I am my own worst enemy. After cats. And arachnids. Don’t even get me started on spiderfelines.

Urique mornings.
“You’re an inspiringly tenacious little bastard, Mr. Fuzzynuts,” I grumble halfheartedly as my well endowed feline foe zips past me when I open the kitchen door, leaving behind him a mess of crumbs where I’d left my bread, again. Breakfast comes fresh from the trees. The membrane between sections is what makes grapefruit bitter, so I slow it down some and free the succulent flesh to mix with avocado and cilantro. Delicious, the taste of a day deliberately prepared.

I am supposed to get Tomas to build a fire to heat the water tank, but even before the sunlight sears the canyon floor the impending heat is enough for cold water to suffice. Getting dressed after showering is an adventure, shaking a scorpion out of my shirt and scaring a tarantula from under my pants. I spot two more small scorpions in the crevices between the mortared stones that make up the shower walls and decide to shake out my boxers again – just in case.

Ready to ride the canyon again. Sheer cliffs sheer joy, near drops, and a man chasing his runaway cow punctuate the ascent. Cecilia recommended a hike here called Curvas de Maria. Eventually the path leads to the edge of the cliffs and winds down a dramatic ridge. I can’t help but compare with the Grand Canyon, the panorama so vast perspective slips past easy grasp; I just breathe and take it in.

Tequila Halo

Verdant canyons fold away into the horizon; it could swallow its American counterpart but I can barely understand that from my smallness. Scattered everywhere, the crystalline rocks they call geodas weigh down my magpie pockets. I’m not sure if this is where I was supposed to end up but I’m glad to be here.

Geodas, I choose you!

Tequila comes from... asparagus?

The trail meets the dirt road again well down the cliffside – and presents me with a challenge.

Yesterday Cecilia told me about the Raramuri people and their renowned ability to run up the canyons. Their traditional races became an international event with the help of a gringo they called Caballo Blanco, an 80 Km ultramarathon rising over 500 meters. Ultramarathoners from around the globe come to compete, but save for a few outliers, almost nobody beats the Raramuri at this race – and they’re running in sandals made from old tires and leather thongs. She got a smile recounting when Nike tried to sponsor them but they didn’t like their shoes and ended up tossing them to finish barefoot. Inspired and determined I put my pride as a runner on the line as I start an easy jog, wondering just how far down I’ve climbed. An embarrassingly short distance later I accept I am hopelessly outclassed by this challenge and choke down canyon dust as a couple of trucks pass me by on the way up, oblivious to the sweaty gringo with his thumb out.

I race down – the trek took longer than I’d hoped and I have plans for drinks with Cecilia. Adrenaline floods my system as I go for a record time, familiar enough with the curves now to not panic when I feel the rear sliding. I make it down ten minutes faster, time to spare! Of course my clock is an hour behind so I’m late anyway. She is unimpressed. What kind of Latina is she!?

Retiring for the evening, I’m kept good company by Thoreau – Walden is just the book for me at this new pace. Some thoughts to share:

“We slave the better part of our lives to rest the remainder that we’re ready to slave again. Pass on lessons rather than the useless frivolities of the “upper class”. Work to travel, and you will still see less and be behind the vagabond who just goes.”

There is a middle ground, here. Yes, there is an element of adventure to having to immediately confront lack of food or shelter. But at the same time, if all our energies are spent acquiring these necessities how will we find the time to stop and savour the experience of the places we go? His penchant for minimalism aside, I think what he refers to is the necessary interaction with communities that comes from entering them as a vagabond – immediately you integrate yourself because you need to learn about the people, safe shelter, easy fuel for warmth and belly. Enter with all these arrangements taken care of, and once you have eaten your fill you will have no necessity to talk to strangers, no unavoidable questions to ask locals, and having a bed at your disposal may simply let inertia take you to sleep when in reality you had energy for far more interactions and adventures than you will ever know if you never need to use it. Easily available comfort means fewer opportunities for the blissful rest of the truly exhausted, the overwhelming satisfaction of eating after going hungry rather than just because it’s that time again Pavlov.

On pop culture he nails it – entertainment (reading, in his time), has been reduced from a sharing of the mind to a kind of masturbation without the mess. It’s more profitable to satisfy than to teach. No novel or clever thought necessary so long as you hit all the right notes. This is why Hollywood always churns out the same crap – hero, love story, bad guys, easy on the eyes. Avatar is an excellent example of this. A huge hit – millions of people empathized with the poor “fictional” aliens being exploited by resource hungry advanced races, fantasized about a world they could save, and stroked their moral vanity in the mirror. Meanwhile, Barrick Gold buys legal immunity for causing rapes and murders in Papua New Guinea and TVI Pacific displaces indigenous people with private military forces. And the crowd demands catharsis, not change.

