I think the lucky amongst us are born with a lust for nature and a deep-seated bug to get to as many National Parks as possible. Out of 63 National Parks, I’ve been to 41 so I’ve still got some work to do. I’m not helping with this road trip as it is a return to some of my favorites.
In Part I, we visited Mesa Verde National Park then made our way to Ouray, Colorado. That’s where I will pick up my story.
Tom is a late riser; I’m up before sunrise whether I’ve gone to bed with the sunset or stayed up past midnight. This morning was no different, and yet it was. Right before dawn, I awoke to a single gunshot, adrenaline pumping, I waited for another shot or noise from the distant camper. Drifting back to sleep I wondered what had warranted the single shot? Mystery solved, a camper nearby forgot and left out his cooler, along comes mama bear with two cubs in tow. Let me tell you, once a bear is in your cooler they are not leaving until they have finished with everything you got! Well, a good story for the camper and a reminder that a bear that interacts with humans is often a dead bear so keep your campsite tight!
Finally crawling out of the tent just as the sky started to lighten, I brewed a cup of coffee with my AeroPress and built my last fire in Colorado. Taking some time to watch the sun start to light up the tips of the peaks above our steep and narrow valley floor, thinking about the day to come.
Coffee consumed and the fire dying down I got to work packing up the camp, leaving only the tent with a lightly snoring man to complete the breakdown. Tom eventually made it out of the tent with the promise of hot coffee and cold juice to get his day rolling.
While a bit sad to leave the alpine world of Ouray, we had the promise of a hotel room to wash off the stench of five nights camping and hiking to keep us motivated to knock out this day of driving to Utah. We drove out of Ouray on the last of the Million Dollar Highway, Route 550 towards Ridgway picking, up Route 50 through Fruita and on to Route 139 to our destination of Vernal, Utah.
A shower along with another fine dinner of enchiladas and the most powerful margarita I’ve ever had, made for a great evening in this little town. If you ever find yourself in Vernal, well I assume you are lost or really like dinosaur tracks but hey, if you do stay there the nicest staff is at the Wyndham Micro Hotel and if you love authentic Mexican food, then I highly recommend a visit to Plaza Mexicana on Main Street. Don’t forget to take your picture with the giant pink dinosaur before leaving town!
After a restful night and a full stomach, we continued north toward Pinedale, Wyoming, planning to camp before hitting the Tetons. This would set us up for an early arrival to Grand Tetons the next morning, allowing an extra few hours in the day to explore the park.
We pulled into Pinedale, stopping to restock our wine supply and invest in a decent bottle of single malt Scotch with the good luck of having a ranger station next door. The first ranger, an older woman, said no way will we find a campsite, but a younger gal told us to ride up the road to Lake Fremont Campground.
Score! This place has earned a spot on my list to return to. Perched in a shaded camp spot overlooking the lake we had a lazy afternoon watching the clouds move across the foothills, threatening a rain that never came.
With the Tetons looming ahead and Yellowstone just a drive away, we settled in for the night—excited for what the next day would reveal. More on that in Part III.
For as long as I can remember I have loved summer road trips and a chance to camp. My mom tells me (with a bit of frustration in her voice) “you are just like your dad!” True enough, I am that indeed. My dad, being disabled, had restricted mobility but driving, camping, and fishing he could do. I learned at an early age that the mountains meant freedom, that a campfire and a rustic meal cooked over an open flame with my gateway to a good life!
Add to that, Arizona in August is no fun with daily temperatures reaching 100+ degrees and after 10 weeks laying low while Tom recovered from his motorcycle accident we were ready to roll! So, when friends invited us up to Yellowstone we jumped at the chance!
Pulling out of Sedona August 6th for a two-week road trip, car loaded with camping gear, our first stop was Mesa Verde National Park in Colorado. The ancient stone homes you see in the photo at the top of this blog are in Mesa Verde.
As lead-foot Tom tore up Oak Creek Canyon from Sedona to Flagstaff, Arizona we realized if we detoured a half hour we could go to Genaro’s Café, a local favorite for New Mexican food. Easy decision, in three hours I would have a plate of the best enchiladas and tamal in front of me covered with true red chili sauce, not that crap they call enchilada sauce! Try their stuffed Sopapilla if you dare as well as their green chili. God, I want to drive back for another plate just writing about the place.
A full belly, we pulled out of Gallup heading for Shiprock and on to Colorado. Eventually the western town of Cortez that I know so well came into view. Soon we would arrive at our night’s destination.
Mesa Verde National Park is a favorite stop of mine, I’ve camped here countless times on my motorcycles and always feels like coming home. Morefield Campground is spacious, clean and sets you up for visiting the ruins the next day. The highlights of this park are the ranger led tours, four tour options with my favorite being the Balcony House Tour – The most adventurous for sure and involves climbing a 32-foot ladder, crawling through a narrow tunnel, and climbing stone steps with handholds. A one-hour tour focused on how Ancestral Pueblo people lived.
After our adventure back in time we took off for cooler ground, driving along RT 145 from Cortez to Telluride then joining the famous Million Dollar Highway, an epic road filled with tight sweeps and stunning views. Just don’t take your eyes off the road as guard rails can be few and far between!
With a few stops for fuel and campfire wood we made it to our destination for the next three nights camping above one of my favorite towns, Ouray, CO, a turn-of-the-century gold and silver mining town. The area is nicknamed “Switzerland of America” due to its dramatic Alpine setting, complete with restored Victorian homes and hot springs aplenty. We found a sweet remote campsite off Yankee Boy Basin and set up home for the next three nights.
We spent the following days and nights indulging in cold nights around a campfire, hitting our Jamison Whiskey to help with the adjustment to tent camping and hiking some of my favorite trails between Ouray and Silverton.
When you visit, I highly recommend a dip in the hot springs and several waterfall hikes that never disappoint. My favorite being Ice Lake Falls. My last tip is stopping at Ouray Grocery Store, going back to their meat counter, picking up a grass raised hunk of beef and burning that baby on your campfire to a perfect medium rare, serve with a side of potatoes and a nice Malbac and I guarantee you are going to have a great night.
