Author: Bobbie Surber

Patagonia Part 3: Conquering the W Trek

By Bobbie Surber

Our Patagonia adventure continues.  If you’re entering in the middle of the movie, you can catch up here:

Patagonia Part 1
Patagonia Part 2

We had a deep sleep that night, the kind you only find after many days on the trail, your body surrendering to exhaustion. As morning broke the wind picked up with a force that relentlessly battered our tent. The wind reminded me of sleeping aboard my sister’s sailboat with the waves crashing against the bow. I eased out of the tent, stretched, and honestly took stock of my injured knee, questioning if I had one more day in me. There was a boat in the harbor waiting to take the first group of hikers back to Puerto Natales. Should I call it quits and board, ending my time on the trail?

As I contemplated my choices, another small miracle took place, a sweet young girl who worked at the Refugio offered to carry my pack for the day. Hallelujah with minimal effort a solution had found me.

After breakfast and a quick repack, we hit the trail for the day climbing away from the bay up to the wind-swept ridgelines. The protruding rocky ledges crumpling their way to Lago Grey demanding your full attention, yet our reward was looking over the lake seeing our first icebergs bobbing along the shore. The intensity and range of colors and hues of blue, in the ice challenge you to bring their magnificence to life. giving up and surrendering to the simple joy of looking over the lake with Tom beside me.

I managed the last final scramble down the path that was more waterfall than actual trail. Just as my knee was screaming for relief, ready to abandon me for good, we hit a gentle portion through a forest protected from the Patagonian winds and leading us to our night’s destination.

Refugio Grey

We arrived at the Refugio with sore legs and near dying for a cold beer. A staff member who greeted us like long lost pilgrims, pointed us in the direction of the bar. Our packs abandoned, we hastily secured our first icy beverage and toasted each other for the completion of our grand adventure along the W trail.

The night’s lodging was a simple tent set up in a field with thick mats to protect us from the cold. Before a hearty meal and our first long hot shower of the trail we settled into chairs to watch the fading light capture the distant peaks of ice. That final sunset rewarded us with soft shades of pinks and pale purple gently fading as the sun dipped below the horizon.

We left camp after a hasty breakfast making our way down to the water’s edge. Just a few hardy trekkers leaning into the wind, patiently waiting for the catamaran that would take us to the glacier’s face. As we pulled from the shore, we witnessed icebergs, some small like delicate flowers, and others large abstract sculptures reaching for the sky. It was an ice field floating museum of art, each bend of the lake showing you her rare gifts.

I still struggle to describe a mass so large, ice reaching back through the ages. Colors that frustrate my ability to describe with a glow seem to start deep within the center, with more shades of blue that an artist can capture on canvas. You could feel the impact on everyone on the boat as a hushed silence momentarily captured us as we stood in awe.

Our time had ended in Torres del Paine as we departed the catamaran at Hotel Grey. We found our way to our driver and as we surrendered to the ease of the back seat I looked over my shoulder trying to will every moment into my memory.

Reflection

Patagonia is protected by two countries that have dedicated themselves as stewards of this unique wilderness. I feel incredibly lucky, honored to have spent this time walking her paths. I cried with equal parts pain and wonder at the beauty of the trail, the towers on our second day, with their peaks drifting in and out of the clouds, The grandeur of the French Valley and that unforgettable sound of a distant avalanche like the sound of roaring thunder. The beauty of Grey Glacier, with the gentle reminder of how short our time on earth is when looking at a body of ancient ice formed by the power of nature.  We experienced it all on this journey of mountains, forest, peaks and towers together, my love and appreciation for Tom growing with each hard-earned mile.

Our Patagonia adventure is far from over.  Here’s what I’ll write about next.

    • In Part 4, I’ll share our time in El Calafate and the unforgettable stay at Estancia Nibepo Aike, a place where history, hospitality, and the Patagonian steppe come alive in a way that feels both timeless and deeply grounding.
    • Part 5 will describe our trek to Fitz Roy, the iconic granite spires that have lived in my dreams for years, a landscape both fierce and breathtaking.
    • Part 6 will take us to Ushuaia, the end of the world, where the wild meets the sea and every moment feels charged with the magic of Patagonia’s farthest reaches.

I hope you will continue to follow along as this journey unfolds.

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Patagonia Part 2: Conquering the W Trek

By Bobbie Surber

Day 1: The Adventure Begins

The morning light over Puerto Natales was soft and silver, with a misty rain that whispered rather than shouted. Tom and I shouldered our packs, my heart fluttering with a mix of nerves and anticipation as we stepped into the unknown.  We boarded the early bus from Puerto Natales, joining a mix of wide-eyed trekkers and seasoned hikers, all bound for Torres del Paine National Park. The drive itself felt like a quiet ritual — the final stretch of comfort before the wild began. As we moved deeper into Patagonia, the land shifted again: golden steppes gave way to alpine slopes, windswept plateaus, and glimpses of distant glaciers.  At the park entrance, we checked in with our reservations and caught the connecting shuttle to the Central/Torres sector, arriving at Refugio Chileno, our gateway to the trek’s first challenge.

We hiked for several hours along the Río Ascencio, winding through lenga forests – native beech trees with leaves that whispered in the wind — crossing footbridges, and climbing switchbacks softened by moss and whipped by gusts. The relentless Patagonian wind pushed against our packs, howling around bends – a constant reminder that nothing in Patagonia is guaranteed.

By late afternoon, we reached Refugio Chileno, perched at the edge of a forested valley. For the next two nights, this would be our home: a reserved tent platform with meals provided by the Refugio. The food here was the best of the entire trek, and the staff radiated warmth and kindness. Though the quarters were small and cramped — especially with day hikers seeking shelter — the atmosphere remained joyful and welcoming.

The setting was raw and beautiful — the kind of place where you arrive dusty, tired, and utterly alive. We laid out our gear, adjusted our layers, and walked down to the river to watch the sunset light up the granite towers in hues of copper and rose. Our bellies full of fresh salmon, brought in by horseback, and some much-needed vino Tinto, we climbed the stairs to our tent platform surrendering to the exhaustion of the day.

Day 2: Mirador del Torre – The Towers

Despite the wind and rain keeping frustrated hikers at bay through the morning, we kept a close eye on the forecast. Around 1 p.m., the clouds began to lift – just enough to give us hope that the iconic granite spires we had come to see might finally reveal themselves.

The climb was tough: wind whipping, rain falling, slippery, rocky switchbacks slowing our pace. But the moment we reached Mirador Torres, the clouds cleared fully, unveiling the full glory of the towers rising sharply against the sky.  Seeing the towers for the first time stopped me in my tracks. I had dreamed of this moment, one of the most iconic sights in Patagonia, and now I had arrived.  After the long, grueling climb, standing at the base of those towering granite spires was nothing short of humbling. They rose with such raw power and timelessness, carved by ice and wind over millennia, that I felt both incredibly small and deeply connected to something far greater than myself.  That glimpse, brief and breathtaking, was worth every bone-weary step.

Day 3: Humbling Miles Along Lake Nordenskjöld

We woke up in our tent excited to see what day three would bring. It wasn’t until I climbed down the stairs of the tent that I came to terms with smoked legs and aching knees. Oh lord, I felt old! We had heard this would be the “easy” day, relatively flat, a chance to recover. That turned out to be not exactly accurate!  The trail stretched endlessly in rocky, uneven waves, one steep climb after another, each followed by a jarring descent. The ups and downs felt cruel, especially on sore joints and tender muscles.  The wind rarely left us. It pushed against our packs, howled around bends, and made balance tricky over exposed rock sections.

