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Twelve Days Across the West
by Rob McGregor
This is a travel story about a motorcycle trip my wife and I took across the
American West – beginning in San Francisco and ending in Steamboat Springs,
Colorado. We followed highways 50 and 40, which parallel the old Pony Express
route from Missouri to California. It was a chance to see parts of Northern
Nevada, Utah and Western Colorado that we had never seen before, and at the
same time visit some of the museums and historical places that capture the life
and times of the settlers of the 1860s and 1870s. Most came to Nevada during
the silver boom, and a trip across the Northern part of the state make one
appreciate the power that the lure of instant wealth has on the human
imagination. At the end of the trip I would have an impression that a similar land
boom today is drawing people to the mountains for entirely different reasons.
A trip across Nevada and Utah would be dull in a car, but on a bike you are not
separated from the scenery. You are part of it. You can smell the humidity when
you cross a river; can feel the heat from the sun; feel the wind against your face;
and almost reach out and touch the purple mountains that ring the desert.
This was my first real long-distance ride – 1500 miles in all – and we took it at a
leisurely pace of about 100 miles a day. We took rest days in Lake Tahoe,
Virginia City, Eureka, and Salt Lake City. Riding was half the fun, but visiting the
towns, taking photos and learning a little about western history was an important
objective of the trip. This is more than a chronology of our ride. It is also a
commentary on what we saw and learned along the way. For those of you who
like to skip to the back of a book, I’ll present my “lessons learned” about
motorcycle touring up front, just for the record. Here they are:
1. Get a bigger bike. We rode a Honda Magna 750 because I already owned
one that I kept in San Francisco for vacations. It’s a great city bike, but a little
light on the highway. The bike got squirrelly in a cross wind or when a semi
passed us. If I do this again, I’ll step up to the Honda 1300. I know a lot people
like the tradition and the image that goes with Harley Davidson, but as far as I’m
concerned, it’s just a big, loud motorcycle.
2. Don’t be afraid. I worried that we would get into trouble on the road; that
people would be unfriendly; that the desert ride would be inhospitable. All my
fears subsided once we were under way, and I realized that people are generally
nice to travelers and considerate of motorcyclists on the road. It’s not the 1800s
any more, and we were seldom more than two hours from a convenience store or
a place to stay.
3. Fill your tank often. I hate to admit it, but I ran out of gas because I forgot to
turn the fuel valve from “reserve” back to “on.” The bike has no fuel gauge. When
it starts to sputter, that’s the signal to switch to reserve, and it means you have
about 30 miles left in your tank. If you have forgotten to flip the switch after you
fill up, then the next time the bike sputters… you’re out of gas. There are some
stretches along Highway 50 that will max out your range with a full tank. Fill up
often. (By the way, we were saved by a Good Samaritan who lives in one of the
little settlements in the desert east of Carson City. He picked us up on the
roadside and filled our tank from gas cans mounted on the back of his truck.
Thank you.)
4. Pack light. We had a pair of saddle bags that held just one change of jeans,
three changes of underwear and T-shirts, swim trunks and a pair of tennis shoes.
If you are willing to do laundry every three days, you can ride across country with
surprisingly little storage space. My wife invented the “taco roll” method of folding
clothes, which worked pretty well. While I sifted through layers to find what I
wanted, she just pulled the appropriate rolled item out of her bag, leaving
everything else undisturbed.
5. Ride with a purpose. Touring is a reward all its own, but it makes the trip
much more enjoyable if you take a good camera or write an itinerary of your trip.
Writing something down in a journal every night kept my memories fresh, and
recaptured the feelings inspired by the days’ adventures.
6. Be safe. I used to skydive, and quit when I lost a friend to the sport. If I want
an adrenaline rush, I’ll take up skydiving again. Touring is fun because I haven’t
hurt myself. I intend to keep it that way.
Here is the log of our trip with some photos that we took along the way. I hope
you enjoy it.
On the day we left San Francisco, we had breakfast at our favorite café – Crepes
and Coffee on Sacramento Street. I like to read at breakfast, so despite my
disdain for the San Francisco press, I read The Chronicle. It was running a series
of articles on the problem of homelessness, and how the problem had gotten
progressively worse since Diane Feinstein made it a priority in the early 1980s.