Back in 2014, I had never even sat on a motorcycle. Then one summer afternoon, a friend tossed me a helmet and said, “Try it.” I wobbled, stalled, and grinned my way through a parking lot. That was it. I was done for.
My First Dirt Love: Yamaha XT225
In January 2015, I bought my first bike, a 2006 Yamaha XT225. She was small, light, and forgiving, which is precisely what you want when you’re learning how not to fall over every ten feet. We learned together: I tried not to panic on steep trails, and she patiently lugged me through it all.
I still have her parked in the corner of the garage. She’s like the loyal dog you don’t ride much anymore, but will never give away.
The BMW 310 Era
By 2016, I wanted a bike that could do more than chase dusty trails. I needed a solution that could connect dirt tracks and pavement without causing itself to disintegrate. That’s how I ended up on a 2016 BMW 310GS.
She was perfect, for a while. I rode her solo through Baja, mainland Mexico, and all over the Southwest. But with a top speed of about 80 mph, I started to feel vulnerable. There were moments where I’d look in the mirror and see a semi closing fast, me already full throttle, and think, “Nope… this isn’t going to work long-term.” That’s when I started looking for something bigger.
The Tiger 800: Love at First Triple
Then came the 2018 Triumph Tiger 800. Oh man, that three-cylinder engine. If an engine could flirt, this one winked at me every time I twisted the throttle. Smooth, growly, and just plain fun.
We went everywhere together: mainland Mexico (again), Colorado, Baja, Colorado, Wyoming, Utah, you name it. I thought we were set for life until Traci showed up.
Triumph Tiger and My Awakening
My friend Traci wanted to downsize from her BMW 1200, so she came to Sedona to check out my Tiger 800. A few months later, she’d found herself a shiny Triumph Tiger 900.
I had to try it, of course, strictly for research. Ten minutes later, I was hopeless. The Tiger 900 was like my 800 after a week at a spa: sharper, quicker, and somehow even smoother.
Meet Tippi: My Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro
November 2022, and I’m signing papers for a brand-new 2023 Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro. I named her Tippi because she has a habit of taking naps at the worst times, parking lots, trailheads, the occasional gas station, and the middle of a sandy road in Baja. She is a serious napper!
And then we took a big one: Arizona to Canada. Long, glorious days in the saddle. Wind that tried to push me back to Arizona, rain that soaked me down to my socks, and border guards who couldn’t believe I’d ridden all that way solo. When I finally rolled into British Columbia, I was tired, crusted in bugs, and grinning like an idiot. That trip sealed the deal, Tippi was the bike.
What Makes Tippi Different? (Specs with Soul)
The 2023 Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro is built for riders who want one bike that can do everything without drama. According to Triumph Motorcycles https://www.triumphmotorcycles.com:
Electronics: Six riding modes, cornering ABS, traction control, cruise control, and a 7-inch TFT display.
Comfort: Heated grips, heated rider/passenger seats, adjustable windscreen, and center stand.
Weight: 423 lbs dry (476 lbs wet).
Why I’ll Stick with Her (for now)
When I’m not riding, I’m outside staring at her like a teenager with a crush, sometimes having little chats about our next adventure. (Yes, I talk to my bike. No, I don’t need an intervention.)
Motorcycles come and go, but right now? Tippi’s my dream bike. My Yamaha was too small, the BMW too slow, but the Tiger 900 GT Pro was just right.
From first dirt wobble to a solo Canada run, I wouldn’t trade any of it, even the tip-overs. Especially the tip-overs, they gave her a name, and me, a story worth telling.
I suppose I could wax eloquent about all the magnificent three-cylinder motorcycles out there in the world, but in keeping with the theme of this series, I’m sticking (at least for now) with motorcycles I’ve owned or ridden. In those of the triple flavor, there have been three: A 1969 Kawasaki two-stroke H1 Mach III, a 2006 Triumph Tiger, and a 2007 Speed Triple. The first one (the Kawi 500 triple) didn’t impress me at all; the Triumph triples impressed me mightily.
Keith Hediger’s 500cc Kawasaki
Way back when I was in college, I had a 1971 Honda 750 (I’ll you about that bike when I do the ¿Quantos Pistones? blog on the fours). One of my ROTC buddies, Keith Hediger, had a 1969 Kawasaki Mach III. It was a real oddball: A 500cc, two-stroke triple that could stay with a Honda Four in a drag race (which was kind of amazing, considering the Honda’s 50% displacement advantage). Keith and I had this great idea that it would be a real adventure to ride from New Jersey to Quebec, Canada, and we set off to do just that.
A 1969 Kawasaki Mach III 500cc two-stroke triple, a bike that broke all the rufes.
New Jersey to Canada on two naked street bikes with no plan, no luggage, and no rain gear was not a great idea. That point was driven home when it started to rain somewhere in Vermont. It kept raining all the way up into Canada, and when we hit Montreal, we decided we had experienced enough adventure riding for one trip. But it was my first international motorcycle ride, and I had a chance to ride Keith’s Mach III when we switched bikes for a while.
My short ride on the Mach III convinced me of three things:
The Honda CB750 Four was downright luxurious compared to the Mach III.
The Mach III had a seat like a 2×4. It was uncomfortable as hell.
The Mach III was indeed every bit as powerful as the CB750 Four.
I didn’t ride the Mach III long enough or on the right kind of roads to assess its rumored widow-making handling, but the bike felt twitchy and unstable compared to my Honda. And that was it for me and triples for the next 2o or 30 years.
