Get Routed offer a range of motorcycling shipping services, allowing motorcyclists to have their motorcycle transported for the ultimate two wheeled travel experience, including to locations such as United Kingdom, Spain, Greece, the Isle of Man and New Zealand.
Each year Get Routed organise IoM TT experiences for Aussie and Kiwi riders, with strictly limited spaces available for the 2020 event, and they also have pre-booked accommodation for the TT fortnight. There’s also space for those happy to take a tent and camp out, as an additional option, that Get Routed can also help organise.
Riders await the mountain section of the Isle of Man TT Course being opened to public traffic, there are no speed limits!
Get Routed also book ferry tickets from Liverpool or Heysham across to the Isle of Man each year far in advance, that can be used by their customers. This is far more important than you might think, as IOM TT ferry tickets can sell out in minutes and are generally booked out over 12 months in advance and cost over $500 AUD.
Ferry port at Douglas, Isle of Man
Of course if you take your own bike you not only get to the lap the TT course, and visit all corners of what is quite a beautiful island under your own steam and in your own time, you can also then extend your holiday and ride throughout the UK or continue over to Europe.
With Get Routed your bike can stay in Europe for a couple of months before being shipped back to Australia, and there are no extra charges for extending your stay in Europe and undertaking your own tour, in your own time. Perhaps even take in a round of MotoGP while you are on the European mainland.
Tour England’s Peak District ahead of your Isle of Man adventure
Here’s the full scoop from Dave of Get Routed, with contact details for those interested. With strictly limited spaces each year it’s worth getting in quick.
“I have been coming to the TT since 1983 and started shipping motorcycles to UK and Europe since 2001 and over that time have transported almost 3000 motorcycles to the UK and other European destinations. Of course we also provide shipping services across the Tasman for those riders wanting to tour New Zealand on their own motorcycle.
The Isle of Man can be a stunning place to spend time
“I also book plenty of accommodation on the Isle of Man each year for the TT fortnight, with quality options in the beautiful seaside towns of Port Erin and Port Mary. Including a self contained fully restored stone farm cottage built in 1850.
Port Erin
“This accommodation is not available to people who don’t want to take a bike to the TT. The accommodation and ferry tickets are only available to those who want bikes shipped to the UK and back, from either Brisbane, Sydney or Melbourne. Of course for those wanting to take a tent and camp out at one of the many IoM camp sites I can also help facilitate this.
“Laps of the TT Mountain Course circuit during open road times across the TT fortnight is not difficult.
Motorcycles being prepared for shipping
“Bikes are generally loaded in Australia towards the end of February and available for collection in Felixstowe, Suffolk, UK towards the end of April. Your motorcycle luggage can also be transported in the container ready for your collection with your motorcycle.”
Trev’s Fireblade with some of the other bikes shipped from Australia to the UK with Get Routed for TT 2019 – Image by Steve/Sue Frew
How much does this type of service cost?
The 2020 and 2021 Isle of Man TT motorcycle shipping and accommodation package, which includes ferry tickets for you and your motorcycle across the Irish Sea, and 14-nights quality lodgings on the Isle of Man, sells for $7436. Spaces are always limited thus advance bookings are thoroughly recommended.
To make an enquiry or a booking email [email protected] or phone 03 5625 9080.
Red rocks provide the backdrop for Sedona, the New Age capital of Arizona. Photos by the author.
April in the Southwest means perfect temperatures and sunny days, riding in a mesh jacket and Kevlar-lined jeans. With a new (to me) Honda Shadow outfitted with new bags to carry my camping gear, I hit the road in early April. My intent was to make a giant circle around Phoenix and Tucson, avoiding the big cities. In bloom, in high spring, the desert and mountains of Arizona’s highways beckoned.
From Lordsburg, New Mexico, I first veered south on State Route 80. Among the yucca-studded Chihuahuan Desert landscape there’s a historical marker near Skeleton Canyon, commemorating the surrender in September 1886 of Geronimo, the last Apache chief. The road eventually led to the dusty border town of Douglas, good for an ice cream sandwich and a fuel stop, before climbing to 5,000 feet of elevation and the town of Bisbee.
The Chihuahuan Desert’s hallmark is the yucca, a standout in the rolling hills near Rodeo, at the Arizona state line.
A thriving copper, gold and silver mining town founded in the 1880s, Bisbee fell into decline by 1950. Then enterprising citizens, with the help of a huge economic development grant, turned the ghost town into a tourist attraction. Big draws are tours of the Copper Queen mine, narrow streets connected by steep staircases and shopping for antiques downtown.
I camped at Kartchner Caverns State Park, next to an underground beauty of a limestone cave, before venturing farther west. A delightful road follows the contours of prime rolling hills through the snowbird havens of Sonoita and Sahuarita. Ducking under Interstate 19, I turned north on Mission Road. Lots of bicycles and motorcycles enjoyed the sparsely trafficked road, which led in a roundabout way to Mission San Xavier del Bac.
Bisbee’s Copper Queen Hotel, more than 100 years old, retains much of its former glory.
Long before any outsiders settled in southern Arizona, Father Kino founded the whitewashed mission in 1692 to benefit the local American Indian population. San Xavier Mission School, next door, has served Tohono O’odham students from kindergarten through eighth grade for more than 150 years.
Skirting around the southwest edge of Tucson, I picked up the Ajo Highway (State Route 86) just before it entered the Tohono O’odham reservation. The scenery was of the quintessential “Arizona Highways” variety, with saguaro, cholla, organ pipe, barrel, prickly pear, ocotillo and many other species of cactus in bloom along an undulating two-lane road. On the far side of the reservation I stopped to camp in Why, literally located at the Y where State Route 86 meets State Route 85. South of the Y, I soon rode into Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument. This park preserves fine examples of all the varieties of cactus common in the Sonoran Desert, along with coyotes, javelina, Gila monsters, desert tortoise, jackrabbits, rattlesnakes, hawks, roadrunners and other creatures native to the borderlands.
Mission San Xavier de Bac, a National Historic Landmark, was erected in 1797, on present day land of the Tohono O’odham Nation.
In early April the desert was already heating up. I turned around at the Mexican border and headed north to seek higher elevations. After passing through Gila Bend and crossing Interstate 10, I discovered the Sun Valley Parkway. Known locally as “the road to nowhere,” this four-lane deserted highway offers a nearly irresistible temptation to speed. It was built in the mid-1980s in anticipation of a huge real estate development that fell through. Since then bicyclists and drag racers have enjoyed its 30-plus miles of pristine blacktop.
By the time I reached the palm tree-lined streets of Surprise, it was 92 degrees. What is the surprise? I wondered aloud as I ordered lunch in an air-conditioned Denny’s restaurant. According to the waitress, a woman who pioneered the settlement there was quoted as saying she would be surprised if the town ever amounted to anything. After lunch, I rode northwest through Wickenburg, then turned east up the winding curves of State Route 89 toward Prescott. Along the way I stopped to look over some steep, brush-choked country near Yarnell. A marker there honors the Granite Mountain Hotshots, who perished in a wildfire nearby in 2013.
Coyote Howls Campground attracts snowbirds who like a cheap place to park their RVs in the community of Why for the winter.
The route I chose passed through tiny towns that I had never heard of, such as Peeples Valley and Skull Valley, before arriving at the bustling city of Prescott. Its mile-high altitude, granite boulders, hidden lakes and campgrounds in the cool pines have drawn many new residents. Fortunately, the city of 40,000 supported a Honda dealer. I treated myself to a stay in a hotel, and a minor repair to my motorcycle was quickly taken care of the next morning at Star Island Motorsports. In a hurry to get back to riding the Arizona highways, I skipped touristy Whiskey Row in downtown Prescott and instead headed for a curving road leading out to the north.