I read and reflect on contradictions and human nature as the sun sets beyond the canyon walls, not looking for answers, just trying to understand.

Moments of stilness

Stop motion living

I’m staying at Entre Amigos, a beautiful name for a lonely place on the edge of town. Peanuts, squash, lemons and grapefruits all grow abundantly in the orchard where my hammock is strung up. My only company here is Tomas the groundskeeper with his sheepish smile and old work jeans labelled Dolce & Gabbana. It’s peaceful, and I’m told to help myself to anything that grows there.

At the Mezquital taco shack I meet the lovely Karen, Vanessa, and Maria when they steal my seat as I set up for a photo.

Sweet sweet tacos

They take me for a tour, a bit self conscious, but they’re sweet girls and leave me completely at ease in this tiny town. Urique is impressive more than anything for its location. But it’s a damn impressive location. Even moreso considering that upon its construction no roads existed – materials for everything had to be carried and donkey’d from the nearest town 200 km away, then hauled down the treacherous slopes. Any building of significant size here is a monument to human tenacity.

Colonialism isn't over

All the inhabitants seem to be sitting on steps or plastic chairs, taking the air and commenting to any passersby (or hooting at the girls for catching the gringo).

They teach me a bit about local wordplay and we meander until dark. Despite my Spanish fluency I’m stumbling on double entendres and local slang. Goodnight to the ladies and off to my hammock, cosily hung amidst the grapefruit trees and cacti in the massive garden that is the Entre Amigos hostel. When Tomas asked me how long I’d be staying I told him I didn’t know. I sink back with a smile into my nest, and think, a while.

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I am surprised to learn there is a tourism office in this nugget of a town, so I stop by. In charge is the stunning Cecilia who takes me out for coffee in a house/restaurant wild with local greenery. She tells me about Urique and the natives, we exchange souls over conversation and a haze settles over me. Her story is about following your own path with confidence and determination no matter how unusual, leaving Oregon and love for Mexico and to have a child on her own. Inspiring.

Spot the Tecate

I take Lost for a spin on the route she suggests to nearby Naranjo – definitely not a ride I should have undertaken on flip-flops. The dance ends in a nap for Lost when a truck comes around the corner and eliminates the road as an option. Fortunately some thoughtful civil engineer thought to squeeze a telephone pole into the narrow ditch, so that helps slow me down considerably.

I head back to the hostel to straighten the guards and bars, thankful for my intact toes. Strolling through town the I am greeted by the friendly and talkative DudeBro, whose memorable quote is “Dude – if you don’t get laid in every town you go to, I don’t know what you’re doing in Mexico”.

The one with the booze and the nature.

A desert rises ahead and falls behind on the journey to Creel. I can’t stop and see everything, to my chagrin. What I would give for another hundred years on this earth…

The route, though quickly deteriorating to remote gravel roads, is surprisingly well signed. Gotta get that infrastructure taken care of to shuttle beer in and precious metals out.

The cheap dorms I’d read about are full and I settle on another place with a Romanian couple I meet wandering the streets in motorcycle gear.

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Alex (Alejandro, here) and Andreea are an absolute pleasure. We talk about the journey, walk around town, I learn that in the same time frame as myself they left from Montreal two hours away from my own departure point, and went to Alaska before heading this way on Gunnar, their trusty V-Strom. They also stopped at Julio’s place on the way down, but coincidences have stopped surprising me by now.

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We head together to the famous divisadero through some delightful curves that temper our speeds with gravel-filled potholes. It feels good to take a ride without all the power ranger gear.

The vista is magnificent as we approach the canyon. Locals point out a rock jutting over the edge that teeters precariously, so naturally we head over to tempt fate.

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I talk the manager of the canyon’s cable car into giving us a free ride by introducing my new friends as Famous Romanian Documentarians. Alejandro is really earnest about making the interview we film with the manager into a quality product to repay him. It’s a truly impressive experience, soaring over the vastness of what is only a tiny corner of the canyon. The cables fall away into the distance, so far you can’t even follow them to the end with your eyes, as if the trolley could at some point just reach the end and slip off into thin air.

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After climbing around and playing on the edge of the void, we grab some of the delicious gorditas that everyone has been telling us to try. Alejandro, ever the optimist, uses the hand sanitizer as if that one tiny concession to hygiene could save him.

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Andreea wants us to get a move on.

