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.