My decades-earlier short ride on the Mach II notwithstanding, I changed my mind about triples. I wanted a Triumph. It started at a Cycle World event (or maybe was it Cycle; I always get the two pubs mixed up) in Los Angeles. I was there on my ’92 Softail when it happened: I heard a Trimph Speed Triple enter the parking lot. It was a magnificent thing, kind of a pearlescent candy pink (which sounds weird as I type this), but wow, it hit all the buttons for me. The color (I would call it bubble gum pearl) just flat worked for me, and that exhaust note…it was just wonderful. It was kind of a mix between a small block Chevy with a big cam and a jungle cat’s snarl. Fierce, yet refined. Loud, but not obnoxious. Big power, but controlled. I knew that someday soon I would own a Triumph triple.
2006 Triumph Tiger
That someday soon arrived when I stopped at Doug Douglas Motorcycles in San Bernardino. In those days some 20 years ago now, Doug Douglas was an old school motorcycle shop. San Bernardino is regarded by many in southern California as the armpit of the state, and I guess I was of that opinion, too. At least until one of my riding buddies corrected me: “It’s more like the crotch,” he said. I think he was right.
My 2006 955cc Triumph Tiger. The haze in the background is real. I and buddy of mine were riding in the mountains north of Los Angeles during one of our many famous forest fires.
Anyway, I was riding through San Bernardino on my Harley when I stopped at Doug Douglas Motorcycles. Doug was an old guy even then, and he was famous, I guess, as a former motorcycle racer. He was a crusty, cagey old guy who picked up on my reaction when I saw the candy blue, tiger-striped Tiger you see above. He knew I was a goner before he ever said a word. Doug told me what it would be, out the door, and my fate was sealed. Folks, I’ve never paid the asking price for anything, and folks who know me, know I’m as tight was a turtle’s butthole (and that’s watertight). I looked at the Tiger and then Doug and I simply said, “Okay.”
I don’t remember exactly, but I think the Tiger was about $9,000. Sue hit the roof when I came home and told her what I had just done. Then I told her I needed a ride back to Doug Douglas so I could bring the bike home. She fumed for about half the trip until she finally asked me where the money was coming from. I told her I had some money left from selling my Suzuki TL1000S. “What did you do with the rest of that money?” she asked.
“That mother of pearl and black onyx bracelet I bought for your birthday,” I said. I hadn’t known it when I said it, but it turned out that was the perfect answer. Sue was sweet as a kitten for the rest of the ride. When we reached Doug Douglas’s place, I introduced her to Doug.
“You must be the world’s greatest motorcycle salesman,” Sue said. “My husband told me he said yes to your first offer, and that never happens.”
Old Doug scratched his chin and told her, “It’s true I’m a good motorcycle salesman, but I’m really much better at selling new living room and bedroom furniture.” Sue and I were perplexed at that one, until Doug added, “lots of guys who come home with new motorcycles end up buying new furniture within a few days of their buying a motorcycle from me…”
The Tiger was a wonderful motorcycle and I covered a lot of miles with it. The Tiger was Triumph’s “me, too” ADV machine, but it was god-awful off road. I was terrified on it every time I turned onto a dirt road in Baja, which was exactly twice. In soft sand it would scare the bejesus out of a former paratrooper (something I can speak to with authority). The Tiger was essentially a high-performance street bike with ADV styling. It excelled on mountain roads. It was tall and top heavy, but it was fast, it sounded wonderful, and I loved it.
2007 Triumph Speed Triple
The Tiger scratched a lot of my itches, but I still remembered that candy bubble gum Speed Triple, I fancied myself a hooligan, and I still had the urge to own a Speed Triple.
My 2007 Triumph Speed Triple. I shot this photo up on Glendora Ridge Road.
About a year after I bought the Tiger from Doug Douglas, I was in his dealership again and I saw the Speed Triple you see above. I didn’t buy it on that visit, but I thought about it a lot in the days that followed. I drove out there on a lunch break (I was still working then), made an offer, and it was mine.
I opted for a few doodads, including gold-anodized bits and pieces, the little flyscreen, and a set of Jardine carbon fiber mufflers. The result was what was unquestionably the most beautiful motorcycle I’ve ever owned. I remember I was getting a haircut one time downtown and a cop came into the barbershop. He asked if the Speed Triple was mine. I got an adrenaline rush thinking I had done something wrong, but nope, he just wanted to tell me it was a beautiful motorcycle.
The Speed Triple was beautiful and it photographed well, but it was buzzie and uncomfortable, and with its short wheelbase it was a little bit twitchy. I owned four or five motorcycles in those days, and the S3 was the one I rode the least. I sure liked looking at it, though.
One morning, I was headed to the University early in the morning for an 8:00 class. That was November 9, 2009. I exited the freeway and turned left, and I remember seeing a guy at a stop sign in a Camaro. We established eye contact. The next thing I knew I was being loaded into a helicopter, in great pain, with the blades’ downwash sweeping over me, thinking either I was having a really bad dream or I was being medevaced in Vietnam (which is kind of interesting, as I’ve never been in Vietnam).
My “I got screwed” photo. Trust me on this: It was as painful as it looks.
It wasn’t the Camaro guy at the stop sign, and it wasn’t even at that intersection. My S3/automobile altercation had occurred a block further west, which I learned 6 weeks later while I was still in the hospital. I have no memory of the crash (event amnesia, the doctor called it), but as crashes go, it was a relatively bad one. I had a concussion, two crushed vertebra, and two big fractures of my left femur. The femur was the big deal. One surgery while I was still in the hospital put a big metal plate down there to hold everything together while the fractures healed, and when that broke a year later, I had revision surgery to remove the now-broken plate and install a femoral rod so that the lower fracture (which had not healed) could do so. (Trust me on this: The words “revision” and “surgery” should never be used together.) I went on to ride other motorcycles throughout the western US, Mexico, Colombia, and China, so I guess the accident didn’t screw me over too badly. But it made an impression, and I’ll never use a motorcycle to commute to work again. The streets have a different personality during commuting hours, one best suited for a big car, or maybe an armored vehicle.