State Route 89A follows a serpentine route over Mingus Mountain to the old mining town of Jerome. More motorcycles than cars were coasting around its hairpin curves and flying over the mountain pass. Built on the side of the mountain, Jerome consists of a couple of narrow streets lined with restaurants, gift shops and bars. Off to one side there’s Jerome State Historic Park, containing the remains of an active mining community of the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
Red Rock Crossing is an iconic landmark of Sedona.
I felt drawn to ride up to Sedona, some 28 miles northeast of Jerome, to snap some pictures of the famous red rock. A loop road winds off the main track to Red Rock Crossing; another curving road leads to Slide Rock State Park, a popular swimming hole. Prices were sky high in the New Age capital of Arizona; eventually I turned around and went back to the more down-to-earth Cottonwood for lunch. Unpretentious Crema Craft Kitchen on Main Street in Cottonwood had fresh and healthy breakfast and lunch options, with no wait and attentive service.
After camping overnight at Dead Horse Ranch State Park, I followed the Verde River upstream a few miles to visit Tuzigoot National Monument. At the site, an easy walk leads to hilltop ruins left by the Sinagua Indians. Populated between 900 and 1300 A.D., Tuzigoot’s residents created pottery as tall as they were and wove yucca fiber to make footwear.
The Verde River is a green stripe of lush vegetation in the otherwise dry country near Tuzigoot National Monument.
Park rangers directed me to another national monument some miles downstream from Tuzigoot near Camp Verde. Situated high up on the side of a cliff above Beaver Creek, a tributary of the Verde River, Montezuma Castle was home to another band of Sinagua Indians. Early visitors to this ruin assumed it was Aztec in origin, but in reality the emperor Montezuma never ventured anywhere near here.
Saturday crowds were growing at Montezuma Castle as the temperature approached 80 degrees, so I headed for the high road over the Mogollon Rim. State Route 260 turned into State Route 87, wandering through some great sweeping curves lined with tall ponderosa pines before plunging down through tiny Strawberry and Pine, to Payson. A quiet town of 20,000 people at 4,800 feet elevation, Payson boasts the reconstructed Zane Grey Cabin and a museum to commemorate the author of 64 western novels that helped popularize the Mogollon Rim country in the early 20th century.
The five stories and 45 rooms of Montezuma Castle provided shelter to a people who farmed and hunted there for 200 years.Visitors can walk through the dwelling at Tonto National Monument to get a close-up look at life on the side of a cliff.
When State Route 260 turned back northeast toward Show Low, I chose to head into some warmer weather. Early April was still a little chilly up at higher altitudes, so I dropped down to State Route 188 and made a beeline for Roosevelt Lake. The Forest Service-run Cholla Bay Campground presented a stunning desert environment with plenty of vacant sites, even on a weekend. The main draw is the lake, a reservoir 33 square miles in size, created by a dam on the Salt River built in 1911.
A side road off State Route 188 headed to another set of ancient Indian ruins at Tonto National Monument. There, a steep half-mile hike leads to a stunning cliff dwelling overlooking the lake far below. The population in the area approached its peak between 1100 and 1300 A.D. They created Rio Salado polychrome pottery and farmed along the Salt River in the Tonto Basin. Drought, flash flooding and social conflict led most of the people to depart in the late 14th century for more favorable living situations elsewhere.
Beyond the road leading up to Tonto National Monument, Roosevelt Lake gleams invitingly.
South of Tonto National Monument, the road ran into a T. A west turn would have taken me to Phoenix, but instead I turned east and joined a procession of Sunday riders enjoying the curves and rugged desert scenery of U.S. Route 60. A few miles beyond Globe, I stopped at the Apache Gold Casino, operated by the San Carlos Apache tribe. After lunch, I tried my luck on the video poker machines, enjoying an air-conditioned break from the road even as I contributed a few bucks toward the San Carlos education fund.
Zane Grey’s real cabin burned down in the Dude Fire in 1990, but a replica was reconstructed in Green Valley Park at the center of Payson.
Then it was another hour on U.S. Route 70, known as the “Old West Highway,” to reach Roper Lake State Park just outside of Safford. Like most other Arizona parks, the main attraction is water. Roper Lake offers swimming, boating, bird watching and fishing, plus a bonus: a natural hot spring which is available free of charge to campers in the park. At 97 degrees, the water in the cement pool was soothing, with a great view of Mount Graham to the west.
Departing Safford, I followed the Old West Highway past the turnoff to the Gila Box Riparian National Conservation Area and the cute little town of Duncan, to the New Mexico state line. Lordsburg soon came into view. With that I was back where I had started, completing a circle around desert, mountains, winding roads, lakes, rivers and history–a thousand miles of scenic Arizona highways.
A map of the route taken, by Bill Tipton/compartmaps.com.
Vermont is still a state full of small farms. Photos by the author.
Vermont is a four-season state. It offers great skiing in the winter, sweet maple syrup in the spring and fantastic foliage in the autumn. Summer? Summer is for motorcycle riding. Vermont’s topography lends itself to incredible motorcycle roads, and State Route 100 is one of the best. Extending from Massachusetts to nearly the Canadian border, Route 100 traces the eastern flank of the Green Mountains, and it is as fine a motorcycle road as you will find anywhere.
I entered Vermont from North Adams, Massachusetts, where Route 100 zigzags through the quiet towns of Readsboro and Whitingham and loops around Harriman Reservoir before finally turning north. The first town of any size that I encountered was Wilmington, where I stopped at Dot’s Restaurant.
A map of the route taken, by Bill Tipton/compartmaps.com.
Dot’s is a Wilmington icon. The building dates from 1832 and has been a diner since the 1930s. When Hurricane Irene hit Vermont a few years ago, the Deerfield River backed up and pushed Dot’s off its foundation. After three years and a complete foundation replacement, Dot’s has reopened, and the restaurant is every bit as popular as before.
In the morning, after a good night’s sleep and a great breakfast at the Gray Ghost Inn, I hit the road. Just north of the Gray Ghost, Route 100 twists and turns down to the river. The same storm that nearly destroyed Dot’s also wiped out this section of Route 100. By rebuilding it all at once, many of the off-camber and reducing-radius corners were fixed, yet the nature of the road was not compromised. The miles of new pavement made this section of the road a joy to ride.
The Gray Ghost Inn is a family-owned B&B that caters to motorcyclists and offers up a delicious traditional Vermont breakfast.
North of Weston, Route 100 tucks in tight against a series of small lakes. With a few houses on the left and swimmers and boaters on the right, I felt like I was in the scene. The heat of the sun through the pine trees and the mouthwatering smell of burgers on a grill made this stretch a feast for all five senses.
In Plymouth, I took a side trip on Route 100A to Plymouth Notch. This is where President Calvin Coolidge was born and where he retired after his presidency. Elected as Vice President in 1920, he happened to be staying here when President Harding died. His father, a notary public, swore him in as our 30th president at 2:47 a.m. in the front parlor of their home by the light of a kerosene lantern.
Founded by Calvin Coolidge’s father, Plymouth Cheese makes some outstanding cheeses.
There are about 20 ski resorts in Vermont and more than half are near Route 100. I turned up Mountain Road toward Killington, the largest ski resort in Vermont. This multilane road with turning lanes, hotels and restaurants was a big departure from the rural landscape of the past 100 miles. It’s all designed for the winter ski crowds, but traffic was light today so I whizzed up past the golf course and the Killington Grand Hotel to the ski area parking lot. I hopped in the gondola to the summit and then hiked another couple hundred yards to the highest point. At 4,229 feet above sea level, the view from Vermont’s second-highest peak is outstanding, and I could see the Green Mountains rippling out in all directions.
Swimmers enjoy the cool water of the Mad River.
North of Killington, Route 100 traces through the ripples. It is a fantastic motorcycle road as it dips and swoops through the woods and around the hills through Pittsfield, Stockbridge and Rochester, where I stopped for a maple milk shake at the Rochester Café.
