Black Rock Desert: Soldier Meadows

For such a critical day, I slept in a bit longer than I might have, for two reasons.  Breakfast was not served until 8:00, and every time I drifted off in the night, I was soon awakened again - more on that later.

Even so, we were still up in plenty of time to load the bikes before eating.  But first thing is always to ensure that all tires are still inflated - check!

As we were prepping the bikes, a fellow visitor came over and inquired about our planned route for the day.  "We're heading out through High Rock Canyon," I replied, trying to sound confident - for my own sake.  "We're going that way too," he revealed.  "We're in side-by-sides and a Hummer.  We'll let you get out first, and come up behind - in case you have any trouble."

That sounded like a great plan to me and Jonathan.  First, we certainly didn't want to eat their dust for miles and miles.  Second, even though we'd packed about everything we would likely need in a trail-side emergency scenario, one of our bikes was still largely untested in the rough stuff, and the other was ten years old, with rather high mileage.  Now we had a back-up plan!

We chatted a bit longer about the trail itself.  Evidently, there was a water crossing that was quite deep for another group of travelers, just a couple of weeks ago, after the last rain.  It was hard to imagine there being any water at all in this desert, at the end of a long, dry summer.  But one person's idea of deep is not necessarily the same as another's.  We'd find out, soon enough.

The blue, dune buggy looking vehicle above is what's known as a side-by-side.  Behind it, you can see the Hummer.  Their group stayed in that separate white building, and had their own supper last night.  They would all be joining us for breakfast, though.

Another prominent structure on the property was this old rock house.  Unfortunately, I forgot to ask about it specifically, but I know the ranch began as a military fort back in 1865 - to manage relations between pioneers, traveling on the Applegate Cutoff wagon road, and the Paiute Indians.  At its height, there were 176 men stationed here, with 100 horses!

Making my way back to the bikes, I noticed this small shed, with some rather large storage tanks behind it - and what appeared to be a power line running out of it.

That explains it.  This is what kept waking me up all through the night - a diesel powered generator.  The ranch was completely 'off the grid' and so produced their own electricity.  If we spent one more night, I'd probably get used to it, and have little trouble sleeping with the noise.  But it was a small price to pay, to visit such a remote and unique place.

They probably could have fed most of those 176 soldiers with the food our hosts set out for breakfast that day.  It was an incredible spread.  You may have noticed that I didn't take pictures of any of the food at the ranch - got to leave some things for the imagination.  Or, you'll just have to visit yourself!

We departed right after eating, and backtracked over the mile we had covered the night before - to the junction with the sign for High Rock Lake.

As soon as we left the gravel road for the two-track dirt one, the surface actually improved!  Though narrow, it was hard-packed and fairly smooth.  Jonathan was excited.  I was still a little concerned about the clouds, but the clear blue band in the distance was encouraging.  And besides, I'm always concerned about something.

And then we spotted it - the water crossing.  I dismounted and walked into it a ways.  There was a layer of soft silt on the bottom, but it seemed to be firm underneath that.  It had been over a decade since my friend had ridden through water off-road, so I offered to go first.

It wasn't too bad.  Sure I got a little wet, but that's what water-proof gear is for.  Jonathan followed, when he saw that I was clear - and made it look like he was a pro.

It was a real confidence booster - for both of us.  We'd conquered the water crossing, the first obstacle.  Our skills and the bikes' competence had prevailed!  The sky was even clearing.  What's next?

"Two roads diverged in a yellowish desert."  My apologies to Robert Frost.  Our new friends had been this way before.  "Just follow the main route," they said.  "You can't miss it," they said.

Whenever someone says, "You can't miss it," that should be a red flag warning.  What they probably mean is "I missed it, but I don't want to admit it; because after I lost hours going the wrong way and finally made it back, it was then really obvious what I had done wrong."

But we weren't completely unprepared for this scenario.  I had no less than three maps of the area, each at a different scale, and showing differing details.  I always bring a compass as well, which has helped me on more than one occasion in the past.  On this trip, however, we had yet another tool to consult - Jonathan's GPS.

I know, "But Troy, you don't believe in using GPS on your bike.  You're 'old school.'  You'd rather figure it out with pen and paper, or perhaps a willow divining rod."

But it wasn't my GPS, and it wasn't on my bike.  OK yes, technically the KLR was my bike, but that's not the point.  The truth is that even with satellite assistance, the correct path was not 100 percent apparent.  We knew where we were, and we knew where we wanted to go, but the best route to get from A to B was still unclear.  We finally made what seemed to be a reasonable decision, utilizing all available resources.  I walked back to the KTM and snapped this photo, before we took off, down our chosen route.

