Camping – Page 4 – The ExhaustNotes Blog

Bobbie’s Solo Baja Ride: Part 1

By Bobbie Surber

Discovering motorcycles came late in life for me. My first ride was in 2014 on the back of a KTM. From the first ride I knew I was hooked, and I knew being on the back was not for me. By January 2015, I purchased my first bike, a 2006 Yamaha 225 XT. I drove from Sedona, AZ, to Denver, CO, to pick her up. On the drive home, I kept looking at her in my rearview mirror and dreaming of my future adventures. That is, once I learned to ride!

A day later I was on a quiet street teaching myself how to clutch and ride. The clutching came easy, and I had no fear as a newbie. Soon I was competent enough to go down the block, then to the store and friends’ houses, and soon off-road. Boy, I fell a lot at first, but I was surrounded by a group of guys who encouraged and taught me the basics. Many remain mentors to this day. I still have that little 225 XT and would never sell her or give her away. She will be with me till the end.

I soon added a Honda 750 Shadow to my new addiction and split my time between dirt and road adventures. It seemed a perfect balance as I gained more skills off-road with the 225 XT and could now venture further without trailering as I rode the Shadow. This led me to my third bike, new to the USA: A BMW 310 (a single cylinder in hot demand in Europe and Asia). She was a red bike far faster than my little goat, the Yamaha.

With a bike that was great off-road while still able to handle the open roads, I set my sights on several bucket list trips, including the Pacific Coast Highway (Highway 1 up the California coast) and the Sierra Nevadas. These two trips in 2018 gave me the confidence to plan another solo ride. This time I would ride Baja, the peninsula in northwestern Mexico bounded to the north by the United States, to the east by the Sea of Cortez, and to the south and west by the Pacific Ocean. I set my plans for a Spring ride, but a trip to Hawaii and paddling the Colorado River got in the way in May, delaying my departure to June.

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Adding a new 40-liter Wolfman tail bag, I departed Sedona, AZ, heading for a small town south of Tijuana, Alisito, known to the gringos as La Fonda. This was my first time crossing the US border on a bike, challenging my skills while negotiating what seemed like 100 lanes with traffic darting between the lanes. It was soon my turn to cross at San Ysidro south of San Diego. I had done this several times in a car, but what a whole new ball game on a bike!

Turning hard to the right, I made my way to Mexico Highway 1, following the Pacific coast out of Tijuana. The air was crisp even on a June morning as I pulled into the left lane to pass a line of trucks and a group of protesters, soon finding my groove, indulging in music through my helmet speaker and enjoying the sights along the way. An hour later, I pulled into the parking lot at Dmytri’s Restaurant, well-known by locals and visiting gringos alike. It was a time to meet friends and show off my new girl (BMW, to clarify!). The margaritas and conversations flowed as I assured all of my friends that I was utterly competent to ride Baja solo in the growing heat of June.

Bravada got me thru till the morning of my departure, then a massive wall of apprehension flooded me. WTH, I was not competent enough to take on this challenge solo in Mexico! A repeated flaw as I once again found myself vacillating between the urge to push myself and my endless fear of failure and the unknown. I did what I do best, shoved the fear down, and got on my bike heading south on Highway 1 while enjoying the ocean breeze and the endless views of the Pacific Ocean. All the while, I negotiated traffic and the epic potholes that ranged from minor to “might swallow my bike” in one epic plunge.

With the efficiency of the toll road, I was soon in the traffic and mayhem of Ensenada, a port city that is a frequent stop for cruise ships. The smell of exhaust and burning trash contrasted against the street stalls grilling fresh fish and carne asada. I could not resist and soon found a place to pull over for a cold Tecate and a plate full of tacos. The local girls working the roadside restaurant were enthralled with my bike, asking for photos on it it with the sultry hotness that only a Latina could pull off while wearing an apron. I accommodated their requests for pictures and answered a soon-to-be-frequent question of “Solo?” with “Si, Solo,” followed by “No, no, where is your man?” Ha, I didn’t even have a man at home, let alone on this trip, but I had someone I was thinking about a lot on this trip (a story I will tell in another post).

With Ensenada’s noise and challenges behind me, I headed out of town to a campground with hot springs and soaking pools. The ride getting there was all dirt, rocky as hell, with several water crossings. These were my first water crossings on my own. I was both thrilled and nervous as I gave the throttle a firm twist and flew through creating a satisfying rooster tail. It was a short day full of first-time accomplishments that felt right and bolstered my confidence for the adventure ahead. I paid my entrance fee of 200 pesos, about $10, and proceeded to enjoy the hot tubs, complete with little cabanas and a hot shower.

The next day I found myself back on the road. My destination would be the tiny town of Cataviña, a community of fewer than 200 residents. Cataviña is known for cave paintings, colossal rocks mixed with desert vegetation, and epic sunsets. This place could be on Mars with its endless boulders stacked at impossible angles and the stark beauty of the high desert plateau.

The day called for 380 kilometers, about a six-hour ride without stops. The morning started slow and easy as I retraced my ride back down the mountain and through the water crossings of the day before. After a quick stop at the OXXO convenience store for a burrito and coffee, I was on the road heading down Highway 1. The road went into the interior, passing through several tiny dusty towns and a few newfound favorites, including San Vicente and San Quintin. One of my favorite finds is Don Eddie’s Landing Hotel and Restaurant, an oasis with comfortable rooms, sports fishing, and even a few camping spots. I settled in at their patio, enjoying the views of the Pacific and Eddie’s legendary hospitality. This place is an ideal rest spot for enjoying a perfect plate of shrimp ceviche with just the right intensity of lime and chilis, complete with Don Eddie’s legendary hand-crafted margaritas, the likes of which I’ve never found in the USA.

