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.
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