I didn't notice it at the time - until I uploaded my photos to the big screen at home.  But can you see it?  It's dangling from the center of my right pannier box.  It might help to compare it with the box on the left.  Now you see it.

Not good.

Black Rock Desert: Bunk House

Well, the road did NOT remain nice and smooth for long, after leaving the pavement.  The washboards got so bad, we were forced to keep speeds down to about 15 miles per hour for most of the way.  So much for making it to the ranch in less than two hours.  In fact, making it in time for supper was no longer a given.

On the plus side, our route turned to the north, and paralleled the playa, just far enough away that the blowing dust was never a problem.  In fact, when the sun began to set, the air was so clear that everything lit up in brilliant color!  This is my favorite time to ride.  And as you can see, even the washboards finally smoothed out.

We knew we were getting close when we reached Mud Meadow Reservoir - not very appropriately named, as it turned out.  I was expecting something much less picturesque.

Spirits were high at this point.  The temperature had cooled off significantly, and according to my trip meter, we only had about 6 miles to go, of the 50 stated on the sign, back at the highway.

Or maybe not.  Just under three miles from the lake, this BLM sign reads "Soldier Meadows 1"!  That may have been the first time on any trip that on-the-ground miles remaining was actually less than what my bike was indicating.  I know, we're only talking about a two-mile difference.  But with darkness descending, bellies empty, and arms of Jello from hours of rough road, those two miles off seemed like 20!

The bottom line of the sign pointed left, to High Rock Lake.  That's the route we would take out of the desert in the morning - the 4 x 4 trail.  Today was supposed to be the easy part!

But first, a good meal and a sound night's sleep.

As the sun sank below the mountain ridges, the bottoms of the clouds turned bright orange, which made their tops look dark and ominous.  "Do not worry about tomorrow,"  Jesus told his followers.  "Each day has enough trouble of its own."

Finding the right turn-off in the growing shadows was not at all difficult.  The enormous white-painted steel archway was a good clue.  I'd made a reservation a month ago.  Probably should have called to confirm.  But surely they wouldn't turn us away at this point.

Supper was supposed to be served, family-style, at 7:00.  We pulled up to the Kitchen door at ten minutes til!  By the time we removed our helmets and jackets, and took a few photos, it was about that time.

We walked (more like staggered) in the door together and I announced, "I'm Troy," really hoping that sounded familiar to someone in charge.  Our hostess, who had evidently watched us pull up, already had two plates in hand, piled high with the biggest chunks of beef and scooped-up sides I had ever been served!

There weren't that many of us for supper - actually, just the the couple who operates the place, one hired ranch hand, and Jonathan and I.  A young boy ran in and out ounce, but he must have eaten earlier.  With no other tourists to direct the conversation, it quickly turned to ranching.  We got a first hand glimpse into that difficult world, including dealing with neighboring operations, BLM regulations, even the struggles inherent with living such an isolated life.  It was certainly not your typical bed and breakfast chit-chat, but added an authentic and personal dimension to our adventure.

After supper (which tasted as excellent as it looked!) we were led past the showers, down a long narrow hallway, to our bunk room.  Once we'd scrubbed off all the road dust, we did some prep. work for the next day, and then it was lights out.

Big day tomorrow - really big.

We had no idea.

Black Rock Desert: 50 Miles to Go

Watching my old friend disappear into the dust storm was a tad disconcerting.  We'd been through a lot together over the years, and I was hardly ready to let go.  Making matters worse, was the fact that Jonathan had gone with her!

I was alone on the vast, empty expanse.

But not for long.  OK, you guessed it.  This had all been planned - to get good pictures, of course!

Team Green had survived their foray into the swirling cloud of the great beyond.  And now, it was my turn.

I wasn't entirely kidding about the unseen force, though.  It was hard to resist the urge to pin the throttle to the stop, charge into the wall of dust, and see if we could make it to the other side intact!

But thoughts of clogging air filters, lungs, or worse - hitting some large, discarded object, hidden from view - soon brought me into a wide, arcing turnaround.  Jonathan caught me in this shot, just as I emerged from the fray.

I'd have to return another day - in the morning hours, before the winds kick up.  Gotta save something for next time, after all.

As we were pretending to be moto magazine photographers, a couple of Jeeps approached from the far side of the playa - looking quite relieved to be within sight of the 'shore.'  Their vehicles were so completely covered in fine, flour-like dust, that you could hardly tell what color the paint actually was.  "You'd better not try to cross this afternoon," they warned.  "You can't see a thing out there!"  "We know," I replied.  "We're just going to hang out a bit, and head back to the road."

