Lake Hennessy and Lake Berryessa highlight the northern arc of this spectacular loop ride through Sonoma’s hill and wine country.
This is a tale of two amazing rides. One threads its way through some of Northern California’s beautiful wine, lake, and hill country. The other winds its way through my very being to the center of my heart.
Recently, my wife and I traveled to California’s Sonoma wine country to attend a ceremony in which our son‑in‑law, Lt. Col. Joffre Lander, assumed command of a squadron at Travis Air Force Base. Since I don’t like to be far from a motorcycle when traveling, I took my BMW G 650 X‑Country along for the trip.
Sonoma’s backroads trace beautiful paths through rolling hills.
A Wine Country Loop
During a lull in the military and familial activities, I snuck the BMW out for a loop ride through the golden hills and grapevine‑lined terrain in the Sonoma region. I rolled out of Vacaville on Interstate 80 to reach the sweeping corners of narrow, scenic Wooden Valley Road, which is lined by trees and passes through rolling grasslands and vineyards.
The turn onto State Route 121 provided even more varied terrain as rock outcroppings added texture to the ride. Various wineries staked their claims with stone archways and beckoning signage. As SR-121 morphed into State Route 12 on my approach to the town of Sonoma, the density of wineries increased.
When I threw down my kickstand at Sonoma Plaza, I had no idea of the historical significance of the town of just over 10,000 souls. Across the street from the beautiful centerpiece park rests the Sonoma State Historic Park, which is a cluster of historic sites. It’s an open and easy stroll through locations like the Mission San Francisco Solano, Sonoma Barracks, Toscano Hotel & Kitchen, and other fascinating buildings.
After walking back to the vibrant green shade of the 8‑acre Sonoma Plaza, I stood in the shadow of the impressive Bear Flag Monument, which commemorates the spot where the Bear Flag Party raised the Bear Flag and declared California free from Mexican rule in 1846. After a walk around Sonoma City Hall in the center of the plaza, I continued my clockwise loop ride.
The Bear Flag Monument honors a significant moment in California history.
SR‑12 led me to Trinity Road and other narrow, winding byways that are thoroughly entertaining, curvaceous rolls beneath trees, beside cliffs, and over hills, often with panoramic views.
After passing through Oakville and Rutherford, I headed farther east on State Route 128. This stretch was arguably the most beautiful part of an already spectacular ride. I rolled past Lake Hennessy, Lake Berryessa, and several family wineries. Finally, I headed south back to Vacaville and to my daughter’s home. Would this be the end of my tale? Hardly.
Sonoma City Hall is the centerpiece of Sonoma Plaza.
A First Long Ride
In 2011, I welcomed my first granddaughter into this world. I vividly remember the overwhelming love I felt when I held little Skya for the first time. The tiny black‑haired treasure in my arms was so perfect and so lovely that I was instantly and indelibly smitten.
Over the dozen years since she was born, I have taken Skya on many short motorcycle rides around the yard or the block with her planted securely in front of me on the saddle. She has grown from a fragile cherub to a vibrant, smart, lovely pre‑teen, and motorcycle rides have been a vital part of our deep and loving connection.
The author’s granddaughter captured his heart from the first moment he held her.
On this occasion, Skya was waiting when I rolled into my daughter’s garage. As we sat and talked, it became clear she was ready for her first longer motorcycle ride. Parental permission was secured, and I fitted Skya in my wife’s riding gear. We discussed what it takes to be a safe and secure passenger on the back of a motorcycle.
With a wave to her mother and grandmother, Skya and I headed north for a loop ride. Almost instantly, she found the groove and became a settled “sack of potatoes” on the back of the BMW. The repeated portion of my earlier route took on a new significance as I could feel the wonder Skya was experiencing. She would occasionally tap me to point things out, and as we flipped up our faceshields to talk, I could see the joy in her green eyes.
Full-face helmets can’t hide the joy on those two faces. A “favorite ride” indeed!
We stopped often to decide on routes, take in views, and just chat. At one stop, I pointed out the smooth, pale hills on the horizon. I mentioned that they reminded me of Hills Like White Elephants, a short story by Ernest Hemingway, and I recommended that she read it someday. Back on the motorcycle, Skya chose the routes, including a long road to a dead end that gave us both a laugh.
I have ridden thousands of miles in my lifetime, and the miles that Skya and I shared that day are some of the most significant. We agreed that when she gets a few more years under her belt, we will reconvene for an extended ride. We can’t wait.
The nimble BMW G 650 X-Country was the perfect mount for the curvy sections of the route.
The author and her Kawasaki Ninja 400 with Kriega bags on a motorcycle tour.
When you travel by motorcycle, people like to tell you about how they could never tour or camp on a bike. From non-motorcyclists, I typically hear that their fears or lack of confidence would prevent them from ever touring.
The Ninja can hold more luggage than many riders expect, proving you don’t need a touring bike to tour.
For motorcyclists, those worries don’t come up as often – motorcycle riding tends to require (and breed) a sense of fearlessness and confidence in and of itself. What I hear from fellow motorcyclists is that their equipment holds them back from touring or moto camping. In other words, because they don’t have the “right” bike!
A shorter trip requires less gear, and it helps if you stay in a hotel instead of camping.
Unlike their adventure brethren with high-towering suspensions and readily available luggage racks or touring motorcycles with plenty of space and smooth highway capability, sportbikes and other types of motorcycles are unfit for motorcycle travel – or so it may seem.
With the right luggage, even a Kawasaki Ninja 400 can serve as a grocery getter.
As someone who got her touring start on a Kawasaki Ninja 400, I can attest that it is not only possible to travel longer distances on a small-displacement sportbike but even enjoyable. The biggest issue is luggage space, and there are solutions.
Tankbags and even fanny packs can provide additional storage on a space-limited sportbike.
Why Is Space an Issue?
Sportbikes are inherently shorter and squatter than adventure bikes, dual-sports, or enduros, with a shorter wheelbase and lower center of gravity. This means less physical space for luggage to sit. Add to that the lack of stock panniers, saddlebags, or even luggage racks – not to mention luggage manufacturers’ propensity to leave sportbikes off the list of aftermarket racks – and you’re left scratching your head as to where to put your gear.
Ripping the Ninja – complete with saddlebags – on the Tail of the Dragon. (Photo courtesy Killboy)
The solution is twofold. Find the best luggage you can attach to your bike with ingenuity, while making your gear as small as possible.
Don’t let the excuse of not having a touring or ADV bike keep you from exploring.
Best Luggage Possible
For my first motorcycle tour, I stayed at a friend’s house near the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee. I had equal parts enthusiasm and cluelessness, but I knew I needed a way to transport my belongings.
The author’s Kawasaki Ninja 400 loaded with 30L and 10L Kriega drybags.
After asking around, I found a friend willing to loan me their 30L Kriega Drypack. My husband had a 10L of the same brand, and I was able to easily attach the larger pack to the included straps under my seat and the smaller one to the other pack.
I learned my first motorcycle packing lesson that trip – it’s always harder to repack on the way home, especially if you bought a few too many souvenirs. On that Tennessee trip, my bags were bursting at the seams to begin with, so I don’t know what I was thinking when I purchased additional items. I ended up asking my friend to mail those items to my house!
This collection of Kriega bags and a tank bag has served the author well on moto touring trips.
Having loved my experience with my friend’s Kriega, I purchased two of my own Drypacks – a 40L and a 30L. I stacked them up the same way I had the 30L and 10L but not with the same result. My center of gravity was off, and the ride, especially at low speeds, was uncomfortable.
Who needs a hotel when you can find a cozy campground?
This high center of gravity was alleviated with the addition of some Sedici universal saddlebags. My first attempt at using them was less than ideal, as they sagged and touched my Ninja 400’s exhaust, burning a hole and melting my toiletries. Some adjustments helped stop the sagging, and they tended to be easier to ride with than the leaning tower of Kriega I had before.
Another benefit of having a set-up with multiple bags is that you can take some off for shorter day trips.
Smallest Gear Possible
If you think you’re going to fit a full kit of car camping gear on your motorcycle, you might be disappointed with the result. It’s important to purchase gear fit for the occasion. Unfortunately, there aren’t as many motorcycle-specific camping gear options for sale, especially in brick-and-mortar shops. What to do?
Another camping trip on the Ninja, this one to Cumberland Falls in Kentucky.
Luckily for us, a different group of adventurers also require packing compactly – backpackers. Given that their body is the vehicle for their kit, backpackers have an eye for getting the lightest, smallest, most packable gear possible. What fits on a person’s back may very well fit on your motorcycle just as well. Shop at outdoor and camping stores like REI and Sportsman’s Warehouse for backpacking essentials.