This section of Vermont is known for the Gaps, the roads crossing the Green Mountains other parts of the country refer to as passes. In Rochester, State Route 73 heads over Brandon Gap, while to the east, Bethel Mountain Road crosses Rochester Gap. In Hancock, State Route 125 heads west over Middlebury Gap, while the dirt road to the east crosses Roxbury Gap. The partially unpaved Lincoln Gap heads out of Warren, and State Route 17, Appalachian Gap, leaves out of Waitsfield. I could spend an entire day happily zipping back and forth on these roads.
Lower Podunk Road is two miles farther down Route 100.
Riding into Waterbury I came across the first traffic lights I had seen since Wilmington, 130 miles ago. The congestion was worth it though, as just past the final light was the Ben and Jerry’s ice cream factory. Here I toured the factory, which ended with a scoop of Ben and Jerry’s famous ice cream. Out in back is a “flavor graveyard,” a mock cemetery with granite headstones for discontinued flavors, or the “dearly depinted,” as they call them. RIP, Cool Britannia and Urban Jumble.
Hard to find and just plain weird stuff from yesteryear is for sale at the Vermont Country Store.
Stowe, the next town on Route 100, is in a beautiful location below the 4,200-foot summit of Mount Mansfield. Despite being a big tourist town, it does not have a chain hotel, and the accommodations run the full range of amenities and prices. North of Stowe, the landscape opened up to rolling hills and farms. The fields were larger and the forest farther away. The road was full of sweeping turns with a rhythm and flow that made me crack the throttle a little bit more and smile inside my helmet, enjoying a thoroughly wonderful romp through the open country and empty highway. Farther on, I stopped at the Troy General Store. This is what a general store should be; the wooden floor creaked as I walked and stuff was hanging from the ceiling. A sandwich was being made in the deli, and I could smell a pizza in the oven.
Near Coventry, at the intersection with State Route 105, Route 100 just ends. After 200 miles, I expected something more than a 100 END sign, but, disappointingly, there it was. It was only 10 miles to the Canadian border so I decided to head there. I rode through Newport and along the east side of Lake Memphremagog to the village of Derby Line.
St. Mary Star of the Sea church rises above Newport and Lake Memphremagog.The beautiful church building dominates the skyline over the lake.
The “Line,” in this case, is the border between Vermont and Canada. It passes right through the Haskell Free Library and Opera House: half of the building is in Derby Line, the other half is in Stanstead, Québec. In the reading room, the border is painted on the floor. Upon request, the librarian took my picture, where I stood with one foot in the USA and one foot in Canada. I couldn’t go any farther north without a passport.
The Haskell Free Library and Opera House straddles the U.S./Canada border.
We riders enjoy not only the twisty roads and breathtaking vistas in settings such as California’s Sierra Nevada mountain range, but also the crystal-clear air and full range of scents nature pours out. The aromas from this particular combination of flowers, shrubs, grasses and conifers magically swept me back in time to relive some long-forgotten memories. Photos by the author and Katie Lee.
It was the scent in the air that did it, plucking me out of the Suzuki’s seat and transporting me back to the distant past. Not physically, of course. But my brain kept reporting I’d been swept away to relive a fond childhood moment buried deep in my subconscious. Riding along the Sierra Nevada foothills through California’s Gold Rush country, the particular combination of local trees, bushes, flowers and grasses surrounding us made my brain fold back on itself and suddenly I was 11 years old once again, trudging along a dusty wooded path at Boy Scout camp–a surreal moment to be sure. But also a pleasant reminder about the many small, unexpected joys we discover with motorcycle travel.
The author’s wife Katie poses with the 2018 Suzuki V-Strom 1000 XT they took on the ride.
My wife Katie and I are native Californians but strangely enough we’ve never visited the Gold Country together, nor have we toured Yosemite National Park as a couple. So we started by spending a few nights along State Route 49 in the vicinity of Jamestown, Sonora, Columbia and Twain Harte, an area chockfull of historic sites and a wealth of varied activities–not to mention world-class riding roads. The open road always beckons to motorcyclists, so we riders enjoy striking our own balance between seat time and tourist/vacation activities. For this trip, Katie and I agreed on keeping a distinctly leisurely schedule since there’s so much to do and see in the area, but also because we both wanted to try and find some old haunts from our childhood years.
A map of the route taken, by Bill Tipton/compartmaps.com.
A hot highway drone north from our Southern California abode brought us to Merced, which served as our jumping-off spot for the good stuff as we traced two-lane roads eastward. We took flat, straight State Route 140 to connect with Route 49 at Mount Bullion on our way to Jamestown. Here, 49 is simply spectacular: fresh pavement, rising and falling twists and turns, and virtually no traffic. In short, riding bliss.
Jamestown gave us a warm welcome, in part due to the hot weather, but this little town offers an engaging, quiet, old-time feel to the place with plenty of stops for refreshments and window-shopping. But here’s the big find: Railtown 1897 State Historic Park with its tribute to steam-powered locomotives. Railtown gives a whole new meaning to the notion of big-displacement iron as the 26-acre park includes historic locomotives, a working roundhouse, belt-driven machine shops and a horde of train-related parts, signs and memorabilia scattered throughout. Steam train rides are available on weekends April through September, and if you’re a film buff you might recognize Sierra No. 3, a steam engine circa 1891 that appeared in many movies, such as “High Noon” and “Back to the Future Part III.”
Railtown 1897 in Jamestown is a must-see stop for everyone visiting the area.Gear heads, history buffs, cinema fans and kids young or old will enjoy riding behind the still-operational steam locomotive from 1891.
Nowadays, nearby Columbia State Historic Park is a working town filled with historic re-creations including a blacksmith shop, an historic saloon, stagecoach rides, a gold-panning stop where you can try your luck and the Fallon Theatre, which still stages performances. We stayed in the Fallon Hotel, one of the two historic hotels still operating in Columbia, but my favorite stop had to be the ice cream shop located right between the hotel and theater. Our biggest disappointment is that we couldn’t stay longer to just soak in the atmosphere. Also close by, the town of Sonora is bigger and busier than Jamestown and Columbia, and offers much more to see and do (and buy!). Twain Harte, in turn, feels small, sleepy and relaxed, so pick the one that best suits your mood.
In Columbia, we walked out of our lodgings at the Fallon Hotel and just a few steps took us to the stagecoach stop—talk about stepping back in time!
All of these stops proved delightful, but we also scheduled time to just roam around local roads on the V-Strom 1000 too. We both spent our childhood years growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area, and this portion of the Sierra could be easily reached for day trips throughout the year. And so I had to ride up State Route 108 to revisit the place where I first strapped on snow skis, Dodge Ridge. At nearby Pinecrest Lake, Katie and her family spent summer days trout fishing. And up the mountain we stumbled upon the Strawberry Inn, the lodge where Katie’s parents made their first stop on their honeymoon in 1947, on their way to Idaho for more fishing. For no reason at all we decided to go poke around on Old Strawberry Road, which meanders around on the north side of Route 108, crisscrossing the South Fork of the Stanislaus River. Understand that while 108 is a great road for motorcycling, the entire area is laced with miles and miles of back roads that don’t even show up on large-scale maps. It’s fun and easy to set up looping day rides along deserted byways, and again we only wished we had more time to just go see what’s on the other side of the mountain.
For this trip, we kept a more leisurely schedule and were rewarded handsomely. Taking time to wander down tiny spurs such as Old Strawberry Road led us to isolated little gems such as this spot beside the rushing Stanislaus River. We shoulda brought a picnic lunch along…
Eventually, it came time to literally head over the mountain as we rode Route 108 up and over to Bridgeport in the Eastern Sierra along U.S. Route 395. Although you’re smack dab in the middle of Big Country–Sonora Pass sits 9,624 feet high–it’s only 97 miles between Sonora and Bridgeport with an approximate driving time of 2 hours–no sweat at all on a bike. A portion of this gorgeous expanse of high-mountain goodness suffered greatly at the hands of the huge Donnell Fire in the summer of 2018 and although the scars will last for a long while it’s still spectacular country. A short hop south on U.S. 395 led us to State Route 270 and another California State Historic Park, the gold-mining ghost town of Bodie. The final three miles to Bodie turns from paved road to dirt, which the V-Strom handled easily, even with our two-up load. Once a thriving town of 10,000 people, Bodie is now preserved in a state of “arrested decay,” and no food or gasoline is available so come prepared.