We traced the shoreline of Lake Nordenskjöld for most of the day, its slate-blue water glinting beneath a thick ceiling of clouds that later broke open to brilliant blue. The views were stunning, even through the fog of physical discomfort: sprawling valleys, snow-dusted peaks, and the icy blue lake curving endlessly at our side. It was wild and cinematic — just enough magic to keep us moving.  A family from the East Coast crossed paths with us several times throughout the day. Each time, we shared a moment of mutual misery, cheering each other on with dark humor and tired smiles.

By the final stretch, the fatigue wore thin on both of us. Tom, usually my steady, optimistic hiking partner, hit a wall. Frustrated, he picked up his pace and took off ahead, muttering curses at the unknown trail gods. Too tired to keep up and trying my best to hide my giggles at Tom’s colorful curses. I soldiered slowly up and down the trail ever longing for the day to end and preferably ending with a pisco sour or glass of wine.

And then it happened: A section of trail gave out underfoot – loose rock, bad timing, tired legs. I tumbled hard, unable to catch myself. When I landed, I knew instantly my left knee was in trouble. The pain was sharp and deep. Sitting in the dirt, stunned, breathing through the sting.  Alone, I took slow, careful steps, stopping often. My knee buckled repeatedly. Doubt crept in as to whether I would even make it to camp. The trail seemed to stretch forever.

Then, finally, just as the trail descended toward Refugio Los Cuernos, I saw Tom waiting, his earlier frustration replaced by quiet concern. He took my pack without a word and helped me down the final stretch. I was still upright, still walking, but just barely. The relief of seeing him was immense.  We reached the Refugio together, subdued, exhausted, and deeply relieved.

Refugio Los Cuernos sits tucked beneath the jagged black horns of the Cuernos del Paine, towering, wind-carved peaks that look like something from a dream.  The setting is spectacular: to one side, the deep turquoise waters of Lake Nordenskjöld; to the other, the dramatic silhouettes of the horned mountains looming above like ancient guardians.

The Refugio itself is small and charming, wooden cabins scattered along a rocky slope, connected by boardwalks. Our tent platform was nestled into a gentle rise just a short distance from the bar and dining hall. The communal area buzzed with tired hikers sharing meals, comparing stories, and soaking up the fading golden light.

That night, we ate with our boots still on, grateful for the hot food, a precious ice pack provided by the staff, and a warm place to sit. The staff, kind, and patient despite their long day, served up hearty portions and laughter with our meals.   As the wind howled outside and the peaks turned dusky purple, we sipped wine and leaned into the warmth of it all.  We were sore and injured in new places, but also held, somehow, by the land and by each other.

Day 4: The French Valley

The morning started slowly as Tom checked on my knee, confirming that I tore my meniscus already compromised years earlier. We talked through how best to continue the trail. The staff at Los Cuernos kindly offered, for a fee, to transport my backpack to the next Refugio. I gratefully accepted. Shedding 20-plus pounds gave me the best shot at finishing the day ahead.

I set out earlier than Tom, knowing he would catch up quickly. I often joke he is part man and part mountain goat, thanks to years of summiting peaks across North America and, more recently, 26 nights of hiking in Nepal. My pace would be slower, and we both knew it.

I arrived at Refugio Francés mid-morning and took a welcome break. With sweeping views and a patch of sun warming me, I indulged in a second breakfast while waiting for Tom to catch up.

Before reaching Campamento Italiano that afternoon, we paused on a narrow ledge, the forest thick around us, wind whispering through the trees.  Below us, the French Valley unfolded like a hidden cathedral: raw, vast, and breathtaking.  I dropped my trekking poles and leaned back against Tom, my heart pounding as I looked up.   For a moment, I simply forgot to breathe, overwhelmed by the sheer scale and silence.  Jagged granite peaks rose like spires; their faces streaked with snow. Glaciers spilled down cliffs like frozen waterfalls, suspended in time.   Somewhere high above, an avalanche cracked like distant thunder, echoing through the stillness.

It was not just the view. It was everything it meant, that we had made it here, injured, and uncertain, every step hard-earned. I stood there, breath finally returning, feeling both insignificant and fiercely alive.   We rested for a while, watching clouds drift low over the valley walls, the wind tugging gently at our jackets.  Many hikers dropped their bags and headed up the trail to Mirador Británico, a high lookout deep within the valley. That had been our original plan too.

But my knee had its own truth to tell. We knew that if I pushed too far, I might not be able to walk the next day. So, with a bittersweet kind of grace, we turned west toward Refugio Paine Grande, skipping the deeper valley climb.

The trail to Paine Grande offered long, sweeping views of Lago Skottsberg, the wind carving whitecaps on its slate-blue surface. We followed the ridgeline, battered by gusts but buoyed by the promise of shelter, and a hot meal at the end.

When we arrived, Paine Grande felt massive. Easily the largest Refugio we had seen, it sprawled at the base of the mountains, surrounded by a wide field dotted with rows of identical lemon-yellow tents, each fluttering in the wind like wildflowers stitched into the grass.  The bright, bold color was almost joyful, defiant against the gray sky and rugged peaks surrounding it.

Inside, the Refugio was warm and bustling. Hikers shuffled in camp slippers and fleece layers, swapping stories and queuing in the cafeteria-style restaurant, trays in hand, hungry in that special way only trail days create.  We claimed our assigned table, plates piled with pasta and warm bread, our bodies already loosening in the glow of arrival.

After dinner, like every night on the W, we headed to the Refugio bar. It had quickly become our ritual: wine, cold Patagonian beer, or a celebratory pisco sour, frothy, citrus-bright, the perfect end to the day.  That night, sipping wine with my knee gingerly stretched beneath the table, something in me settled.  I was in a place that felt unreal, wild, remote, and somehow tender, with a man whose gaze held warmth and love.  This shared journey deepened our understanding of each other and quietly strengthened our bond.  Gratitude settled beside me, humbled by the magic of the moment.

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Patagonia, Part 1: Southbound

By Bobbie Surber

Some trips are booked on a whim. Others are slow-brewing obsessions. For me, Patagonia was both myth and magnet—pulling at me for over a decade until, finally, I said yes.

From the rhythm of Santiago to the wild edge of Torres del Paine, onward to the granite spires of Fitz Roy, and finally to the end of the world in Ushuaia – this journey began long before the first step.

Some dreams grow slowly, quiet things that live inside you for years, waiting for the right season. In the spring of 2025, I finally answered Patagonia, a land that had lived in my imagination for over a decade.

This five-part series is a love letter to that journey: the W Trek in Torres del Paine, the trail to Fitz Roy, epic glaciers, the emotional and raw beauty of our stay in a turn-of-the-century estancia, and the weeks of awe, grit, and the stillness in between. But before it began, it started here—with four grounding, soul-resetting days in Santiago.

Santiago: A Soft Landing in the South

We arrived on a warm March evening, a little weary from 24 hours of travel. It was our first time traveling in the southern hemisphere together, and the city welcomed us with a gentle kind of grandeur – equal parts aged colonial elegance, unique barrios, and the Andes rising in the distance like a promise.

Santiago surprised me. I expected a pleasant stopover in a city I had yet to explore, but what we found was something deeper: a soulful pause. The city is a seamless blend of past and present – where the Metropolitan Cathedral anchors Plaza de Armas with 18th-century dignity, and just a few blocks away, the creative heartbeat of Barrio Lastarria pulses through cobbled streets lined with wine bars, coffee shops, pisco bars, bookstores, and tucked-away galleries.