Saving space wherever possible is the name of the game, which is made easier with the ability to compress. Clothing or other soft items can be shrunk down to a fraction of their size using packing cubes. These zippered contraptions allow you to squeeze out all the air, saving you precious space. Compression sacks are another useful tool for squishy items like sleeping bags.
Some riders use cargo nets to secure their gear, but I won’t use one again. On my first moto camping trip, I used a cargo net to hold my sleeping bag (compressed in a stuff sack) onto one of my Kriega Drypacks. On the curvy backroads in Kentucky, it shifted back and forth with every turn.
Many riders use cargo nets, but Carly found using a net less than ideal for storage.
A fellow motorcyclist whom I met on the road suggested Rok Straps, and I had ordered four on my phone before our conversation ended. These ingenious straps, which combine a wide bungee strap with a non-stretchable adjustable nylon strap with a quick-release buckle and webbed loops on each end, allow you to tie anything down securely. They can be used to tighten down soft luggage or to secure items to racks or pillion seats. I rarely ride without them, even when I’m not on a trip. You never know when you might need to buy something that doesn’t fit in your tank bag.
This is a ROK Strap, a useful tool that Carly brings with her whenever she rides.
Touring or moto camping can be an exciting and even life-changing experience, regardless of what type of motorcycle you own. No one should let the myth that only certain types of motorcycles are capable of touring stop them from experiencing the thrill of a moto trip. I’m the case in point that it’s possible.
The U.S./Mexico border is a place of transitional beauty, with various types of international boundary barriers inter-secting the stunning Southwestern landscape. The January Jam was a great excuse to experience it.
January can be a cruel month for motorcyclists. Even in sunny southern climates, chilly temperatures can make extended rides an exercise in discomfort. That’s why I make an annual winter sojourn south to the land of tequila and tacos for some riding and music at the January Jam in Puerto Peñasco – or Rocky Point – Mexico.
After topping off my tank at the lone American border gas station in Lukeville, Arizona, pleasant ambient temperatures mixed comfortably with radiating heat from the cylinders of my BMW GS as I idled in the slow parade at the border crossing. Rumble strips, remote cameras, armed agents, and concrete barriers marked the intimidating border security protocol.
My anxiety was tempered by the knowledge that I had my ducks in a row. I had purchased my three-day Mexican motorcycle insurance, and I had my passport, registration, and license handy. The camouflaged border agent motioned for me to lift my tinted faceshield and then waved me through. Just like that, I was in hustling, bustling Sonoyta. Men rushed at cars with squeegees, women held up packages of tortillas for sale, and traffic was frenetic.
I knew what to do in this dusty border town. I kept my head on a swivel and rode below the posted speed limit. Local police cluster by the border and on the southern fringe of town with eagle eyes for tourists who drive like they are still in the U.S. It is not a cheap ticket if you get stopped.
Puerto Peñasco is full of small motorcycles and big murals.
Sonoyta has the colorful, informal vibe of most Mexican towns, but I kept riding south. While the temperature back home in Arizona was hovering in the 40s, I smiled as the reading on my dash indicated 72. Yep, just what the doctor ordered.
On Highway 8 toward Puerto Peñasco, I passed dozens of descansos (“resting places” in Spanish), memorials that are intriguing, sobering, and often quite beautiful. They range from miniature concrete shrines to thematic collages. One honored a Dallas Cowboys fan.
Creative descansos line the route to Puerto Peñasco.
I also passed a sign that read “Hassle Free Vehicle Zone.” Uninformed tourists often mistake these signs to mean relaxed traffic and speed rules. Not true, my friends. They just mean fewer paperwork regulations for tourist travel.
The road from the border to Puerto Peñasco is straight and barren, but there is something to be said for an open-throttle roll through the warm desert in the dead of winter.
My BMW GS is perfect for exploring the thriving desert environment.
At the end of this 70-mile stretch, I came upon a group of Mexican sportbikers who were chatting along the dusty roadside. The half dozen crotch-rocketeers waved and saluted as I approached. They were more than happy to pose for a photo for a lone gringo moto-tourist before pulling a group U-turn and roaring back toward the coast.
Just as Puerto Peñasco/Rocky Point goes by both Mexican and English names, it has two distinct personalities. There is the old town itself, teeming with street vendors, rusted vehicles, and colorful buildings, exuding the character of a traditional fishing village. Street taco stands waft aromatic clouds, and small motorcycles mounted with massive transport containers serve as delivery vehicles.
A group of Mexican sportbike riders pose for the gringo tourist.
Then there is the new, mostly American-owned resort community in Sandy Beach north of town. Upscale resorts line the blue waters of the Sea of Cortez. What Sandy Beach lacks in traditional character, it replaces with comfort and safety for international tourists.
The Sonoran Sea is one of the beautiful resorts on Sandy Beach.
Both locations served as staging points for my weekend’s activities during the January Jam, which is the brainchild of Roger Clyne, the charismatic front man for Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers. Clyne is an entertainer with a voluminous catalog of great songs and an enthusiastic following in the Southwest and beyond.
For the jam, Clyne assembles a lineup of accomplished musicians and invites fans to congregate in Puerto Peñasco for three days of music, golf, and general reverie. Music fills the sea air, and tequila flows, especially Clyne’s own premium spirit, Canción, fittingly named after the Spanish word for “song.”
Fantastic musical acts fill the nights during the lively January Jam festival.
There are daily and nightly concerts at Clyne’s watering hole, Banditos, as well as performances at other venues in Sandy Beach and Rocky Point. We enjoyed the familiar tunes of Clyne’s band as well as David Lowery of Cracker, the Mexican-influenced sounds of The Jons from Tucson, and the lively rock blend of Miles Neilson and the Rusted Heart.
After a weekend of sampling traditional Mexican food, listening to great music, and riding to nearby fishing villages, the time came to head back north. It was over too soon.
C. Jane Taylor’s moto memoir Spirit Traffic was published in 2022. That summer, she and her husband embarked on a 97‑day cross‑country book tour on their BMW F 650s. She said her book tour was characterized by deeply rewarding and completely exhausting work. It also featured great roads. During her vacation from what some might already consider a vacation, she enjoyed many memorable rides. The leg from Gunnison, Colorado, to Hovenweep National Monument in Utah was a favorite. –Ed.
My husband, John, and I rode for 97 days – from Maine to California and back to Vermont – on a national book tour in the summer of 2022. We snapped this selfie at 10,856-foot Wolf Creek Pass in Colorado.
West of Gunnison, Colorodo, U.S. Route 50 was closed. We’d seen signs about the closure for at least 100 miles. Those signs were for other people, right? We’d planned to stay on the famous Colorado byway through the Grand Mesa, Uncompahgre and Gunnison National Forests as long as we could. But as we approached Gunnison, our shoulders slumped with the reality that the signs were for us. We’d have to rethink our whole route. And the weather was starting to look iffy.
At the Gunnison County Chamber of Commerce, a note taped to the door underscored the closure. We went inside, paper roadmap in hand. At the desk, the clerk proffered her own map, opening it in front of us. She and John pored over it like kids seeking clues to lost treasure.
She confirmed that U.S. 50 was closed and suggested State Route 149 instead. It had less traffic and was more beautiful, she assured us. We compared her map to the Butler map for the region. (Butler Motorcycle Maps highlight the best roads, rating them on twisties, traffic, road surface, etc.) SR‑149 was G1 (gold), Butler’s highest rating – perfect!
After filling our water bottles, we headed to the gas station. SR‑149 is quite rural, so we wanted to be prepared. As John filled our tanks and I surveyed the darkening skies, a bolt of lightning ripped through the clouds. Thunder crackled. A guy next to us gassing up his pickup was watching too.
“Hope you’re not going that way,” he said, nodding toward the storm.
“Not anymore,” I said.
We paid for our gas as the storm clouds gathered closer and closer. Thunder rumbled, and lightning struck from cloud to ground in the near distance. We sped back to the park next to the Chamber and ran for the cover of a gazebo. Just as we stepped under, buckets of rain dumped from the sky, and lightning dashed all around us. The thunder was so loud that we ducked our heads each time it clapped.
John snaps another selfie on SR-149 along the Lake Fork River. As two cross-country-and-back trips have taught us, body temperature management in variable conditions demands a good rainsuit – and a good attitude.