An entertaining three miles of graded dirt road brought us to the gold-mining ghost town of Bodie.The entire site is preserved in a state of “arrested decay” and many, but not all, buildings are open to visitors.At its peak, 65 saloons lined the mile-long Main Street in Bodie to serve nearly 10,000 residents. Be sure to set aside enough time to cover the area and view the many artifacts and buildings.
Our overnight stop at the Double Eagle Resort in June Lake had us wishing for a longer stay, but early in the morning we rode to the shores of Mono Lake to meet with Nora Livingston, a naturalist and guide with the Mono Lake Committee (monolake.org). Nora shared some of the history and ecology of the area that includes unique tufa tower limestone formations, and an ancient saline lake that covers more than 70 square miles, holding trillions of brine shrimp and alkali flies that nourish millions of migratory birds every year.
The Mono Lake Committee offers field seminars during summer and autumn; we enjoyed a private mini-tour of this fantastic setting.
From U.S. 395, Route 120 traverses 9,941-foot Tioga Pass as you enter Yosemite National Park, which is indeed one of the greatest natural wonders in the world. Low speed limits and tons of vehicular traffic slow your speeds–so just go slow! You’ll want to take in the awe-inspiring views anyhow, and plan on making lots of stops to enjoy the vistas fully. In fact, it’s best to bring a lunch along so you can just hang out at one of the many scenic pullouts along the way and take in the views.
Yosemite’s Hetch Hetchy Valley was the favorite spot for naturalist John Muir, but in 1913 San Francisco was allowed to clear-cut, dam and flood the valley to create a source of drinking water. Many gorgeous scenic stops remain throughout Yosemite; this one offered 360-degree views, each magnificent in its own right.
Canny readers will note an ongoing theme lurking in the background of this story: our continuing wish to spend more time enjoying the area. If we could do it all over again each overnight stay would last two nights to allow more time for exploring and whimsical stops. Especially when considering the many incredible secondary roads in the area, we barely scratched the surface. Nonstop twisty, turning mountain back roads, gorgeous mountain scenery and virtually zero traffic outside the main roads in Yosemite. What’s not to like about that?
In fact, maybe next time I can go looking for that old Boy Scout camp I remember so fondly….
Sierra Stopovers
Thanks to some help from the good folks at the Tuolumne County Visitors Bureau (VisitTuolumne.com) and the Mono County Tourism bureau (MonoCounty.org), we tapped into some excellent options for overnight stays, all with plenty of history, atmosphere and memorable surroundings.
Fallon House in Columbia State Historic Park: Situated right in this California State Historic Park, a night here feels like you’re immersed within a Wild West movie. parks.ca.gov
The Inn on Knowles Hill in Sonora: Sited on a picturesque hilltop overlooking Sonora, this bed and breakfast features lush appointments creating a turn-of-the-century experience, plus a sumptuous breakfast. knowleshill.com
McCaffrey House Bed and Breakfast Inn in Twain Harte: Spacious and well-appointed rooms in a secluded wooded setting, located just off Route 108. mccaffreyhouse.com
Double Eagle Resort and Spa in June Lake: Spacious cabins, spa services and a fly fishing pond for guests up in the high Sierra combines mountain living with full-on resort facilities. doubleeagle.com
Groveland Hotel in Groveland: Modern renovations make this historic hotel a delight, one that’s within easy reach of Yosemite National Park. groveland.com
The Iron Man statue is actually named “The Emergence of Man Through Steel” and honors miners’ work through the Industrial Age. Photos by the author.
“It’s not the destination, it’s the journey,” says the motorcycling adage. That’s true! Most highlights of motorcycling are experienced during the ride. I choose journeys with an interesting place to turn around (destination) before heading back home. Riding the Iron Range in northeastern Minnesota provides wide choices of appealing destinations and journeys, riding through forests, hills and curves in Minnesota’s “arrowhead.”
Map of the route taken, by Bill Tipton/compartmaps.com.
Aptly named due to the huge iron ore mining economy formed in the late 19th century, we started our ride from the town of Mountain Iron, at the Holiday Inn Express. Riders will appreciate the covered parking for a few motorcycles. The Iron Range Tourism Bureau publishes ride guides every year. My wife Jean and I picked up one at the inn and selected potential routes to try during our few days “on the Range.” We modified and combined our routes to fit in a few destinations that piqued our interests. After our complimentary breakfast, our journey began.
Downtown Cook’s main drag, River Street, is just beggin’ for a parade.
The Mines and Pines tour was our warm-up ride for Memorial Day weekend. Heading north on U.S. Route 53 to Cook, turning west, we rode through the rural settings on Trunk Highway 1. Logging and farming appeared to be the main economic activities. Heading south on County Road 5 there was a noticeable change from farming to tourism as we rode to McCarthy Beach State Park for a break. Out of the saddle, we rehydrated, and off we went.
The northern part of the Mines and Pines tour is filled with rural settings.
Finally, we arrived at the “mines” part of the Mines and Pines tour. We ended up at the Iron Man, a tribute to the miners who worked the iron mines. After a quick lunch under the shade tree at The Stand, we were refreshed and ready to explore our destination for the day, the Minnesota Discovery Center. The Center is an exhibition of the mining and cultural artifacts associated with mining in the Range. A rail trolley used for transporting miners to and from the mines is still in operation for tourists. Some of the original buildings, homes and boarding houses still stand and are well maintained, providing a glimpse into the past’s daily life above ground.
The mine trolley is still running. Our conductors shared the history and evolution of mining technologies
with us on the loop around an open pit iron mine.
We finished back at our starting point and went out to dinner. We discovered a nice new restaurant in the neighboring town of Virginia, The Northern Divide, which provided an excellent dinner and outstanding service.
The next day was dark and gloomy in the north woods of Minnesota. Another adage for motorcyclists is, “There’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad wardrobe choices.” We mustered up the right perspective with, “Today is a good day to test our rain gear!” Since it was raining, we decided our journey should take us to an indoor destination. More than indoors, we picked an underground destination. Trunk Highway 135 runs from Gilbert north to Tower. It’s smooth and wide, and the forest is cut back from the roadway, providing good visibility for any deer, moose or other forest creatures that might wander onto the roadway.
All the public mine overlooks were closed due to expansion of the mining operations, but we knew a guy who knew a guy who could give us a private tour of the new overlooks still under construction. Mining technologies allowed more efficient open pit mining of lower grade ore. Although the iron ore in the Soudan Mine is much higher quality, steel can be produced at lower costs with ore from the open pit processes.
After we arrived at Lake Vermilion-Soudan Underground Mine State Park, a three-minute elevator ride took us down 2,341 feet below the surface. From there we rode a trolley in total darkness. Arriving at a “stope,” a steplike excavation that is formed as the ore is mined in successive layers, we could see and hear how miners worked one of the richest iron ore mines in the world.
James, our guide, is a geologist and miner with experience in underground mines in North America and South America.
Back on the surface, the rain had stopped but the roads were still wet. Back in our rain suits and off we went to Ely via Trunk Highway 169. The journey on the two-lane road was through heavy forest and light traffic, just the way it should be. We had two destinations in Ely, the International Wolf Center and the North American Bear Center. I can’t say enough about these attractions. The quality and educational value of the displays are superb! We arrived at each just before feeding time, so the wolves and bears were up and active. Both centers have large glass viewing areas great for photographers.
As the bears meandered back into the woods, it’s time to get back on the motorcycle and head for dinner ourselves.
