I want an unwritten life. Adventure around every corner, and nothing but courage and curiosity to carry me through.
You are a young man. Health, beauty, arrogance - the world is yours. We have these things, but most importantly, you have your freedom, your courage, your eagerness and honest appreciation of every single day. You have lived more in two years than most men dare to dream in their lifetimes. So continue to seize every single day with the fervor and tenacity you approached today with, because though you may feel stuck now, you are moving forward, and you will go on to see and do things that will trump the menial amount of time you spent waiting, that will leave grown men wishing they hadn’t fallen for the spell, that they didn’t have a wife or kids or a house or bills. You are the envy of many and the brother of few. All you need to feel complete is sunshine and a motorcycle. You have the spirit of adventure and that will take you beyond what you thought was possible and what others said was impossible. Keep riding, and the rest will come to you in time.
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“You can’t escape the real world, but you can keep on drifting.”
The night before a planned ride is always eerily ritualistic. Prep the route - spend an hour or so between google maps and my trail guides and handwritten chicken scratch notes from Eddy the Argentinian. Spend an hour or two prepping the bike - check tire pressure; oil, coolant and brake levels; charge the battery, pack the tools, pack the gear, and double check everything. Then prepping my gear - compression shorts, thermals, jeans, thermal shirt, jacket, keys, phone, etc. I lay it all out in a line on the table. Then prepping myself, no dinner, lots of water, and early to bed. From an outsider’s point of view, I’m probably nutters. Passing up invites to the bar, to parties, to shows. “Gotta ride tomorrow, mate. Sorry.” But when the alarm goes off at 5:30 AM and I rise with the sun, it all comes to a beautiful and fulfilling fruition. Big breakfast, lots of water, all the gear on, and I’m off by 6:15. Quick petrol stop near Surprise, then superslab it out to Old US-80. I begin to realize just how remote this trail is. The Palo Verde Post Office has a handwritten sign in the window designating it as such, and cardboard boxes as drop-bins for outgoing mail. And I’m surrounded by…lush, green farmland. Yeah, you read that right. There’s an amazing amount of arable land in Arizona, and despite the harsh conditions, plants and crops continue to thrive, a testament to the tenacity of mother nature. Several miles down Old US-80, there’s a turn-off for Agua Caliente Road. An abandoned farm sits to the left, and at first, it’s unsettling how quiet it is out here. I mean really, really, silent. You can hear the wind blow and the occasional distant rattlesnake. No sign of human life save for the few shredded tire bits along the road. I begin the trail and set off for Agua Caliente.
Just off Old US-80. Palo Verde, AZ.
The road to Agua Caliente. Palo Verde, AZ.
One of the few signs of mankind along this road. Agua Caliente Road, AZ.
Horizons Unlimited. Agua Caliente Road, AZ.
These signs are becoming surprisingly familiar. Agua Caliente Road, AZ.
I want a patch of blue sky to follow me. Outside Agua Caliente, AZ.
All in all, the trip covered about 250 miles, 70-80 of which was dirt, sand, silt, and amazing. I’m the luckiest bloke in the world on days like this, were I get to piss around in the middle of nowhere with nobody else around. Except for the rattlesnakes.
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“You don’t fuck with [the desert]. She’s a mean old bitch, and she’s enticed and destroyed stronger men than us. You have to accept that she’s in charge. She decides who lives and who dies. Out here, she is God.”