So that’s my story on the triples. Although the idea of a three-cylinder motorcycle may feel weird (and from an engineering perspective, maybe a little unbalanced or asymmetric), I believe a three-cylinder motorcycle makes a lot of sense. I think a triple has it all: Power, balance, handling, and (at least for Triumphs) the right ExhaustNotes.
Missed our stories on the Singles and the Twins? Hey, no problemo! Here they are:
Ten weeks ago today, Tom and I set out on our bikes from Sedona, AZ, headed for a little mining town in Sonora, MX. The plan? Visit our good friends Tom and Lynn—expats who’ve built a beautiful life there with their hotel and a yearly rider meet-up that’s become a favorite stop for us.
It started like any great ride: a cool Thursday morning, Sedona fading in the mirrors, Bisbee as our stop for the night, and an early morning border crossing on Friday. I was back on Tippi, my Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro. Tom rode his Yamaha 900. Ahead of us? Three days with Tom and Lynn in their Sonoran paradise and, of course, some excellent Bacanora—a local smoky cousin of tequila.
The Perfect Morning
We left Tom’s house in that perfect early light, the red rocks glowing like they do only in the morning. Onto Highway 89A, then climbing Highway 260 toward the Mogollon Rim. First stop: Payson for fuel and a snack from the top box. It was one of those perfect riding mornings—cool air, empty roads, and that smooth hum where the bike feels like it knows what you’re thinking.
From there, we rolled onto Bush Highway, then Route 188, Lake Roosevelt flashing blue beside the desert. It’s one of those stretches that makes you forget you even have a destination. Too soon, Globe showed up—time for another quick fuel stop and stretch.
Tom looked tired when he swung off his bike. I noticed, but let it slide. That was mistake number one.
When It Went Wrong
Highway 77 is a narrow, twisty canyon road. Tom led, I followed. He was riding too close to a double-trailer semi, hugging the shoulder. I wanted to yell “Move over!” but we weren’t running headsets that day—mistake number two.
The wind blast hit him hard. He veered toward the ditch—four, maybe five feet deep—plowed through two plastic road signs, and fought like hell to keep it upright. For a moment, I thought he’d pull it off. Then the bike hit a rock the size of a pineapple and went down.
I rode past to find a safe place to stop, heart pounding so hard I could barely swing a leg over to dismount. For a second, I almost let Tippi fall so I could get to Tom faster. Somehow, I steadied myself, pulled off my helmet, and sprinted uphill.
Best sound I’ve ever heard? Tom yelling. Painful yelling, sure, but yelling. He was conscious, breathing, and already doing a self-check—old ER doctor habits die hard.
Angels on the Road
Cars kept flying by until one truck pulled over. Out stepped Chris—a firefighter, of all things. He took control like it was second nature: called for help, righted Tom’s bike, and helped him climb out of the ditch. Minutes later, paramedics loaded him into the ambulance headed for Cobre Valley Medical Center. Chris even gave me a ride to the hospital and didn’t leave until he knew we were okay.
Scans confirmed it: a broken scapula and two fractured ribs. Painful, yes, but survivable.
That night, I sat in the hotel room, had a good cry then listening to Tom breathe, whispering thanks to the road gods and to Tom’s split-second decision that might have saved his life.
Healing & Moving On
The following weeks were slow. Broken bones heal according to their schedule. Tom never complained, just kept moving, day by day.
By week six, the doctors were shaking their heads—he’d healed faster than expected. And, in classic Tom fashion, he now owns another Yamaha 900, fully loaded with more extras than I even knew existed. That crash slowed him down, but it sure didn’t stop him.
I’m still riding Tippi, and we’re already planning a fall ride back to Sonora. That Bacanora run? Just delayed, not canceled.
Lessons From the Road
If you’re tired, stop. Always.
Eat, drink, rest. These rides aren’t the place to “push through.”
Use comms. Sometimes one quick word can be the difference between safe and scary.
After scuba diving and a relaxing month living in Ao Nang, Thailand, I was becoming too comfortable and thought it was time to move north to experience Chiang Mai and its temples and sights near the Laos border. I didn’t have much of an itinerary, but I had met a pretty cool French guy who highly recommended a Buddhist meditation retreat called Pa-Pae. It was about an hour’s bus ride north of Chiang Mai. Having never experienced meditation before, this seemed like a great opportunity.
I was surprised at how well organized the retreat was. It was adjacent to a small village with its own store and a local restaurants, but otherwise this retreat was in its own world separated from everything else. This was the perfect location to practice meditation. Wanting to experience this retreat even deeper I chose to perform a fast (water only) and not speak throughout the four days (the silence was the world’s loss for the four days).
Once settled into my little cabin on the mountainside and changing into the white pants and shirts they provided, it was time to relax until the evening meditation class. The class would cover the basics of meditation in an attempt for me to clear my mind (never an easy task) and try to find some peace within myself. Meditation isn’t easy for me. It took a lot of work to focus on a mantra or an object within my mind and remove all the static from the outside world.
With there being three meditation classes daily and without speaking, I was able to silence my mind, if only for a few moments each class. In between the meditation classes there were monks who would share their illuminating life stories and also provide answers to the many questions we first timers had. With not being able to speak, the question-and-answer sessions were my only source of social activity.
Our final meditation ceremony was held around a fire pit. This is where I almost broke my silence as the wood for the fire was quite wet (we were in a rainforest, after all) and I had an extremely difficult time pantomiming “get some gasoline to get this fire going!” I did finally manage, though, and the fire was lit. When that evening’s meditation ended, we lit paper lanterns to release into the sky. My lantern in the photo is the one stuck in the tree. Slip away!
Upon leaving I felt refreshed, rested, and almost ready for the next part of my adventure. I successfully completed the classes, my fast, and even my 92-hour silence. Later that evening I celebrated by stuffing my face with some Pad Thai and talking with my mouth full. My next retreat should be one that involves learning proper manners.
Yes, it really was like that. Somewhere along the Silk Road (the actual Silk Road) in China. I parked my RX3 when I saw the double rainbow, thinking someday I might use the shot in a blog about this adventure.