We gave ourselves four full days to settle in, slow down, and breathe before the hard miles ahead. We wandered without a plan through Santiago’s romantic, tree-lined streets, lingered over café con leche, and sampled seafood so fresh it felt like the ocean hadn’t even noticed it was missing yet.

We ate slowly, laughed easily, and always – always – had room for a round (or two, or three) of Pisco Sours. There’s something about their sharp, citrusy kick and frothy top that made us pause mid-conversation just to savor. We debated in earnest the merits of Chilean vs. Argentine piscos – aged in sherry flasks vs. clear and youthful expressions. They became a little ritual we both looked forward to at the end of each day.

At night, Barrio Lastarria – our temporary home – transformed. Crowds gathered in the streets as fire dancers performed to the rhythm of drums, laughter, and clapping hands. It felt like a celebration – not just of the city, but of being alive, present, and open to whatever might come next.

One golden afternoon, after a locals’ lunch from the nearby green market, we climbed Cerro Santa Lucía, the small hill where Santiago was founded. From the top, the view stretched beyond colonial rooftops and high-rise towers to the distant edge of the Andes. The wind caught my hair, and I stood quietly, thinking: It’s all really happening.

Santiago didn’t rush us. She cradled us in her warmth and rhythm – and without even trying, helped me remember why we came. She held the silence between what I was leaving behind and the transformative journey ahead.

Packing, Repacking, and Trusting the Journey

When we weren’t exploring the city, I was sprawled across the Airbnb floor, turning our room into a staging ground for our gear. Santiago’s quiet charm and youthful energy balanced the task at hand: preparing for the wilderness ahead.

I repacked my backpack more times than I want to admit – agonizing over every ounce.

Do I really need a second base layer?
Will this hold up to Patagonia’s infamous wind?
Are we actually ready for what’s coming?

Eventually, I stopped trying to pack perfectly and started packing with intention – and trust. The truth is nothing can fully prepare you for Patagonia’s rawness. At some point, you just have to take a leap of faith and go.

Flying South: The Landscape Begins to Shift

From Santiago, we boarded a flight to Puerto Natales, Chile – the gateway to Torres del Paine National Park. As the plane sliced its way southward, the landscape shifted – flat plains giving way to jagged peaks, glacier-fed rivers, and a coastline shaped by wind and time.

Puerto Natales welcomed us with its signature mix of remoteness and warmth. It’s a small, rugged town perched along the edge of Seno Última Esperanza – the Last Hope Sound, a stunning fjord that reaches inland from the Pacific Ocean. With snow-dusted peaks in the distance and steel-gray water stretching out before us, it felt like we had reached the last outpost before stepping off the map.

Colorful corrugated metal buildings lined the streets, most weatherworn but vibrant, standing defiant against Patagonia’s legendary wind. The town is modest but full of charm – local cafés, gear shops, friendly bakeries, and hostels nestled between homes and small restaurants. Everything feels like it belongs here – resilient, practical, but with soft edges.

After a 30-minute shuttle journey from the airport, we checked into our hotel for the next two nights. Our room sat just a short walk from the water’s edge, where fishing boats rocked gently in the inlet and clouds drifted low across the mountains beyond. The cold air felt cleaner, sharper – like the world had been distilled to its purest elements: rock, wind, water, sky.

That evening, Tom and I bundled up and walked along the costanera, the long waterfront promenade that hugs the fjord. The sky was moody and low with clouds, the wind tugging at our jackets. Seabirds dipped low over the water. In the distance, the silhouette of the mountains we came for was just barely visible, blurred and waiting.

We didn’t speak much. We didn’t need to. We were here. The adventure was about to start.

What’s Next: Hiking the W Trek

In Part 2, I’ll take you inside our six-day trek through Torres del Paine: past hanging glaciers, through lenga forests, clomping up to the famous Towers – a dream I’ve held so long come true – ending along the windswept shores of Lago Grey. It was a hike that tested us, shaped us, and left us completely in awe.

If you’ve ever dreamed of Patagonia – or are planning your own trek – drop a comment or question below. I’d love to hear from you.

Patagonia Prep Tips

If Patagonia is on your list – or already on your calendar – here are a few tips from our experience that might help you prepare, both practically and mentally:

      1. Ease into it with Santiago.  Give yourself 2–3 days in Santiago to rest, adjust to the time zone, and mentally downshift. Patagonia can be physically demanding, so it’s worth arriving grounded. Plus, Santiago is a beautiful, underrated city full of soul, food, and architecture.
      2. Pack for all four seasons.  The weather in Patagonia is famously unpredictable – you can experience sun, sleet, hail, and 50mph winds all in a single day. Prioritize a quality waterproof shell (jacket and pants), a layering system (base layers, fleece, insulated puffy), windproof gloves and a beanie, and trail runners or hiking boots that are well broken-in.
      3. Repack with intention, not perfection. You will overthink your gear (everyone does). Don’t aim for flawless – aim for flexibility. Trust that you’ll adapt on the trail. Patagonia will shake loose whatever you didn’t need anyway.
      4. Download maps and offline essentials. Many areas in Patagonia have little to no cell service. Download maps on Maps.me or Gaia GPS, as well as offline translations (Spanish), weather apps, and your itinerary. Print any confirmations – especially for Refugio’s or border crossings.
      5. Carry both cash and cards.  While larger towns accept credit cards, many places in Patagonia – including transport, markets, and smaller cafés – prefer Chilean or Argentine pesos in cash. ATMs can be unreliable, so plan ahead.
      6. Train your body for multi-day hikes. If you’re doing the W Trek or Fitz Roy trails, it helps to prepare with at least a few local hikes beforehand, especially back-to-back days. Work on carrying a loaded pack for long distances.
      7. Prepare mentally for the elements.  Patagonia rewards patience, grit, and presence. Some days are full of awe. Others are full of wind and sore feet. You may not always get postcard views – but the rawness is part of what makes it unforgettable.
      8. Early Reservations.  For Torres Del Paine Park you will need to make early reservations  for your camping or lodging. You cannot enter the park without showing your lodging confirmation.

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Farewell to a Happy Place: The North Rim Lodge Is Gone

By Bobbie Surber

I was packed and ready to hit the road, heading out for a camping trip at the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, a place that’s held a special spot in my heart for years. The plan was simple: drive out, escape the heat of Sedona in July, camp under the stars, and soak in the quiet beauty of the pines and canyon. No cell signal, no crowds. Just me, my gear, and that stillness unique to the North Rim.

But not long into the day, I received the kind of message no traveler wants to hear: Jacob Lake and the North Rim had been evacuated due to wildfire. My heart sank.

With my plans upended and smoke looming in the distance, I rerouted to Kanab and checked into a hotel. By sheer coincidence, I arrived just as a crew of wildland firefighters was pulling in, finally catching a break after 48 straight hours on the line. Despite the exhaustion etched into their faces, they took a moment to speak with kindness.  They discreetly confirmed what I was afraid to hear: structures had been lost. The Grand Canyon Lodge was among them.

A Lodge Full of Character

The lodge wasn’t just a place to stay, it was the soul of the North Rim. Perched at the edge of the canyon, it offers the kind of peace that settles deep in your bones. I’d ended more than a few riding and hiking days there, swapping dusty boots for a warm meal and finding calm under the towering pines.