Reluctantly leaving Eddie’s, I continued south on Highway 1, turning inland at El Rosario de Arriba, climbing up from sea level to 1841 feet. The elevation change did little to abate the day’s growing heat. I arrived intending to camp, but the reality of a 98-degree afternoon soon had me sapped. I pulled into the only commercial enterprise besides a little store across the street and a few tiny restaurants.

The Hotel Misíon Santa María – Cataviña looked like she was built in the colonial era; in reality, I learned she was built by the Mexican government as part of their tourism outreach. With a courtyard full of flowers and mature trees, I found a haven and counted my good fortunes to stay in such opulent digs (opulent compared to my humble tent). After securing my room for the night, I quickly dumped my gear, splashed some cold water on my face, and confirmed that I looked like I had ridden in the heat all day. I landed outside in the shade near the little bar enjoying my margarita. The bartender generously gave me endless glasses of water while we chatted about the heat, my bike, and his childhood in Arizona. Soon it was time to head to bed. I reached down to grab my bag and Delorme. A momentary shock as my Delorme was nowhere to be found. The little safety device would allow me to signal for help if needed and text my friends and family when off the beaten path and far out of cell coverage. The bartender and manager helped me search the grounds to no avail. I gave up and went to bed, cursing myself for my carelessness.

The following day bright and early I rode across the street to purchase the only available gas in this remote region from locals selling gas in plastic drums and liter-size soda bottles. Saying a prayer for the safety of my engine, I had them fill up my tank and MSR fuel bottle I always carry for the just-in-case moments.

Soon I was on the road headed to Guerrero Negro. The wind brushed over me gently with no hint of the high wind advisory posted for later that day. I left the unpleasantness of my Delorme loss behind and leaned into the joy of the ride. As it was a Sunday, I had the road to myself, with the added blessing of many commercial vehicles being home for the day. This was precisely what I had been dreaming of. As the starkness of the desert unfolded in front of my bike, I knew how lucky I was to be on this adventure! I was once again reminded to grab my dreams, ignore the naysayers, and embrace the adventure ahead.

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Paddleboarding Horseshoe Bend

By Mike Huber

Since my last story was on paddleboarding I thought sticking with the topic would be a great opportunity to share a unique and exciting experience. Camping off a paddleboard at the base of Horseshoe Bend in Page, Arizona. This was to be a 2-day, 15-mile trip down the Colorado River from Glenn Canyon Dam to Lee’s Ferry and would include one night of camping off our paddleboards. As an avid motorcycle camper, I thought camping off a paddleboard would be right up my alley as the amount of gear from a moto to a paddleboard was relatively the same. This adventure would bring us to one of the most hostile environments in the United States, all while living it from a new perspective, being on top of the frigid waters of the Colorado River.

The adventure began with camping near Page, Arizona, and a day of light paddleboarding on Lake Powell to gain more familiarity and confidence on the board. This was more for myself, as the two friends I was traveling with were both very experienced paddlers. My paddling to this date was limited to a couple of 8-mile runs on the Salt River near Phoenix and a horrible windy day off the Colorado River where we launched from Hoover Dam. The Salt River had portions of minor rapids, but the environment was much tamer than we would experience along the Colorado River.

The Colorado River water is extremely cold even during the spring. Contrasting the freezing water was the ambient air temperatures, which reached the high 90s (with no place to find shade or relief from the sun above the golden canyon walls that surrounded us). Adding to the natural environmental threats there can be winds that blow up the river so strongly that you cannot paddle against them, even when going down river. A year prior we were supposed to do a camping trip and ended up having to do an 18-mile paddle in heavy winds; on that trip, we were not able to camp as the winds were forecast to be worse the next day. I didn’t want to put myself through that again. That night we made our way to Horseshoe Bend in our car to watch the sunset and look down over the edge to see where we would camp the next evening.

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The day we were set to launch the winds were calm. At 8:00 a.m. we loaded our watercraft onto a powerboat at Lee’s Ferry that would deliver us to the base of Glen Dam. It was a cold ride in the boat to our drop off location as the sun was still hidden behind the massive walls that went straight up nearly a thousand feet. Every bend we went around I was in constant awe. It was as if every element that you can face in nature was in full view for us to admire, respect, and fear. Once dropped off we unloaded the paddleboards, our gear, and took a few minutes to gain our composure before starting our 15-mile journey down river.

Pushing our boards off the shoreline, it was still cold and between the 40-degree water and 50-degree air none of us wanted to stand up on the boards. Making a small error that could cause us to capsize during this delicate time would result in hypothermia with little hope of warming up until the sun crested above the canyon walls more than two hours later. The winds were absent and with an occasional dam release we just coasted down the river effortlessly. Having no headwinds was so much more pleasant than our previous time on this fully exposed river when we spent the day battling a constant headwind.

When the sun finally glimpsed above the canyon walls they instantly lit up. Just a beautiful golden prison we were trapped in with neon aqua waters so clear you can see fish swimming 20 feet below your board. We had dispersed the weight of our gear between the three boards and then balanced them out as best we could. We even had a bundle of firewood secured with Rok Straps for what we hoped would be a magical night under the stars. Along the way we stopped occasionally for a snack, a beer, or a short hike. There are some hidden petroglyphs along the river where you can disembark from your board and hike in to view them. This made for a perfect slow-paced and enjoyable day that we all fully embraced.

It was still early, yet due to the lack of headwinds and numerous dam releases we were already arriving at our camp at Mile 9. Mile 9 camp is at the turn of Horseshoe Bend. What made this really cool wasn’t the view (it all looked really the same with giant canyon walls on both sides of you). What made this special was that when you looked up the thousand-foot walls you could see hundreds of tourists looking down at you and waving. I felt like we were in a zoo exhibit. We set up camp and spent a relaxing afternoon swimming, chatting with other boaters (mostly kayakers and fellow paddlers), and just enjoying the fact we weren’t battling winds. This was quite a rewarding day.