Satisfied that we weren't going to kill ourselves that day, they bounced up to the pavement, and took a left - back towards Gerlach.  No doubt, they were headed for Bruno's.

A few more pictures - still life, this time - and we'd better be off.  Jonathan liked our shadows in this one, as I was framing the shot below.

The sun's reflection in the KLR's mirror was a bonus I hadn't even noticed at the time!

We had both re-mounted our steeds and turned to go, when a very familiar-looking motorcycle exited off the road and onto the playa.  It was the same bike that had startled me back at the restaurant - my twin!

He had just bought his 1290 a month ago, and this was his first real trip away from his home in Reno.  It was my turn to pass on the day's dire warning.  But he too had no desire to be swallowed by the tempest.

After chatting for a few minutes about our amazing machines, and our obvious wisdom in choosing them, we shook hands and parted ways.  As Jonathan and I reached the pavement, I looked back to see him circling his new bike, camera in hand, trying to capture that perfect shot.  Uniquely set apart from the general population, as adventure bikers tend to be, we're certainly not very different from each other!

Only a few miles up the highway was the junction with the Soldier Meadows Road.  I was leading, and only noticed the sign as I passed by.  I'd assumed it was a bit farther.  Circling back, the knot in my stomach, like the one that had largely been responsible for my recent retreat from the Arctic, returned.

According to the large black print, it was 50 miles to the ranch, where we had reservations for the night.  That would be about 48 more than this bike had ever been from the pavement's edge.  I suppose breaking in my past new bikes was difficult as well, though I don't remember it being quite this bad - so shiny and clean, no scratches, no dents, no history of rough road success.  There were so many things that could shake off or snap in two, so many screws and bolts that could work themselves loose, if not properly tightened.

But the bike was designed specifically for this type of road - and worse.  And so far, it had proved itself better than its predecessor in every way.  I took a deep breath...

...And had Jonathan go first.

I told him the KLR was very prone to clogging air filters; and I wanted him to ride in the cleanest air possible.  Now, that was not entirely a lie.  I had indeed been stopped completely in my tracks on the green bike's first extended dirt ride.  I'd let the filter get so solidly coated with crud that the motor would not rev above idle.  Fortunately, I was able to diagnose and remedy the situation, cleaning the foam element with fuel that hung trapped in the hose of a closed gas station's lifeless pump.

What I didn't tell him, was that I wanted to hang back, to ease us both, man and machine, gradually into the often harsh realities of off-road riding.

But it was only 50 miles, right?  The first part here was fairly smooth, nicely packed - and the weather was perfect.  How bad could it be?  I wished we didn't appear to be heading back towards the lake bed; but as temperatures dropped at the end of the day, the winds would surely dissipate.  In less than two hours, max, we'd have our gear unloaded, just killing time, waiting for our hot, ranch-hand supper!

Or we'd end up like the poor cow on the sign.

Black Rock Desert: Dire Warning

Morning at the Lodge at Summer Lake was significantly warmer than expected.  We were prepared for temps in the 30's, but it was easily ten degrees above that.  All loaded and ready to go, there was but one thing left to do...

Breakfast!  As I mentioned last time, there's a bit of a traveling history with Jonathan and I.  And it has never before included the practice of starting each day with a hearty meal - or any meal, for that matter.  The norm had always been for Jonathan to propose we wait for the energy-boosting hotel breakfast.  Then, I would convince him of the wisdom of an early start, of getting a few miles down the road, before finding that perfect spot for a belly-filling, warm-up break.

But of course, the perfect spot just never seemed to appear.  Or if it did, we would peel off all our riding gear, settle in to a table - and find they had just switched to their lunch menu!

I'd made a solemn vow to my friend that this trip would be different.  And so there we were, ten minutes before the kitchen opened.  Waiting.

Most of you know, my normal, solo-travel practice is to not eat anything until dark.  As this breakfast concept was vastly different for me, I opted to start with something light, something to ease my system in gently - fried potatoes and gravy!  This is as far as I got.

But my oh my was it tasty!

In what seemed to be no time at all, we had reached the California border, south of Lakeview, OR. Perhaps this morning fast breaking idea has some merit!

We merely cut the extreme northeast corner off of the Golden State, so in less than 100 miles, we were entering Nevada, the Silver State.  Supposedly, there was gas available in the next tiny town, but only until 5:00.  Just to be safe, we'd topped off in Cedarville, CA, and even put an extra gallon in the jerrycan on my luggage rack.  The true adventure was about to begin!