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Creel is not quiet this night. The same notes are repeated over and over on a rustic sounding violin, punctuated occasionally by a group of voices yelling “woo!” well into the morning. Around 5AM I give in and go for a run up the Cristo Rey, as obligatory a town structure in Latin America as a greasy spoon in the USA. A middle aged paunchy fellow puts me to shame as he jogs up the steps past me, then points out the Tarajumara Indian party that had been causing the hubbub all night. They were right behind the hostel, no wonder it was so loud.

Further investigation quickly leads to me being accosted by a fellow who is well into his cups, and dragged into the brilliant Technicolor crowd where I am proffered tesguiño to my halfhearted dismay. On the one hand, drinking fermented maize being scooped out of a garbage pail in communal gourd-cups is something mom wouldn’t endorse. But my philosophy of never turning down an invitation forces my other hand. I try to ignore the echo of Pepe’s advice in Chihuahua – “Don’t try the tesguiño. They ferment it with spit”.
I drink, and silently toast to shared immunities.

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The sludge at the bottom of the plastic garbage pail is pretty bad even before taking into account the flavour though – what was a liquidy potent potable at the top of the barrel seems more like regurgitated corn at the bottom. Still, I can’t get away with half finishing my generous bowl, they insist I finish up and with a smile I choke it down.

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The Tarajumara culture is very interesting in regard to these parties – wealth is displayed by holding them, and there is strong religious significance. The violins and group cries go on all night while dancers in religious garb circle a makeshift shrine to what I suspect is the Virgin of Guadalupe. According to their beliefs, alcoholic intoxication is a religious experience. As the night goes on, everyone keeps on chugging tesguiño and getting “closer to God”. Definitely beats “we broke up again” as far as reasons to hit the sauce go.
Fortunately I am rescued from my enthusiastic new companion by some other Tarajumaras who warn me to watch out for him.

Things seem to get a little tense and I make my way out of there to bid goodbye to Alejandro and Andreea. Their philosophy resonates with me in my untethered idealistic state – when they return, their priorities are to make a good life where they land, and to help build the community around themselves. Building a community, when I’d never considered another option apart from finding a community and adopting it. But then, I’m a nomad, a madman or nebunul as my new Romanian friends put it. My community is perforce scattered among the places I have known. But it lightens my heart to collect them as part of my disparate clan, members of which I have already encountered on the road, lost in a sea of complacent fellows or staking their claims for their own communities to flourish.

I enjoy the opportunity to allow these thoughts to percolate on the ride out; on my own again. In the unpredictable map of my plans, reaching the bottom of the Urique canyon is the only one that has constantly remained among the shifting futurescape of my possibilities. Arrival means traversing increasingly rural terrain until I’m on gravel and dirt with nothing but the occasional subsistence farmstead in sight, the landscape serenely shifting as I make it farther and farther from civilization as I knew it.

The canyon itself arrives gradually, and the impact grows and reverberates as I stop more and longer to drink in the unexpectedly gorgeous view. Not that I didn’t expect it to be, generically, beautiful… but this, no I didn’t expect this. Until you’ve seen some things with your own eyes, you can never quite imagine them no matter how much time you spend watching the world through a glowing screen.

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Everything the light touches

I stop to check out the Mexican Pre-fab home.

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At the bottom I stop, elated, and survey the impressive cliffs that surround me, hardly believing I actually came down such a slope on my motorcycle. My elation is interrupted by the improbably expensive looking white pickup that rolls up beside me, overflowing with shotguns and automatic rifles. The faces look friendly and they ask me where I am heading as if they don’t expect people to lie about where they’re sleeping to heavily armed strangers. Seemingly satisfied I have no business with them, they head off saying, “anything you need, come to us.”
Now I know who to talk to about filling something with bullets or guerrilla horticulture.

Should be an interesting time here in Urique

The way of the guey

How to cross the border into Mexico:

Go towards Mexico. Pass the US Border. There, you’re done!

The Mexican frontier has no customs or immigration from the U.S. side, though they are hardly so lax with their neighbours to the South. Borders seem to be a one-way economic valve around here.

Crossing into Juarez is immediately interesting, not in the least because in my hungover fugue I both mislay my handwritten directions to the vehicle import office and forget to change money. I spin around in circles in Juarez till I’m pointed in the right direction and have seen enough to feel confident this place is not Mexico as most Mexicans know it. Trucks with gun turrets and armoured soldiers with heavy weaponry roam the streets, massive office buildings and hotels are betrayed as Mexican only by their low-slung and crammed together counterparts.