After a perfect day of mild paddling, relaxing and gazing off into this beautiful yet intimidating environment, the day slowly turned into evening. It wasn’t long before we started a campfire. Sitting around a campfire with new friends, cold beers from our Ice Mule Cooler, and exchanging stories is always the high point in my day. I wandered off to use the bathroom when I noticed flashing from above. At first, I thought it was the stars beginning to peer from above the cliffs, but it wasn’t. The flashes I saw were the tourists above using their phones and flashlights to signal “hello” down to us. As I zipped my pants up, I already had the “It was the cold water that caused shrinkage” or the “You’re 1,000 feet away…of course it looks smaller” thoughts. For some reason my new friends around the campfire didn’t understand my humor and the stories continued until the flashes from the tourists above faded about the same time we did.

Having slept great that night at the base of one of the most iconic photo spots in the United States it was now time to pack up. Winds always seemed to gain intensity as the day wears on, so we wanted an early start to avoid this threat, but there were no winds on this day, either. It was almost as if the river was rewarding us for having passed its initiation from that previous windy trip that didn’t allow camping. The river was so calm we were able to even lay down on our paddleboards and allow the current and dam releases to carry us the remaining 6 miles downriver without any effort. This is how paddleboarding should be, but I knew this was an anomaly on the Colorado River. In my experience tailwinds are like unicorns. They really don’t exist, yet somehow this trip we were surrounded by a herd of unicorns.

It wasn’t long before we could see Lee’s Ferry ahead of us on the right. We made it to shore and began the process of packing our gear up to return to Lake Powell for one more night of camping before returning to southern Arizona. Since paddleboarding Horseshoe Bend, anytime I see pictures of this location I zoom in and can often see paddleboards, kayaks, and tents at the beach when everyone else just is looking at the full view of the photo. I absolutely prefer my new perspective of this part of Glenn Canyon National Recreation Area, that being through the eyes of a paddleboarder.

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Yellowstone National Park

Man, it was cold. It was the coldest we would be on our 18-day, 5000-mile ride around the western United States. Yellowstone National Park was our destination and we wanted to arrive early. Baja John was doing the navigating and the trip planning, and we were leaving early that morning out of Cody, Wyoming, at 5:00 a.m. to beat the tourist traffic in Yellowstone. I had an electric vest; our Chinese and Colombian guests did not. I knew they had to be hurting. I had my vest dialed all the way up and I was. Did I mention it was cold?

So, about that big photo above: That’s Yellowstone Falls on the Yellowstone River. There are something like 10 waterfalls in Yellowstone National Park. I’ve only seen the one above. That means I have at least nine reasons to return.

Back to the story. I did mention it was cold riding into Yellowstone that morning, didn’t I?

Following Baja John into Yellowstone. That trip was 6 years ago, and I still get cold looking at this photo.

Another shot entering Yellowstone National Park from the east. That’s Baja John in front of me…we were dressed for the cold, but I think our guests found it to be a little colder than the weather they are used to in southern China.

The trip was a wild one…18 days on the road with a dozen guys from China, two from Colombia, and all on free motorcycles provided by Zongshen via CSC Motorcycles. CSC was the importer, I was the go-between spanning the CSC/Zongshen interface (and two continents), and while we were arranging the initial shipment Zongshen asked if I had any ideas to promote the bikes in the US. Wow, did I ever!

In Zongshen’s main offices, with key Zongshen execs viewing photos from my rides in the US and Baja. Sue grabbed this photo and it’s one of my favorites. Without realizing it, I was selling those guys on giving us 15 motorcycles to ride around the US. This looks like a staged photo. It’s not.

That ride became the Western America Adventure Tour, and it was a hoot. I mean, think about: Every angry and ignorant asshole on the Internet was condemning Chinese bikes and here we were, with 15 of the things just arrived in America, setting off on a 5,000 mile ride from So Cal to Sturgis, west across the US to the Pacific Ocean, and then riding the Pacific coast back to So Cal. On that epic ride we didn’t have a single breakdown and that was giving the Internet trolls meltdowns. It was a grand adventure.

But I digress. Back to Yellowstone. On our ride, we hit every National Park along the way, and Yellowstone was one of the best. Prior to that ride, I’d never been to Yellowstone and I had always wanted to see it. And for good reason…it is (in my opinion) the quintessential National Park. Yellowstone is surreal, with sulfur-laden steams and ponds spewing forth, majestic views, waterfalls, bison, bears, deer, elk, wolves, geysers, and more. It was a first for me. I was a Yellowstone green bean.

When we entered Yellowstone, we arrived so early the gates were unmanned and we entered for free. But it had been a long, cold ride in from Cody and we were nearly out of gas. My fuel light was blinking as we entered the park and I didn’t know for sure if there would be gas in Yellowstone. John felt confident there would be, and he was right. I saw the Sinclair sign up ahead, but before we got there, we had a close encounter of the bison kind. We were cruising along at about 30 mph, and all of a sudden I noticed this locomotive next to me. I was too slow to realize what it was until I was alongside, but our chase vehicle driver John (we had two Johns and one Juan on this ride) grabbed this photo…I had passed within 10 feet of this monster!

Just as I went past my big buff buddy above, he exhaled. In the frigid Yellowstone air, fog came out of his nostrils. It was like riding alongside a steam locomotive.

Here’s another cool shot in Yellowstone: The Continental Divide. We had crossed it several times on the ride to Yellowstone already, but I think this is the first time I stopped for a photo.