Twenty years later, San Francisco is actually drawing homeless people from
neighboring communities, in part because of the city’s efforts to accommodate
them. According to the Chronicle, the city gives an allowance of $285 a month to
persons who can demonstrate that they are homeless (though I don’t know how).
I looked up from the paper saw this guy standing on the edge of the sidewalk,
facing the door of the coffee shop, talking loudly to himself. He wore a fatigue
jacket and jeans, and had a cup in his hand. After a little while, he wandered
away down Sacramento Street. I got up, bought a pastry and a cup of coffee to
go, put some cream and sugar in it, and chased after him.
“Excuse me, I noticed that you were in front of the coffee shop and wondered if
you needed something to eat.” I said as I came up behind him.
He looked scared and suspicious, and stuttered badly, “Y-y-y-y you saw m-m-m
me at the-the c-coffee shop?” He looked at the pastry and coffee that I held out
to him.
“Yeah, go ahead. It’s fresh. I just got it.” He shuffled his own cup into his other
hand, and gratefully took the coffee and pastry.
“T-t-thank you,” he said, and shuffled away. Although I was struck by his
politeness, I noticed that he was truly disabled. There was something wrong with
him
You know, there are a lot of assholes out on the street, and most of them need a
job or a 12-step program more than they need a handout. On the other hand,
there are some people who really need help, and they are the ones who deserve
$285 a month. That guy never had a chance, and will be dependent on someone
for the rest of his life. It’s possible to design a program to distinguish between the
truly needy and the lazy or addicted, but it takes more political courage than most
people in public life can muster. Ironically, pressuring the quitters and the drug
addicts to get jobs or treatment would be infinitely more humane than subsidizing
their life on the streets.
With that thought, I walked back to the cafe and we saddled up. I didn’t want to
leave thinking about the homeless, as the City has so many positive things going
on. It seems to have some vital energy that is created by people who know they
are living someplace special. We took a slow ride through the financial district on
the way to the Bay Bridge, and I looked over my shoulder a few times as we
headed toward Oakland. I always have a bittersweet sense of leaving something
very special behind when I leave San Francisco.
Our journey along Highway 50 began in Sacramento – the last stop on the old
Pony Express route – and we stopped to celebrate with a dish of Yankee pot
roast at Abe’s Cafe. It was only about an hour and a half to Lake Tahoe, which
was our first day’s destination. The first day would also be my first lesson in time
management, as our late start put us into Sacramento at rush hour. Interesting
that rush hour looks the same in every large city in the U.S. – the only difference
being the scenery you pass as you meander out to the suburbs. It is apparent
that our population is outgrowing our infrastructure, but no one really seems to
care. We joined the traffic jam headed out of town toward Folsum, and were
pleased to find the diamond lane almost empty. This, despite 20 mile-an-hour
traffic in the other four lanes. As I watched the cars exit en masse at Folsum, I
thought, “Doesn’t anyone in this town know someone they can drive to work
with?” I suppose they will widen the freeway before they will drive two to a car.
By the time we climbed toward the mountain pass east of Placerville, the sun
was low in the sky. As we climbed above 6,000 feet, and the temperature
continued to drop, I realized the hazard of wasting daylight. I was getting very
cold, and the combination of dew on the outside and fog inside my visor made it
hard for me to see the road. We topped the crest of the pass somewhere around
7,000 feet and started down a beautiful but treacherous descent on the Eastern
side. There was no shoulder, but a small rock wall the highway department had
installed to act as a guard rail. The wall was only about fifteen feet to my right as
I negotiated the curves leading down to the Lake. Oncoming cars made my
visibility problem worse by refusing to dim their lights ('cause you know, then they
can't see as well). I had visions of wandering over the right shoulder, hitting the
highway guard wall and plunging into the chasm below. I was so cold my hands
were stiff, but I could see the lights of South Lake Tahoe, and knew we would
make it in.