Celebrating our excellent timing, we stretched out to nap on top of the picnic tables just as two vans arrived and disgorged two dozen kids. It was the local mountain‑biking camp escaping the weather. We were instantly surrounded by kids eating popsicles and playing a raucous game of tag. Now each thunderclap was accompanied by the ear‑piercing screams of prepubescent mountain bikers. One of the camp counselors checked in on our welfare, asked about the bikes, and offered popsicles, which we accepted.
The lightning eventually abated, though the rain drizzled on. The camp counselors packed their charges and drove away. We wrestled into rainsuits and got back on the road.
SR‑149 was as wonderful as described: a narrow, almost abandoned two‑lane road snaking seductively through the San Juan Mountains and the Rio Grande National Forest. The weather was cold and drizzling, but the road was curvy, and the air smelled like earth and springtime in New England. We were in motorcycle heaven.
Ten miles down the road, oncoming cars flashed their headlights, gesturing to slow down. Thinking they were trying to warn us about a cop, I laughed. It had taken me five years to get up to the speed limit. We continued with caution until a mudslide stopped us in our tracks. If we hadn’t been wearing helmets, we would have scratched our heads in a “Now what?” gesture. Like U.S. 50, it seemed SR‑149 would soon be closed too, but we gingerly traversed the shallow edge of the slide at the far‑left side of the road. Alert to the changes in road surface and rambunctious streams in the gullies flanking the road, we pushed forward like children anticipating candy at Halloween.
SR-149 near Powderhorn, Colorado.
Instead of candy, we sought groceries as we rolled into Lake City and its tiny country store whose proprietors seemed to be a badly mismatched couple. The woman in long braids glared at us as if we’d tracked mud onto her freshly mopped floor, while the man – handsome in a Willie Nelson kind of way, if Willie Nelson could be considered handsome – happily greeted us, teasing about our florescent green rainsuits. “We are not men, we are Devo,” he joked in a robotic voice referencing the ’70s New Wave band famous for their quirky spaceman costumes. We bought vegetables, tortillas, and cheese for quesadillas we would cook once we found a campsite for the night.
Lake City is an eye‑blink of an old mining town with the down‑at‑heel aspect of a climate-change ski resort in shoulder season. The cold, damp weather did not bring any charm to the Grizzly Adams cabins lining the road.
I attributed the town’s creepiness to its horror‑movie sepia tones and bad weather, but I later learned that Lake City gained notoriety in 1875 when Alferd Packer, the “Colorado Cannibal,” was charged with killing and eating the prospectors he’d been hired to guide through the San Juan Mountains after the group had become snowbound. In the spring, five bodies with human teeth marks were found at the foot of Slumgullion Pass. Lake City’s Hinsdale County Museum has an extensive collection of Packer memorabilia, including a skull fragment from one of his victims and several buttons from the clothes of the five men he ate. The area where the bodies were discovered is now known as Cannibal Plateau. Odder still, the area hosts an annual Alferd Packer Jeep Tour and Barbecue.
As we approached the peak of Slumgullion Pass near Lake City, Colorado, the rain abated, and the skies cleared.
My unease was supplanted by the fear and exhilaration of climbing out of town along steep, wet switchbacks to Windy Point Observation Site and Slumgullion Pass. As we climbed, I chimed into the headset, “Don’t look right, Johnny.” The narrow two‑lane highway had no guardrail, and the drop-off induced a vertigo that made me tighten my grip on my handlebar and tank. At Windy Point, we stopped to look back at the long narrow valley thousands of feet below us.
Evening was approaching, and we were still in the middle of a sheer climb on our way to North Clear Creek Campground, a destination we were not sure even existed, but the sky finally opened, and the tight switchbacks loosened as we topped 11,530‑foot Slumgullion Pass.
The map we consulted – and re‑consulted – showed the campground within 50 miles. Trying to keep from being swept up in the National Geographic beauty of the broadening landscape, I kept my eyes peeled for a Forest Service campground sign. We were hungry and cold, and it was getting late. We’d passed so little traffic, I was game to pitch the tent at the side of the road, but John persisted.
North Clear Creek Campground in Colorado’s Rio Grande National Forest was our home for the night after an eventful ride.
We finally turned off SR‑149 and crossed a cattle guard onto Forest Road 510, which fell away to vertiginous Class‑IV switchbacks. I groaned but also laughed. It was the “dropping hour.” We have a joke that on extended motorcycle trips, we often face the most challenging miles of the day right before arriving at our destination exhausted and hungry. The road toyed with us. I inched down its sharp gravel turns, determined but cautious given the hour. As I eased down one hill, a young woman on a dirtbike blasted up it. Encouraged that there might be an actual campground ahead and inspired by another woman on a bike, I sped all the way up to 2nd gear!
Pink sunglasses reflect the expansive valley near Creede.
After almost missing the 70‑degree turn into the campground at the bottom of the hill and duck‑walking the bikes back over sandy gravel ruts, we casually rolled into the nearly vacant campground and found a suitable spot with a picnic table, breathtaking panoramic views, and a glorious sunset reflected off the peaks of the Rio Grande National Forest.
The next morning was cold and clear. With visions of coffee and pastries dancing in our helmets, we headed toward Creede, home to an underground mining museum, the Mineral County Landfill, a cemetery, a chapel, and an excellent little food truck/coffee shop that appeared to be set up during the pandemic like a one‑way street, with one entrance and one exit. The pastry case was filled with buttery French confections, the air with the scent of espresso. Bon appétit! We took our pastries to a table outside where we lounged, sipping cappuccinos in the sun.
The population of Creede, Colorado, swells from 300 to 10,000 on July 4th. After a cold, wet, challenging ride the day before, it was an oasis. We found a mobile coffee shop where we enjoyed the company of locals, pain au chocolat, and cappuccinos in the sun.
The road along the Rio Grande – which far downstream serves as the border between Texas and Mexico – was as good as the croissants. At South Fork, we headed south on U.S. Route 160 and climbed to 10,856‑foot Wolf Creek Pass. It was cold at elevation, and we encountered traffic and threatening weather, but the road was smooth, wide, and curvy through Pagosa Springs and Chimney Rock. We lunched in Durango after a torrential downpour trapped us under a busy highway underpass.
U.S. 160 through the mountains near Hesperus Ski Area was fabulous despite the cold and wet. Things got warmer as we descended out of the mountains, and by the time we got to Mancos, we were sweltering in the heat of the desert. We took off as much as we could and poured cold water down the backs of our armored jackets. Body temperature management was a challenge we had improved at over time.
South of Creede, the Rio Grande snakes along SR-149 on the way to South Fork.
In the blazing heat, we headed west on State Route 184 toward Dolores, then north on U.S. Route 491 past Yellow Jacket and into Canyons of the Ancients National Monument, administered by the Bureau of Land Management and inhabited almost solely by spirits. The road narrowed and then narrowed again. There is something gritty and fundamental about these small roads, something secret and unspoken like the second indents of an outline of one’s life or the dark side of the moon.
The heat kept building. As we crossed into Utah, the landscape gave way to a barren, flat emptiness without trees or buildings. We traveled in silent awe, feeling exposed in the heat but excited about the ruins of Hovenweep National Monument.
Our day took us from cold rain and high passes to sweltering heat and desert valleys. The sunset at Hovenweep was a just reward.
Known for six groups of Ancestral Puebloan villages, Hovenweep contains evidence of occupation by hunter‑gatherers from 8,000 B.C. until AD 200. We were finally going to visit the spirits we’d been sensing on this hot road.
We turned into what seemed the middle of nowhere, but John assured me this was the way. I saw only shrubs, grasses, and sage until I glimpsed a sign the size of a sheet of paper with an arrow proving him right: Hovenweep National Monument. We traversed a lunar landscape of sand, craters, dead volcanoes, and lava flows until we happened upon a herd of wild horses in the middle of the road. We stopped to gape. Shy and beautiful, they paused in their grazing to examine us. Though I wanted to join these beasts on a romanticized journey out of a dream, we had to keep moving. Standing still in the late afternoon heat was a torture neither of us wanted to endure – magical, wild horses notwithstanding.
Sunset on the ruins at Hovenweep National Monument in Utah.
Reminiscent of Death Valley with its lethal sun, long straightaways, and distant bluffs, Hovenweep Road also reminded me of the song by America “A Horse with No Name.” I started to understand the line “In the desert, you can’t remember your name.” In the heat and arid sameness of the landscape, time seemed to stop. I could tell we were moving, if only for the visual cue of the scenery receding in my mirror. I became flooded with the eerie sensation of being watched. It felt as if the ghosts of millennia were hovering just above the heat waves upwelling from the macadam.