I remember reaching the lodge after completing the rim-to-rim hike, a long, steady climb from the Colorado River to the quiet heights of the North Rim. My legs were leaden, my pack dusted with red earth, and each step through the final miles of the North Kaibab Trail carried the weight of the canyon behind me. The landscape narrowed into cool shadows and silent stands of fir and aspen. As I crested the rim and glimpsed the lodge through a break in the trees, a quiet stillness settled in. I walked into the stone-and-timber building, ordered a hot meal, and sat near the window overlooking the vast expanse I’d just crossed. It wasn’t dramatic or loud, just a deeply satisfying end to a long journey.

At this moment, I’m in Zion, watching the sun sink behind the massive sandstone cliffs, reminiscing about my last visit in 2023 with Tippi, my Triumph Tiger 900 and faithful road companion. We had wound our way through a light snow flurry that gave way to golden light along the rim. I took a few photos of her parked by the North Rim Monument sign, along with shots of the lodge view and our snow-dusted ride, images that, in hindsight, captured more than a moment; they captured something I’ll never see again.

A Bit of History

According to the National Park Service, the Grand Canyon Lodge was originally completed in 1928 and designed by Gilbert Stanley Underwood, the architect known for other iconic National Park lodges like Bryce and Zion. Built from native limestone and timber, the lodge was intended to blend seamlessly into the landscape, emphasizing the canyon, not the building.

Just four years after its opening, the original lodge was destroyed by fire in 1932. It was rebuilt by 1937 with a simpler but still rugged design, one that would last nearly 90 years. Unlike the South Rim’s sprawling facilities, this lodge had a quiet dignity, drawing fewer crowds but just as much reverence.

Why the North Rim Matters

The North Rim receives only about 10% of the park’s annual visitors. It’s higher in elevation, cooler in climate, and feels a world away from the more developed South Rim. Fewer people mean more silence, more stars, and more time to breathe. It’s the kind of place that speaks in stillness.
That’s what made the lodge so special. The rocking chairs on the stone veranda. The canyon view framed perfectly through the dining room’s massive windows. The cabins tucked into the trees. It all felt timeless.
But as this fire has reminded us, even the most timeless places can change in an instant.

Holding Space for Gratitude

In times like these, it’s important to honor those who protect our wild places. To the wildland firefighters, thank you. For pushing through fatigue, for protecting what you can, and for showing up when it matters most.
And to the North Rim, thank you. For every ride, every trail, every quiet moment. For being a refuge from the world and a place to simply be. Though the lodge is gone, the land remains. The canyon remains. The memories remain.

You’ll always be one of my happy places.

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Sonora, Mexico

By Bobbie Surber

When is the perfect time to ride Sonora, Mexico? Any chance you get!

Fresh off a ride in Ecuador, I was itching to hop back on my Triumph Tiger GT Pro 900, fondly named Tippi, when my pal Destini (an ace adventure rider) suggested we hit up a rider’s event in Banamichi, Mexico. I did not hesitate for a second.  Hell yeah, I’m in!

The first stop on our adventure was a pre-trip visit to Destini’s home in Bisbee, Arizona, an old mining town. Tombstone, a nearby a wine district, and plenty of riding were nearby to keep us busy.  Our plan included riding to Agua Prieta, a quick ride from Bisbee, to sort out the next day’s border crossing. With our paperwork ready, we were back on the road aiming for the best tacos in Bisbee!

After enjoying a delicious meal of epic tacos, we gathered in front of the impressive motorcycle shrine at Destini’s (and her husband Jim’s) Moto Chapel.  We officially christened Tippi by adding her name to the tank. The Moto Chapel, a vision brought to life by Jim, never fails to catch the attention of visitors. It is a small garage with a pitched roof, complete with air conditioning and even a bathroom. It’s a true paradise for gearheads and motorcycle enthusiasts alike.

On the road again, with Destini leading the charge on her GS 800 named Gracie, we breezed towards the border. Or should I say, Destini and Gracie breezed through, leaving Tippi and me oblivious to the inspection signal, which led to a comical episode of me doing my best to charm the officers while trying to avoid a bureaucratic whirlwind between the US and Mexico. With a little acting (okay, a touch of exaggerated age and frailty), we were back on the road and free as the wind.

We savored every moment— zooming down the desert open roads of Mexico’s Highway 17, enjoying the breathtaking mountain vistas and sweet tight twisties along Sonora Highway 89.  That is, until we faced a water crossing. Destini, cool as ever, told me to keep my eyes up and just go for it. Turns out it was a breeze, but then she casually dropped a story about moss and a rider wipeout on a previous ride! Thanks for the heads-up, Destini…you did well telling me afterward!

Our destination was Banamichi, a charming town steeped in Opata indigenous culture and Spanish colonial history. Banamichi was a bustling trading hub, attracting merchants from far and wide.  We strolled through its charming streets, greeted by well-preserved adobe houses adorned with vibrant colors and traditional architectural elements. The town’s rich cultural is evident in its festivals, art exhibitions, and handicrafts that highlight its residents’ talent and creativity.

We settled in at the Los Arcos Hotel, hosted by Tom and his lovely wife Linda.   Their hospitality matched the hotel’s enchanting courtyard and old-world charm. The weekend whisked by in a blur of exhilarating rider tales, mingling with the aroma of delectable food and more than a few Mexican beers to ease the heat. The morning included a tour by the mayor, including the town square’s church.

Lunch that day included a visit to a small local ranchero for Bacanora tasting.  Bacanora is akin to Mezcal, a beverage to enjoy while being careful about how much you are willing to partake! The tasting and lunch were a leisurely affair. We savored the flavors of this year’s Bacanora harvest while enjoying a laid-back lunch with regional dishes that appeared abundantly and effortlessly.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, evenings were a symphony of vibrant hues, margaritas, and captivating rhythms of Folklorico dance.  Each of the dancers’s steps told a story—a mesmerizing tribute to Sonora’s rich cultural tapestry.

And as the second night ended, my mind buzzed with the tales of fellow riders and the warmth of the Bacanora nestled in my belly. The air hummed with laughter and camaraderie, each story adding another layer of adventure to the weekend’s memories.

Sunday morning heralded a poignant end to our short escapade—a bike blessing conducted by a local priest. It felt like a closing ceremony, encapsulating the spirit of our epic weekend. As we bid farewell to fellow riders, we reluctantly rode out of Banamichi.  Its charms lingered, a reminder of the joy found exploring quaint towns. It was a weekend filled with epic riding, new friendships, and a gentle nudge to continue seeking such delightful adventures.

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Bisbee, Arizona: The Southwest’s Hidden Gem

 By Bobbie Surber

Nestled in southeastern Arizona, Bisbee offers a blend of history, natural beauty, and a spirited Wild West vibe along the Mexico border. My visit uncovered Bisbee’s charms and attractions, showcasing its unique character.  It is one of my favorite motorcycle destinations.

Journeying from Sedona on my trusty Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro (lovingly named Tippi), the route initially seemed uneventful. However, upon meeting up with Destini and Jim, ardent adventure riding enthusiasts and Bisbee locals, the town’s captivating charm began to unfurl. Wandering the streets, I was enchanted by the town’s distinctive ambiance—a delightful testament to its rich mining heritage interwoven with a vibrant, slightly hippie-ish community. Their adorable bungalow, nestled along the main street with its newfound motorcycle haven christened “Moto Chapel” provided a fitting sanctuary for our bikes.