Customs takes a $400 deposit on the bike and an hour of my life, most of which is spent waiting for Jesus the copy guy to show up. A long desert road later I make it to Chihuahua for the night; Hostel San Juan turns out to not be the backpacker paradise the internet claims. I’m the only foreigner there, and the local ladies of the night add colour with their moaning through the paper thin walls. A drunk motions for help with his door in the dim and claustrophobic hall – he can’t get his room key to work – turning it works for me. Seedy, would be the word to describe the joint.

Looks great from the courtyard, though – I even ran into some architecture students the next day taking photos of the centuries old building.

I’m glad to connect with a couchsurfer the next day, and even moreso when Pepe turns out to be the most interesting Mexican I’ve met. A fellow shoestring traveller, we compare notes and talk about bar food vs. actually going out and purchasing nutrition. Lotta protein in peanuts. He is currently nursing several projects while interning as a doctor in a village South of Chihuahua. I’m fascinated by his RFID blood donor scheme, in which he proposes to insert RFID tags into the Mexican populace to track their participation in blood donations to know what is available and where for emergencies, as well as to encourage participation by prioritizing based on donations.

Apparently he nearly managed to secure an $800,000.00 grant for it and when it went through the ministry of Health the department head met with him to tell him she would only release half of the funds for the project, and tried to get him to sign off on the move. He refused to sign, good man, working with the next president to get the ball rolling, in the meantime occupied with his work and directing truckloads of medical supplies to remote villages.

We go on a tour of the city together where they point out the Angel of Liberty statue complete with laser-shooting sword in front of the palace or palacio as they call their city halls. There is an interesting series of murals supposedly depicting the history of Chihuahua inside, and on the other side of the walls a punk rock show protest is going on for unsolved murders of women in Chihuahua.

We go out to a rooftop cafe view of the city where I try cheese mixed with huitlacoche, a sort of fungus that grows on corn. Delicious, the first but certainly not last in a series of tasty latinamerican weirdnesses.

The next day we ride to the village where he practices – in Mexico all doctors must work a year in rural areas to graduate. I’m warned to stay inside the clinic but of course I go explore. On inquiring about the bullet holes riddling the town I learn there was a firefight. A long time ago, right? No, last weekend! The clinic is located by a roundabout that connects four towns, which apparently makes it the site of most conflicts. Chihuahua is a state in which mucho marijuana is grown, leading to much drug-related violence.

We check out a desert museum which is pretty cool for a museum, and on a whim head out an hour West for the world-renowned caves of Naica.

Turns out he has an uncle who heads security there, but at the moment it is closed to all, so we ride North an hour or so to a lake for fresh fish soup. Not having expected these impromptu detours, I’m in flip flops. Riding through the gravel roads we end up on is an interesting experience.

His friends put us up for the night, I play Kinect with their kid, and they feed us delicious homecooked dinner and breakfast. Three spinsters bring me savoury filled tortillas for lunch and interrogate me about my journey; two of them look at me as if I have a second head but the third is aglow with enthusiasm and excitement at the idea. This introduction to Mexico has been very interesting, I have been impressed by how open and friendly the people have been, I’m looking forward to whatever is to come.

For a long time now I’ve been contemplating via satellite image the Copper Canyon of Mexico. Perhaps this is the only way to do so, for in person its scale is completely overwhelming – six times larger than the so called Grand canyon of the U.S.A., twice as deep; I have set no time limit on this part of my journey. Who knows, I may never leave.

Next stop, Creel, gateway to the Canyon.

The soft side of the ragged edge

Cold droplets on my face wake me instantly. It is drizzling and the mosquito net is jewelled with water.

The pines are grey under cloudy morning; light seeps in from beyond the horizon where the sun has already risen. I pack quickly in the early chill, breaking my fast with single-serving peanut butter packets before setting off to lower altitudes where the pines give way to cacti.

I make it out of the wild hills and gulleys of the desert after a 4×4 points me in the right direction – the GPS track is long lost, and each time I take a path that looks like it should head to the city it veers away, leaving me staring at a labyrinth of dirt tracks that would be a blast to ride if I didn’t have a destination.

Arriving in Phoenix it’s Couchsurfing to the rescue again – Rogelio tells me to stop by to “see what he can do for me”. He sizes me up and decides I’m alright. I don’t yet know how lucky I am.