Almost 40 years ago, I saw my first Indiana Jones movie and it affected me profoundly. I started traveling the world stumbling upon lost empires. Things that have been swallowed by time, as they say. My motorcycle ride through Colombia had some of that. The Baja adventures have a bit of it, too. But none of the rides had more of an Indiana Jones flavor than did the ride across China. That ride was three years ago this month, and I still think about it every day. There were several things we saw in China that would have been right at home in an Indiana Jones movie. One was Liqian. I can best tell you about it with an excerpt from Riding China, the story of the ride with Joe Gresh across the Ancient Kingdom.
Gobi Gresh, aka Arjiu, stopping to smell the sunflowers in China.
The ride in the morning was just like yesterday. We rode the Silk Road at high speed, making great time in magnificent weather. I knew we were going to Wuwei (you could have a lot of fun with that name; it’s pronounced “woo wee”), but that was really all I knew about that day as we started out that morning. Boy, would this day ever be an interesting one!
It was to be a very full day, and Wuwei would be another one of those cities of several million people that seem to pop up in China every 50 to 100 miles. It was a huge city I had never heard of. China is an amazing place, and I was going to learn today it is more amazing than I could have imagined, and for a reason I would have never guessed. I’ve mentioned Indiana Jones movies a lot in this book. Today, we came upon something that could easily be…well, read on. This is going to be good.
After riding for a couple of hours, we left the freeway and entered a city called Yongchang. It seemed to be pretty much a regular Chinese city until we stopped. I needed to find a bathroom and Wong helped me. Wong is a big, imposing guy. He’s a corrections officer supervisor in Xi’an. He has a friendly look, but he can turn that off in a New York minute and become an extremely imposing figure. I saw him do that once on this trip, and I’ll tell you about that episode when we get to it.
Corrections Officer Supervisor Wong. He looks like a mischievous guy. This guy’s command presence was amazing. I saw him stop a car just by looking at it. Here, he’s enjoying the attention in Yongchang.
Anyway, I followed Wong through a couple of alleys and businesses until we came to an empty restaurant (it was mid-morning, and it had no customers). Wong spoke to the lady there, she nodded her head and smiled at me, and pointed to the bathroom. When I rejoined the guys back on the street, several women at a tailor shop (we had coincidentally stopped in front of a tailor shop) were fussing over Wong. He needed a button sewn on his jacket and it was obvious they were flirting with him. Wong seemed to be enjoying it. Like I said, Wong is a big guy, and I guess you could say he’s good looking. I think the women who were sewing his button on were thinking the same thing.
Beautiful young Chinese ladies. Mostly Chinese, anyway. The one on the left is entering my phone number in her contacts list.
Three teenage girls approached us and wanted to know about our bikes. Like many young Chinese, they spoke English (in China, you learn English as a second language in grade school; it is a strong advantage in Chinese society if you can speak English well). They wanted to practice with us. It was the routine stuff (“how are you?” “hello,” and things like that) until one of the teenaged girls looked directly at me and asked, “Can I have your phone number?” Gresh and I both had a good laugh over that. I actually gave her my phone number and she carefully entered it into her phone (and no, she hasn’t called me yet).
I was enjoying all of this immensely, taking photos of the girls, the seamstresses flirting with Wong, and the rest of China all around me. There was something different about one of those teenage girls. I couldn’t quite recognize what it was, but to me she definitely looked, well, different.
Yongchang statues. They don’t look as Chinese as you might think they should. There’s a reason for that.
It was at about that time that Sean approached me and said, “Dajiu, do you see those three statues over there?” He pointed to three tall statues that faced us, perhaps 300 yards away. I nodded yes. “If you look at their faces, you will see that they have Roman features.” Truth be told, I couldn’t really see it in the statues because they were too far away, but I grabbed a photo and later, on my computer, I could see something different. But before I looked at the photo, it all clicked for me. That’s what had my attention with that girl. We were literally in the middle of China and she didn’t look as Chinese as her two friends. She looked different.
All right, my friends, I need to go tangential here for a minute or two and share this story with you. Hang on, because this is real Indiana Jones stuff. No, scratch that. I’ve never seen an Indiana Jones movie with a story line this good (and I’ve seen all of them).
More than 2,000 years ago, before the birth of Christ, the two most powerful empires on the planet were the Roman Empire and the Han Dynasty. These two superpowers of their time enjoyed a brisk trade relationship along the Silk Road. Yep, the very same trail we had been riding for the last few days. Between them (in what became Iran and its surrounding regions) lay a smaller empire called Parthia. For reasons only the Romans understood, Rome thought it would be a good idea to attack Parthia. They sent several Roman Legions to war (and to put this in perspective, a Roman Legion consisted of about 5,000 men). To everyone’s surprise (including, I would imagine, the Romans), the Parthians kicked Rome’s butt.
Wow, imagine that. Rome, defeated on the field of battle by the much smaller Parthian Empire. To put it mildly, things did not quite go the way the Romans thought they would.
Help us bring more content to you: Please click on the popup ads!
All of this severely disrupted trade between the Han Dynasty and the Romans, and nobody liked that. “Why the hell did you do that?” the Han Dynasty asked Rome. “We had a good thing going and you screwed it up.” At least that’s what I’m guessing the conversation went like. You get the idea.
Cooler minds prevailed and the Romans realized, yeah, that was a dumb move. The Romans told the Parthians, hey, it’s over, let’s be friends again. The war ended, the Chinese were happy, the Romans were happy, the Parthians were happy, and trade resumed. All’s well that ends well.
Well, sort of. There was still that matter of those pesky Roman legions that had invaded Parthia. They didn’t come back from that war, and for two thousand years, no one knew what happened to them. The Romans probably assumed their Legionnaires had all been slaughtered. No one knew until an Australian dude and a Chinese guy, both University archeologist types (starting to sound a little like Indiana Jones yet?) put a theory together in 1957. Hmmm, maybe those Romans had not been killed after all.