Our foray into the local culinary scene led us to the Taqueria Outlaw, a haven for taco lovers. With serious discernment for authentic flavors, I reveled in the experience.  It was a perfect harmony of a Mezcal Margarita complementing the tantalizing al pastor tacos, affirming Destini’s advice on the ultimate Bisbee taco spot. Slightly euphoric from our second Mezcal Margarita, we made our way along the main street, taking in the historic buildings constructed during the late 19th and early 20th centuries.  This era was the town’s mining boom, and it resulted in construction of numerous buildings in the styles popular during that period:  Victorian, Art Deco, and Craftsman. These gems have transformed Bisbee over the years into a destination with lodging, eateries, bars, art galleries, and shops.

I was reminded why I visit Bisbee often.  The food and local architecture, the local history, and Bisbee’s proximity to other significant attractions make this a wonderful place to visit.  Iconic and nearby Tombstone invites history buffs to take in legendary Wild West ambiance. For those who enjoy local wineries and tasting rooms, Arizona’s nearby wine district offers an opportunity to savor the region’s flavors. At the same time, the majestic Chiricahua Mountains’ breathtaking vistas and invigorating hikes entice visitors.

What sets Bisbee apart (beyond its history, the shops, and the food scene) is its extensive network of trails crisscrossing the area. Adventure enthusiasts will find their niche here, whether it be hiking, horseback riding, motorcycling, or mountain biking. Bisbee’s diverse terrain and surroundings cater to various skill levels, offering trails that promise memorable experiences amidst Arizona’s beautiful landscapes.

Whether a leisurely main street stroll or an exciting off-road expedition, Bisbee offers a range of adventures that leave a lasting mark on those exploring its diverse terrain.

If you are headed to Bisbee, here are a few of my favorite things:

Lodging

      • Jonquil Motel: Owned by adventure riders, this is a favorite place for both riders and non-riders. It’s my favorite for sure!
      • Bisbee Grand Hotel: Old west lodging at its finest!

Grub

      • Bisbee Breakfast Club: Hometown cooking with a diverse menu from biscuits and gravy to huevos rancheros.
      • The Copper Pig: One of Bisbee’s hidden dining gems.
      • The aforementioned, Taqueria Outlaw

Favorite Walk

      • The 1000 stair stroll. You will both feel the burn from all those steps and get a chance to meander through the historic neighborhoods!

Favorite Wineries

      • Dos Cabezas
      • Flying Leap
      • Arizona Hops and Vines

Favorite Motorcycle Rides

      • Dragoon Mountain
      • Chiricahua Mountains
      • Carr Canyon

For more on Bisbee from Motorcycle Classics magazine!

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Four National Parks, One Inspiring Ride, and Fuel for the Open Road

By Bobbie Surber

Embarking on a spontaneous journey this past October to explore multiple national parks, my dependable Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro (Tippi), and I escaped from an approaching winter. The objective? An inspiring tour encompassing White Sands, Carlsbad Caverns, Guadalupe, and the Petrified Forest National Parks. With an insatiable love for national parks, these scenic wonders often become a focal point during my motorcycle travels. Spending around 60-70 percent of my time on the road, I am drawn to these incredible natural havens.

Starting from Sedona on a crisp fall afternoon, I cruised through Oak Creek Canyon, reveling in the solitary road and the vibrant autumn leaves adorning the red rock landscape. Petrified Forest National Park is a familiar stop with ancient petrified logs and captivating vistas.

I continued through the desolate upper desert plains, making my way to Springerville, Arizona, before the next leg of my adventure.

The next morning’s journey steered me toward Faywood Hot Springs in New Mexico, but boy, was it a wild ride! Wrestling with savage winds that rivaled a cyclone, I stumbled upon a rider down on the road.  As we righted his bike, we ascertained the downed rider was scraped and bruised but fine. My nerves shot, I sought respite from the tempestuous gusts and made a beeline for Alpine, where winds had gone rogue, hitting outrageous gusts of 80 miles per hour. Amid what seemed to be tornado-like chaos, I found solace in the embrace of snug and hospitable Alpine, Arizona.

Rolling into Faywood Hot Springs in New Mexico a day late due to the windstorms, I was greeted by humble cabins and campsites stretching across the desert with views of distant foothills. As Tippi’s tires crunched on the gravel, I found myself in a moment straight out of a motorcycle comedy flick. Decked out head to toe in my riding gear, I sfound myself in a nudist colony!  Out of nowhere two mostly naked gents emerged, strutting towards me to help park my bike. Picture this: two bare souls, one bike, and a dangerous scenario brewing. They helped with the genuine enthusiasm of a nudist biker pit crew, and I could not help but nervously accept. However, my mind raced faster than Tippi’s engine, worrying about potential mishaps—my bike toppling over one of them or an accidental heat encounter with certain sensitive areas. The stakes were high, at least for them, and my concern was off the charts!

With Tippi safely parked (and the naked pit crew miraculously unscathed), I swiftly ditched my gear and clothing for the remainder of the day, joining the affable and entertaining guests at the bathing suit optional pools. Trust me, regaling the encounter turned into a comedic highlight of my adventure, spinning a tale of the night’s shenanigans that truly supported my aforementioned moto flick!

Eager to witness the sunrise and embark on my ride, I packed Tippi.  I anticipated a solar eclipse, but not before a detour to the City of Rocks State Park (a hidden gem a few miles away). Although time allowed only a brief hike and a few photographs, the park’s charm put it on my must-return list.

Continuing my journey, a stop at Hatch, New Mexico, promised a feast of authentic Mexican cuisine renowned for its chili.  It lived up to its reputation as I dove into a plate of green chili smothered enchiladas. But before my feast the anticipation of the eclipse lingered as I parked by the roadside with Tippi and a few fellow travelers, hoping for an unobstructed view. Unfortunately, a thin veil of clouds dampened our expectations, casting a shadow over the anticipated celestial spectacle, although the shifting light added its own atmospheric drama.

The adventure continued as I resumed my ride, following I-25 to I-70 for a two-hour journey leading me to White Sands National Park. Here, nature unveiled a captivating spectacle as I ventured deeper into the park. The landscape transformed into a mesmerizing sand festival, each mile revealing taller and more majestic sand dunes that stretched endlessly to the horizon. The park’s beauty and ethereal ambiance made my farewell bittersweet.

Leaving enchanting White Sands behind, I ventured onward, headed for Cloudcroft, New Mexico, where a charming hostel awaited.  This oasis in the mountains promised a restful evening, a sanctuary after a day filled with unexpected turns and nature’s breathtaking displays. I am a huge fan of hostels while traveling solo, not only for the inexpensive lodging but also for the opportunity to meet with fellow adventurers. Cloudcroft Hostel did not disappoint!  It is labor of love by a transplant named Stephanie, a fellow rider from Germany. The night’s stay even included a house concert with a traveling performer. I drifted off to sleep that night with the thought of returning to this delightful place.

Bright and early the following morning, I embarked on a dual adventure to Carlsbad Caverns and Guadalupe National Park. My first stop was in Carlsbad, where I had a planned visit with a fellow rider.  Parker and I arranged to meet at a historic restaurant.  Meeting this captivating rider in person matched the fascination I felt from afar. Our interaction was brief as I had to rush to make my 1:00 p.m. to the caverns. Negotiating the winding roads with enthusiasm, I navigated to the visitor center while maneuvering through the curves, passing slower vehicles, and arriving on time. The caverns exceeded expectations, and I leisurely explored the most picturesque chambers.