Sometimes the photos almost take themselves.

One of the many attractions in Yellowstone is Old Faithful. Here’s a shot of the geyser in its full glory.

It was one of those motorcycle rides that was so much fun it made me feel a little guilty. (That’s a Jewish thing; maybe some of our Catholic readers will understand it, too.) I felt bad because Sue wasn’t enjoying the trip with me. So I fixed that. A few years later Sue and I hopped in the Subie, pointed the car north, and a few days later I rolled into Yellowstone National Park again (this time with my wife). Naturally, I grabbed a few more photos.

Peering into the valley carved by the Yellowstone River.

Ah, the bison. This was really cool stuff.

A photo of Sue in the Subie photographing a bison.

I’m not a geologist, but geology seems to me to be a pretty interesting subject and there sure are a bunch of geological things in Yellowstone. Like the bubbling and burbling pits and pools you most definitely do not want to fall into.

You get the idea. In doing a bit of Internet research on Yellowstone, I came across this Yellowstone map. It is a good way to get the lay of the land up there in Wyoming, but visiting Yellowstone National Park would be even better.

You can learn a little bit more about Yellowstone as a destination (and how to get there) by reading an article I wrote for Motorcycle Classics magazine. It’s a cool place and I’ve never met anyone who felt like visiting Yellowstone was anything other than a marvelous experience. Trust me on this: Yellowstone National Park belongs on your bucket list.

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One more thing…if you’d like to learn more about the RX3 motorcycle and our 5,000-mile Western America Adventure Ride, you should do two things: Buy yourself a copy of 5000 Miles at 8000 RPM, and watch Joe Gresh’s video:

ExNotes Review: Motorcycle Camping Stoves

In 1975 Greg Smith and I went on a long motorcycle ride. Greg had one of the first Goldwings, a pretty metallic blue motorcycle with a Windjammer faring. I had a BMW R75/5 also with a Windjammer faring and Samsonite bags. The ones with the soda machine, round key lock to hold the bags into the frames. We visited 41 US states and were on the road 3 months: Florida to California to Canada to Maine and most of the states between the coasts. In all that time I think we stayed in a motel three times; the rest was camping. Mostly we stayed at state parks for a dollar or commercial campgrounds with showers and toilets at the cost of around 2 dollars a night. If it was late or we were lost we would pull off the road and find an out of the way place to set up our tents. If it was really late or we were tired we would toss our sleeping bags on the ground and sleep just about anywhere.

Modern campgrounds are more like mini subdivisions now and the huge RV’s jammed cheek to jowl cost way more than houses did in 1975. But when we were discovering America on the Goldwing and BMW, tents were still popular. People camped out of their cars. KOA campgrounds were a luxury stay with plenty of hot water and clean bathrooms. We were on a strict 10 dollar-a-day budget back then, so eating at a restaurant was off limits except for cheap fast food places. We cooked all of our breakfasts and dinners. It was fun.

The very first motorcycle camp stove I bought was a Peak 1. Greg had one too.

New, the Peak 1 cost like 20 dollars, which was a huge amount of money back in 1975. I had bought many motorcycles for less money. The Peak was worth it, though, and has proven to be indestructible. It still works fine some 47 years later. Starting the Peak 1 has never been a simple process. You pump up the tank pressure and fiddle with the two fuel levers (instructions are printed on the side) and then a big yellow flame erupts from the stove. After a minute or so it settles down and you flip the small lever to normal operation. To adjust the flame use the long lever.

My Peak could use a new pump diaphragm but with determined pumping you can build enough pressure to light the thing off. After the cross tube gets hot the stove makes its own pressure. The colder it is the harder the stove is to start but it has never failed to start. The Peak 1 burns Coleman stove fuel or some stuff called white gas. White gas was available at many gas stations in the 1970’s so it was easy to fill the little tanks on our stoves for a few cents. A full tank would last a week of meals and coffee.

The Peak 1 is sort of big and heavy; I wouldn’t want to backpack with the thing. I don’t think gas stations sell white gas any more so you need the Coleman fuel. Any Wal-Mart has Coleman fuel. I used the Peak for many years until motorcycle camping became less likely to happen and I shoved the old warhorse onto a shelf.

For economy, nothing beats a penny, beer-can stove. They cost nothing. These little alcohol-burning stoves are super lightweight, probably the lightest you can get. You can’t buy a beer can stove, you’ll have to make one and YouTube has probably 1000 videos on how to build your own. The Cliff’s Notes version is you cut two beer cans and fit the two bottom bits together. Then you punch some holes for the flames to shoot out and a hole for filling the contraption. The penny serves to slightly pressurize the stove for a nice long flame. You’ll need some rocks or a wire frame to hold whatever you’re cooking. I used a bit of bent brazing rod.

Fuel for the stove is available everywhere. Drug stores, liquor stores (Everclear), auto stores (Heet) alcohol is ubiquitous in our country. The way it works is you fill the stove with a few ounces of alcohol, put the penny in the middle and light it up. The one I made lights easily. Some builders complain about hard starting. One fill up will boil a quart of water and burns for 12 minutes or so. The beer-can stove has its drawbacks. Once the thing is lit you don’t want to move it or tip it over. It’s all too easy to set your arm on fire. Don’t try to conserve fuel, let the stove run until it’s out of alcohol. Lastly, the stove is fragile and easy to crush: pack accordingly.

Now we come to my favorite stoves: these little butane stoves cost between $10 and $15 on Amazon. They are extremely compact, like beer can stove size but not as light weight. They use slightly hard to get butane canisters (Walmart again) but they start easily and boil water fast. I have two sizes. The larger one was the first type I bought and it’s now my go-to motorcycle camping stove. My buddy, Mike, bought the smaller burner so I had to get one, too. They’re cheap. The small one will fit anywhere. Folded up it’s about the size of your thumb after you smashed your thumb with a hammer. The larger one actually works better because the flame is spread over a larger area. Water seems to heat faster with the big one but I haven’t timed it.

