North America: Riding a 21 year old Goldwing: 46 - Craters of the Moon, Vernal Utah, The Atomic City and my first ride in Colorado

It took a few minutes to maneuver the bike up the small path to the campsite. I like to camp next to my bike. It makes things easier.

As soon as I got off, I grabbed the camera to take pictures. These are with the flash, so you can tell that it was very dark. Twilight would be gone in minutes.

What great timing!

I was excited to ride around the park in the morning. There were about 30 miles of park roads and, though I knew nothing about the Park, given it's name, I knew it would be cool.

When the sun was gone, I set up camp and fired up the stove. My freeze-dried dinner was fantastic (thanks Bill.) After having had a leisurely night the evening before, I just cooked, ate, cleaned and packed stuff up and went to sleep. I'd ridden over 1,600 miles in the last six days. Months earlier, at a camp in Conrad, MT, the elderly proprietor had given me a welcome bag put together by the Chamber of Commerce. It contained little samples of stuff. I'd carried it around all this time because I've got a disease. I'm afflicted with pack-rat-itis.

Anyhow, there was a dose of Tylenol PM. So I ate it and went to sleep. It was just before ten. It was after nine when I awoke. Wow.

I packed up quickly and hit the road. The ride through the park was really cool. Every morning of riding has been fantastic, as was this morning.

I spent quite awhile riding in the park. A few quick hikes and several stops to read about the national monument and learn about the strange geological formations made for a fun morning. Eventually, I left the park to go into the desert.

There isn't much left to Atomic, Idaho. The four buildings below have sod roofs to blend them into the surrounding landscape. The old oil-changing station stuck me a a great old building to photograph. As did the old bar. There isn't any building in town that appears to be occupied. The only thing that still draws people, is the raceway. Too bad it was Tuesday and not Saturday.

There many be a "Virginia" in every state. Last summer while riding in Minnesota, I needed to clarify when I said I was from Virginia, as VA, MN was nearby.

In late afternoon, I was enjoying the mindless riding. Since leaving Montana in July, I'd not ridden roads that were flat, straight and in adequate shape such that I could ride without paying much attention to doing so. Today, I was riding along and enjoying the scenery. As it had been nearly two months since I'd had a speedometer cable and functioning speedometer, I wasn't exactly what 70 mph was. I knew that 4,000 rpm's was a pretty good approximation. However, I really had no regard for the speed limit as I didn't worry about small fluctuations in my speed.

Until I came over a small crest with a handlebar in one hand and the camera in the other. Evidently, I'd just fluctuated up.

The Idaho State Trooper was going to let me go, but evidently the voice on the other end of the squawk-box told him that my registration had expired. Clearly, the registration and licence plates expired in December. Something was wrong. I had no idea what it was and I couldn't call Raleigh from the middle of the desert. He wrote a ticket for speeding.

I was really upset. I'd been burning through money faster than anticipated. Fuel costs were up and fuel economy down. Riding for days at elevation is rough on fuel mileage. The cost of the ticket would have covered fuel costs for over 1,500 miles. OUCH!

To say that I was annoyed or even a bit bummed out would be a gross understatement. I was upset. I spent more money today than I had in a few days. A pointless expenditure.

It was dark when I rode into Vernal. Vernal was the first thing I'd seen in awhile. I hadn't passed places to camp and figured someone in Vernal could give me the lowdown on the possibilities for places to pitch a tent. Finding a bar in Utah is an exercise in detective-work. There aren't any neon signs. The bars seem to be hidden.

Then I saw the Dinosaur Haus and quickly did a 180. I love flicking that big 'ole bike around when there's an audience. It's fun!

I walked in to ask for a place to camp. Then I did another 180. What the heck, I decided to pull an Alaska move and ask to camp out back. I hadn't been able to see much when I rode in, but knew that the only thing back there was a gravel lot, but I asked anyway. Perhaps it was because I looked upset, perhaps it was my scorched face or blistered nose, perhaps it was the disheveled look that only comes from wearing the same clothes for four days while riding over 1,200 miles in the hot sun.

Whatever the reason, Greg gave me the go-ahead to set up my tent. I came back inside around nine, after setting up and changing shirts. Nalgene bottle water and finger styling could only do so much for my wind-blown hair. Oh well. I sat down and ordered a beer and burger. Both were delicious.

Turns out, there is a river that runs through town and in the back of the bar was a rafting company. A couple of guys who were into all the outdoor activities that Utah has to offer, came over and looked at my map to offer riding routes. I got some great recommendations and took notes.

The picture below is from where I camped and of the front of the bar. Notice the absence of neon. Also, the sign is quite small vis-a-vi other signs for establishments that don't sell spirits.

The restaurant closed at 10. I was shocked. I'd hoped to sit there and hang out and have another couple of pints. Oh well. At least I had time to finish my food.

Most of the people had left, then Greg offered to move the party back to his place. He lives on premise. Nice!

We ended up staying up and swapping stories for the next six hours. But not before I got to ride his Kawasaki dirt bike down the road and around a few dirt piles and sandy lots.

I've met lots of great people on my trip, but tonight was especially unusual. Greg and I are the same age. I thought back to Whitehorse on August 1st when I met Aaron from Seattle. He and I are also the same age. On that night, I'd ridden 800 miles that day and was really upset by Canadian Petrol Prices. Tonight, I was really bummed about the ticket. It was the first time in months that I'd had anything to be upset about.

Greg is a skier. Period. He skis all over the world and always has a camera ready to capture the experience. To fund his world travels, he works in the oil fields. I'd met oil industry workers in Alaska and heard many stories of people working like fiends for six months, and then traveling for six. Most of the people I'd met were engineers, heavy equipment operators, welders, pipe fitters, etc. I'd never hung out with a roughneck. That night, I learned all about it. The work is unimaginably hard and relentless. Above, the pile of gloves on the floor is from three days of work.

Before roughnecking, Greg had worked on a Salmon boat. I'd met several Salmon fisherman. Matt from the ferry. Brandon from the Spring Tavern in Clallam Bay near the Makah Nation. Richard from Chicken. And several others which whom the conversations were less memorable. He said that fishing was harder, but the oil fields were more dangerous.

His commitment to skiing requires six months of committing to work hard. Harder than I've ever worked. I couldn't do it. All day, day after day, of working until you hurt, and then working another six hours. There is no tolerance for mistakes. People who make mistakes are often injured or killed, but usually, just driven away by co-workers who won't tolerate mistakes. It's a rough way to make a living.

I asked about women working in the oil fields. Sure they do and there's no difference in the difficulty of work. One can make so much money by working in the oil fields. I thought back to Jilaena in Wyoming. The town couldn't be more than a couple hundred miles from Vernal. She has such a cool job that working in the oil fields would seem especially awful. But her job didn't pay such that saving for traveling the world would happen anytime soon. She had talked as passionately about traveling as Greg was talking about skiing. I wondered if she would ever work in in the oil fields to fund her excursions abound the globe.

I thought about Juniper from Alaska. She's somewhere in South America right now after having lived in Alaska all summer. There are a lot of jobs in remote western places and especially in Alaska, that pay enough to only work for half the year and then winter elsewhere.

Finally, around four, I went back to my tent to get some sleep. Greg had an interview the next afternoon to be a mud-engineer. If all went well, his days as a roughneck may be over.

Good luck buddy!

On the road less than 20 miles the next morning, near the Elk Hunting capital of the country, I got to meet one of Utah's finest. Another ticket. This is awful!