Backtracking west on Highway 169, then south on Highway 135, our destination for the night was The Lodge at Giants Ridge. It’s open year-round for skiers, travelers and golfers. Tomorrow’s ride would be over to the north shore of Lake Superior.
The North Shore Scenic Drive is a must for any rider. Our destination was Two Harbors, where all the iron ore from the mines comes by rail then ships out to destinations all over the world. County Highway 110 winds through Aurora and Hoyt Lakes, then County Highway 11’s sweepers took us into Silver Bay. I mentioned to Jean, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many shades of green.” The north woods were waking up from the long winter and the brilliant sunshine illuminated the greenery from every angle. Following the designated scenic route, we leaned into the curves going up and over the rolling forest terrain.
Built during World War II, this is one of the “locomotives that defeated Hitler.” Manufacturing the Baldwin Yellowstone Mallet #229 was a higher priority than military tanks and ships. It was so powerful that it pulled ore trains that would require four diesel locomotives today. An average of 10,000,000 tons of ore are shipped every year.
Reaching Silver Bay, we turned southwest on Trunk Highway 61. The road hugs Lake Superior’s north shore. It is smoother and straighter than it used to be, but the scenery is still a beautiful shoreline drive all the way to Two Harbors. Along the way we stopped at The Rustic Inn Café. It has the best pie on the north shore. Although the day was sunny, it was also cool and windy. With a hot cup of coffee, a warm piece of pie and a scoop of ice cream, I agreed with my GPS navigation when it said, “You have reached your destination.”
The world is changing—and fast. The rise of social media has placed us just a few clicks away from sharing any harebrained thought with the collective hive mind. This newfound power can be a honed, double-edged sword if you’re hoping to get your kicks in the murky gray areas of legality, ideally without falling under the ever-watchful eye of Johnny Law. Such was the ballad of the Alley Sweeper Urban Enduro.
This moto rally can be traced back to its 2009 inception by the hands of Portland, Oregon’s Sang-Froid Riding Club, after club member Zac Christensen got the notion that an urban enduro through the city’s less-affluent neighborhoods and sprawling network of derelict alleys might be a good idea. Where some might see a troubling disparity in public maintenance allocation between these areas and Portland’s wealthier districts, Sang-Froid saw an opportunity for adventure in the long-forgotten back passages that fell through the cracks.
And they weren’t the only ones. Word spread through all channels of social media like wildfire, as subsequent years saw the annual run’s attendance balloon to more than 400 riders. The alleys choked to a standstill as hordes of would-be scofflaws all dove in for a piece of the action, and it became clear a tactical correction needed to be made. So in 2015, the event was “officially” shut down. Clever. Its leadership became decentralized and eventually morphed into the clandestine Alley Liberation Front. The tide receded and the hysteria fell back into obscurity as only a handful of the most dedicated miscreants set to work planning future years quietly among themselves.
Their strategy apparently worked, as the good word of the Alley Sweeper never came to me by any cliché Instagram post or wide-reaching Facebook promotion. Oh, no, my call to the Urban Enduro was conceived by a hushed whisper over a jar of moonshine, in the back of a short bus loaded to the gills with 200cc minibikes. You see, when Speedfreak Speed Shop gets together with the Gambler 500, we just can’t seem to help ourselves. “Let’s do the thing on minibikes,” Gambler Godfather Andy Munson cracked with a firewater grin. Some friend—surely the traffic courts already had a price on my head, yet he knew it wouldn’t take much more than the promise of senseless adventure to sucker me in.
So it was written, so it was done. A few weeks later I found myself on hallowed ground outside FoPo Tavern, the rally’s decade-old traditional starting point. Alongside me was a haphazardly assembled squad of guerilla fun-havers, our arguably illegal Coleman minibikes hastily camouflaged with homemade “49cc” decals and $13 bicycle safety flashers. Thrifty Southeast Asian riders would’ve stared in wonderment.
And, indeed, so did a few bystanders as I walked through the field of oil-burning dreams; a sea of dual-sport enduros of every make under the sun, easily matched by a population of either unplated or suspiciously plated dirt bikes. Not to be left out of the scramble, and true to “keep Portland weird” form, a subset of vintage bikes, mopeds, and a Ural sidecar also littered the scene. All told there were about a couple hundred participants. Eventually we made our way to the only real evidence of organization, a lone folding table with a stack of “course” maps, stickers, and event T-shirts. We were just in time, as the event unceremoniously kicked off and groups began sporadically blasting away down the street.
Further inspection of our map revealed less of a defined course, and more a vague suggestion of highlighted neighborhoods whose alleys needed liberating. Good enough for us; we ripped our pull-starts and unleashed our miniature machines on the nearest four-lane public thoroughfare.
The previously gloomy sky now pierced with daggers of morning sunlight, we joined another cluster of bikes as they veered off down a nearby side street. Surprisingly, after all the talk of irritated homeowners coming out to protest the mob of hooligans invading their neighborhoods, we were instead greeted by families either lining the sidewalks or perched over their backyard fences, happily cheering us on as we launched into the first set of alleys.
Smiles widened and cheers broke out when I picked the front wheel up past a group of kids, and into a jungle of overgrown bushes, blackberry vines, and knee-high weeds. Instantly the draw of this urban enduro made itself clear as we ripped through the undergrowth, vines and branches clawing at us like antibodies fighting off foreign intruders.
Eventually the tangle would recede, and our little 200cc motors could sing up to their de-governed, 30-whatever-mph top speed as we hilariously picked our way through a flotsam of refuse. It was a symphony of chaos. Intoxicated with glory, we dodged random cinder blocks, grimy couches, and abandoned shopping carts through the lingering curtain of two-stroke haze. Truly, this was the most sublime form of anarchy.
Soon enough though, the neighborhood fun-police got wise to the incoming waves of two-wheeled delinquents and made their opposition known. We passed a disgruntled homeowner standing in the alley in nothing but his morning bathrobe, scrutinizing us with a look of simultaneous awe and irritation. There were warnings of a guy throwing steel chairs at riders a couple of blocks away. And when we stopped on an inconspicuous side street for some minor bike repairs, we were kindly confronted by a lady who made herself known as “the one who went on the news last year to speak out against all this.” Her biggest complaints were a few minutes of noise, and some mud being splattered across the pristine gravel surface of the public right-of-way behind her home. Insistent though she was, I wasn’t hearing anything worth ceasing my onslaught of alley recreation.
So we carried on, as the day passed in a frenzy of adventure. We’d find ourselves lost in the labyrinth of overgrown passages, but it never took long to spot another band of roaming marauders to link up with. The rally, in truth, was a free-for-all perfected, and somehow all the chaos still led us to the aptly chosen finish line at the Alley Way Bar.
There awaited the final challenge for anyone all but completely lacking in self-preservation: a crudely constructed plywood jump that, to anyone on a suspensionless death machine, was more of a joke than any serious suggestion of flight without consequence. But ho! The siren song sings its promises of glory, and the call to Valhalla proved irresistible to our Speedfreak comrade and resident luck-pusher, Tyler Reitzer. Prior to that moment, I’d always wondered when we would meet an altitude that was beyond our skill level. Turns out, it’s somewhere around five and a half feet. The alley accepted its offering of broken man and machine, and glory was granted as Tyler sank into a handily presented wheelchair to the sound of onlookers’ thunderous applause. He thumbed his nose at death, and raised a final thumbs-up of defiance before being wheeled into the bar for a victory drink.
Even with his freshly scalped knees, our wounded friend was in agreement; it had been the perfect day. The smiles and thumbs-up had made up for the occasional chair-throwing protester, and the laughably senseless thrills easily compensated for any injuries sustained. This was the kind of fun that some would argue should be illegal. The kind that would’ve been quickly extinguished, had it continued above ground, a monster built of its own success and social-media hype. But thankfully the Alley Liberation Front had the foresight to know better, and take this last bastion of legally ambiguous depravity back under the radar. So, for now at least, it still lives there, safe from the outside world and ready to bestow foolish thrills upon any hooligan worth his weight in bad decisions—as long as you know where to look.