“Hovenweep” is a Paiute/Ute word meaning “deserted valley.” As we rode into the scorched campground, I sensed that the ancestors were still there. A clan of attentive ravens seemed to be protectors – or just eager to see what food they could liberate from us.
Hovenweep is a special place, and we had the distinct feeling that the ancestors were still there.
After pouring rationed water onto our heads and down our backs, we hiked off to see the ruins, following a faint path between rock walls leading to a dry creek bed. Walking fast to beat the setting sun, we climbed down into the creek bed then up the other side until we saw what looked like a crumbling brick silo. Hovenweep at last! As we gazed in silence at the majestic ruins of a once‑lively community, a rainbow broke through distant storm clouds. Back at our campsite, we cooked dinner in the waning light as a million stars began to wink.
Riding the ridge near Mirador de la Cardosa, Cantabria, on the IMTBike Essence of Northern Spain Tour.
The landscape of northern Spain erupted with jagged peaks and rolled along lush green hillsides. Farms folded across every nook, and waves pounded the Atlantic coast. Mile after mile of smooth, tight curves were waiting to be savored. The evidence was all around: Northern Spain is a rider’s paradise.
This past September, I joined IMTBike’s Essence of Northern Spain Tour. Leaving the planning to the pros at IMTBike, I simply arrived with my gear in Bilbao up north in the País Vasco (Basque Country) and enjoyed the ride. Over eight days, I explored new places with new friends, and fabulous riding connected every experience. This tour strung together curvy backroads through vast open spaces, rural pastoral lands, dense forests, and stunning coasts.
The tour frequently visits Spain’s Atlantic Coast, like here in Colunga, Asturias.
“Essence” tours like this one are new weeklong versions of longer IMTBike tours. Riders who can only get a week off from work can now enjoy full‑on tours of northern Spain, southern Spain, Portugal, or Morocco with a shorter time commitment.
IMTBike has been perfecting the art and science of motorcycle tours for 27 years. Initially, the focus was the Iberian Peninsula (Spain and Portugal). Today, it also offers tours of Morocco, France, Italy, and the Alps; exclusive MotoGP tours in Catalunya, Jerez, and Valencia; global tours in Turkey, Japan, Thailand, Vietnam, and New Zealand; and self‑guided and custom‑designed tours.
My fellow tour members came to northern Spain from Costa Rica, Guatemala, Japan, the Netherlands, and the U.S. We all love travel, adventure, and motorcycling – that’s what brought us together – and as always, I enjoyed the experience of meeting and riding with people from countries other than my own.
Juanan Martin, our tour guide, has graduate degrees in history and travel journalism – perfect credentials for his role. Paulo Murteira, who drove the IMTBike support van, loves off‑road endurance riding and was a laugh a minute! Both were excellent sources of information, assistance, and insight.
During a coffee break, our tour guide Juanan reviewed the next section of the day’s ride.
From IMTBike’s garage in Bilbao, Juanan led us to the Cantabrian Mountains and strings of hairpin turns. At Collados del Asón Natural Park, we paused to take in a spectacular panoramic mountain vista. That first day, we traversed five mountain passes en route to Santillana del Mar.
Our night’s lodging was a parador located on a magnificently preserved medieval town square. Paradors are historic, architecturally significant buildings such as former castles, monasteries, and manor homes. Owned by the Spanish government and operated as luxury hotels, paradors preserve these treasured buildings and keep them relevant. We stayed in three of them on this tour.
This parador in Asturias was formerly the Monastery of San Pedro de Villanueva.
We also grew accustomed to dinner served on Spanish time: 8 p.m. at the earliest and frequently later. Your humble scribe is a big fan of seafood, and our daily menus included locally sourced fish and other delicacies from the North Atlantic, as well as delicious meat dishes, fresh fruits and veggies, and a variety of decadent desserts. No one went hungry.
By the second day, tour members had organically clustered into three groups of four bikes each according to their preferred pace. This unofficial order enabled everyone to ride their own ride. Juanan told me that every tour is its own living entity, with distinct personalities and group dynamics, individual rider skills, weather and seasonal factors, and more. Everyone wanted something different from their tour experience, and Juanan and Paulo were focused on delivering for us all.
Later, we had our first of numerous encounters with livestock in the road. Flat, open expanses of pastureland are uncommon in northern Spain, so cows (and occasionally horses and goats) nibble on grass wherever they find it. They seemed accustomed to the passing vehicles, so I rolled off the throttle a bit and bellowed “Moo!” before motoring past.
We experienced endless curves through the Cantabrian Mountains.
Spain has the highest average elevation of all western European countries except Switzerland, and the mountains we rode around, over, and sometimes through were highpoints for me. Topping my list for beauty was Picos de Europa National Park. Founded in 1918, it was Spain’s first national park. Today it’s a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve, and its natural beauty was wondrous to experience while carving great roads on a motorcycle.
While the mountains reminded me of the Alps, the Costa Verde (Green Coast) felt like Ireland. Okay, maybe not the palm trees. Herds of Asturian Valley cattle, the ubiquitous orange‑colored breed raised in northern Spain, grazed on grassy hills overlooking the ocean. What a completely different scene from the brown plains of central Spain. As cows chewed greenery, surfers in wetsuits carried their boards down to the sandy beach below. Some of Europe’s most popular surfing destinations are here on Spain’s northern coast. I wondered if this convergence of cattle and surfers gave rise to the expression “Cowabunga!”
Love mountains? This view of Riaño, León, helps one appreciate that Spain has western Europe’s second highest average elevation.
From cliffs overlooking the coast, we headed inland, where entertaining secondary roads wound us through agrarian landscapes past the hilly farms of Asturias. The most common crop appeared to be manzanas (apples), and most homes, even those that weren’t farmhouses, had a lemon tree in the yard. I admired the resilience of farmers here: There was hardly any land you’d call flat, yet orchards were abundant, tucked into every conceivable space. Livestock grazed along the roads here too.
Though the weather in northern Spain was mostly clear, warm, and dry, we rode through a late‑day rain shower near Oviedo, the bustling capital city of Asturias. On the last stretch to our hotel, it was useful having a guide with local knowledge and a solid plan to lead the group though wet, busy streets to the tight quarters of a downtown hotel parking garage. ¡Bien hecho, Juanan! Well done!
The capital of Asturias is Oviedo, a beautiful city where we enjoyed a rest day.
That evening in Oviedo, we had dinner in a sidrería (cidery), a pub‑like establishment where locals gather to drink cider, eat, and socialize. We enjoyed multiple courses of Asturian fare, washed down with sangría de sidra (cider sangria) made from the same variety of manzanas we saw growing on trees. It was an Asturian holiday, and patrons were joyously singing, their enthusiasm enhanced by pitchers of sangria. You don’t have to visit a museum to experience culture.
An evening walk through Oviedo was a great way to end a riding day. I’ve never visited a prettier city.
IMTBike scheduled a rest day halfway through this tour, but there was an optional lunch run to the seaside fishing village of Cudillero. Juanan led an exhilarating backroads jaunt through dense forest with little evidence of humans. Cudillero is built into rocky cliffs overlooking the Bay of Biscay. The ascending rows of colorful houses reminded me of similar towns I’d seen in Italy. At the edge of town, waves hitting the rocky shore presented spectacular views.
That evening, I decided to explore more of Oviedo on my own while speaking only Spanish. It had been decades since I studied Spanish in school, but after a few days in Spain, the fundamentals were coming back. I managed to buy a gift for my wife and order a fish dinner, celebrating these minor triumphs with una cerveza. ¡Salud!
The optional ride on the rest day followed narrow roads through deep forests.
Next morning, tour members huddled for our daily riders briefing with Juanan. He emphasized the need to depart the hotel as an organized group – and stay together as we left the city. A major bicycle race called La Vuelta, Spain’s version of the Tour de France, was passing through the area that morning. Juanan explained that the racecourse overlapped our route, and unless we rode through before race organizers closed the road, we’d have to wait. Thanks to this helpful attention to detail from our tour guide, our wellorganized group passed by the busy staging area for La Vuelta that morning on a still-open road.
Our group enjoyed a break at Puerto de Pandetrave in León.
After coffee, our route cut through Trubia River Gorge, where steep rock cliffs reached up on either side of us. Eventually we gained elevation, riding through the clouds until we poked above them into sunshine. I love when that happens. We crossed Alto de la Corbetoria Pass and then descended in tight curves to the Lena River to enjoy a stretch of easy sweepers to La Llama. The continuous flow of a curvy river road is always special on a motorcycle, and this tour included several of them.
