Canyon Country Part One

Things came to an end in Hatch. The snow fell, the power went out and the only store in town ran out of food. Time to move, and so we did, even if it was only up the road 20kms to Panguitch. At least the scenery was different and the local garage had food, even if it was the same last-for-ever, never-rot sandwich in a plastic bag. At least you don’t need an expiry date.

Soon the sun was out and we were back into travel mode again. It was canyon-country time and the route followed this pattern. Red Canyon, Bryce Canyon and Kodachrome State Park. Here again words can not describe the roads or the astounding views. Every turn in the road produced new vistas. Having a dusting of snow on Bryce Canyon added to the scene and made the air sharp and crisp. We met a group of Harley riders on their way into the park and had a great time chatting and swapping emails before the mandatory pictures and farewells. Hopefully we may see one or two of them again soon.

We spent the night in Escalante, a quiet town half-way through the park area, then in the morning moved on through Escalante Staircase, The Burr Trail and finally the Capitol Reef Park to spend the night in Hanksville, and I will not bore you with the stunning description of Hanksville and what this go-ahead town has to offer except to say that the town name sounds appropriate.

We had two choices next morning, turn north or retrace our steps from the previous day. Hmmm, choices, choices. So with the sun at our backs we decided to return through Capitol Reef and make the most of the photo opportunities as the morning sun on these land forms was stunning and what a good choice it was. All the shades of red, snow capped mountains with a splash of green from the cottonwoods. Add to that a sweeping empty road and all was well with the world.

We rode on through the country-side and skirted Salt Lake City heading along the shoreline of the Great Salt Lake on our way to the Bonneville Salt Flats. A long straight road into the distance soon had the last of the rear tyre squaring out. Bonneville was still covered in water in places with the odd dry patch appearing. By the look of the deep wheel ruts we didn’t think it a wise idea to try taking the bike onto the salt. When we return this way in a couple of months all will be dry and rock hard, just right to give the old girl a blast on the time strip, ha ha.

We met a chap at the salt flats who had just brought a second hand bike and was returning home to Colorado with it and decided to stop this way for a photo. We got talking and he explained where he had brought the bike. I asked him what the old owner was going to replace it with and he filled us in on how this group of guys rode down to the Baja in Mexico and he wanted a smaller bike. He was not in a hurry as he rode a bike every day for work as he was a Californian Highway Patrolman. I said we had met three guys who were bike cops from Sacramento when we were in Baja. We looked at each other with wide eyes when he said it was Sacramento he went to to pick up the bike. We raced to our bikes to find the names and addresses of these three guys. Snap, turns out it was the same three. To think of how big this country is and what the mathematical probability of this meeting was, well I can’t count that big so I wont try.

Wendover was home that night. A town famous for it’s old WW2 airport from where many bomber crews were trained for the war, including the Enola Gay crew. Wendover is also a town divided. A line through the main street cuts it in two, one side being Utah the other being Nevada. With Nevada allowing gambling their side was all flashing neon and girlie billboards while Utah was more dull and religious. Quite a contrast to see at night.

Soon we were onto Route 50, famously named The Loneliest Road in America. It wasn’t that lonely but it was close. Mile after mile of empty country road through the middle of vast valleys , interrupted by a couple of old historic mining towns and the famous Pony Express route. By now the weather was worsening with the wind whipping up great dust clouds from the valley floors and sand blasted us from every angle. Soon we were on a permanent lean and thinking this was Patagonia all over again. By the time we reached Fallon the left arm was longer than the right and our helmets were full of grit not to mention our eyes and ears. A long day in the saddle indeed with the reward of seeing Scott and his pickup. He had decided that it was too windy to get to Reno and being so close he drove out to meet us and carried us the last sixty miles home.

What could we say to that.