The Parthians, being bright enough to defeat the Romans, were not about to let the Legionnaires go home and perhaps attack them again in some future war. They didn’t want to kill the Romans, either. I guess they were kinder, gentler Parthians. Here’s where those two Aussie and Chinese archeologists enter the picture. They hypothesized that the Parthians told the errant Legionnaires, “Look, we don’t want to kill all you guys, but there’s no way we’re going to let you go back to Rome. And there’s no room for you here, either. Your only option is to keep heading east. Go to China. Maybe you crazy warmongering Italians will find nice Chinese girls and settle down.” With that, and as one might imagine, a hearty arrivederci, the Romans continued their eastward march straight into the middle of China.
And folks, the prevailing wisdom today is that is exactly what happened (although the prevailing wisdom evidently hasn’t prevailed very far, as I had never heard the story until that morning in Yongchang). In fact, prior to this theory surfacing, folks wondered why the Chinese referred to the area around Yongchang as Liqian. That’s not a Chinese word, and it’s unlike the name of any other Chinese town. The folks who know about these things tell me it is an unusual word in the Chinese language.
Liqian is pronounced “Lee Chee On.”
Get it yet?
Lee Chee On? Liqian?
Doesn’t it sound like “legion?” As in Roman legion?
A Chinese man in Liqian. This guy could be the Marlboro Man for a Chinese cigarette company!
I found all of this fascinating. I saw more than a few people around the Liqian area that had a distinct western appearance, and they all consented to my taking their photos when I asked. They recognize just how special their story is. The Chinese government is taking note of this area, too. They are developing a large theme park just outside of Yongchang with a Roman motif. We visited that theme park, and while we were there, Sergeant Zuo gave a book to me (printed in both English and Chinese) about the place. It is one of the two books I brought back from China, and that book is now one of my most prized possessions.
Imagine that: Roman legions, resettled in the middle of China, in a town called Liqian. And I rode there. On an RX3.
Watch for our next Indiana Jones episode in China. It’s about the lost Buddhist grottos at Mo Gao in the Gobi Desert. There’s more good stuff coming your way. Stay tuned!
Want to read more about the ride across China? Pick up a copy of Riding China!
Last year, Susie and I took a trip to Georgia, Wisconsin, and Michigan. It was fun. We met with my former battery commander (with whom I served in Korea), we went to the Harley Museum in Milwaukee, we visited Green Bay and their fabulous Auto Museum, we stopped in at the Green Bay Rail Museum, we rode up to the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore, we toured the Miller Brewery, and we hit a few other places (I’ll provide links for all these at the end of this blog). We do trips like this to have fun and as ExNotes and Motorcycle Classics content safaris. It’s fun. I like to travel, I like to write, and I like taking pictures. Yep, life is good, and what we do sure beats working for a living.
Susie is super good at finding places (usually ones I’d never heard of) wherever we wander, and one of them was the Pabst Mansion in Milwaukee. This is an interesting story. You probably know from the Miller Brewery blog we wrote last year that Milwaukee is America’s beer capital. One of the early beer companies in America was Pabst. The story goes like this: Frederick Pabst came to this country from Germany as a 12-year-old boy (with his family) in 1848. He started his working life as a cabin boy on the ships plying Lake Michigan and eventually worked his way up to captain. He married Maria Best in 1857, which brought him into the beer business. Maria’s father owned Best and Company, which at the time was the largest beer company in the country. The Captain (as Frederick Pabst was known by that time) joined the beer biz in 1864, and through hard work (and an obviously smart choice in the matrimonial department) he soon became the top dog. The Captain changed the company’s name to the Pabst Brewing Company in 1874.
The Captain commissioned construction of the Pabst Mansion in 1890. It took a couple of years to build, but I think the wait was worth it. This place is as grand as anything I’ve seen anywhere in the world. Apparently, I’m not the only who felt that way; in 1908 the Catholic church’s Archdiocese of Milwaukee purchased the place. Over the next seven decades, five Archbishops and more than a few priests and nuns lived there, too. By 1975, the Archdiocese wanted out, and sold the property to Wisconsin Heritage, and outfit that offers tours and sells tickets. That’s a good thing; the Pabst Mansion (prior to the sale) was going to be demolished and turned into a parking lot. Just prior to the sale to Wisconsin Heritage, the Pabst Mansion was added to the National Register of Historic Places.
Once inside the mansion, we were blown away by its ornateness, the beautiful wood paneling, and the sheer luxuriousness of it. As we went through the different rooms, I wondered what it must have been like for the Captain, and then all those archbishops, priests, and nuns to live here. It must have been grand.
Living there must have been grand. We had a fun time at the Pabst Mansion. If you ever find yourself in Milwaukee, the Pabst Mansion is worth a stop.
The other blogs and magazine articles I mentioned that resulted from our visits to Georgia, Wisconsin, and Michigan? Here they are:
This was an interesting blog to write (and it was interesting on many levels). As you know, I’m writing a series of blogs on motorcycles I’ve owned with the machines organized by cylinder count. The idea is to consider all of them from my ownership perspective, rack up a bunch of (hopefully) fun-to-read blogs, and then wrap up with my opinion on which engine configuration is the best. I’ve already done the first one on the singles I’ve owned.
A word on the photos: I was surprised I had photographs of every bike I’ve ever owned. In recent decades, after I had become a half-assed amateur photographer, the photo quality is generally good. In earlier years, I was not a very good photographer, nor was my equipment very good. Some of the photos are in black and white, and most of the earlier ones were taken with a dinky little Minolta C-110 camera. Hey, you go to war with the army you have.
Between that first ¿Quantos Pistones? post and this one, something self-updated on my computer and my laptop went from simply taking my orders to predicting what words I’m going to type next and then filling them in, which I found to be wildly annoying. I thought it was in the WordPress software, but it wasn’t. It was in my Edge browser. Google helped me; I found the offending “feature” in the Edge settings and switched it off. I think these software weenies are changing things just to give themselves something to do. I wish they would stop. The folks who keep doing this sort of thing are going to have a hard time explaining themselves when they’re standing in front of the pearly gates. I’ll be there, too, as a witness for the prosecution.