Returning to the Picos de Europa, we relished technical curves and climbed in elevation before a lunch stop at Puerto de San Isidro, an alpine ski resort. At midday in late summer, skiers were notably absent. As our group prepared to move on, I let Juanan know I was going to ride alone for the afternoon. In this rugged and remote region of León, I stopped whenever I wanted to marvel at views of the mountains and lakes against a crystal blue sky. Since I opted for a GPS with routes pre‑loaded, it was no problem arriving on my own schedule (and well before dinnertime) at that night’s parador lodgings.
To build roads through northern Spain’s mountainous terrain, engineers have designed some impressive solutions. After a mid‑morning break in Potes, we reached Collada de Carmona Pass, where our mountain descent abruptly came into view. The road went through a hole cut through the cliff. Above the road, multilayer nets of steel mesh were moored onto the cliffside to catch falling rocks and held many they had snared. Then the road twisted down the mountainside, switchback after switchback, to the valley below. The smooth tar continued, snaking through positive camber curves along a meandering river for miles as the next mountain pass grew gradually closer. Up, over, and down again, the grin never left my face. At the next stop, our group of elated riders dismounted and exchanged high‑fives. What a run!
Camaleño in Cantabria provided many enjoyable sweepers.
While winding roads with dramatic views earned my top score on this tour, architecture was a notable runner‑up. The ultra modern Guggenheim museum in Bilbao is a marvel of design, encased in a skin of titanium. In stark contrast, the Sanctuary of Loyola in Azpeitia was a grand example of Spanish baroque architecture. And with its classical civic buildings, elegant parkside homes, and captivating old town edifices, Oviedo was as pretty as any city I’ve visited.
By design, this tour put us on mostly empty roads. But on a warm, sunny afternoon in late summer, it was no surprise to encounter beach traffic along a scenic coastal route. The view of the seaside below was splendid from a gently curving road cut into the cliffside, and the tang of salt air scented every breath I took. A slower pace was fine for a bit.
Rest stops present an opportunity for riders, each riding at their own pace, to regroup. We did that here at Puerto de Pandetrave in León.
Then we found ourselves riding into the unexpected. An altered traffic pattern sent us into a congested cobblestone pedestrian zone where some kind of celebration was underway. Clearly, this wasn’t the plan. Folks were stunned by the arrival of a dozen motorcycles, but Juanan quickly calmed any concerns. The first few riders managed tight, bumpy U‑turns, but those farther back were squeezed into an alley. Juanan pivoted several of those bikes 180 degrees on the sidestand – first time I’d seen that technique used on cobblestones – and in short order, we rode off as folks smiled and waved.
Carving more curves through the Basque Country and down the steep hills into Bilbao, our tour came to an end where it began: IMTBike’s garage. We parked our bikes one last time as Juanan poured us a cava toast. Later, over our final dinner as a group, we relived favorite moments of this exciting tour and started planning more adventures.
In 2024, the Essence of Northern Spain tour runs June 29‑July 7 and Sept. 7‑15. Prices start at 3,845 euros (about $4,100 USD) for a single rider on a BMW G 310 R and sharing a double room. Larger motorcycles and private rooms are optional. Not included in the tour price are air tickets, lunches, gasoline, drinks, tolls, GPS, personal spending, and tips. Learn more at the IMTBike website.
Ullu rests at 14,482-foot Saach Pass in Himalayan Pir Panjal range.
It came to me in the middle of the night, as most great ideas do: I would take an India motorcycle trip, crossing from north to south. My route would take me from the mountains of Ladakh to the valleys of Kashmir, into bustling Rajasthan, over the Western Ghats, and through the wet jungles of the South – a total distance of more than 4,500 miles. I would ride “Ullu,” my 2009 Royal Enfield Machismo 350 with an ongoing tappet issue, and my budget would be only 30,000 rupees (about $360).
The path to Ladakh is a playground of natural beauty. It is also vast, with no mechanics or petrol stations en route.
I waded through rivers that reached my waist in Nubra Valley and coasted down the 21‑hairpin Gata Loops at breathtaking speed. I reached the moonscape‑like peak of Wari La Pass, was snowed on at Khardung La, and raced a herd of wild horses as they thundered down More Plains. I rode through a canyon with a sparkling river running through the center and tackled the treacherous 17,586‑foot Chang La Pass. Ladakh was a dreamscape, and the surroundings changed drastically from fresh landslides to icy lakes to the legendary dunes of Pang. As far as an India motorcycle trip was concerned, I was in paradise.
In Ladakh, white-washed monasteries are perched high in the Himalayas.
The dirt road connecting Koksar to Kaza in Spiti Valley was a constant game of temporary fixes for Ullu: shoelaces through the wheel guard, a bungee cord around the exhaust pipe, and a snapped clutch lever repaired with duct tape. The terrain was a bone‑shaking challenge from start to end, and vehicles littered the boulder‑strewn paths in various states of breakdown.
Smooth, winding tarmac on the Manali Leh highway through Ladakh’s Nubra Valley. (Photo by Haven Lane Photography – @Havensway on Instagram)
Near the border of Pakistan, I steeled myself for two dangerous passes on National Highway 26 from Kashmir between Killar, Khajjiar, and Kishtwar. Both were closing soon due to forecasted snow, and I was determined to cross them off my list. The Cliffhanger was a tricky and dramatic ride on a road carved into a sheer cliff that’s 2,000 feet above the Chenab River.
Saach Pass, an endurance ride through deep forest to an ice‑slicked desolate mesa, was a mix of endless clutch control and precise handling on the downhills. With such tantalizing terrain to explore, it was difficult to leave the North, but the rest of India beckoned me.
Between Killar and Kishtwar is the dreaded Cliffhanger, India’s “death road,” which is carved into the rockface 2,000 feet above the Chenab River. (Photo by John Gaisford)
I detoured into Pushkar to learn how to build a motorbike from scratch at my friend Mukesh’s garage. I spent a week drinking chai with a team of mechanics by the roadside, sharing communal meals on the garage floor, and learning how to replace clutch plates.
Every road from Punjab to Rajasthan was long and uneventful, but I was not so lucky when I started the next leg of my India motorcycle trip.
The team of mechanics at Mukesh’s (not shown) garage in Pushkar, where I spent a week learning how to build a motorbike from spare parts.
National Highway 11 toward Jaisalmer was a road of death, and the smell of various animals decomposing in the midday heat carried on the breeze. I saw mirages of great lakes that vanished as quickly as they appeared, and burnt‑out vehicles lay overturned in the sand. The desert can be a strange place.
On the bustling streets of Amritsar, Punjab, a vendor sells panipuri: deep-fried balls of dough filled with potatoes, onions, and spices.
The winter winds on the highway toyed with everyone on the road. I fought against a side wind that buffeted me back and forth with such velocity that I gasped for air under my helmet. Six high‑speed lorries – massive trucks in formation across two lanes – were inches away from my tires. On that road, it was suicidal to be so close to the edge with pushy trucks and a bullying wind, but I had no choice. I slowed my speed but started to be sucked under the gap between their wheels as my handlebar toggled ferociously with the pressure. I clipped the edge of the sand at 30 mph and went down.
I crawled on my hands and knees toward the bike a few meters from where I had landed on the concrete and hit the kill switch. Ullu received only a broken horn and a buckled wheel. My riding gear saved me from a worse fate, but I still had a dollop of whiplash and a mild concussion.
Jaisalmer was a beautiful place to recover. Determined to see deep desert, I rode out to catch the sunset, going until my wheels sank into endless sand. Later, as I lay back on Ullu’s seat and watched billions of stars in the inky‑black sky, I reflected on how India is not an easy place to ride, but it was worth every near‑miss.
In Jaisalmer, Ullu and a fellow beast of burden enjoy a late-day respite.
Hoping for a bit of good fortune for the remainder of my India motorcycle trip, I sought out the Bullet Baba shrine on National Highway 65. It is one of 33 million Hindu deities and represents the legend of a local man who crashed into a tree and died and whose motorcycle found its way back to the crash site alone without keys or petrol. Locals flock to the site to ask for safe passage across India’s roads and offer whiskey in return. I visited the holy bike with a bottle stuffed into my backpack.
The Bullet Baba shrine in Rajasthan.
The final stop on my Rajasthan tour was Udaipur. I lazily wound through the undulating Aravalli hills of Kumbhalgarh in afternoon light and rode around the famous Rani Road at sunrise to see Rajasthan’s shining lakes. India was changing her look every few hundred miles, and I could not wait to see what the Western Ghats had to offer.