You can get butane fuel in several sizes. For a short, 2-3 day camping trip the small canister will do. Oddly, the large canister of butane costs less than the small one and it’s good for a week of camping. When I pack for a motorcycle camping trip I try to save space everywhere. It kills me to pay more for less fuel.

My newest stove is this wood burner. It’s so new I haven’t even used it yet. It’s bulky but not so heavy. The photo shows the stove fully assembled and ready for use, it breaks down to about 1/3 the size for packing. The big idea behind this stove is you don’t need any fuel to run the thing. Wood twigs, leaves, bits of brush, anything that will fit in the stove and burn are fair game. The stove is designed with side-draft vents to help cut down smoking. I got it because I like the idea of free fuel in an unlimited supply. I’ve yet to camp where there wasn’t enough stuff on the ground to make a pot of coffee. The top is cut away so you can feed a steady supply of soiled baby diapers, 12-pack Budweiser cardboard cartons and discarded Covid facemasks into the beast. Cook your dinner and clean up the environment at the same time! Drawbacks are you have to use the stove outside. No brewing a nice cup of Batdorf & Bronson coffee in the motel room.

There are many other types of small camp stoves. Everyone is trying to design a better, smaller, lighter stove. Some stoves cost hundreds of dollars. That’s not my bag, man. I guess I am into motorcycle camping stoves like Berk is into armaments: a stove for every pot, as it were.

ExhaustNotes Product Review: Cooper 2 Lightweight Tent

Camping on a motorcycle has never been near the top of my Fun Things To Do list. Like it or not, it seems I end up camping on a motorcycle more than is needed for strong bones and healthy fingernails. Street bike camping is tolerable because you can pile junk sky high but trail riding with a load of camping gear is a chore. Off-road, small lightweight equipment is the way to go. I’ll never admit it but it’s possible to go too small and too lightweight. My tent is an example of going overboard.

I’ve been using an old-style pup tent, like the Boy Scouts use, and when folded correctly the thing is admirably small. The pup tent reduces to the size of a bag of Batdorf & Bronson coffee and weighs next to nothing.

The problem with the pup is the ceiling height and the square footage. There’s no way to sit up in the thing, you have to crawl in and out. Once you’ve stored all your gear inside finding space for you body is a challenge. If you toss and turn throughout the night like I do your arms will be hitting the walls and roof. It’s a tight squeeze.

Unless you buy brand name equipment camping gear is really cheap, like me. I found a larger tent; the Cooper 2 (no relation to the road racing legend) for $28 on Amazon and shipping was included.

The Cooper 2 is easy to set up as it has only two fiberglass poles crossing in the middle. You fit the ends into the corners of the floor and bowing the poles raises the tent. Nearly 50-inches high at the center and with 49 square feet of floor space the Cooper 2 was huge. I could stuff all my gear inside and still have room for my sleeping bag. I could easily change into my Space Patrol pajamas with the privacy those pajamas demand. You know how it is.

The Cooper 2 is vented at the top, which kept condensation to a minimum. I didn’t get to test it in the rain but I suppose it will do as well as any other 28-dollar tent. I set up my sleeping bag towards the back of the tent and had plenty of room to throw elbows and kick out from under the covers. It was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a tent. Which is to say I woke up cotton-mouthed, fingers bleeding and a dead raccoon next to me.

All that luxury comes at a price, however. Folded up, the Cooper 2 is nearly twice as large as the pup tent and weighs 4 pounds 9 ounces compared to the pup’s 3 pounds 4 ounces. Still, the extra tonnage is worth it to me. I’ll just have to get rid of some other gear to compensate for the Cooper 2 tent, like maybe the handlebars or the front wheel of the Husqvarna.

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My 1st International Motorcycle Adventure, Eh?

Everybody has their preferred riding schtick and for me it’s international motorcycle travel. Anyone can ride their cruiser to a local hangout for a beer or their GS to Starbuck’s for a $6 cup of coffee. My riding is all about crossing international borders and collecting cool photos in places most two-legged mammals only dream about. Just to make a point, I once rode a 150cc scooter (my CSC Mustang) to Cabo San Lucas and back. The day after we returned, I needed something at Costco and I rode the little CSC there. When I parked it, a beer-bellied dude in a gigondo 4×4 pickup told me, “that’s a little cute bike.” He didn’t intend it to be a compliment.

“Thanks,” I said.

“I ride a (brand name deleted to protect the guilty),” he announced, his chest swelling with Made in ‘Merica pride to the point it almost equalled his waistline. “We ride all over.” He emphasized the “all” to make sure I got the point.

“Cool,” I said. “Where do you go?”

Cook’s Corner, the ultimate So Cal burger/biker stand.

“Last week,” he told me, “we rode to Cook’s Corner!”

Cook’s Corner is a southern California burger joint about 40 miles from where we were talking.

“Where do you all go on that little thang?” He actually said “you all” and “thang,” but he didn’t have the accent to match the colloquialisms. Okay, I had the guy dialed.

“Well, we rode to Cabo San Lucas and back last week.” I said.

Mr. 4×4’s jaw dropped. Literally. He looked at me, speechless, dumbfoundedly breathing through his open mouth. Without another word he climbed into his big truck and rode off. Our conversation was over. So much for the biker brotherhood, I guess.

My 150cc CSC Baja Blaster. I had a lot of fun and covered a lot of miles on that little Mustang.