Daylight was fleeing, and I knew I had to rush to Guadalupe National Park before sunset. To my delight, a pleasant surprise awaited me as Parker joined me. Guadalupe, an unassuming jewel of a desert park boasting Texas’s highest peak, instantly captured my heart with its desert sunset over the rugged peaks. The night flew by quickly as I prodded Parker for more tales of his exhilarating riding adventures.  It made this stop an unforgettable highlight.

The following morning greeted me with thoughts swirling about the completion of my four-park tour and the route home. In a moment of whimsy, I yearned to revisit Cloudcroft for another night.  Such impulses are the joys of traveling by bike…logic takes a backseat to wanderlust! Retracing the previous day’s path, I arrived in the afternoon, affording me a chance to explore the historic downtown area.

In a move that defied logic (as is the norm in my travels), I reasoned that it made perfect sense to detour back home through Mesa, Arizona, for my bike’s much-needed service. The return ride, riddled with its own set of challenges, became a tale, featuring unexpected twists and yet another memorable encounter at a unique hot spring.  It’s a story for another time!

As I reflect on my incredible journey filled with unexpected encounters, stunning landscapes, and fellow riders’ camaraderie, the allure of the open road and unpredictability of travel are the true treasures of my motorcycle expeditions. Each detour, unplanned stop, and quirky encounter combined to create a tapestry of unforgettable experiences.  It is what fuels my passion for exploration and two wheel travel. Until the next adventure beckons, I will carry these memories as fuel for the road ahead.

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Break-Up Bikes (my journey to a Yamaha TW 200)

By Bobbie Surber

Can we talk about an important matter that has been on my mind?

Do women who ride motorcycles handle breakups differently compared to women who don’t rider?

It’s a thought that tickles the imagination of everyone at some point, right? Well, maybe not everyone, but hey, this is my little tale, so here we go. Picture this: it was summer, I had just experienced a breakup that left my heart in pieces, and an opportunity for a soul-searching solo ride presented itself. In that moment of contemplation, I assessed my true desires in life, and you know what came to mind? Dirt and sand riding. Yeah, I’m talking about that exhilarating feeling of kicking up dust and cruising through sandy terrain. Don’t get me wrong, my beloved Triumph Tiger 900 (affectionately named Tippi) will always hold the top spot in my heart. But hey, a girl needs a little something on the side, a petite and playful companion for short rides. You catch my drift, right? I know some of you guys can relate! Ha!

Fast forward through the summer months and as August approached a dear friend (who also happens to be an extraordinary adventure rider) reached out to me. By then, I had been on my solo riding journey for over two months, feeling both physically drained and financially pinched. And then, like a shining beacon, my friend, let’s call her Destini, introduced me to the elusive TW 200—the side cheating bike of my dreams. This unicorn of a motorcycle was up for sale in Southern California, and armed with a few snapshots and a contact number, I was ready to make my move.

Now, you won’t believe the audacity I had, claiming to be financially constrained but wasting no time in contacting Eric, the seller. He was enjoying a leisurely dinner with friends on a perfect summer evening when I burst into his life with overwhelming excitement. I must have been yapping like a caffeinated squirrel, leaving him wondering if I was either on some mind-altering substance or going through a manic phase. But can you blame me? I had set my heart on that bike! It wasn’t just a want—it was a dire post-breakup remedy! A 2015 Yamaha TW 200 with a mere 800 miles on it listed for only $4000. Surprise, surprise, Eric turned out to be a gem of a person and agreed to a small Venmo deposit to secure the deal.

Now, here’s where the plot thickens. I was miles away in the Olympic peninsula of Washington while the prized possession awaited me in sunny southern California. One could say I needed a trusty sidekick, and luckily, a kind friend volunteered to inspect and purchase the bike on my behalf.

Before I knew it I was the proud owner of a TW 200. Come September, picture me cruising through the neighborhood on a splendid Sunday afternoon, giggling like a mischievous child. That little bike felt so lightweight and petite.  Its chunky rear tire was the only contrasting feature. And would you believe it? My shattered heart seemed to magically mend, thanks to a mere $4000 and the promise of thrilling rides in Baja and my enchanting town of Sedona, conquering as much dirt as possible! Love was in the air once again, and my mind was filled with visions of the adventures that lay ahead.

And thus, my riding comrades, this is the tale of how I acquired my very own break-up bike!

The Yamaha TW 200 is a unique dual-sport motorcycle known for its distinctive features and versatility. Here are some key details about the Yamaha TW 200:

    • Engine. It’s powered by a 196cc, single-cylinder, air-cooled four-stroke engine, designed for reliability and easy maintenance.
    • Fat Tires. One of its most recognizable features is its oversized tires—both front and rear are unusually wide for a motorcycle of its size. The fat tires, with dimensions of 130/80-18 rear and 130/80-18 front, contribute to its off-road capabilities and stability on various terrains.
    • Low Seat Height. The TW 200 boasts a low seat height, making it accessible and comfortable for riders of varying heights and skill levels. This characteristic also aids in maneuverability, especially off-road.
    • Suspension. It’s equipped with long-travel telescopic front forks and a rear mono-shock suspension, providing decent travel for off-road adventures while maintaining comfort on the road.
    • Utility and Design. Its design combines elements of a traditional dirt bike and a street motorcycle. It features a high-mounted exhaust, a large, round headlight, a rear rack for cargo, and a simple, utilitarian appearance.
    • Availability. While production and availability may vary by region and year, the TW 200 has gained popularity for its unique design and capabilities, which contributes to its demand in the used market.

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My Solo Motorcycle Journey from Sedona to Canada: Part V

By Bobbie Surber

Embarking on the final stretch of my epic 11-week solo motorcycle journey on Tippi, my trusted Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro, evoked a whirlwind of emotions. From Sedona, Arizona, through the diverse terrains of Utah, Nevada, California, and Oregon, each mile etched an unforgettable mark on my soul. Navigating the enchanting trails of the Olympic Peninsula on my slow crawl to Canada, every road whispered tales of resilience, liberation, and the joy of exploration. Each mile felt like a chapter—a blend of nostalgic past adventures and an eager anticipation for the unknown ahead. This last leg wasn’t just a ride; it was a transformative passage that shaped me, kindling a sense of wonder, fortitude, and an unyielding thirst for the uncharted.

After crossing the Astoria Bridge into Washington, a short ride brought me to my niece’s home in Westport. Nestled in a community rich in fishing heritage and coastline, Michelle, Mike, and their kids embodied a close-knit family life filled with outdoor adventures. What began as a brief stop extended to a 3-night stay, finding solace by the captivating shoreline. Continuing the journey with Mike leading the way, we explored scenic backroads and Highway 101, culminating in my first ferry trip aboard Tippi to Edmond, Washington.

We quickly stopped for some incredible tacos before continuing to see my adventurous 90+-year-old mother, just back from an epic cruise to Alaska. She regaled us with tales of her thrilling zip line adventure—so high and long that my sister opted for the gondola ride, watching our daring mother zoom by! Our time together, though brief, was filled with laughter and stories of adventure before I hit the road again, heading towards more family just a few hours away.

My ride to visit my sister and her husband at their enchanting cabin east of Granite Falls was swift. The primary purpose of this visit, alongside my travels through multiple states, was to gather and honor the memory of my beloved nephew, Brandon. A decade has passed since his tragic loss to brain cancer, leaving an irreplaceable void in our lives. The remembrance brought together both family and friends, a day spent in heartfelt reminiscence and reconnection. My sister, Deb, and her husband, Jim, seasoned sailors, spun tales that seemed to fill more than a lifetime’s worth of adventures. The days melted away as we relaxed in the tranquility of their picturesque cabin by the river.