Surrounding a small lake is Pushkar, one of the holiest cities in India and a pilgrimage site for many Hindus and Sikhs. This priest is on his way to a Puja ceremony, a blessing that honors gods and deceased loved ones.
I entered Mumbai in Western India like a child pretending to be a racer. I was in a tide of hundreds of motorcycles at rush hour, all revving their engines impatiently. Without any warning, signaling, or light change, true to their name, the Bullets sped forward, each one racing the next. On wash day, the air smelled like a bucket of soap suds, and the whole city was brightly decorated.
I headed immediately for Mahabaleshwar, a hill station with luxurious views of the stunning Sahyadri range. With less than 2 liters of petrol after the hills, I bounced along the descent on badly broken road surfaces, glad that I had reduced the air in my tires. I sputtered into Goa on Christmas Day through a blanket of freezing sea mist. My present to my trusty steed was a full service and a week off.
Playing in the snow at Khardung La, a 17,582-foot pass.
The roads into Munnar are on every Indian traveler’s bucket list. I chose to ride through five national parks, relishing the gorgeous blue Nilgiri hills on all sides. In beautiful Ooty, I raced down 36 consecutive hairpins on the addictive downhills of the accident‑prone Kalhatty Road. At one time, tourists were not permitted to ride it due to the complexity and danger of the epic turns.
I reached Munnar, where the oscillating route was full of seemingly endless tight corners and fast bends. It was some of the most perfect motorcycle riding I had ever experienced. Tea leaves were draped over the hills in a lime green patchwork quilt, knitted with care by whichever gods had imagined such a place.
I dawdled through the coconut plantations of Karnataka and Tamil Nadu, fingering the meager rupees left in my pocket and wondering if I would make it to the end. I was almost there, and it was probably because of the heat and fatigue at this point that I began to make mistakes.
I took a wrong turn and had to explain to a very confused ranger why I was riding illegally in a tiger reserve. Ullu’s ignition cable suddenly came loose in the middle of the jungle, but again I was fortunate; a local reattached it with his teeth for free. Another time, I stopped to admire the view and carelessly knocked my bike keys into a pile of rubbish many feet down, and the whole village came running to help. Eventually, a tiny man with a hooked stick five times as long as he was tall came running to the rescue, grinning from ear to ear.
Near the end of the journey, Ellie and Ullu rode through coconut plantations in Tamil Nadu, the southernmost state in India.
It hit me hard when I got to Kerala and saw the sign for Kanyakumari – the city at the southernmost tip of India – that my journey would soon end. Little moments of the trip replayed in my mind, from the icy dreamland of the Himalayas to brightly decorated Rajasthan to the sublime colors of the South.
At the end of my India motorcycle trip, I sat atop Ullu and patted her tank, watching the sight I had been waiting for: the sun setting into the Arabian Sea. The next morning, sitting at the same spot, I watched the sun rise over the Bay of Bengal to the east.
The author and “Ullu,” her Royal Enfield, at Kanyakumari on the southern tip of mainland India, where the Arabian Sea, Bay of Bengal, and Indian Ocean meet.
Indian roads are a complex machine that operates on courage and trust, and I now understand the absurdity of them in their confusion and chaos. I learned that every breakdown is a chance for a new connection with a stranger; that many bike issues can be fixed with tin cans, rubber bands, or a mouthful of petrol; and that no matter how long the journey might take, there is always time for another chai.
Independence Pass is one of the truly iconic motorcycle roads in the Southwest and a great reason to take a Colorado motorcycle trip.
As I sat in the fantastic Belly Up Aspen concert venue in Colorado listening to a great performance by The Wallflowers, I did not imagine that “belly up” was a condition I was going to have to actively avoid the next day. You see, the following morning I was going to ride Independence Pass, one of my favorite stretches of pavement in the Southwest that I had taken some months previous in the fall.
That night in Aspen, Wallflowers front man Jakob Dylan was on top of his vocal game and filled the intimate venue with all of his best work. Ironically, the band’s song Angel on my Bike chronicles salvation from either a real or figurative motorcycle crash. Turns out I was going to need that angel on my pillion seat.
The Wallflowers offer up a lyrical reminder for safe riding,
The crisp Colorado mountain air had me zipping up my jacket vents as I started the ascent out of Aspen. The early ride was just what I had hoped for. Smooth pavement traced through the evergreens, and traffic was light. I quickly fell into that perfect groove as I slalomed up toward the pass.
I was only a handful of miles into the climb when I got the first hint that this would not be a normal ride. Just after a blind curve, a mother moose and her offspring bounded in front of me. The mother was quick and agile as she leapt to safety. The little one was confused and halting, and I was forced into an abrupt evasive swerve. As my heart settled, the two disappeared into the forested depths.
As I continued my climb, that smooth blacktop transformed into recently applied chipseal. The tar-coated gravel began the telltale cacophony of sounds as it flung from my tires onto my fenders and bodywork – a far cry from the melodic offerings of The Wallflowers the night before. I cut my speed in half and made the requisite adjustments to my cornering technique.
The crest of the pass marks the dividing line between fresh roadwork and weathered tarmac.
I rode up to one of the two stop lights on the pass that control traffic in the one-lane Narrows sections of Independence Pass. The light was just changing to red, and I slowed to a stop in anticipation of the oncoming traffic taking its turn in the Narrows. In my mirrors, I saw an SUV barreling toward me. I was already planning my escape maneuver in what little room I had on the side of the road. Without any slowing, the Range Rover barreled into the oncoming lane and passed me, pelting me with gravel as he ran the red light and endangered me and all of the potential oncoming traffic. Close call No. 2, plus challenging riding conditions.
Narrow road conditions on the pass require metered traffic flow for the law-abiding drivers.
After continuing on when the light turned green, I came upon the crew applying the chipseal. At this point, the road became even more challenging as the surface was newly applied. One lane was gravel and the other was fresh tar. The combination of this variable surface with the twisty, guardrail-less pass made for tricky riding. Accelerating, braking, and turning all had to be muted and modulated. The road remained like this all the way to the 12,000-foot apex of the pass.
These warning signs mean business in the Colorado mountains.
Fresh tar and fresh chipseal make for unpredictable riding surface conditions.
After stopping for the views – and the bathroom – at the top, I started the descent on the other side of the pass on established pavement with actual markings and no gravel or fresh tar. It was not, however, the end of the challenge.
Independence Pass has some of the best views in Colorado, so slow down and make it there.
It became clear that the prior winter had taken a toll on the pass, which had been much more intact only months before in the fall. While not as challenging as the way up, the frayed and crumbling margins of the tarmac and the potholes made the descent worthy of extreme vigilance.
The descent down the mountain pass shows why there is a need for summer maintenance.
Extreme winter conditions in the Rockies make vigilant road maintenance a necessity.
In the end, I made it unscathed (other than tar on my boots and a few chips on my BMW bodywork). I did not end up belly up, maybe due in part to an angel on my bike. Now that I’m on the other side of this particular Colorado motorcycle trip, I highly recommend catching a concert at Belly Up Aspen, attending a show by The Wallflowers wherever they might be playing, and avoiding assumptions about a favorite road based on the last time you rode it.
After a long, hot day riding through Oklahoma and Texas, I arrived at the St. James Hotel in Cimarron, New Mexico, the first stop on my motorcycle tour of haunted hotels. Built in 1872 by Henri Lambert near the Santa Fe Trail, it had a saloon, a restaurant, and guest rooms where many famous – and infamous – people stayed over the years.
It’s always fun to have a theme for a motorcycle tour, and my plan for a late August ride was a four-day loop from my home in Oklahoma to visit three historic hotels that are widely purported to be haunted. The first would be the St. James Hotel in Cimarron, New Mexico, followed by the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado, and finally the Eldridge Hotel in Lawrence, Kansas. Between the fright nights, I’d ride first-class mountain roads on a nearly 1,900-mile route through five states.
To make time, I rode west on Interstate 40 for the first 150 miles or so. Wind turbines were spinning at a good clip, and flags at roadside businesses whipped around in the hot wind. I rode in what my buddies and I call “the I-40 lean” – riding with the bike pitched a few degrees to the left to counteract the constant gale.
It was nearly 100 degrees when I crossed into the panhandle of Texas, and the empty landscape was dotted with cattle and oil wells. When I stopped in Dalhart to refuel, a guy with long hair and a shaggy beard pulling two Harleys on a trailer behind a pickup asked where I was heading. After I shared my plan, he said he was heading home after riding many of the same roads.