While riding out the Maipo Canyon in Chile, just southeast of Santiago, the Andes mountain range greets you with a rugged beauty. Sweeping canyon roads meet active volcanoes and raging white waters of the Maipo River. Although some of this canyon has been mined, there is still untamed wild lying just beyond the quarried hills.
As you make your way through the foothills of the Chilean Andes and enter the canyon, you begin to know the winds that helped shape these walls, a force named “el Raco” It is on these tremendous winds that you may see the likes of a soaring dinosaur. After all, giants still roam these mountains. If you’re lucky, perhaps you might catch a glimpse of one while leaning through a turn: the Andean condor, soaring high above on the rising thermals.
The fossil records show that Andean condors have remained nearly unchanged for millions of years.
Andean condors, one of the largest flying birds in existence, have been an extremely important cultural symbol in the Andes for thousands of years. In the high mountains, the condor represents the upper world, the heavens, one of the three realms of existence, while the puma or jaguar represents the earth, and the snake the underworld.
Condors are important symbols for the United States as well. When their numbers dwindled to a mere 22, all remaining individuals were captured and brought into captivity. It was then that captive female Andean condors (Vultur gryphus) were released into the wild in California. This project has been a success, bringing back California condors (Gymnogyps californianus) from the brink of extinction. The female Andean condors have since been recaptured and reintroduced to their native habitat in South America.
Past conservation concerns focused on the use of lead ammunition for hunting because condors’ digestive systems are strong enough to absorb large quantities of the lead when ingested from scavenged gunshot kills. Hunter-killed carcasses often have lead remnants from lead shot or fragments from shotgun slugs, leading to secondary toxicity. Lead poisoning is apparent in the condor’s crop (an enlarged part of the esophagus where the bird stores food before digestion); reportedly it turns bright green. There has been much effort to end the use of lead ammunition within the range of Andean and California condors, but concern still exists.
Here in Chile and just across the Andes mountains into Argentina, toxic agricultural poisons like carbofuran are illegally used by ranchers to combat predators. When these carcasses are scavenged upon by condors, more deaths ensue.
Last year outside of Mendoza, Argentina, 34 Andean condors were found dead next to the corpse of a puma, all due to carbofuran. Such a tragedy is as heartbreaking as it is needless. Further education outreach and enforcement is needed, but carbofuran is extremely inexpensive and regulating such a vast land is difficult.
We need condors. Condors serve essential roles for humans as important carrion feeders that help limit the spread of disease, and with their tremendous size, their survival in the native habitat is important for ecotourism in South America.
There is no better way to have a sense for the extreme environments that these gigantic birds inhabit than riding on two wheels among the Andes. There are volcanoes to climb and hot springs to soak in, or you could simply make a lunchtime stop at Santuario del Río like I did, where you can take in the sights and sounds of the Maipo River gorge on a back patio. Although the winds of El Raco blow strong, it is the raging Rio Maipo that truly formed the canyon and now serves as the main source of water for the entire capital city of Santiago.
With surrounding horses and the huasos who ride them (pronounced “wasos,” meaning Chilean cowboys), there is a nostalgic Western feel to these country roads. Settled beneath the San José volcano is El Volcán, an old boom town that supported those working the copper and mineral mines until it was abandoned in the mid-1900s. Now succumbing to dilapidation, a rusted and crumbling tower still stands amid the tumbleweeds, giving the area an eerie, post-apocalyptic feel.
Let’s not allow creatures as grand and enigmatic as the condor to become ghosts like the deserted mining village of El Volcán. When we travel with a desire to appreciate the landscape and animals that live within it, we help preserve an ecosystem through our tourist dollars. Let those offering services know what matters to you and ride with respect into these lands, enjoying all that they have to offer, leaving no trace and taking only memories.
There was just no getting around it any longer. The wallet I’ve had for 21 years was close to expiring. It’s sad. I noticed the subtle hints of distress about a year ago when the stitching began to come apart, loose threads sprouting out like little errant, frayed black hairs. Then, a few months ago I noticed that the main crease was wearing extremely thin and the first hint of a tear was barely visible. I was in denial, pretending I could nurse it through several more seasons of motorcycle trips by being a little more careful with it, being a little more gentle with the daily ritual of sliding it into and pulling it out of my back pocket and in and out of various riding jackets. But, as these things go, once the rip took purchase it escalated with a vengeance.
As my trusted wallet began its rapid decline over the past few months I began to think of everywhere it’s been with me. It dawned on me that wallet had been along on every single motorcycle outing and every overseas trip I’d taken in the last 21 years. It had been there on every one of my trips up the Pacific Coast to attend the World Superbike and MotoGP races at Laguna Seca (as a matter of fact it’s older than some of the riders currently piloting factory machines on the grid). It has been tucked into the pockets of various riding jackets on myriad motorcycle trips, from arid deserts to cold mountain summits, endured sweltering heat to frigid cold. It has been through the rugged Baviaanskloof of South Africa and submerged in a stream crossing crash in the foothills of California. It crested the Great Atlas Mountains of Morocco with me as well as experienced the sublime serpentine roads of Tuscany. It was with me one night in the Pyrenees when I was caught in a torrential and frightening lightning storm that left it saturated with so much Spanish rain that all the ink-written items tucked away in its folds were turned to unintelligible rivulets of blue ink.
That wallet had been taken out and opened over the years at an endless string of gas stations to retrieve a credit card to refuel a multitude of motorcycles. It accompanied me to every domestic and international press launch I’ve attended during my motorcycle journalism career. That wallet was opened in a hospital in Italy to retrieve my Blue Shield card when I shattered my collarbone and broke five ribs after tucking the front end of a Ducati 999 at speed on the Imola circuit. And, it was my steady and loyal, nonjudgmental partner in crime whenever I had to show an officer of the law my license when caught exceeding the speed limit. It had been there, through it all, without complaint, without demands.
Perhaps that walk down memory lane will help assuage any notions of me being too sentimental over a fold of leather. If it were possible to extract them, there are enough experiences imbedded in its grain to produce a fairly interesting novel. All this sentimentality is born out of a simple reality in life; when something doesn’t cause you any anguish it’s all too easy to take it for granted—until it’s too late. Most guys reading this will no doubt consider their own wallets and the fact that these things are our dutiful companions through thick and thin. They are the things that go with us, often at speed, into our two-wheeled adventures. They are the rectangular forms we reach out and feel for when riding—through layers of leather or denim or textile—to ensure we have not left them behind at a gas station or restaurant. They share status with ignition keys and helmets as one of our most important and essential possessions.
The sojourn with my wallet started in 1991. I stumbled onto it in a fine men’s store while shopping with my girlfriend. It was so wonderfully uncomplicated; a single, thin fold of fine leather with a place for a license and three credit cards. Perfect. My interest instantly waned when I saw the dangling little white price tag read $50. I couldn’t justify spending that for a wallet. However, my girlfriend—a very sophisticated and fashionable woman—said that a wallet was a very important accessory for a man. She proffered that most males sport very little in the way of jewelry or ornamentation (this was long before tattoos were accepted into social norms) and therefore a wallet, like a watch, becomes an important symbol of status for a man. In other words, when you present your wallet it reflects something of who you are. Her words struck me as genuine and true, so I paid the then princely sum of 50 dollars and transferred all the contents of my old battered wallet into the new one. It’s true. Having a nice wallet does make you feel a little classier. Twenty-one years. I wonder what that is in wallet years? Fifty dollars. That works out to about $2.38 per.
Over the ensuing years I watched the wallet transition through various stages. The board-like stiffness fresh from the store quickly vanished. The leather gradually softened with the natural oils from my hands in the daily ritual of sliding it into and drawing it out of a plethora of pockets. It took on the natural curve of my hip and became a comfortable, almost invisible companion. Over time the leather was aged to exquisite smoothness.