We bond over lust for adventure and I am impressed by his drive; at his age not many people have their own place and a nice jeep. He’s deceptively mature, and that seems to be the only thing keeping him in place; he loves what I’m doing but the total irresponsibility of leaping before you look keeps him building a solid life step by step instead. I can respect that. Still, his eye gleams with adventure as I share stories and before long we’ve planned to cross the border together to party in Juarez after celebrating his sister’s birthday in El Paso next week. So much for just changing tires and heading to Mexico. It’s a chill time eating massive amounts of grilled chicken, going to sleep by his otherworldly axolotls, and saving the occasional damsel in distress.

I purchase a big blocky TKC80 that should eat up any paths the road ahead can throw at me, and look for ways to kill time until it arrives. Phoenix is sprawling and uninspiring, low slung cookie cutter neighbourhoods and strip malls box inhabitants together and apart. I decide to take an alternative sightseeing trip, an Italian designed architectural oddity left fallow in the name of capitalism.

Stan Bergstein elaborates: “Phoenix Trotting Park … was originally supposed to be built for $3 million, but [cost almost] $10 million, essentially bankrupting its builder, James Dunnigan… It was built of reinforced concrete, and could have withstood a direct hit by a hydrogen bomb… it went belly up and was bought by Sportservice, to make sure no reincarnation took place and its greyhound operation in Phoenix was protected. It is still standing, and some future travelers from space probably will regard it in the same way Stonehenge in Britain is regarded today……a monument built in the desert by sun worshipers.” Sounds worth checking out while I’m here.

Normally the most fun part of urban exploration is devising stratagems and puzzling over points of entry. The building stands alone a straight shot from the highway across a good half mile of dried mud and low scrub in any direction; subtle entry isn’t an option at midday. I gun it from the nearest road and stash Lost out of view while I poke around.

The strangely angled structure looms over me as I slide under a twisted gate and inspect this oasis of solitude, alone in plain view. It is a strange contrast to at once feel so isolated and so exposed. My feet crunch past graffiti and up frozen escalators. Highway sounds wash in; the only indication of life on this planet. I finish reading The Tiger’s Wife by the stairwell windows, and then use it as a pillow for a nap. No denizens lurk here to bother me; too far removed from the necessities of life, too exposed to be a decent hobo nest. Satisfied I’ve poked at the mysteries whispering in all hidden corners, I make my escape under the bold sun, none to challenge my exit anymore than my entry.

Fellow adventure rider Julio invites me to work on my steering head column bearings in his garage. I’m eager to follow the advice of more experienced riders; in short order he has me changing the fork oil and stiffening the shocks, lubricating axles, cleaning the filter. He invites me to stay for a delicious home cooked dinner and crash the night – why not.

I learn how he came from Puerto Rico to study architecture, living ten years in the Bronx for the cheap rent. A practical man after my own heart. Like Rogelio, I can see he’s excited for me, his own wanderlust ignited – but he’s got family. Lucky kid, between the bikes in the garage and the omnivorous library collection, he’s got the makings of a childhood to be envious of. Julio can’t ride with me, but he sends me off with a spare camelback that I immediately fall in love with.

Lost gets her new shoe and Rogelio is flying to El Paso so it’s time to go. An hour into the 700 km ride rain starts. I pull over to put on the rain gear.

It isn’t anywhere. Somewhere far behind me, someone is opening a bag they found on the road and saying, “My, what a lovely set of rain gear!”. This is going to suck.

Riding through the rain I remind myself I’ve weathered worse. I come from the land of regular -40 degree winters. Still I try to race out of the storm. The new rear tire has brutal highway handling – pinning the throttle the tire screams bloody murder and the whole bike wobbles in the rain. I stop at a gas station to warm up at some point and some Johnny down-on-his-luck tells me how he’s stuck here because he ran out of gas and has no more money. Suspiciously convenient place to end up, but what the hell, I’ve gotta spread the love I’ve been receiving.

I make it to Rogelio’s soaked to my bones, but after a hot shower I am happy to meet the family and they have beer and food at the ready. And most importantly, a bed – that was a long ride in the rain. Apart from the rainy arrival everything about El Paso turns out aces – I have the good fortune to find a rainsuit for twenty bucks on Kijiji, and Rog’s family are all great people, his dad even takes us out to see my first motocross show. I get a gleam in my eye during the races, but that’s a dream for another day.

Two days and too many beers later, I awake in the gazebo to clean up the feathers and fish my keys out of the pool while Rog dries his cell phone and cleans up glass shards. Despite my prizewinning hangover I am gloriously happy with my life. A parting kiss from a delicately beautiful lady doesn’t hurt either. I’ve met a brother in arms, and I mean it when I tell him we must meet again down the road. I say goodbye to his family, a bit abashed that we probably kept them up with our adolescent revelry last night.