We spent a quiet
day in South Lake
Tahoe, losing money
at craps and video
poker. We decided
to get out of the
casino and take a
ride up to Incline
Village, which was
rather disappointing
except for the
incredible views of
the lake. We
stopped at the
Tahoe Biltmore
casino and went to
the restaurant. An
indifferent wait staff
avoided our table for about 20 minutes, before my wife said, "We should go
somewhere else." She meant it as a principle: she doesn't suffer laziness or
ineptitude, and will go out of her way to make sure that she never rewards people
who don't deserve it. For that I love her.
We went across the street to a little outdoor place with an awning that said,
"Burger Spot." It's outside of Jim Kelly's Nugget casino, on a wooden deck. They
served me the thickest, juiciest steak sandwhich I've ever had - piled high with
lettuce and tomatoes, and accompanied by their own chile. If you eat there, you
can go across the street to the Tahoe Biltmore to wash your hands. The
Biltmore's bathrooms are real nice.
The next day we dropped over Spooner Pass and into Carson City. The scenery
changed abruptly from the mountains to the high desert, and would not change
again until we reached the Wasatch Range at Salt Lake City. Carson City is like
a small town – clean, orderly and lots of trees. It has a great public library and
park near the capital. The dome on the capital is silver, as opposed to gold, as it
was silver that brought the boom to Nevada in the 1870s.
We spent our first afternoon in the Nevada State Museum, constructed of
sandstone block in 1862 to house the second national mint (the first one being in
Philadelphia). The mint opened in 1870 and minted silver coins until 1893. The
first coin press, operated by steam, is on display along with a comprehensive
collection of silver and gold coins minted in the building. Here is an interesting
piece of trivia: the coins were minted with an eagle on one side and a seated
liberty on the other. You may
have heard of a “golden eagle”
coin, which would be a $10
gold piece. A “double eagle”
did not have two eagles on the
coin. It was called a double
eagle because it was worth
twice as much – a $20 gold
piece. Can you guess what a
half-eagle is?*
There is plaque outside the
museum with a tribute to the
“celebrated” Pony Express
riders that carried mail along
the route between St. Joseph,
Missouri and Sacramento, California. Riders would leave from both ends of the
route, stopping at stations 5 to 20 miles apart for rest, water, and fresh horses.
They could make the trip in ten days, which I found both impressive and
embarrassing, considering that we took twelve days on a motorcycle and only
went as far as Colorado. Here are some Pony Express facts for your next trivia
contest: there were 183 riders who covered 650,000 miles of ground between
them and missed only one scheduled stop! They lost one horse and rider to
Indians.
The Ute Indians, by the way, became hostile when miners and settlers infringed
on their lands. Go figure.
The Pony Express had a brief history. Like the Clipper ships that carried
passengers to the West Coast before the railroad, its fame far outlived its tenure.
It operated from April 1860 to November 1861, when it was rendered obsolete by
the telegraph. Supporting the cost of the riders, horses and stations required the
service to charge five dollars to send a letter from Missouri to California. Five
dollars was a lot of money in 1860. (*That would be a half-eagle just to send a
half-ounce letter.)
If you visit the Nevada State Museum, go down the street to the Horseshoe
Casino and order the steak dinner. The steak is thick and tender, and the
waitresses are video poker aficionados. One of them claims she won $10,000 on
a Royal Flush playing a one-dollar machine. Inspired, my wife won $5 playing a
quarter machine, which isn’t as impressive, but still very satisfying 20:1 payout.
The next day was Saturday, and we rode the bike up the highway to Virginia City
along with all the other bikers in Nevada. Silver was discovered there in 1849,
but the town didn’t really boom until about ten years later when the famous
Comstock Lode was discovered nearby. They hauled about seven million tons of
silver ore out of the Comstock , which is a figure that doesn’t convey the enormity
of this task until you consider that it was brought to the surface with dynamite and
iron tools. The publicity of the Comstock brought thousands of settlers to Virginia
City, making it one of the largest towns west of the Mississippi. By 1870 local
investors completed the Virginia and Truckee railroad. Prior to that, travelers had
arrived by horse or stagecoach.
We visited the Fourth Ward School, built in 1876 to accommodate the growing
population. The school had 1,025 students when it opened. The first floor had the
primary grades; the second had the middle school, and the third floor the high
school. The original blackboards and desks (with inkwells) are still there.