Now, sadly, my dear wallet was finally giving up the ghost. The tear down the fold could be ignored no more. The only thing holding the two halves together was the silk liner with the brand name Bree vaguely visible in a black-on-black design. And so it was, that on a recent press launch to Madrid I finally decided it was time to replace her. I perused the small avenues off the main drags in search of a small shop that just might have a wallet that spoke to me. Finally, after a half day of milling about, I entered a quaint leather shop and saw it; a thin, simple, single fold-over wallet with a license area and slits for five credit cards. It was made of beautiful, soft black Spanish leather. It was on sale for 28 euros ($37).
On the return trip from Madrid I used my new wallet to obtain my boarding pass—its first official duty. I sincerely hope this wallet gets to enjoy the kind of wonderful experiences the old one did. I got to thinking about my old one, which was tucked away in my gear bag in the holds of the jet, and decided I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. Wherever the cow is that gave up some of their flesh to provide the makings of my old wallet can rest peacefully knowing that its sacrifice was put to good use. Since that wallet has served as a kind of trophy for so many of my various adventures in life, it deserves to be on display. Therefore, I have decided to frame it.
Northern Utah is an enticing mix of high country views, rugged mountains, intriguing history and fantastic roads. Photos by the author.
I unfold a Utah map on my outdoor table at the Main Street Deli in Park City’s bustling downtown. After placing my gyro sandwich plate over the state’s southern half, I study the upper portion of the map. With my yellow highlighter, I carefully trace out my two enticingly twisty, yet distinctly different loop rides. One emanates southeast of Park City and the other extends to the northeast.
This picturesque hamlet will be my home base for an exploration of Utah’s high country. Nestled in the mountains due east of Salt Lake City, Park City was the site of much of the competitive activity of the 2002 Winter Olympics. The town rests at the base of the ski run-lined mountains that are its winter lifeblood.
Downtown Park City is full of restaurants and shops housed in historic brick buildings.
Park City buzzes with activity in all seasons. In winter, ski boots and fur-lined parkas are the attire de rigueur. However, mid-summer is the perfect time to pull on the riding boots and armored jacket and hit the road. The upscale village offers (slightly) discounted lodging for summer activities, like my planned double-loop foray into some of the most varied and striking motorcycle riding the Southwest has to offer.
After wiping the Greek tzatziki sauce from my whiskers, I am ready to throw a leg over my BMW R 1200 GS for an afternoon ride.
The historic Miners Hospital in Park City is now a community center hosting a variety of meetings and activities.
The Southern Loop – Wide Open Spaces
Following a short ride east through the historic buildings, ski chalets and bustling activities of Park City, I start my ride on U.S. Route 40. The long, sweeping corners are lined with grasslands and a wide variety of summer wildflowers. In no time, I am riding with the blue waters of the Jordanelle Reservoir to my left. The substantial body of water is virtually treeless, offering up miles of views.
Just a few miles after the reservoir, I roll through clean and tidy Heber City. Like most of the Mormon-founded towns in Utah, Heber City features a mix of modern homes and buildings as well as historic pioneer-era structures.
Map of the route taken, by Bill Tipton/compartmaps.com.
After Heber City, the human element fades, and the grasslands and low trees again define the landscape. Traffic is refreshingly light, and the undulating pavement is smooth and fun. The farther southeast I ride on U.S. 40, the curvier the tarmac becomes. This is a relaxing ride that requires little on the technical riding front, but offers much in terms of long-perspective visuals.
Strawberry Reservoir is the next notable water feature on the ride and it is substantially more expansive then the Jordanelle. I make the turn into the Strawberry Reservoir recreation area, and stop by the U.S. Forest Service depot that rests at the entrance to the area. The tidy Forest Service facility is a treasure-trove of information on the Dominguez–Escalante Expedition of 1776. The Spanish expedition was conducted to find and map a route from Santa Fe, New Mexico, to the Spanish missions in California.
The 1776 Dominguez–Escalante Expedition sites highlight the ride.
The paved roads that flank the reservoir are too much to resist, and I spend a fair amount of time exploring the lake’s shoreline. Having heard of the great views and interesting endgame offered after a ride south of Strawberry Reservoir on Forest Road 42, I decide to give the big BMW a little light dirt duty. The well-groomed 10-mile gravel and dirt road ultimately leads to the entertaining and paved Sheep Creek Road. The road turns out to be a wonderfully winding stretch that is virtually devoid of traffic, and yes, the views are spectacular.
Sheep Creek Road is a serpentine ribbon through the undulating high chaparral landscape.
So what about that interesting endgame? I visit the strange, semi-submerged ghost town of Thistle, which was completely flooded when a massive landslide dammed the Spanish Fork River in the 1980s. After exploring the wet ruins and imbibing the eerie ambiance, I retrace my ride back to Strawberry Reservoir. This out-and-back is something you can omit from the ride if you are not comfortable with a short foray off of the tarmac.
The partially submerged town of Thistle is a fascinating and surreal stop.
I rejoin U.S. 40 for several more miles of sweeping turns accented with outcroppings of rock formations and low cliffs before heading north on State Route 208. After that stretch, I head back toward Park City on State Route 35. This northwestern ride is a delightful climb back into the mountains. The terrain morphs from grasslands to chaparral to forestland in a span of about 40 often-curvy miles. That forested segment would be a foreshadowing of the next day’s ride.
Northern Utah’s roads offer up panoramic views punctuated with snow-laced mountains.
I roll back into Park City after 230 miles of moto entertainment. I settle into my room at the Shadow Ridge Resort Hotel and then shower up for a walk to the downtown district for dinner and to catch the Mark Cohn concert at the historic Egyptian Theater. The revived theater is an intimate 300-seat venue, which, in addition to concerts, serves as a site for the annual Sundance Film Festival. Both Cohn and the Egyptian prove to be completely enjoyable.
My day ends with a local microbrew and then a slow and satisfying walk, not “in Memphis” like Cohn had just crooned, but rather through the cool night air of Park City. The stroll back to my hotel is a fine culmination to a fantastic day.
The historic Egyptian Theater is an entertainment staple in Park City.
The Northern Loop – Mountain Lakes and Waterfalls
I intentionally leave a full day for the second of my loop rides. Map study and Internet searches have revealed a full slate of reasons to throw down a kickstand along the route. Mountain lakes, rivers, waterfalls and forest vistas are on tap.
I leave Park City in the same direction as the day before, but just a few miles free of the town, I start my northwestern sojourn into the Uinta-Wasatch-Cache National Forest. Just miles into my ride on State Route 150, also known as the Mirror Lake Scenic Byway, it becomes crystal clear just how different this ride will be than that of the prior day.
The Uinta-Wasatch-Cache National Forest covers nearly 2.5 million acres.
The long, lazy sweepers of the lower loop have been replaced with tighter, more technical corners on this northern ride. The evergreens that line the roadway increase in height with the rise in the elevation. Vibrant forest greens color my ride into the Uinta Mountains.
The blue-green waters of Beaver Creek skirt the early miles of the climb up Route 150. When the route turns northward, it is the Provo River that flows along the ride. At about the 40-mile point in the loop the rushing and tumbling Provo River Falls are a great first stop.
The cold waters of the Provo River Falls cascade below towering evergreens.
After the falls, the road becomes increasingly twisty and entertaining. There are even a fair number of hairpins to keep things lively. The traffic is a bit heavier than I had experienced on the southern loop, but it is far from frustratingly congested. Much of the traffic that I encounter is made up of other happy motorcyclists.
Deep blue mountain lakes begin to dot the alpine landscape, and each one offers its own unique visual appeal. My first shoreline stop is Teapot Lake, which sits cold and still with a great view of snow-laced Mount Watson over its far shore. Even in late June, the white stuff is in abundant supply on the mountains at this elevation.
The author looks over Teapot Lake to rugged Mount Watson.