The above are words from a real tough, leathery man that I encountered while on a ride to Copperopolis the other day. Extremely nice guy, invited me in for lunch. We had some sandwiches and smokes, talked bullshit on government and “the city folk”, and it was a bizarre but rewarding experience. This is a man who worked in mines until they shut down. Digging wealth for his employer, and never getting a cut of the finds. Needless to say, he lives in the desert, doesn’t pay taxes, carries a large hunting knife on one hip and a .45 revolver on the other. Has a shotgun hanging within reach immediately after opening the door to his surprisingly clean trailer. Hints of former glory days adorn the walls in the form of Military insignias and medals. Pictures of his family (all deceased) proudly displayed above the sink. An assortment of newspapers from 2005 (“The year I decided to cut myself off from that shit”). Jim Beam and Baked Beans. One of the last American Cowboys. “They call me Cowboy Dan.” Who does? He politely declined to have his picture taken, but I did manage to snap a distant shot of his dwelling:
Immensely difficult to arrive at, I can see why “Cowboy Dan” picked this spot to make his home. No cops come out here. No tax collectors. There is no Law here, and as far as the world knows, there is no such person as Cowboy Dan. And he likes it that way. It was a bizarre encounter. Maybe he saw me from far away and thought I was someone who had come to interfere with his life. Either way, he flagged me down and asked if I cared for any water. (After the initial question “You a copper?” No. “You come lookin’ for money or trouble?” No sir. “You thirsty?” Yes sir. “Well, come on down and I’ll getcha some fresh spring water.”) In a way, it was inspiring, seeing an ex-pat, living out his life with no regard to the world around him, but not interfering with theirs. Dan was born out east, though I never did get the exact location. He moved out here with his mom and his brothers a long time ago. Worked in mines for as long as he can remember, then one day got sick of it. Or so the story goes. In a way, it was terrifying. You can tell when a person is running from something. Be it painful memories, the law, or something they aren’t even sure of. And that’s what has Dan living out his life in a trailer in the middle of the Sonoran Desert. Is that what life has in store for all us cowboys, all us vagrant souls? I certainly hope not. Dan was an ethereal character in my story, and I the same in his. There’s a good chance I’ll never see him again, and that’s okay. We all have our roles to play, however short or long, and we play them with or without choosing to. I know my role is to ramble, and I’m gonna keep Ramblin’ On. Trip plans through Canada and to the tip of Argentina, Paris to Perth, Morocco to Malaysia. This is my life, and I love it.
Desert Brutality
So I set out yesterday afternoon for a decent day of trail riding around Lake Pleasant. I have this book of back roads & OHV trails through AZ, and I picked the back route to Crown King. 17 miles of slab, and then the real fun began. I never tire of the “Pavement Ends” signs!
The crossroads leading to Crown King.
I love the desert!
Way steeper and way more brutal than it looks!
Everyone I know, please get a dual sport so you can see the amazing things I do on a daily basis! However, beauty like this has its costs. I had my first trail wreck yesterday (d’oh). Here’s where it happened:
This was a pre-wreck photo. I attempted to take the bike up the rock formation on the left. Halfway through, I stalled out, lost traction. The rear wheel slid down in to a rut and I was flung from the bike, hitting my head and my left side (particularly my leg) on the way down. The ensuing picking up of the bike and trying again was just as fun, and there was very little damage to the DRZ. I, on the other hand, am quite sore and stiff today. But I am alive, and happy. :)
The Apache Trail
Today I had nothing that I absolutely had to do, so it was due time for a damn good ride. I set out from Rio Verde around 3 PM, got gas in Fountain Springs, then headed up Beeline Highway for some good times. Took Bush highway over towards Usery Pass and Mesa, then arrived in Apache Junction. Stopped to fill up my water bottle and prepare for the ride. I got back on the bike and headed out the Apache Trail. Saw some strange tourist-ish stuff around the Superstition foothills, which quickly faded away and allowed natural beauty to take hold. The first several miles of the Apache Trail were…annoying, to say the least. All these wonderful tight curves and switchbacks, and I’m stuck behind some old folks from Nevada on vacation with their overweight grandkids. Beginning to think this is not such a good idea. About 40 minutes of this bullshit until I arrive in Tortilla Flat. Big tourist stop, had to weave my way through pedestrians and people who can’t park. Finally got to a point in the road where a bunch of cars are stopped. I peeked around and see it’s because the roadway has water on it, about a foot and a half deep and 15 feet across, and people aren’t about to roll through that in their nice new Accords and Camrys. That’s my cue. In true “FYYFF” fashion, I gun the throttle and plow straight past the cars, through the creek and to the other side. People honk and yell, but whatever, they won’t be catching up to me anytime soon. About 10 miles of clear, beautiful twisties ensue. I finally stop to take some pictures:
A few miles down the road, I come upon this beauty:
That was really the point when I knew the day was headed in the right direction.
I wish I could’ve better documented the actual trip down through the unpaved section of the Apache Trail, but the best I can offer is those few brief moments when I was able to wrench myself out of the saddle.
Near the Roosevelt Dam.
And that’s a wrap. Hope y’all enjoyed the pics! I move in to my new place on Monday (assuming all goes well!) so I’ll post some pics of that when I get the chance. Hope y’all are well!
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