The international motorcycle travel bug bit me when I was still in school. I had a ’71 Honda 750 Four back in the day (that’s me 50 years ago in the big photo up top). One of my Army ROTC buddies had the first-year Kawasaki 500cc triple. It was a hellaciously-fast two stroke with a white gas tank and blue competition stripes. We were in New Jersey and we wanted to do something different, so we dialed in Canada as our destination. They say it’s almost like going to another country.

And so we left. Our gear consisted of jeans, tennis shoes, windbreaker jackets, and in a nod toward safety, cheap helmets (ATGATT hadn’t been invented yet). We carried whatever else we needed in small gym bags bungied to our seats. Unfortunately, in those days “whatever else we needed” did not include cameras so I don’t have any photos from that trip. That’s okay, because all they would have shown was rain.

A 1969 Kawasaki 500cc, two-stroke triple. Widowmakers, they were called, in a nod to their often unpredictable handling.

As two Army guys about to become Second Louies, we joked about being draft dodgers in reverse. We were looking forward to active duty (me in Artillery and Keith in Infantry). We were going to Canada not to duck the draft, but as a fling before wearing fatigues full time. We didn’t really know what we were doing, so we took freeways all the way up to the border. It rained nearly the entire time. All the way up and all the way back. We bought sleeping bags because they looked cool on the bikes (it was a Then Came Bronson thing), but we stayed in hotels. It was raining too hard to camp, and besides, the sleeping bags were soaked through and we didn’t think to bring a tent. We got as far as Montreal, which seemed far enough to give us Canada bragging rights. We spent that single Montreal night in a cheap dive and pointed the bikes south the next day.

These days, I know to check the weather, bring rain gear (even if none is forecast), and study a map to find the most interesting roads (rather than the fastest). But hey, we were young and dumb, it was an adventure ride, it crossed an internationational border, and riding four days in a steady cold rain was a lot of fun. I didn’t think so at the time, but that’s how I remember it today. In fact, I remember that ride like it was last month. And it got me hooked on international motorcycle adventures. Canada was to be the first of many.

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More epic international rides? Right here, folks!

Riding With The Carrizozo Mud Chuckers

Sixty-one miles north of my place in La Luz, New Mexico lies the town of Carrizozo. The seat of Lincoln County, Carrizozo’s streets are laid out at an angle to the intersection of Carrizozo’s two main highways, 380 and 54. There are colorful donkey statues stationed around, a junkyard church on the outskirts of town and the Carrizozo Mud Chuckers motorcycle club.

The Mud Chuckers MC, founded by my riding buddy, Mike, is primarily a dirt-based riding club. The area around Carrizozo has hundreds of graded farm roads and tight mountain trails. It’s an ideal spot for racking up miles on the dirt. I recently joined them on one of their frequent moto-camping rides. The Chuckers shun traditional campgrounds preferring instead to camp anywhere they can find a spot with no people around.

Like all the ‘Chuckers rides I’ve been on the pace was downright leisurely with frequent stops to look at old mine sites, hunt for geodes, gold deposits and old metal objects or just sit in the shade to discuss unimportant things. The ‘Chuckers are in no hurry to get anywhere and that suits me just fine.

On this day we rode west to Socorro, NM and took the Escondida Lake exit to the Back Country Byway. The Byway meanders generally east-west then south with the terrain ranging from desert scrub to medium-high trees. At the speed we operate it’s best to look for a campsite early because ‘Chuckers don’t like stress. We checked out several places but nothing looked appealing. There was either no shade or no firewood or a stinky dead cow rotting nearby so we pushed on.

Eddie dropped his KLR 650 in a sand wash and bent his clutch hand so that it didn’t want to work right. He was doing 45mph so the impact, while soft, still hurt. The ‘Chuckers are not spring chickens. In perfect tune we can hardly swing a leg over the motorcycle. Eddie called it a day. Since we never leave a man behind we short cut the Byway and followed him back to his house in Carrizozo where we had begun this adventure.

With Eddie’s DNF, that left me, Dan and Mike still on the lead lap. By now it was getting late so we abandoned our plan to camp on the Back Country Byway and decided the higher mountains behind White Oaks would be the best option. It was late and we still had a 30-mile ride to the forest.

We found a spot with plenty of firewood and soft ground. We managed to get camp set up just before dark, which is always a good idea. Once they find a place to roost the Carrizozo Mud Chuckers really come on the pipe. The fire was roaring, Mike brought along pork chops and a metal grill to cook with. I don’t know where he stores all that junk on his 390 KTM. Sizzling pork chops, boiling coffee, cookies, beef jerky, Wheat Thins: man, things were hopping at camp this evening. The altitude we were camping was around 7000 feet, it got pretty cold, probably in the 30’s but around the fire it was 75 degrees.

Campfire nights last longer than regular ones and I turned in at midnight. Mike and Dan sat up longer. Flickering lights and murmured shadow conversation played across the inside of my tent. I felt safe knowing the bear would go after them before me. The next morning The Mud Chucker’s were in no hurry to leave. We restarted the fire and had coffee with whatever scraps of food we had left over from last night’s feast. The Mud Chuckers always leave their campsites cleaner than they found them and the way they put out a campfire borders on obsessive.

When I got back home it felt like I had been away a month instead of only two days. Camping on a motorcycle seems to distort time and distance. Changing your observation point really does have a profound effect.

Mike and Eddie want to start a motorcycle tour business. Their plan is to buy a few TW200 Yamahas and run all inclusive, guided camping tours around New Mexico. It sounds like a pain in the butt to me. Why ruin a nice motorcycle ride with business?

I’ll let you know if the tour company idea works out. Maybe a full ExhaustNotes.us tour review or something. Get the ‘Chuckers to kick in a free tour as an ExhaustNotes subscriber gimmick?