Samuel Clemens became part of Virginia City’s fame when he came to try his
hand at prospecting after working as a pilot on a Mississippi riverboat. His
prospecting days were short lived, and he took his first journalism position with
the town’s newspaper, the Territorial Enterprise, in 1863. It was the first time he
used his famous pen name, Mark Twain, and when he moved on to California he
wrote about his adventures as a prospector in the book, “Roughing It.” His co-
editors of the paper became locally famous and apparently quite wealthy from
investments in mines and real estate.
The Mark Twain museum downtown houses the original offices of the paper. You
can see the desk where Samuel Clemens worked; walk on the wood floors where
he walked, and see the Enterprises’ original presses. The Enterprise, like the
Fourth Ward School newspaper, used the metal press and California type box
that required words to be constructed with raised letters on tiny metal blocks …
arranged backwards so the text would read left to right when pressed against a
blank page.
Here’s the strangest part of this story: my wife was trained to use that press and
the California type box when she was in middle school in the Mexico City public
school system. “I know how to use this!” she exclaimed when we walked up to
the old Territorial Enterprise press. She then gave me a detailed explanation of
how to set type from the type box, transfer the ink from the round metal plate to
the type, and press the sheets of paper against the inked type to create a single
page of text.
It occurs to me that the advent of the word processor has made newspaper
publishing infinitely easier, but not infinitely better. The old newspapermen didn’t
draw a distinction between reporting and editorializing, and editors were
expected to back up their inflammatory rhetoric with their fists – or guns – if
necessary. Today newspaper reporting maintains a veneer of objectivity by
reporting events without editorial comment. The bias is introduced by the editor’s
choice of which events to report, and how to present them. The newspaper
editors and reporters filter all that is happening in the world, and by their choice
of stories indicate which events are important. Homelessness is important. The
fact that we are quickly outgrowing our infrastructure is not. The bias was more
straightforward in the old days.
Virginia City is a very well preserved nineteenth century western town, and is
designated as a national monument. From the Fourth Ward Schoolhouse to the
Mark Twain Museum; the buildings, the wooden sidewalks, and the characters in
gunfighter costumes, it evokes the feeling of a mining town of the 1870s.
Spending a Saturday afternoon there left us with the feeling that it is a victim of
its own success, for it has become pretty “touristy.” The streets were full of bikers
and weekenders from Reno, buying souvenirs and getting drunk. The deciding
moment came a stretch limo got stuck in a tight intersection, unable to negotiate
the corner. We maneuvered the Magna slowly around the car, trying to peer
through the windows. It was so incongruous – someone driving a stretch limo
through an old western town.
Instead of returning
directly to Carson City,
we took a ride out to
the ruins of Fort
Churchill about 30
miles east of town.
The fort was
surprisingly big, and
the ruins are well
preserved. As the sun
began to set, I had a
sense of the
loneliness and
solitude the soldiers
must have felt at a
frontier outpost. There
is a cemetery nearby,
with an audio
recording that plays a moving eulogy to the unknown soldiers buried there. The
ride to Fort Churchill and back gave us a preview of the scenery that would be
the backdrop for the rest of our ride through Nevada – sandy brown desert dotted
with gray/green scrub brush.
When we left Carson City the next morning, the “loneliest road in America” got
pretty lonely pretty fast. The brown desert floor stretched out around us, ending
in a ring of mountains that looked blue in the distance. The sky was clear; the
road well maintained; and if it were possible to sleep behind the handlebars, I
could have dozed for most of the trip. It took about eight hours to get to Eureka,
including stops for road food and Gatorade. We stopped at a little cafe in Austin
and had a milkshake made the way a milkshake should be made – with whole
mile and chocolate ice cream blended in an old-fashioned mixer. It was dusk,
and having learned my lesson about filling the gas tank, I stopped at the Shell
station in Austin before the final push to Eureka.
I still couldn’t fit one day’s ride
into a day, and we headed out
into the desert with the sun
setting behind us. The desert
air quickly turned cold. Even
before the sun was down,
there was a chill in the shady
side of the mountains. The
night ride was interesting, and
my wife spent a lot of time
looking up at the stars. By the
time we got to Eureka, it was
really cold, and we were stiff
and tired.
