they can stop, give the dog some food, water, and if it’s friendly enough, put the collar on it and activate it so a centrally located rescue could coordinate with local rescue organizations to save these animals.