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Stranded in Baja, Hearst Castle, and more…

Every once in a while we do a blog that covers a bunch of topics, and this is one of those times.

Good buddy Mike Huber and his friend Bobbie motorcycled Mexico (Baja, to be specific, almost another country all by itself), and he most recently published an excellent story about being stranded down there by the Covid 19 pandemic. It’s not often that we recommend another blog, but hey, Mike’s writing is outstanding and it’s a great story. Take a look; it’s very good.

My favorite motorcycle magazine (that would be Motorcycle Classics) sends out marketing emails on a regular basis, and in those emails they include links to past (and sometimes recent) articles. I write for MC, and the most recent email that slipped into my inbox included a link to my Destinations piece on Hearst Castle. You might want to read that story; I love Hearst Castle. It’s closed for the pandemic, but the pandemic won’t last forever. Hearst Castle will be there when it’s over.

We’re having a heat wave (both here in the Peoples Republik of Kalifornia and at Tinfiny Ranch). That prompted us to start a piece on riding in extreme heat. My first recommendation would be: Don’t. But things don’t always work out the way you want them to. I once rode the length of Baja on a Mustang replicas with several friends, and due to a lack of research on my part we did the ride in Baja’s hottest month (and that’s September). You can read about the 150cc Baja ride through Hell here. Do you have any advice for riding in high temperatures? Please share them with us (info@exhaustnotes.us) and we’ll include your recommendations here on the blog.

We have more motorcycle, gun and other stuff coming up, including info on Ruger’s new Custom Shop and their Super GP100 .357 Mag revolver, favored loads in the Henry .45 70 Single Shot, a piece on Turnbull’s iconic color case hardening and restoration services, a stunning (and tack-driving) Kimber with exhibition grade French walnut, the wrap-up of our ride through the Andes Mountains in Colombia, the Canton Fair, and for you fans of The Ten Commandments, making bricks without hay and mortar. And a whole lot more.

Stay tuned, folks.

Motorcycle Camping: Level 1

The town of Weed is our last chance for gas or groceries. It’s a small place, population 20, and every Weed-ian citizen is packing heat. The chick working at the only store in town sports some kind of .45 auto that wobbles a crazy figure 8 on her hip as she totes pallets of soda pop from the storage shed into the store. The tall cowboy who delivers propane has a revolver on his hip also but that gun is not nearly as active.

Look there: a soccer mom wearing a white cowboy hat, plaid shirt, jeans and a 9mm pistol goes into the store for a gallon of milk. Mid-sized dogs hop out of a Polaris side-by-side, both dogs strapped with camouflaged vests that sport bandoliers of ammunition and pup-optimized night-vision goggles. Tactical mutts, man. A small child, not more than 2 months old waves about a menacing AR-15 while his head lolls in an elliptical orbit. Each complete cycle baby’s hard eyes lock onto mine and dare me to steal his candy before rotating on.

Okay, okay, I’m joking. The baby wasn’t carrying an AR-15. Needless to say, the crime rate is low in Weed. Either that or the woods are full of spongy ground and failed attempts. Mike and I fill our gas tanks at Weed not so much because we need fuel but because it’s more an offering to the forest gods before we leave civilization. Cover me while I pump the 87 octane.

Mike has a BMW 650 and I’m on my Husqvarna 510. We leave Weed heading west and after the even smaller town of Sacramento, Aqua Chiquita Road rises into a dark green forest of pines and aspens. This is the Lincoln National Forest. National and state parks may be closed due to Covid but here in New Mexico rough camping in the forests is still allowed.

We originally planned on camping further west, on Thousand Mile Trail, but an interesting unmarked side road caught our attention so we wandered off to see where it went. You can do stuff like that when you have no destination.

The side road was bumpy and almost all rock. Not loose rock, but solid rock. We bounced along for a mile and the road dipped into a sandy mud hole. Off to the right was a wide, shallow valley covered in lush green grass and dotted with grazing cows. “What do you think?” asked Mike. “Lets go check it out.”

The valley was much smoother than the road. There were tangles of old barbed wire sprinkled among the cow patties. Each time we would stop at the perfect camping place another perfect camping place was just a little further ahead. We kept following the Valley Of Perfect Campsites until it split off into two directions. We made camp at the junction of the two valleys on a slight rise that gave a commanding view of the pastoral scene.

I mean camping doesn’t get any better than this: no people, no RV’s, the camp even had a pre-constructed fire-ring and enough firewood for a month. Setting up my new tent was easy. I’ve used pup-style tents for years and they are all the same simple sleeve with two poles. One modification I’ve learned over the years is to use bungee cords for tying off the end poles. In a hard wind the bungees stretch but don’t yank the tent pegs out of the ground.

The pup tent was easy enough to rig but my new air mattress made up for it. I bought a Soble brand mattress with a built-in pump. The deal is, you remove the cap and then the plug on the square pump area. Next you push down on the square pump to fill the mattress. And you pump. And you pump. I started grumbling, “This damn mattress pump isn’t doing anything!”

I pumped and pumped. Sweat started trickling down my sides and still I pumped. Then I tried inflating it by blowing into the fill hole. After 20 minutes of struggling I was light headed, feeling sick and getting nowhere. I gave up and tossed the completely flat mattress into the tent and my sleeping bag over that. At least we had soft grass under the tents.

We were drinking smoky coffee and cooking hot dogs on a stick over our roaring fire. It really was the perfect camp site. Mike asked me, “Tell me how your air mattress works.” I explained the cap and the plug and the little square built-in pump to him. Mike thought about it for a few minutes then asked me, “How do you deflate the mattress?” I was stunned. What a dumb-ass question: deflating the mattress was the last thing I wanted to do! Then Mike said, “There must be a way to let the air out.”