The night manager at the Eureka Inn directed us up the street to the Owl Club
bar and grille, the only place that was serving dinner at 9:30. I sat at a table,
dumbly looking at the menu, with road noise still in the back of my head. When
the waiter said, “Our special tonight is ribs,” my wife and I both nodded and
handed him the menus. He came back with large slabs of baby back ribs that
drooped over both ends of the plates. The side dishes were corn on the cob,
baked beans, salad and hot rolls. It was a very pleasant surprise, considering
that half an hour earlier I thought we would be eating Cliff bars for dinner.
I stopped at the bar on the way out of the restaurant and asked the bartender if
she could sell us a couple of bottles of water. She looked surprised, and said,
“No. The water here is fine.” Then, as if speaking to a small child, make the OK
sign with her thumb and forefinger, “It’s great.” I waited till I got outside and then
just burst out laughing, “I love this town!”
When we stepped
out of our hotel the
next morning, we
heard country
music blaring from
a big red pickup
truck. The bumper
sticker said, “I may
be a bitch, but I’m
the pick of the
litter.” We went to
the EZ Stop next
door for a couple of
Red Bulls and then
did the self-guided
tour of the town.
The buildings in
the town are
numbered, and the
guide pamphlet gives a surprisingly detailed account of each of the buildings.
Here is a sample entry:
#26 Nevada Club Bar. The southern portion of this establishment was originally
called the Tiger Saloon. It gained a very notorious reputation when on separate
occasions, gunfights in the saloon resulted in the death of two men. After the
August 1880 fire, the saloon was rebuilt as a two-story frame structure in only 13
days. The saloon and dance hall continued to operate into the 1890s….
The famous Jackson House, a restored bar and hotel, has sadly gone out of
business. There is a “For Lease” sign in the window, offering an opportunity for
someone who wants to get away from the city and manage an historic boarding
house.
We left the next day for Ely accompanied by the beautiful fall weather that we
had enjoyed since the start of our trip. On a motorcycle you are susceptible to
conditions that you wouldn’t notice in a car, and soon the wind kicked up and
blew across Highway 50 in sudden gusts from the South. This made the Magna a
little light on its feet, and I slowed to 55 mph. The occasional highway sign
warning of “loose gravel” or “fresh oil” slowed us further. A little frustrated with
our progress, we stopped in Ely just long enough to visit the Northern Nevada
Railway Museum and took some pictures. The one stop that I had really wanted
to make was a detour to the ghost town of Hamilton, just south of Antelope
Summit. Unfortunately, the road was gravel. A road bike is squirrelly on gravel,
especially when loaded down with bags and a passenger, and I didn’t want to
take the chance that we would lay it down on a corner. We pressed on.
Instead of heading
toward the Great
Basin (named by John
Fremont in 1845), we
turned north on
Highway 95, heading
for West Wendover.
This was the last
gambling town before
the Utah border, and I
had a score to settle
with the craps table.
The gusting wind was
now at our backs, as
was the sun, and the
ride was smooth and
fast.
Highway 95 follows a narrow valley north along the Schell Creek mountain range.
The narrow desert bordered on both sides by mountains was a refreshing
change of scenery from the flat expanse of endless scrub brush. Once again we
found ourselves riding late in the evening, and the setting sun made a yellow and
grey patchwork out of the sage and scrub brush on the desert floor. The light hit
the mountains from the side, creating contrasts of light brown and shady blue.
That night I battled the craps table to a draw, but my wife had a hot streak and
won about $500 playing $25 chips. We spent part of our winnings on a suite with
mirrors everywhere and a big hot tub next to the bed.
The next morning we rode past the Utah Salt Flats and headed into Salt Lake
City. We hadn’t really planned to spend a day there, but the weather had turned
windy and cold. Conditions that the Pony Express riders would have laughed at
cause me to tremble and shake with fear, so we decided to stay in town and see
the Temple. The day off gave us a chance to do laundry again, and I took the
Magna to a Honda dealership on State Street for an oil change. There is nothing
better than fresh oil for your bike. We walked about six blocks south on State
Street for lunch at a very authentic little Mexican restaurant called Mi Rancherita.