Life has been good in the U.S.A. and I don’t regret extending my time, but the day has come.

Mexico is calling. Let’s go see what kind of real trouble I can get into.

The best paths, like the best stories, are discovered for oneself

I’m done in Page. Strike gold in the breakfast buffet – today they have a bacon tray. And I’m off.

From the desert rise strange forms and images to occupy my mind with questions as I ride towards Flagstaff.

I’ve been fortunate to find myself invited to Arizona’s airy heights where Lost will gain a new heart and kick her drinking problem thanks to fellow KLRista Chuck. He’s offered to fix my bike for me.

Shortly after acquiring my steel horse, beat up and beautiful, I went to go visit a friend in London. I rode seven hundred kilometers as fast as I could, not that my dear Lost is designed for speed, but that it’s exhilarating to feel so naked, exposed, free on this contraption hurtling down the highway. Around the 140 Kph mark the machine protests, knees slapping the tank as the front traces increasingly faster and wilder parabolas on the pavement. The game is to see how close you can cut that margin, coax those last revs out before the machine begins to shift and shudder. Prior to returning I checked the oil and was horrified – it was almost all gone.

My first ride and I’ve already destroyed my bike.
Clearly a sign.
Going to be getting to Argentina by bicycle.

I swallowed my histrionics and refilled the oil. What else to do? The guy where I bought my oil told me to keep an eye on my RPM on the way home. Sure enough, riding above 4500 RPM the oil level plummets. Below, and losses were barely noticeable. My first lesson in motorcycle ownership: Keep an eye on your oil level because you never know.

Well, actually the first lesson was “if you might drop your bike while loading it onto a truck, have a friend handy to lift if off you”, but that’s another story…

Anyway, I discovered the bike’s drinking problem was so fierce the oil was changed frequently without ever needing to drain. Plan A had me stopping in California for a rebuild that would solve the issue, but while in Page I missed my window of opportunity. Chuck got me rolling again by mailing me a stator. Another reason to love the KLR – what other bike has this kind of community built around it?

A new 688 piston is included in the rebuild, adding power and reducing felt vibrations. The vibe reduction is a real bonus – after a few hours on the road, when I get off the bike my palms tingle and if I clap them together I can feel it resonating in waves of intensified pins and needles.

Chuck is younger than I expected, or younger looking at least. For some reason I always expect these crusty old misanthropes with hands like baseball mitts and brows creased from furrowing at mistreated motorcycles. Instead he’s a genial and welcoming host; I am impressed by his professionalism as he efficiently takes the bike apart and critiques my work. Looks like I had my valve clearances wrong. He warns me to be careful with the spray he gives me to clean the parts while he walks his dogs. By the time he returns I’ve managed to spray myself in the eye and my mouth tastes like radiator fluid. But the parts are clean and polished, beautifully precision machined metal awaiting reassembly – to be completed tomorrow.

Dinner is capped off by margaritas and my shelter by the golf course seems worlds away. Like so many other people I’ve met on my journey, Chuck’s story seems larger than life. A world traveller like myself, and ex pro track racer. Racers are nuts already to my mind – someone who teaches it has to be on another level. I love feeling the pegs scrape, but at 30 KpH, not 90. He reminded me in many ways of Curtis from Texas – assured and disciplined, and with his own story of perseverance over tragedy. He shattered his leg on a hidden rock in the sand while riding one day, and the doctor said he was going to have to lose it. He refused, and not only did they manage to save it but he now runs daily with his two dogs around the gorgeous trails through the pine forests of Flagstaff. That they would have amputated his leg if he was a smoker is an eyebrow raiser for me.

The next morning Chuck is already hard at work, Lost is looking a little thin and I get to know her insides a little better.

He throws more information at me than I can really absorb – coarse thread bolts are better on single cylinder bikes for resisting wear on threads, the wobble I feel on curves is due to overloading the capacity of the rear shock, carb troubleshooting tips, long-haul riders use lemon oil to stay awake, Inuit villages have polar bear alarms. I even discover he taught at the school that made the manual on motorcycle racing I have been studying. Figures.

He deftly manoeuvres the 688 piston in just past the rings leaving enough room to attach the connection rod. I wish I’d seen the whole process but a soft bed has some powerful gravity and I missed the beginning. He buttons Lost back up in time to go for a late lunch, delicious pulled pork.