Eyeing my Suzuki V-Strom 1050XT, he said he still owns a KTM he bought back in the ’90s when he was in Germany. “I spent three years there myself,” I said, “when I was in the Army.” Turns out we were stationed in some of the same places, decades ago, on the other side of the world. And here we were, on a sweltering afternoon in small-town Texas, talking motorcycles and swapping memories.
St. James Hotel
The site of at least 26 killings, the St. James Hotel has a reputation for being haunted.
The temperature subsided a bit after crossing into New Mexico, where I rode through high plains grassland. North of Springer, I continued west on State Route 58, climbing into the foothills of the Rockies. Once in Cimarron, I parked in front of the St. James Hotel. Walking into the lobby felt like going back in time to the Old West of the late 1800s.
Built in 1872 near the Santa Fe Trail and originally known as Lambert’s Inn, this hotel was a favorite of Old West legends such as Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, Buffalo Bill Cody, Annie Oakley, Jesse James, and Billy the Kid.
During the lawless days of the Wild West, the hotel was the site of at least 26 murders; bullet holes are still visible over the bar in the hotel’s main dining room. Today, the St. James has 12 restored rooms in the original building, each named for a famous guest who stayed in the room, and 10 more rooms in a modern annex.
Several ghosts have been identified by paranormal experts in the St. James. Room 18 is off-limits because it is believed to house the malevolent ghost of Thomas James Wright, who was murdered after he won rights to the hotel in a poker game. The spirit of Mary Elizabeth Lambert, wife of the hotel’s founder, is said to be a protector of the hotel. She died there in 1926, and some say her rose-scented perfume still wafts through the hallways. There have been reports of a persistent tapping sound in Room 17, the mysterious smell of cigar smoke even though the hotel is nonsmoking, and sightings of a mischievous ghost resembling a little old man, nicknamed the “Little Imp,” who supposedly steals and relocates objects.
I stayed in the Pancho Griego room in the old building. Griego, a card dealer and local enforcer, picked a fight in the hotel’s saloon with gunslinger Clay Allison over the killing of Griego’s nephew. Unfortunately for Griego, he was a little (or a lot) drunk and took a bullet to the head from Allison’s gun. Would Griego’s restless spirit pay me a visit?
After a nice dinner in the hotel restaurant, I turned in. I’ve stayed in supposedly haunted hotels all over the country going back at least 20 years, and I’ve never had a paranormal experience. But at the St. James, I was awakened at 3 a.m. – the so-called “witching hour” when the spirit world is said to be most active – by an unidentifiable foul odor that defied explanation (no, it wasn’t me).
A Motorcycle Tour on the Enchanted Circle
Welcome to New Mexico’s Enchanted Circle Scenic Byway. Just outside Cimarron Canyon at 8,200 feet, picturesque Eagle Nest Lake is an introduction to the beauty of the New Mexico Rockies.
Continuing west on U.S. Route 64, I enjoyed flowing curves and yellow wildflowers as I rode through Cimarron Canyon State Park. Climbing out of the canyon revealed Eagle Nest Lake, an alpine lake above 8,000 feet near the Enchanted Circle Scenic Byway.
Turning north on State Route 38, I followed the byway toward the ski town of Red River. I knew this stretch of highway from many ski trips there with my wife and kids. The road meanders through the mountains, winding its way up to 9,820-foot Bobcat Pass and into Carson National Forest. Memories of those family trips rushed back – the cabins we stayed in, our favorite ski lifts and runs, the restaurants we liked, and the fun we had.
Crossing into Colorado, I rode over 9,426-foot La Veta Pass on U.S. Route 160 and then up through Colorado Springs and Denver. At Loveland, I turned west on U.S. Route 34 and enjoyed a winding ride through Big Thompson Canyon and Roosevelt National Forest to Estes Park.
After a 400-mile day, I arrived at the Stanley Hotel, which sits on a sprawling property with views of the city that serves as the gateway to Rocky Mountain National Park. When it opened in 1909, it rivaled the finest hotels in America. It was established by Freelan Stanley, who, along with twin brother Francis, co-founded the Stanley Motor Carriage Company, which manufactured steam-powered automobiles from 1897-1924. Freelan fell in love with the Estes Valley, in part because he believed the area helped restore his previously failing health. Early hotel guests were impressed by features such as electric lights, telephones, modern bathrooms, a uniformed staff, and a fleet of Stanley Steamers.
By the 1970s, the hotel was struggling but got a shot in the arm when it became known as the inspiration for Stephen King’s bestseller The Shining. The book may be fiction, but there are plenty of real-life ghost stories swirling around the Stanley.
Darkness gathers at the Stanley Hotel. Opened in 1909, it famously served as the inspiration for Stephen King’s “The Shining.” At twilight, the hotel takes on an air of spookiness.
After checking in, I took the vintage Otis elevator to my fourth-floor room, which was hot as hell – fitting. The front desk dispatched a service technician, and as he worked on the air conditioner, I quizzed him about the hotel’s ghostly reputation.
“Is there anything to the ghost stuff?”
“Yep, they’re here,” he said. “I had my first experience after I’d been here a few months – tapped me right on the shoulder, but there was nobody there.”
“Interesting…” I replied, feeling a little chill down my spine.
At twilight, I walked out front to admire the Stanley’s beautiful facade against the darkening sky and visit the mildly creepy hedge maze, disappointed that a frozen Jack Nicholson was nowhere to be found. Back inside, I peeked in the séance room. The place certainly looked haunted.
Although Stephen King’s frightful night was in Room 217, the fourth floor where I was staying is thought to be the most haunted part of the hotel. Guests in Room 407 have reported being tucked into bed by an invisible force, and the apparition of a cowboy has been reported in Room 428. But Room 401 is the creepiest – female guests have reported inappropriate “touching” by what is thought to be an unfriendly male ghost. After my unsettling experience at the St. James, learning about the paranormal activity that has occurred just down the hall from my room had my eyes wide open as I turned off the bedside lamp.
However, after a restful sleep undisturbed by the spirit world, I packed up and headed south on the Peak-to-Peak Scenic Byway, a beautiful, curvy mountain road that reminded me why I’m a motorcyclist. Thinking it couldn’t get any better, I was proven wrong on State Route 119 toward Boulder, which follows a burbling stream with high rock cliffs on both sides for 16 glorious miles.
The lovely, flowing curves of Colorado’s Peak-to-Peak Scenic Byway.
The fun soon came to an end, and I steeled myself for a long, hot slog on Interstate 70 into Kansas. It was well after dark and I had clocked 652 miles for the day when I arrived in Lawrence for the last stop on my ghost tour.
Eldridge Hotel
Originally built in 1855 under the name Free State Hotel, the Eldridge Hotel was burned down twice because of its role as a focal point of anti-slavery sentiment. Each time it was burned, the hotel’s founder, Col. Shalor Eldridge, rebuilt it at the same site. In 1867, it was renamed the Eldridge Hotel, and through the turn of the 20th century, it was considered one of the finest hotels west of the Mississippi River.
The Eldridge Hotel was built in 1855. It was burned down twice and rebuilt each time. Its troubled past is believed to fuel the paranormal. (Photo by Jackpendry via Wikimedia Commons)
The Eldridge Hotel also has a long history of paranormal activity. The fifth floor is thought to have a direct connection to the spirit world, with Room 506 at the epicenter. Guests have reported seeing apparitions, breath marks on mirrors, doors opening and closing by themselves, and lights mysteriously turning themselves on and off. The elevator is said to have its own ghost who erratically opens and closes the elevator doors.
I checked into Room 305, which is spacious with modern amenities, and got cleaned up. Later, I wandered downstairs and explored the lobby, bar, and basement. The Eldridge is a beautiful old hotel, and I felt the weight of its history. With that history in mind – some of it painful – I can see how the energy of the past may still be imprinted on this place.
I once again slept peacefully in the comfy bed and woke up early, anxious to get on the road home. The only possible evidence of mischievous spirits was that my television was stuck on the Hallmark Murders & Mysteries channel.
Some of the roads and stops on my Old West motorcycle tour could certainly be considered supernatural, but did the experience make a believer out of me? Until I can find a logical explanation for what happened to me at the St. James Hotel, the jury is out.
Rumbling through a kaleidoscope of woodland colors, a rider and his passenger on a New Jersey backroads motorcycle ride enjoy the curves of Clinton Road as it ambles through the Pequannock Watershed.
When the leaves tremble with their last days of color and the north winds begin to blow, I want to seize the day and take a ride before the snowflakes fly. I like to experience a variety of roads and sights all within the limited daylight of late fall. Northern New Jersey has great roads that ramble through state forests, around reservoirs and farms, and into small towns, making for a superb day ride.