I filled up on machaca and huevos.
A visit to the Temple Square reminded me why I don’t visit more often. Temple
Square contains the Temple, the Tabernacle, and two visitor centers that relate
and elevate Mormon history through dioramas and exhibits. They also serve as
venues for the faithful to proselytize the gentiles who wander in. Well that’s
understandable. Still, the fresh-faced acolytes that swarmed about the Temple
Square like bees from the hive out to gather pollen made me feel a little…
uneasy. The greeters in black uniforms and the employees inside the visitor
centers all used a friendly smile and casual greeting as a first step to initiate
contact. You feel rude if you ignore them, but I didn’t come for an enthusiastic
introduction to the Truth about God.
The experience reminded me of the approach used by timeshare salesmen at
Mexican resorts, where an overly-friendly smile and a “Where are you from,
amigo,” is a prelude to a sales pitch. In Mexico they will give you a free jeep
rental if you agree to show them your credit card and sit through a two-hour
presentation. (If you go through that, as far as I’m concerned, you have paid for
your jeep rental.) To be fair, the Mormons don’t ask to see your credit card, and
they aren’t really that pushy. On the other hand, there’s no free jeep rental.
I am glad we visited the Temple Square, for it reveals something of the American
character, and so fits in with the purpose of our trip. If there is any religion that
can be said to be truly American it is Mormonism. (Well, I suppose paganism in
truly American, but you know what I mean.) I say American instead of Western
because Mormonism was born in New York State, and moved west as a result of
religious persecution. I believe Mormonism is the only widely practiced religion
that was not imported to the Americas by settlers or immigrants. It was born here
in the early-nineteenth century when Joseph Smith was approached by an angel
and directed to unearth some golden tablets buried under a rock. The angel gave
Smith the ability to translate the text inscribed on those tablets into English, and
the resulting scripture was recorded as the Book of Mormon. Although the gold
tablets are not available for inspection, the Book of Mormon can be found right
next to your Gideon Bible in any hotel room in Utah.
As part of a trip back
into American history,
the beliefs of
Mormonism deserve
some mention. Upon
reading the tablets,
Smith discovered the
fate of the fabled lost
tribe of Israel. They
weren’t actually lost.
They sailed to the
New World long
before Columbus, and
the Native Americans
are their descendents.
This remarkable
interpretation of
history sets the scene for the most significant aspect of Mormon belief. It is this:
after Jesus was crucified in Jerusalem, he appeared to his lost children here in
North America. Jesus walked and spoke in the New World long before European
settlers arrived, and the legacy of His teachings is in the texts inscribed on the
gold tablets.
As a side note, archeological evidence shows that Native Americans actually
arrived from Asia over the frozen Bering Straight some 20,000 years ago, but this
evidence is recent and Joseph Smith was born in 1805. At that time the theory
that indigenous Americans were descendents of the lost tribe of Israel had some
currency. When Europeans beheld the cities of the Mayans and Aztecs, they
were impressed to the point of amazement. Cortés compared Tenochtitlán to
Seville in his diaries. Reflecting their Eurocentric view of the world, later scholars
theorized that ancient American cultures must have had contact with Greek,
Roman or Egyptian cultures, and this led to the hypothesis that the Lost Tribe of
Israel may have carried ancient knowledge to the New World. Smith would have
been familiar with this theory, and would logically have incorporated it into the
Book of Mormon to account for Jesus’s appearance here. This flawed view of
Meso-American history raises some questions about the legitimacy of the Book
of Mormon, for surely Jesus would have known the true origin of the American
Indians, even if Joseph Smith did not.
True or not, what is interesting to me about these assertions is what they reveal
about the need for Americans to see themselves as unique and morally superior
to their European brethren. Mormonism places North America on an equal
footing with the Holy Land from a religious perspective. The visit from Jesus and
the existence of an American holy scripture raises America up from second-hand
status to an equal partner with the Old World. This too is the Holy Land. The
survival of Mormonism into the twenty-first century reveals something about
American pride – and naiveté – that is reflected in other aspects of American
culture. We named our towns after European cities, copied European
architecture, built castles in the desert, and elevated our conquest of the West
with the label of Manifest Destiny. That we took the next step of religious self-
anointment should not seem peculiar in this context.