Chuck offers to let me crash at his place another night since I still haven’t planned out my route and he has so many suggestions, so I decide to make my famous Asian-ish Chicken, though I cut the meat too small and it overcooks. One more night in a bed is irresistibly tempting. He doesn’t want to send me down the hardcore trails, which I appreciate as much as I bristle at the implication. To be fair, this is my first bike since that little 100cc Honda in Vietnam, and I am not yet two months deep into learning how to handle riding with all the luggage offroad.

I go for a run the next morning, thankful just to be able to. A pink-bottomed tarantula stops when I crouch nearby; it rubs its abdomen releasing irritating hairs into the air to drive off predators and curious explorers. I note with a smile that Chuck has replaced various missing non-essential bolts and cleaned my filthy chain.

I get some final advice and inspiration from his stories, naturally sober advice sticks less than the adrenaline exciting tales of bike wrangling and I am eager to measure myself against an offhand comment he makes – I don’t bother airing down the tires much, if the back tire wants to drift I just let it, keep the front up and the rear follows. Anything he can do I can do better!

No prize for predictions: I drop the bike trying to drift around a gravel corner later. It hurts just enough to knock the humility back in me. Something about superior riders, they seem to inspire overconfidence.

This is after winding through dirt roads to reach a serene overlook where I take a long nap just because I can. From there I make my way down dirt trails to a series of gravel roads that take me to a truly magnificent vista. The ground is littered with shell casings and I consider camping out, but there’s still too much light to end the day so I ride on towards Phoenix through the impressive Saguaro forest. And finally lose the GPS track in a series of winding gravelly hills near the city (where I lay down the bike).

Chuck’s route takes me two days to complete, though it looked like 6 hours from the map. Good thing he didn’t send me down the rough path. Camping by an abandoned trailer that night, I decide not to go to California after all. I’ve overspent my budgeted time here almost twofold already, and there is plenty of world to get lost in yet. Just pick up some new shoes for Lost in Phoenix and head on to Mexico. I have a plan.

No plan survives execution.

If all your friends jumped off a 90 foot cliff…

First order of business in Page is to explore; it’s actually an interesting place to walk around.

While chatting with Ron, owner of a local coffee shop, I ask about The Steps, a hike Korey told me about last night. He insists on getting my family’s contact info in case I don’t return. I thank him but insist I can handle myself. Korey himself had told me it was a hardcore trail, and at the park ranger’s office they seem determined to deny the existence of this local legend. Intriguing.

The path just to arrive is arduous, and the trail itself takes a good hour to locate but finally I spot a cairn marking a path. Twenty minutes later, a very disappointed El Explorador makes it to the bottom. This was not the legendary Steps trail, it was too easy. I must have taken the Ropes trail instead. I’ve brought some nuts and berries and plenty of water along with my camping gear, but this place is uninviting. The dam has lowered the water recently; exposed algae and aquatic life suffuse the shores with a thick marine stench. I wander along the shoreline, hoping to see the steps trail from below and catch it on the return. The water comes from the frigid bottom of Lake Powell – too cold to play in. Clouds of gnats swarm and bother as I make my way to the dam, no sign of any path leading back up. Eventually I admit defeat. It sucks at the bottom of the canyon, I’m not staying here, The Steps has eluded me.

A crevice leading to the top seems to offer a way to save the day’s underwhelming adventure.

I hoist my backpack on my shoulders and begin. Last night Korey and I talked about the sandstone walls here and their tendency to shear off in large chunks. Thoughts of car-sized slabs of stone dislodging with me attached keep my moves conservative as I climb, pulling my bag up behind me by hooking my tripod through the straps. I have to analyze each route carefully before climbing, these ledges aren’t solid enough to stop me if I come crashing down on them. Beautiful hand and footholds reveal themselves to be treacherously unstable on closer examination, most of the way I’m shimmying up the crevice instead of climbing the slick face. I have to deviate at one point when I find myself at an impasse, massive sandstone flakes tempting me to test them but the commitment is too final, their stability uncertain.

This looked way easier from the ground.

The route to the next ledge is sandslick and uncertain. I’m tired, and out of water. Muscle twitches in my legs indicate I still require more hydration. The sun is getting lower on the horizon – even if I make it past this, I can’t see what lies ahead. If I get stuck too much later on I’m going to have to climb down in the dark.

It’s a rough call to make, but there’s no question that as close as I’ve been playing it with margins of safety to get up here, to try and make it any farther is a crosses that thin red line to beyond merely challenging myself.

I gave it my best shot; the canyon can win this one. With a sigh I begin to head down, the awkward positioning necessary for downclimbing even more precarious with my load. After descending to the first ledge I decide to just toss the backpack over and meet it down there. Thud. Silence. THUD. Silence. The moment stretches, and with a final resounding impact my bag reaches the bottom. The sound reverberates up the canyon walls. That’s exactly what a body would sound like, I can’t help thinking.