I had plotted a route for this trip, but soon after my ride began, I saw a road sign that warned: APPLE SEASON HEAVY TRAFFIC. The last thing I wanted was to be stuck in the middle of a traffic jam surrounded by carloads of apple‑picking tourists slowly swarming toward orchards, so I threw out my itinerary and decided to go wherever the road and my gut told me.
Rolling up Abram S. Hewitt State Forest’s Bearfort Ridge on the serpentine Warwick Turnpike, I avoided the congestion by taking the forest‑enveloped Clinton Road, which snakes through a large section of the 35,000‑acre Pequannock Watershed. There are four reservoirs open for public recreation, and the area is crisscrossed by mountain trails and home to all manner of wildlife.
A fisherman enjoys some peaceful solitude on one of the Pequannock Watershed reservoirs.
Clinton Road and its surrounding wilderness have a somewhat creepy reputation for ghost sightings, witch gatherings, weird animal hybrids, and at least one infamous serial killer. I was attracted to this particular stretch on my New Jersey backroads motorcycle ride because it was recently repaved and weaves alongside the sun-kissed reservoirs and through colorful forests, but the area’s notoriety added to its allure.
Among the fall colors, the author’s Vulcan stands ready to continue the cruise.
Several boat launches and parking areas provided opportunities to stretch my legs and drink in the scenery. Some riders are tempted to white‑knuckle it through the many twisties of Clinton Road, but I don’t recommend it. During the late fall rutting season, deer are hyperactive and as plentiful as flies on a cow patty. Besides, a slow cruise gives you time to appreciate the beauty.
However, as I turned off Clinton Road and rode west on the mostly rural State Route 23, I ramped up the pace. The crisp, pure air caressing my face was invigorating. At Hamburg, I picked up State Route 94. Rumbling south, I spotted the Northern New Jersey Veterans Memorial Cemetery and stopped to pay my respects. Walking through the cemetery, you cannot help but be overwhelmed with emotion and appreciation for those who served our country and now rest in this hallowed ground.
Headstones at Northern New Jersey Veterans Memorial Cemetery honor fallen soldiers.
Continuing south, SR‑94 passes through Newton, a bustling small town, and then into lush farmland, with New Jersey’s western mountains rising on the horizon like a fortress wall.
County Road 521 rolls through picturesque New Jersey farmland.
In Blairstown, I stopped for lunch at the Blairstown Diner, which has been family owned and operated for over 70 years and has tasty food and authentic retro decor. The diner was featured in the original Friday the 13th film, and in the hills of nearby Hardwick, Boy Scout Camp No‑Be‑Bo‑Sco stood in for the film’s major setting, Camp Crystal Lake.
From Blairstown, I wound my way north on the rolling County Road 521, stopping briefly at the scenic White Lake Natural Resource Area and the historic Vass Farmstead. Built in 1812 and listed in the National Registry of Historic Places, it is worth a stop.
The restored 19th century Vass Farmstead, now co‑owned by the Ridge and Valley Conservancy and the state of New Jersey, overlooks the White Lake Natural Resource Area.
At Stillwater, I turned left onto County Road 617 and then followed a series of other rural roads. My Vulcan handled these wavy and weaving routes through farmland and forests with cool confidence. By the time I reached SR‑23 again, the sun was hanging low in the western sky. Heading south, I cracked the whip on my Vulcan and enjoyed its pulsating power as we rode down the highway.
Leaves on the ground means riding season in New Jersey is drawing to a close.
As I exited onto the tree‑lined County Road 513, my journey neared its end. Although my route was impromptu, the ride was perfect. Cruising on great roads through the beautiful countryside during the fall reminded me what riding is meant to be: unfettered by plans and going with the flow. There definitely will be more freewheeling rides in my future. As Peter Fonda’s sage old biker character Damien Blade said in Wild Hogs, “Lose the watches.”
Utah State Route 128 is a scenic byway on the way to Moab, Utah, that winds through a canyon carved by the Colorado River.
Moab, Utah, is an ideal destination for a motorcycle trip. Where else can you find sandstone arches, red‑walled canyons, snow‑capped mountains, scenic byways, two national parks, and a fun, adventure‑ready town? The best time to visit is in the spring or fall because it’s often too hot in the summer and roads can get icy in the winter.
Since I live in Denver, on the other side of the Rockies, part of the fun of visiting Moab is simply getting there. Heading west out of the city, U.S. Route 285 climbs the Front Range before passing through mountain towns like Conifer (8,277 feet), Bailey (7,740 feet), and Fairplay (9,954 feet).
Riding through the Rockies means going over mountain passes, and on the way to Fairplay, you’ll cruise over Kenosha Pass (9,997 feet) and Red Hill Pass (9,993 feet) before descending into a broad valley. Such grand vistas across open range show the true beauty of Colorado. Fairplay is an old mining town named after the notion that all miners should have an equal chance to stake a claim. It’s home to South Park City, an open‑air museum preserving a 19th century mining town, including over 40 original buildings and thousands of artifacts from the boomtown days.
South Park City in Fairplay, Colorado, is an open‑air museum that preserves a 19th century mining town.
Continuing south on U.S. 285, the road becomes U.S. Route 24 at Antero Junction and goes south and then north through Buena Vista (7,925 feet) and Granite (9,012 feet). At Twin Lakes, turning west on State Route 82 takes you across the Continental Divide at Independence Pass (12,095 feet), where the air is thin and always chilly.
The author and his Yamaha V Star 1300 Tourer at the high point of his ride from Denver to Moab.
The long, winding descent to the ski town of Aspen is pure pleasure. SR‑82 ends at Glenwood Springs, and the next 134 westward miles follow a curving section of Interstate 70. If you have the time, I recommend the scenic Rim Rock Drive through the Colorado National Monument among the high cliffs above Grand Junction.
After crossing into Utah, take the first Moab exit for State Route 128, which is a scenic byway that winds through a majestic red rock canyon carved by the Colorado River. Highlights include the stunning Fisher Tower and Castle Rock, a finger‑like spiral to the southwest that’s been seen in many films and commercials.
At milepost 14 on SR‑128 is the Red Cliffs Lodge, built on the old George White Ranch, another location used in many Western films. If you’re a cowboy fan like me, visit the lodge’s Moab Museum of Film and Western Heritage to see production stills, movie posters, autographed scripts, props from movies filmed nearby, and displays about Western heritage. Lunch or dinner at The Cowboy Grill is highly recommended.
View of the Colorado River from the deck at Red Cliffs Lodge, which has dining, lodging, and a museum dedicated to Western films and heritage.
The key attractions in Moab are Arches and Canyonlands national parks. Arches, located just a few miles north of town, is the more popular of the two, and the nearly 20‑mile paved road through the park takes you past a stunning array of sandstone arches, petrified dunes, and red rock formations.
Canyonlands is the largest national park in Utah, and its diversity staggers the imagination. The park is 32 miles from Moab and has 20 miles of paved roads with many pullouts offering spectacular views. The Island in the Sky sits atop a massive 1,500‑foot‑high mesa, and on a clear day you can see over 100 miles in any direction. Sunrise and sunset are particularly beautiful times of day to enjoy these panoramic views of canyon country.
Arches National Park is a wonderland of sandstone arches, pinnacles, and other rock formations. The park gets busy, so it pays to go early.
Scenic State Route 313 leads to both Canyonlands and Dead Horse Point State Park, which offers unforgettable views of deep canyons and cliffs overlooking the Colorado River. I recommend taking time to explore side trails to see different viewpoints in this one‑of‑a‑kind area.
The La Sal Mountain Loop, a 36‑mile scenic road that starts at SR‑128 near Red Cliffs Lodge and goes through Castle Valley, up into the La Sal Mountains, and then back down to Moab near Spanish Valley, is another great local ride.
One of the many awe-inspiring vistas at Dead Horse Point State Park.
Moab is an ideal base camp for lodging, dining, and other adventures such as whitewater rafting, hiking, mountain biking, and off‑road riding and driving (you can rent Jeeps, ATVs, and side‑by‑sides). One of my favorite places to stay is the Red Stone Inn, a rustic but clean and affordable motel with a communal hot tub and picnic area and rooms with a TV, free wi‑fi, and a mini kitchen.
Whether you travel across the Colorado Rockies, through the red‑rock canyons of southern Utah, or take some other route to get there, put Moab on your “must visit” list. I promise you won’t be disappointed.