The next day the weather was beautiful, and we left Salt Lake City going south
on I-15. We turned east at Alpine and headed up Highway 92 – the Alpine Scenic
Drive. There is a visitor’s center just up the road after you enter the park, and a
trail leads to the Timpanogos Cave. Park rangers give tours through the cave,
which is really a system of caves connected by tunnels built in the 1930s. The
hike from the visitor’s center through the caves and back takes about three
hours. We skipped it, as we intended to make it to Vernal before sunset, but took
time for a slow ride up American Fork Canyon to the Sundance resort. This was
by far the most beautiful part of our trip. The road meanders up into the Uinta
National Forest, colored in brilliant reds and yellows by the fall leaves. The
scenery was just spectacular. We stopped at Sundance to look around, and
would have ridden the chairlift up the mountain and stayed at the resort if we had
had more time. In fact, I wish we had spent the night.
The descent out of the Wasatch Range into the Utah desert was much like the
descent out of Lake Tahoe. In short order we were surrounded by a flat sandy
landscape filled with rabbit brush. About an hour and a half east of the mountains
you come across the Strawberry Reservoir, which looks like a miniature Lake
Powell – as if some giant hand came out of the sky and filled the desert valley
with water. Just beyond is Fruitland, which as far as I can tell is just a little store
on the side of the highway. If you turn north at the Fruitland store and go about
300 yards up a gravel road to Muirs Smokehouse, you can have a great lunch of
smoked meats and enjoy a view of the valley.
It’s about another hour and a half to Vernal, which I remembered from my travels
as a spot in the desert. Now it has movie theaters, a Wal Mart, hotels,
restaurants, and a Honda dealership.
There is a fossil museum about ten
miles east of town, which was built
into the side of a hill that contains
the fossil beds. In the 1920s
thousands of dinosaur fossils,
dating from 150 million years ago,
were excavated and sent to
museums. The techniques for
extracting the fossils reminded me
of the mining techniques from the
1870s – lots of hand labor with iron
tools. When they stopped
excavating, they left many fossils in
place, and you can see hundreds
of exposed fossil bones in the rock
wall inside the museum. My wife
took a picture of me standing next
to the fossilized thighbone of
Diplodocus.
The day we arrived at the museum
was September 20th, which was
the last day of summer. It was a
beautiful day with clear skies and no wind at all. The park entrance fee is
normally $10, but that day it was free because, I was informed, it was National
Public Lands day. Considering that odds that we would arrive at the fossil beds
on the one day out of the entire year when admission is free; on the last day of
summer; and under beautiful sunny skies, I decided that a small offering of
thanks was in order. We performed a short ceremony among the rocks, offering
pieces of jerky and dried apple to whichever pagan gods are the patrons of
motorcyclists. I got some extra satisfaction by doing it while we were still in Utah.
We rode into Steamboat Springs, Colorado late that evening and found that the
town was having its Autumn Festival. (Apparently pagan rites are more
widespread than I had previously thought.) The streets were full of people
welcoming the onset of winter and the ski season. Steamboat Springs seems to
be booming. The town has grown appreciably since I was there for a skydiving
boogie in 1998. The downtown area has many more restaurants and shops, with
a noticeably more upscale tone. They are building new hotels near the base of
the ski area, along with retail stores and restaurants. The area from Steamboat
through Granby and south to the Vail Valley is all becoming a year-round
recreation area. A log home development and golf course near Granby, for
example, is selling out quickly to buyers from Denver who want vacation homes
in the mountains. The last land rush is on, and the draw this time is not silver or
gold but recreation. Everyone wants to get out of the city.
This was our last stop before we put the motorcycle away in storage. It had been
the longest and best road trip I have taken. I had expected to learn more about
the nation’s loneliest road, and the mining history of Nevada, which helped fill in
my vision of how the West developed. That was pretty interesting. What I didn’t
expect was that a trip through Nevada and Utah would teach me something more
about Colorado, by way of offering a contrast. I guess that’s the lesson for
travelers everywhere – the more you see of other people and places, the more
learn about yourself.