The sun no longer reaches into the canyon when I make it to the bottom. I make swift tracks to the easy path, which is looking harder and steeper as the last of the light slips away. The rough texture of the rocks underfoot is losing definition in the dim light; I have to be careful to avoid tripping. By the time I make it to the top darkness has fallen, bighorn sheep scramble around me and one stands proudly on a bluff, dramatically silhouetted against the cobalt sky.

I’m completely disoriented, so I aim for the power station, deciding to play it safe instead of bushwhacking through the desert at dark. Safer, anyway, I remember the refinery incident in Louisiana and decide not to use my light. Nobody bothers me though, and I jump a gate to the main road. I’m lucky to get a lift to town, where I stop in at the only game in town open Sunday evening for some much needed revittleization. While waiting for a table, I have a conversation with a guy who ran a hundred miles over 28 hours. Suddenly I feel less tired. After being seated I order the cheapest thing on the menu and have a chat with the Ali, my cute waitress, about my day. She returns later, “I told the other servers about you, we’re going to buy you dessert since you’ve had a hellacious day”. Well all in all I thought it was fun – but I’m not saying no to free pie, which is heavenly, warm, and served with ice cream.

Nourished by the adventure and the kindness of strangers, I walk over to the ridiculous golf course. I think of the conversation I had with Kenton about how much need there is in this country, and how regardless every suburban house sinks resources into utterly useless grass maintenance. Wonder how much water it takes to keep that lawn green. I tie my hammock between two posts demarcating the border, and lie down to reflect.

It’s been a good day to be stranded in Page, Arizona.

The next morning I visit Beans coffee, just to let them know I’m alive, and they treat me to a fantastic pancake for the accomplishment of waking up not dead.
I use most of those calories on what is to become my daily trek to bathe in Lake Powell. After washing, I approach some Mormons in their late teens and tell them I’ll hurl myself off a cliff for a ride to town. They bite, and we fling ourselves into space again and again from higher points each time. The highest point is apparently 90 feet to the water. The empty sound of rushing air after our lungs run out of screams is engraved in memory, a moment entirely captive to gravity and momentum. I almost break my nose from the force of the water. 90 feet is high. After climbing a massive metal chain back to the top, Justin tells me he’s broken his nose twice off this one, then invites me for a burrito.

Seems falling is the thing to do around here, the next day I run into another group, one of whom turns out to be named Blake as well. I declare a Blake-off, only the most radical of us will keep the name. The inevitable cliff-jumping contest ends in us wisely calling it a draw. After talking with him and his friends for some time they try to offer me money. I refuse, telling them that they should keep it for their own adventures – I live like this by choice, if I wanted more money to live on I could earn it, and even then I would probably just save it and stick to my budget. Regardless the argument culminates in them stuffing five bucks in my shoe, and gifting me another dollar folded into a triangle. Keep this in your wallet and you’ll never go broke, they say. I gratefully accept the token, rethinking my reluctance. I value independence, but it is rude to refuse the generosity of others. People may be charitable to reinforce a self-image or as part of their values as much as anything else – it’s not all about me. I give them a crazy-looking spiral bone I found as a token of appreciation.

I’ve managed to be pretty frugal here, but still need to tighten my belt to undo the damage this stator is doing to my cash buffer. Conveniently the tourist setup here provides an excellent opportunity for the creative forager – hotel morning buffets . The food is pretty decent, and the price is right – I just walk in, sit down, and eat like a regular guest.

For a few days of waiting I just wander around, trying to subsist off as little as possible during this unscheduled detour. My internal alarm does a good job of waking me with the first hint of dawn to break camp before my nest is discovered. Breakfast, chill, wash up in Lake Powell, explore, hang out around town. The stator does come in eventually – Angela from the gas station sees me hitching out the post office and gives me a lift, invites me to come out and play “antelope” in the evening. The engine thrums, and I bid an excited adieu to the wonderful people at Page Honda whose charitable assistance I won’t soon forget.

I’ve enjoyed the relaxed pace these past few days… but now I am reborn. Getting to the lake takes mere minutes now, I find a new friend and we enjoy the lakeside together.

I stop around town to prove to everyone I really did have a bike and wasn’t just another hobo with a good story. Korey suggests I use my newly regained mobility to check out this cool hike nearby.
I do, and it is, once again, one of the most gorgeous and unearthly places I have ever had the privilege of visiting.

Words can’t do this place justice. The Wave, Arizona.