After Teapot, I don’t even get out of second gear before I come upon the more expansive Lost Lake. For the next several miles, bodies of water with names like Moosehorn, Mirror and Butterfly sit just off of the pavement on both sides of the winding road. For me this high-mountain lake region is the highlight of my riding in northern Utah.
The next miles of Route 150 follow more rivers as the road carves through the national forest. The northern ride takes me by a smattering of cabins and lodges. It should be noted that most of this scenic byway is devoid of any services so plan your gas and sustenance needs accordingly.
The impressive Slate Gorge was cut by the Provo River.
Shortly after a cluster of cabins called the Bear River Lodge, the forest of pine and aspen trees transforms into a high-elevation grassland environment. The road is straighter and the riding landscape is rolling and wide-open. The snowcapped mountains diminish in my rearview mirrors.
At about the 75-mile mark of the ride, I pass into Wyoming. I am riding in what would still be Utah if the state were a true rectangle. It’s as if Wyoming, which became a state six years before Utah, laid claim to that geometric distinction by biting off the ear of Utah. The small handful of miles that I will spend in Wyoming is punctuated with a stop in the town of Evanston. After a quick fuel stop, I look for a place for some lunch. Jody’s Diner, a quaint retro eatery, fills the bill.
There are trout in those riffles, but the author didn’t pack his rod.
There is more entertaining riding to be had, so I head out of Evanston to the northwest on Wyoming Route 89, which becomes Utah Route 16 as I reenter the Beehive State. It’s when I turn onto State Route 39 (the Ogden River Scenic Byway) that the real entertainment begins. This 50-mile stretch of my ride serves up the longest sustained lineup of curves on the entire loop. The pavement conditions are variable, so I exercise caution on the new-to-me route. At Huntsville, I head south on State Route 167 and finish my return to Park City via Interstates 84 and 80.
In the end, this tour is really a tale of two distinctly different rides. The southern loop is defined by sparse traffic and wide-open spaces that equal a relaxing and view-infused experience. The northern route is an alpine route that ramps up the riding entertainment with winding mountain roads. Needless to say I will be back, map and highlighter in hand, to trace more of what this region has to offer.
Mirror Lake Scenic Corridor Recreation Area
If you are going to get off your bike and explore the lakes, streams and hiking opportunities in the Mirror Lake Scenic Corridor Recreation Area along Utah Route 150, you will need to stop at one of the self-serve recreation fee stations. A three-day pass carries a $6 fee and it is $12 for a seven-day pass. For more information contact the Heber-Kamas Ranger District at (435) 783-4338.
A map of the route taken by the author, covering all 47 U.S. national parks.
Forty-seven national parks, 17,335 miles, 67 days, three flat tires, two forest fires, three boat rides, temps ranging from 31degrees and sleet to 106-degree blinding heat–and no speeding tickets–equals one extraordinary and unforgettable motorcycle trip of a lifetime!
When I told my friends and family of my planned motorcycle trip, a visit to each of the 47 national parks last summer, there were plenty of questions from everyone. “Are you crazy?” “How many other riders are joining you?” “Is your life insurance paid up?” “What type of gun are you taking?” And finally, “Why?” But I had heard it all before on my previous trips to the four corners of the U.S. in 2013 and to all of the lower 48 states in 2014.
Next gas: 145 miles on Route 62 just west of Carlsbad Caverns National Park. Next stop, El Paso, Texas.
It all began last winter when my wife surprised me by sending me a link to a website that mapped out an efficient way to visit each of the 47 national parks in the lower 48 states, riding the least amount of miles. When I began to plan the trip, I realized that picking a date to leave Chicago in order to avoid all the tricky weather conditions in the various parts of the country was harder than I expected. The Midwest has the tornado season in the late spring, Florida has hurricanes beginning in June, Death Valley has 120-degree heat in the summer, and the cold and snow could still be around in the mountains out west in early summer. I made the decision to leave on May 1 and hoped that I would be able to avoid most of the weather issues.
Planning the route for the trip was easy. I used the map that my wife had shown me and, although I didn’t have any time constraints, I still plotted the estimated distances and traveling times between the parks to help me plan for places to stay while on the road. I found that Google Maps, set to “avoid highways,” gave me the best routes with the most interesting scenery.
Multi-colored rock formation in Petrified Forest National Park in Arizona.
Traveling through 17,000 miles of back roads, I was able to discover roads that many motorcyclists can only dream of riding. Imagine riding the seven-mile bridge in the Florida Keys, just you, your bike and miles of ocean all around you until you reach the next island Key. Then there are the desolate, lonely roads, like U.S. Route 62 heading out of Carlsbad, New Mexico, where “Next Gas 145 Miles” signs warn you of the barren and isolated landscape. Utah State Route 12 through the Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument area delivers magnificent vistas as far as the eye can see and is a motorcyclists’ dream, with hundreds of sweepers and a few free range cattle to make things interesting.
An incredible sight from Dante’s View (5,476 feet) down to the floor of Death Valley at -282 feet.
Some of the best conversations on motorcycle trips begin with a simple question: “So, where are you headed?” Bonds develop quickly between riders, and this trip held no exceptions. There were the two riders I met in Alpine, Wyoming, from Portugal and Gibraltar. They invited me to plan a trip with them to ride in Morocco.
And then, while touring Sequoia National Park, I met another pair of riders from Los Angeles. We became fast friends and now we regularly keep in touch and I plan to connect with them on my next ride out west.
A little road impediment in Sequoia National Park–be sure to duck when riding through on a tall BMW R 1200 GSA!
I am frequently asked, “What is your favorite national park?” I don’t have a single favorite, but rather a Top Three. Dry Tortugas National Park covers an entire island and is located 70 miles west of Key West in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. The fort there was historically significant during the building of our country (Google it).
Zion National Park, one of our nation’s most majestic parks, is accessed via Utah State Route 9 and covers 146,596 acres of multi-colored canyons that take your breath away.
Red rock formations in southern Utah. It’s tough to take a bad photo with this as your backdrop.
Lastly, Kings Canyon National Park is set between Sequoia National Park and Yosemite National Park in central California. Although this park isn’t as well known as some of the others, it reminds me of riding in the Alps in Europe, withroads that are carved on top of mountains with unforgiving 1,000 foot drops. Riding the winding road alongside a raging, overflowing river trying to accommodate last winter’s massive snows was exhilarating.
The beauty of this canyon ride is that you get a bonus at the end: you get to turn around and do it all over again.
A typical road in Kings Canyon National Park. It reminded me of riding in the Alps!
Every national park has its own personality, beauty and history. From Acadia National Park in Maine with its rocky shores, high winds on Cadillac Mountain and seafaring history, to Big Bend National Park in Texas, running along the Rio Grande river, each park is special in its own way. At one vista point, I was able to walk across the Rio Grande into Mexico and then back again. For perspective, Big Bend is larger than the entire state of Rhode Island. Approaching Big Bend from Alpine, Texas, on State Route 118 presents a desolate intimidating roadway, especially as temps hit 106 degrees.
A classic Yosemite National Park picture: nothing but magnificent views wherever you look.
Entering Death Valley National Park, I was uneasy with the extreme desolation, especially knowing that I was only one flat tire away from a crisis. At 3.4 million acres and 1,000 miles of roads, this is the largest National Park in the lower 48 states.
Food is always an important component of any trip, from lobster reuben sandwiches at Keys Fisheries in Marathon, Florida, to BBQ at Lockhart’s in Dallas, Texas, which is always served on butcher paper. I prefer to search for the mom & pop places to eat and try the local delicacies.
This trip of a lifetime gave me valuable insights regarding the beauty of our national parks and how precious they are to us. My advice is to visit as many of these national treasures as possible, I guarantee you will not be disappointed!
31 degrees and sleeting in Crater Lake National Park. Missed seeing the crater by 3 minutes…clouds rolled in.One of the more magnificent roads through North Cascades National Park. An iconic image of the Grand Tetons. A picture-perfect day for a ride in one of the most beautiful places in the world.
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