After luxuriating for four nights, Tippi and I reluctantly bid farewell to embark on our journey to North Cascades National Park via the captivating routes of Highways 530 and 20. The morning air was crisp and invigorating, paired with the delightful twists and turns that entertained both me and Tippi. The park’s cloudless skies gifted us a rare visual feast. At the same time, the scarcity of traffic afforded precious moments to drink in the awe-inspiring panoramic views, such as the breathtaking Diablo Lake.

Further along our route, multiple pit stops and a restful night in the quaint western town of Winthrop, Washington, brought us tantalizingly close to the Canadian border. The journey along Highway 20 and the extended loop through Kettle Springs via Highway 395 bestowed upon me splendid views of the majestic Columbia River and the winding Kettle River before my solitary crossing into Canada at the serene expanse of Christina Lake.

Christina Lake’s allure was magnetic—a vast expanse fed by hot springs boasting the warmest waters in British Columbia, offering a tranquil respite. Energized and eager, I embarked on my next destination, Nakusp, for a riders’ gathering with Horizons Unlimited. A weekend of camaraderie and epic tales of global adventures awaited, including the awe-inspiring journey of a dear friend, Wayne Kouf, as he traveled from Canada to the tip of South America.

As was one of the main themes of my journey, I was once again saying my farewells to newfound friends as I pulled out of the campground to embark on the exploration of Banff, the Ice Fields, and Jasper. Despite planning a direct route on Highways 2 and 1, fellow riders advocated a detour closer to the border. The diversion led me towards Highway 31A to Balfour, where the longest free ferry ride in Canada awaited—a journey meandering alongside a lake to Creston, ending at the home of a riding comrade, Jody.

After an enchanting evening with Jody and his wife, savoring local wines and their tales of adventures, we reluctantly bid each other goodnight. Jody led the way on his BMW the next morning, guiding us through superior back routes toward Banff. As foreboding clouds gathered, he wisely turned back, leaving me to face an imminent storm that unleashed torrents of rain, hail, and fog upon my journey.

At last, I arrived in Banff under clear skies! A delightful two-night stay at Two Jack Campground unfolded with wildlife encounters, mesmerizing sunsets, and a lighthearted exchange with a Ranger regarding bear spray—affirming the amiable demeanor of Canadian bears.

The subsequent days were a whirlwind, exploring the lakes, trails, and the majestic Lake Louise before venturing along the Icefields Parkway in Alberta—a challenging yet breathtaking 144-mile scenic route through Banff and Jasper National Parks. A pause at a remote, off-grid hostel allowed both the physical and emotional respite I needed! I slept with peace despite a room full of men.  I spent the days filled with wildlife observation, the magic of Athabasca Falls and thoughtful planning for the journey ahead.

Reluctantly leaving the hostel, I caught a glimpse of Jasper before setting my sights on Mt. Robson, the towering pinnacle in the heart of the Canadian Rockies. From there, my journey through the mountains made its way towards Kamloops, a historic river ferry delivering me to the abode of Melanie, a truly exceptional rider. Gathered around for dinner were local riders, their camaraderie transforming the evening into a truly memorable encounter.

The next morning, Melanie and I embarked on a thrilling ride towards Whistler via the legendary Highway 99, a route destined to etch itself into my memory. Reluctantly bidding farewell to Melanie, I found a respite at a hostel nestled on the outskirts of Whistler, immersing myself in the awe-inspiring vistas. The following day, I embarked on the Sea to Sky Highway, Highway 99, enroute to the home of newfound friends I’d met during my time in Nakusp.

A brief stopover in Vancouver included a heartfelt reunion with a friend from Sedona and an embrace of warm hospitality from new acquaintances, setting the stage for a chilly, rain-soaked morning journey to the ferry terminal. This ferry would lead me to Pender Island and the sanctuary of Karen and Wayne’s idyllic home, perched above stunning views of the sound amid a serene fruit orchard.

I was enfolded by their sanctuary for three nights before hopping onto ferries, journeying to Salt Spring Island for a short but sweet visit with friends. Eventually, my path led me to Nanaimo on Vancouver Island, where I sought rest for the night. The following morning, we rode to Tofino, immersing myself in the town’s essence for several nights, exploring every nook and cranny, from the bustling streets to the expansive Long Beach. Subsequently, I found solace in camping at Ucluelet for two nights, discovering the untamed and authentic allure of the rugged west coast of Vancouver Island.

Spending five captivating nights absorbed in the wild embrace of the untamed West Coast reluctantly gave way to a journey along the backroads, savoring every moment by Cowichan Lake and basking in the sheer picturesque beauty of Port Renfrew. The coastal ride on Road 14 leading into Victoria was a spectacle to behold, painting a stunning portrait of nature’s allure. However, despite an entire week on Vancouver Island, it felt like I’d barely scratched the surface of its boundless treasures. This experience fueled a resolute determination to return, armed with Tippi, and unearth more of the island’s hidden gems waiting to be discovered.

A ferry ride from Victoria to Port Angeles led me to family friends who are seasoned globe-trotters and avid sailors. Their tales of adventures on the high seas enthralled me, offering a glimpse into their adventurous lives. Their home, a serene haven, was difficult to leave behind after two lovely nights.

Crossing that final ferry from Kingston into Edmonds, Washington, marked the poignant end of our remarkable 6700-mile journey. As Tippi’s three-cylinder engine hummed for the last time, an array of emotions swept over me—an amalgamation of triumph, nostalgia, and bittersweet closure.

This journey wasn’t merely a travelogue; it unfolded as an epic tale of self-discovery, resilience, and unspoken connections. It bestowed upon me the confidence to traverse vast distances riding solo, fostering encounters that enriched the very essence of my being. Amidst nature’s awe-inspiring grandeur and tempestuous weather, I forged deep bonds with fellow riders, weaving together memories that now compose the tapestry of cherished moments. My heart took this journey bruised and found solace and renewal in the liberating embrace of the open road. It transcended beyond a physical expedition—it became a profound emotional odyssey. Tippi and the open road weren’t simply an escape; they provided a sanctuary for introspection, solace, and rediscovery.

In this odyssey, Tippi evolved beyond a mere motorcycle; she transformed into an unwavering companion, accompanying me through every peak and valley, guiding me along uncharted paths as a steadfast confidante, offering unspoken reassurance and understanding. She remained my constant, always propelling me further.

My solo adventure reaffirmed a timeless truth: life’s most defining chapters often unfold in uncharted territories, far from the familiar comforts. It underscored that the most impactful moments, those that shape us profoundly, emerge when we embrace the unknown with open arms, daringly venturing beyond the confines of what we know.

By the Numbers:

    • 6700 +/- miles
    • 2 Countries /2 Provence’s /6 States
    • 2 Bike Drops
    • 3 wicked Hangovers
    • 3 Islands
    • 6 Canadian National Parks
    • 14 US National Parks
    • 9 Ferry Rides
    • 54 nights camping
    • 1000 amazing memories!