Rant over; let’s get back to the main attraction.
As was the case in the blog on singles, I am again discovering this: Just when I think I’ve listed all of the twins I’ve owned, I remember another one. That sure has been the case here. I suppose I had better hit the Publish button before I remember another one.
Alrighty then: With the above as a backdrop, here we go.
1965 Honda CB 160
Okay, I’m cheating a little. This wasn’t my bike at all. It was my Dad’s. But I rode it in the fields behind our house quite a bit and I sort of considered it to be mine, and that’s why it’s on this list.
The 1964 Honda CB 160, That’s me on the bike in New Jersey, during the winter months, when I was 14 years old.
The little 160 was nice. It was the first motorcycle I ever rode and I had a lot of fun on it. Honda was making big inroads in the United States in the mid-1960s and they changed nearly everything in the motorcycle world. It was a fun time for a 14-year-old kid.
The CB 160 only stayed with us for a couple of months. Dad had been bitten by the bug. He wanted something bigger.
1965 Honda Super Hawk
As was the case with the CB 160, the Super Hawk was Dad’s motorcycle. But the same modifier applied: I used to ride it in the fields behind our house in New Jersey, so I’m including it here.
Fast forward a bit, and it’s me again during the summer months on a 1965 Honda Super Hawk. We had a swimming pool, so I spent my summers in a bathing suit.
The Super Hawk, with its 305 cubic centimeters, seemed infinitely more powerful than the CB 160 (especially riding it in the fields behind our house). Dad had the bug, though. The Super Hawk would only last for a couple of months, too.
1966 Triumph Bonneville
Ah, this was a motorcycle. A Triumph Bonneville. I couldn’t believe it. It had been my dream machine for at least a couple of years, and now there was one in the garage. And you know what? Dad let me ride it in those same fields behind our house. I can’t imagine what he was thinking or why he let me do that. I never dropped it, though. God Almighty, it was powerful. And the sound….it was awesome.
Mom and Dad on the 1966 Triumph Bonneville. You can see their other Bonneville (a 1965 Pontiac) in the garage. You could say we liked Bonnevilles. No one in my family has ever been to the Bonneville Salt Flats. I probably should go there one of these days.
The Bonneville was an amazing motorcycle. Dad and I had a lot of good rides on it. I wish we had kept it. On that sound comment above: Nothing, and I mean nothing, has a a more soul-satisfying exhaust note than a Triumph.
1978 Triumph Bonneville
I was living in Fort Worth, Texas, I was single, and I was an engineer at General Dynamics on the F-16 program. When I passed by the Triumph dealer I realized I hadn’t ridden a Triumph Bonneville since I was 16 years old, so I thought I’d stop by. An hour later I signed on the dotted line, and I owned a Bonneville again.
My 1978 Triumph Bonneville, parked outside my apartment in Fort Worth, Texas. The colors have mostly drained from these two photos. The bike was a deep candy apple red.Another shot of my 1978 Triumph Bonneville.
It was a great motorcycle. There was an older guy who owned a Yamaha TT 500 at General Dynamics (his name was Sam), and we road all the farm roads in the areas around Fort Worth. We both had hay fever and Texas had terrible pollen, but the riding was great. My Bonneville would top out at exactly 109mph (the earlier T120 and then T140 designations notwithstanding), and that was enough. The bike was kick start only (which made it an anachronism in 1978), but I was okay with that, too. For awhile, anyway.
I sold the Bonneville. I’m can’t remember why; I did a lot of dumb things when I was young. Shortly after I sold the Bonneville, I realized I needed a motorcycle again. You know, to be a complete person. That led to my next acquisition. But to this day, I wish I had kept the Bonneville.
1979 Harley Electra-Glide Classic
I used to spend a lot of time at the Fort Worth Harley dealer drooling over their new bikes. The late ’70s were, in my opinion, the height of the Willie G styling years at Harley. It was also the absolute bottom for them from a quality perspectives, as I would soon find out when I finally bit the bullet and bought the bike I thought was the most beautiful motorcycle I’d ever seen: The 1979 Electra-Glide Classic.
Yours truly, with a full head of hair and a 1979 Electra-Glide Classic. I called it my optical illusion. It looked like a motorcycle.
The Electra-Glide was beautiful, but to call it a piece of crap would be insult to turds the world over. The bike couldn’t go a hundred miles without something breaking on it. It needed three top end jobs in the 12,000 miles I owned it (the first two were on the warranty, the last one was on me). I’d finally had it with that bike and what some folks like to call “The Motor Company.” Hell, the motor was the worst thing on that bike. And the brakes. And the clutch. And the starter. And the handling. And the….well, you get the idea. It was one of the last years Harley was owned by AMF, and when a Harley mechanic told me what that stood for, I finally got it. I smiled inwardly when I sold the bike, thinking to myself, “Adios, MF.”
On the way down to San Diego, with the Pacific Ocean in the background. I explored a lot of southern California on the Harley. It was the most unreliable motor vehicle of any type I ever owned.
After that awkward ownership experience, I swore I’d never buy another Harley. I didn’t keep that promise, though.
Even considering all the above, I wish I still had that ’79 Electra-Glide. It would be worth a small fortune today. It sure was a pretty motorcycle.
1976 Triumph TR6
Somewhere in the succession of events described above, I moved from Fort Worth to southern California. General Dynamics transferred me to the Pomona facility. I loved southern California and I hated GD/Pomona. Actually, that’s not entirely accurate. The company was okay, but my boss was a dickhead. So I did what I normally do in that situation: I quit and went to work for another defense contractor. While there, I worked with yet another defense company, and one of the guys there had a 1976 Triumph TR6 he offered to sell to me for $500. It was running, it was registered, and minutes later it was mine.