My world shattered. Dark, stumbling stupidity was illuminated by the light of one thousand suns. Of course! There had to be a second plug! I ran to the tent, all doubt erased. There, underneath the pillow on the opposite side from the pump was a 1-inch deflation valve and it was wide open. For 20 minutes I had been pushing air from the foot of the mattress out the valve on the other end. With the deflation valve plugged the Soble mattress took about 2 minutes to inflate into a firm, comfortable sleeping pad.

After the air mattress debacle I realized I should have brought some gin along. I’ll put that on my list of equipment along with more water. Making coffee, cleaning up and drinking used up most of our water supply. Mike had an emergency drinking straw, the king you put into any old water and it filters the muck. A stream runs alongside Aqua Chiquita road a few miles away so we weren’t going to die. Other things we brought but didn’t use were aerosol cans of bear spray and bear bells. The bells were CT’s idea. If a bear can’t hear me snoring then he’s a pretty old bear.

Speaking of snoring, I’ll need a new sleeping bag as the tiny mummy bag would not allow much movement. I finally un-zipped the thing so I could turn and parts of me fell out into the 50-degree night air. I woke up sore. But then I always wake up sore. That night air also soaked all our gear. The bikes were wet, our folding stools were wet, the inside of my tent was dripping with condensation and that’s with both sides open. Mike’s tent didn’t have a rain fly, the top is mesh and was still wet inside. I don’t know if this was just a function of the dew point or the tent material not breathing.

Hot coffee in the morning will pave over a lot of rough patches and by 11 a.m. we felt alert enough to head back down the mountain. We rode west on Aqua Chiquita until Scott Able Road and followed Scott Able back to the paved highway.

A brief discussion was held at the 1000 Mile Trail, our original destination but we were both kind of tired from our night on the hoof. Anyone who thinks homeless people are homeless by choice has never camped with me. I don’t like motorcycle camping and this trip has done nothing to alter my opinion. I guess it’s the new normal until things start re-opening and a treatment or vaccine for Covid 19 is created. I’m not going to complain too much. I’ve learned more on fine-tuning my camping gear, which was the goal on this ride. You know, waking up sore and damp beats not waking up at all.

4 Things You Need To Survive Motorcycle Touring With Covid-19

With the advent of a killer virus sweeping the nation, traveling long distance by motorcycle has become more complicated. We used to hop on our motorcycles, ride all day and then in the evening get a room at the cheapest motel we could find. Those days are over. Don’t get me wrong; motels are still an option, much like Russian roulette is a fun parlor game. Go ahead, pull back those sheets and crawl inside. Did the maid really disinfect the room? Was the last traveler teeming with the virus, coughing and spitting his way to sleep? What can you touch and what can’t you touch?

Nowadays to go anywhere far on a motorcycle you’ll need to be able to camp, and not at commercial campgrounds either. Campground bathhouses were never a sterile environment in the first place, now they seem like a damp Club Med for viruses. I’ll take my chances with the bears, you know? I’m talking rough camping: riding into a National Forest, finding an out of the way spot with nice soft grass and bedding down for the night.

The first thing you’ll need is a tent. In my younger days I spent many uncomfortable nights sleeping out in the open. I’d pull over, toss a plastic tarp on the ground and just lay down. That was the full extent of my camping preparation. I’ve since learned that biting bugs, rain and animals make having a tent the way to go. I bought this small, old school style pup tent because I’m done setting up the flex-pole igloo type tents. Small pup tents are smaller and lighter than igloos and there are too many stressed elements in an igloo. Every Igloo tent I’ve owned ended up tearing.

I’m going to assume you already own a sleeping bag (everyone should). In addition to the sleeping bag an air mattress will drastically improve your chances of falling asleep inside that claustrophobic pup tent. If you’re 20 years old you could probably forgo the air mattress. I’m using one with a built in pump instead of the self-inflating type for two reasons. Number one is an inflatable packs down much smaller than a self-inflating type. Number two is the self-inflating pads compress and after a few minutes you’re on the ground anyway. The need to keep the size and weight of your camping gear to a minimum will become apparent when you start loading your motorcycle.

Hard-core riders can get away without a camp stove but I’m not a hard-core rider. I need my coffee in the morning or a can of warm soup in the evening. Unfortunately, while the burner itself is tiny, carrying one of these small, gas-powered stoves requires a bunch of other gear. I have one pot to boil water or soup, extra water to clean up the mess and then there’s the gas bottle, which is like three times the size of the camp stove. Not to mention the stuff you are going to cook. It’s a space and weight commitment you may not want to make. Plain old water and candy bars will work fine if it’s only a one-night road trip.

Now we are getting into purely luxury items. When you rough camp in the forest there are never picnic tables, benches, fire rings or screaming children. This type of folding camp chair can really make a campsite feel like home. There are two basic styles of small camp chairs, the tripod type and the X type. I prefer the X-type because they are less prone to sink into soft ground…like the ground you find in a forest. The tripod type is much easier to fold up so you’ll have to make your choice based on terrain and patience level.

All the gear in this story can be purchased for less than one night’s stay at a motel so there’s the cost savings to be considered. I can pack everything in one medium-sized stuff bag and bungee the mess to my motorcycle. It’s not an easy way to travel for sure but with many national and state parks closed now it’s about the only way to travel. I’ve recently purchased all the camping gear you see above attempting to make my pack smaller and lighter. And I’ve succeeded: It’s easily half the size and weight of my old camping gear. I’ve yet to use it in anger but that will change soon. My riding buddy Mike and I are going on a several day ride and since we are old, lung impaired and clinging to life by a thread we both feel like rough camping is the safest option Covid-wise.

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