Jonathan pulled over here for a scenic photo; and I was struck by the way his bike mirrored the colors in the landscape.  Gray tank fairing - gray gravel, Green highlight graphics - green conifers, yellow duffel bag - yellow sage flowers, black jacket - dark distant peak.  Even his helmet matched the endless white line on the edge of the winding road.  Kind of makes you choke up, doesn't it?  Or is it just me?  Probably just me.

Gerlach, Nevada is an interesting place.  Its 200 or so residents live nearly 100 miles from any 'real' town, in any direction.  The gas station was indeed open, but offered only low octane fuel.  The bigger bike prefers the good stuff, but can tolerate 85 in limited doses; so yet again, we filled both tanks to the brim.  I knew it would be our last opportunity until the following afternoon.

But the photo above is not of the gas station.  It was taken inside the only eating establishment in town.  It's also one of two drinking establishments.  We took the only real table that was open at the time, right in the middle of it all.  When we first sat down, we were surrounded by some interesting looking characters.  You see, the Burning Man festival has just concluded a couple of weeks before, and as we later learned, crews were still cleaning up.  More on that later.

By the time we'd finished our food, most of the clientele had swapped out for folks like us, who seemed to just be passing through.  My heightened spidey sense relaxed a bit, and I took a few photos.  None of it had seemed to phase Jonathan, but I'd certainly had a bad feeling about it originally - and I was no stranger to questionable-looking places.

When we stepped outside again, my first thought was, "Who moved my bike?"  My second was even more terrifying, "All my luggage is gone!  I knew this place was a bad idea!"

That one in the foreground, however, the one I first saw, is not mine.  Mine is the one in back, with all the luggage still securely attached.  Somehow I'd missed the entrance of the owner of a brand new 1290 Super Adventure R - just like mine.  Must have been in the restroom.

But going back in and asking for the KTM rider to stand up didn't seem appropriate, so we saddled up and headed out of town.  On the outskirts was a little concrete block building that I'd spotted on the way in.  "Friends of Black Rock / High Rock" has a great website with lots of info on the area.  I'd come across it years ago, and that's what got me thinking about a visit.  I wanted to get some detailed, up-to-date advice about the large dry lake bed we were headed for.  This would be the place!

The volunteer staffing the office of this non-profit was very amiable, but when I asked about the playa, her mood changed.  "Winds have kicked up this afternoon.  It's whiteout conditions out there."  That was hard to take, but not entirely a surprise, based on the towering dust cloud we'd seen in the distance, before descending into town.  I told her we might just get down on the surface and take a few pictures, then head back for the main gravel road.  She thought that would be OK, so she told me the best way to get there.  "The first entrance to the playa is too muddy right now," she offered.  "The second is closed off with traffic cones, because they're still cleaning up from Burning Man.  You want the third.  It's well signed."

Exactly the type of local knowledge we needed!  We were back on the bikes, helmets on, when she came running outside for one more piece of advice, which I didn't hear, but Jonathan relayed to me after she'd gone.  Her husband had recently died on the playa - hitting a large piece of debris, an old tire or something, at speed.  Doubtless, visibility had been poor at the time - much like today.  Evidently, she hadn't wanted to bring it up, but then decided she just couldn't let us get away without a dire warning.

Point taken.

Gerlach would be the southernmost extent of our trip, the turnaround.  We'd come in from the northwest, and departed to the northeast.  So far, except for the speedometer issue, we'd had no problems.  All that stood between us and 'Mission Accomplished' was the Black Rock Desert.  And, judging from the blowing dust you can see on the horizon, it seemed angry.

Jonathan took this picture at a point which overlooks the southern tip of the 200-square mile dry mud flat.  This is the portion that hosts the Burning Man festival, for which a temporary city of 70,000 is laid out each year on the lake bed - including it's own airport!  Activities, many of them hardly considered 'family friendly,' culminate in the torching of a 40-foot wooden effigy.

From my perspective, looking back at Jonathan and more swirling dust, our escape route, the way we'd come, was looking nearly as bad as the path ahead.  It was beginning to feel like a trap.  If we didn't know that dinner, hot showers, and warm beds awaited us at Soldier Meadows Ranch, we may have taken our chances with a tactical retreat to Gerlach.

But the third playa entrance, the one that had been recommended to us, was now only a few miles away.  We couldn't resist!

As I was assured, the turn-off was indeed well marked, and the flat, firm, nearly blinding reflective surface was only a few hundred feet from the pavement.  The place was unbelievably surreal.  We dismounted and began snapping photos immediately.

Prudence would dictate a prompt return to the highway, but there was a strong pull, some kind of attractive force.  It seemed to emanate from the geographic center of the vast, empty expanse.  "Come to me," it beckoned.  "I won't hurt you."

Jonathan was the first to succumb.