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My Solo Motorcycle Journey from Sedona to Canada: Part IV

By Bobbie Surber

A quick recap: In Part One, I kicked off this solo motorcycle journey on my trusty Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro, lovingly christened Tippi. As I bid farewell to Sedona, the road promised a majestic odyssey. From the winding bends of the Colorado River to the breathtaking grandeur of Lees Ferry, Marble Canyon, Jacobs Lake, North Grand Canyon National Park, and Zion National Park, each mile etched indelible memories on my soul.   Part Two unveiled the treasures of Bryce Canyon, Capitol Reef, and Great Basin National Parks, along with the legendary Loneliest Highway in America, Highway 50. The roads led me to Lake Tahoe, where I encountered unique wonders and overcame challenges that enriched my adventure.  In Part Three, I entered the landscapes of Yosemite, Kings Canyon, Sequoia, and Lassen Volcanic National Parks. I visited the town of Bigfoot and the Lost Coast. Amidst these joys, there was a bittersweet encounter with my boyfriend, Mike, marking the end of a significant chapter in my life.  Now, let’s continue the ride through northern California and the Oregon coast.

In the embrace of an early summer morning, I stood alone, a solitary figure beside my trusted motorcycle, Tippi. The sun painted the horizon in hues of gold and pink, casting a spell of serenity. This was the moment of bidding farewell to Greg, a friend whose hospitality touched my soul.  The road stretched before me, an endless promise. As I eased Tippi out of Greg’s driveway, it felt as if the entire world held its breath, echoing the emotions that propelled me into this adventure. This journey, forged from the ashes of heartbreak and kindled by an insatiable wanderlust, was poised to unfold a voyage of self-discovery and emotional renewal.

Just the night before, I had embraced a decision steeped in emotional turbulence — a poignant farewell to my boyfriend, Mike. It was a decision marinated in profound sadness and the weight of loss. Despite the heaviness in my heart, I clung to the belief that the open road cradled an undiscovered trove of experiences, encounters, and life lessons. Each mile seemed to hold the promise of a fresh beginning, and as I departed McKinleyville, California on that Sunday morning, the marine mist hung in the air like a wispy veil.  It created a backdrop to my reflections on the past and the enigma of the future. The chill in the air mirrored the swirling mix of emotions within me, signifying the dawn of a new chapter in my solitary adventure.

Surrounded by towering redwoods and glimpsing fleeting vistas of the boundless Pacific Ocean as the last remnants of marine fog dissipated, the morning unfurled in all the splendor I yearned for. We journeyed up the coast, passing through the awe-inspiring realm of Redwood National Park. This marked my tenth rendezvous with a national park in just a month of travel. Each park visit hammered home the vital importance of preserving our public lands, and standing amidst these colossal arboreal titans served as a perpetual reminder of their awe-inspiring grandeur.

Reluctantly, I bid adieu to the towering redwoods as Highway 101 gently steered me slightly inland, ushering me towards Elk Meadow. Here, nature unfolded a spectacle that stole my breath — an assembly of elk, the largest gathering I had ever witnessed. I yielded to the irresistible urge to halt and pay homage to their beauty, immortalizing the moment through the lens of my camera.

After our parting with the majestic elk, I made a brief sojourn in Crescent City, a pause to refuel Tippi and replenish my spirits with a cup of coffee. It was in this picturesque spot that I stumbled upon kindred spirits — two gentlemen on Ducati motorcycles. We shared a common destiny: Canada. While a twinge of envy for their sleek machines grazed my heart, I cherished the chance to engage in a brief yet warm-hearted conversation with fellow travelers.

With renewed zeal, Tippi and I resumed our journey on Highway 101, eager to cross into Oregon, the fifth state to embrace our adventure. We traversed familiar terrain, including the enchanting Harris Beach State Park and Whaleshead Beach in Brookings. While my original goal was Bandon, the unyielding coastal winds encouraged me to pursue the unknown paths that Oregon had hidden.

Coos Bay welcomed us with an uproarious windstorm, a tempestuous force of nature that consistently left me feeling exposed and vulnerable. After a hasty search on Rec.gov, I secured a campsite on the north side of Coos Bay. However, our path to the campground presented a challenge—an encounter with a bridge at the northern edge. Anxiety surged within me as a flashing warning sign taunted me with its “High Wind Alert” and “Overturned Vehicle” messages.

I wish I could recount the crossing of that bridge with calm and composure, but the truth was far from it. My grip on the handlebars was vice-like, my white knuckles bearing testimony to my sheer terror. My aversion to fierce winds reached its zenith, and adrenaline coursed through my veins as I navigated to the other side. Upon reaching the campground, my heart sank as I discovered an RV occupying the very spot I had reserved. The encounter with the RV owner left me frustrated and disheartened, an unfortunate epilogue to the nerve-wracking bridge escapade.

Thankfully, a benevolent camp host emerged as my savior, guiding me to an alternative sanctuary shielded from the relentless wind. After a modest dinner, I indulged in a generous pour of Irish whiskey, surrendering to the soothing embrace of slumber, grateful for the tranquility of the night.

As the sun greeted me with a gentle caress, I found myself back in the saddle on Tippi. An early morning ride past Florence unfolded, each curve of the road a thrilling waltz with the remnants of marine fog. This was my sanctuary — a joyful communion with the open road and splendid vistas without a hint of traffic. All too soon, Tippi beckoned me onwards, leading to Yachats, Oregon, a captivating seaside village promising both coffee and a well-deserved breakfast.

On a whim, I reached out to an old friend from Sedona, Elaine, her presence a comforting tether to the past. Hoping she and her gracious husband could join me for an impromptu cup of coffee, I was delighted when they not only accepted my invitation but also extended a generous offer for me to spend the night. It was the 4th of July, and their cottage, adorned with breathtaking views of the bay, surpassed all expectations.

I soon found myself immersed in the heartwarming tapestry of small-town America, a 4th of July parade, and savoring dinner with their friends by the bay (a diverse ensemble of souls who graciously embraced me). The day culminated in a spectacular sunset and an awe-inspiring fireworks extravaganza over the ocean (as you can see in the photo at the top of this blog).

Early the following morning, as I reassured my friends of my competence on a substantial bike, I negotiated their lengthy gravel driveway. But I inadvertently tipped Tippi over. My pride was slightly bruised, but with concerted effort, we righted Tippi, and my journey continued. The weather was perfect as the road led me along the rest of the Oregon coast, passing through my beloved coastal havens like Cannon Beach and Surf Pines before culminating in Astoria.

My journey reached a momentous juncture as I approached the Astoria-Megler Bridge, an imposing truss bridge spanning an astonishing 4.6 miles, suspended 192 feet above the majestic Columbia River. This crossing marked my entry into Washington State, and contrary to the daunting tales of ferocious winds, I was pleasantly greeted by a smooth and rewarding journey. I took a moment to document my arrival in my sixth state in just over five weeks on the road. With newfound enthusiasm, I revved up Tippi and continued my pilgrimage to the charming village of Westport, Washington, where my family eagerly awaited my arrival.

What an extraordinary adventure it has been, with the promise of even more to come. Along the way, I have cast aside heartache, embraced the highs and lows of the road, and found solace in the arms of independence, the kind of independence that comes from conquering challenges that nudge us beyond our comfort zones. I wholeheartedly embrace my addiction to solo motorcycle travel, cherishing the serendipitous encounters with strangers who become cherished friends, and savoring the freedom of the open road.

Stay tuned for the forthcoming chapter, where I will unveil my family adventures in Washington and the epic odyssey through Canada. I extend my heartfelt gratitude to you for joining me on this narrative journey. Your comments, suggestions, and unwavering support are a source of immense inspiration. Until then, whether you embark on a bike, in a car, on a bicycle, or simply with your own two feet, I implore you to heed the call of your own epic adventure. Safe travels, fellow adventurers!

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