On Glendora Ridge Road on the 1972 Triumph Tiger. It was a great motorcycle.
The TR6 was a wonderful motorcycle. If there was a performance difference between it and a Bonneville, I didn’t have the asspitude to feel it. The single-carb TR6 actually felt stronger at low rpm than the Bonneville did. I loved that bike, too.
Another Glendora Ridge Road portrait. The Tiger had character, and I mean that in a good way.
The paint on the TR6 had oxidized pretty badly (the former owner kept it outside). I had this idea I would restore it (see above regarding my propensity to do dumb things when I was younger). I did a pretty good job turning the great-running TR6 into a basket case (again, see the preceding comments regarding my youthful decisions). The paint job I paid for on the fuel tank was a disaster, and then I lost interest in resurrecting the bike. I sold the basket of bits and pieces for what I had paid for the bike. I wish I still had that one.
1972 Triumph Daytona
The first motorcycle I ever went gaga over was a 1964 Triumph Tiger that a kid named Walt Skok rode to high school. In those days, the Tiger was a 500cc twin that looked a lot like a Bonneville. God, that thing was beautiful.
One of the neighbor kids on my 1972 Triumph Daytona, also known as the Baby Bonneville. This was another great motorcycle.
Triumph kept that 500cc twin in their line for years, ultimately adding a second carb and rechristening the bike as the Daytona. When the 650 line went to the oil-frame-configuration in the early 1970s, the Daytona (also known as the Baby Bonneville) did not; it kept the classic Triumph separate oil tank and peashooter mufflers.
I can’t remember who I bought the Daytona from (I bought it used), but I sure remember its looks. It was a deep candy metallic green with silver accents. It was bone stock and it was a wonderful ride. The handing was almost thought-directed…I could just think what I wanted the motorcycle to do and it would do it. One day, for no particular reason, I took it to the top of one of our streets that ran up into the mountains, turned it around, turned off the ignition, and started coasting downhill. I wanted to see how fast it would go with zero power (see my previous decision-making comments); the answer was exactly 70mph.
I never registered the Daytona over the three years I owned it; I just rode the snot out of it. I never got stopped or and I never had a citation for the expired plates. I can’t remember why I sold it, or who I sold it to. The Daytona was a wonderful motorcycle. I wish I still had it.
1992 Harley Heritage Softail
I didn’t keep my promise to never buy another Harley. A fried let me ride his ’89 Electra-Glide. It was a big, fat porker (the bike, not my friend), but Harley was getting a lot of press about their improved quality. I saw a blue Heritage Softail on the road one day, and I decided I need one. It was that simple.
I covered a lot of territory on my 1992 Harley Softail. This shot was in the mud flats near Guerrero Negro in Baja, a trip I made with good buddy Baja John.
I put a lot of miles on my ’92 Softail, and while it lasted, it was a great motorcycle. Good buddy Baja John and I rode our bikes to Cabo, we took the ferry across the Sea of Cortez, and we rode down to Guadalajara and then back up through mainland Mexico to Nogales (you can read about that adventure here).
The Harley died on me down in Mexico on another trip, and although I had regained a tiny bit of trust in Milwaukee, the dealers were still (in my opinion) basically incompetent. When my ’92 went belly up, the dealer wouldn’t touch it because it was more than 10 years old (I can’t make this stuff up, folks), so I took it to an unencumbered independent repair shop and had it rebuilt as a real motorcycle (you can read that story here).
What kind of killed the Harley dream was me forgetting to pick up milk one day when coming home from a ride on the Harley. My wife asked about the milk. I realized I had forgot it, so I went back out to run to the store. For whatever reason, I took my KLR, and it was as if I had been set free. The KLR was just so much better, I put an ad in the local Cycle Trader the next day and sold the Harley the day after that.
While I am on this subject of Harley twins, I will tell you that I always wanted a Sportster. One day the Harley dealer had to keep my bike overnight and he lent a Sportster to me. That changed my mind in a hurry. It was gutless. I know some of my readers ride Sportsters and others ride Big Twins. Mea culpa in advance. If you’d like to tell me how great your bikes are and how I have my head up my fourth point of contact, please leave a comment, or send in a draft blog (info@exhaustnotes.us) with pics and I’ll publish your rebuttal.
1982 Yamaha XS 650
This was a lucky find, or rather, it sort of found me. I was teaching a failure analysis class at McDonnell Douglas about thirty years ago, and the first evening when I connected my laptop to the projector, a photo of the Triumph Daytona (the one described above) briefly appeared in front of the class.
“Hey, I have one of those,” one of the older engineers in the class said. I asked if he was a Triumph fanboy (as I was). He told me that he didn’t have a Triumph; he had the Yamaha that was based on it. He offered to sell it to me in front of the entire class. I hadn’t even introduced myself yet.
“Let’s talk after class,” I said.
I turns out this guy had purchased the XS 650 new, rode it very little, and it had sat in his garage for several years. I bought it for $900. I think it was a 1982 model, but I can’t say that for sure. Being a Triumph rider, I always thought it would be cool to own one of the Japanese 650 twins. You know…better reliability, no oil leaks, smoother running engines, better fit and finish, and all that.
I found had a good shot (at least I think it is good) of my 1982 Yamaha XS 650 Heritage Special. To this day, I don’t know how Yamaha managed to make the bars so uncomfortable.
I didn’t keep the XS 650 long enough to assess its reliability. I did keep it and ride it long enough to find out that it had absolutely no personality, it didn’t have the bottom end torque that a Triumph did, it sounded more like George Jetson’s car than a real motorcycle (let’s see how many of you know who he was), its Phillips head screws reacted to a screw driver the same way butter reacted to a hot butterknife, and the “cruiser style” handlebars were the most uncomfortable I’d ever experienced. As you can guess, the XS 650 didn’t hang around long. I traded it in to lower the cash outlay on my TL1000S Suzuki.
1997 Suzuki TL1000S
Ducati was setting the world on fire with its L-twin performance bikes, and predictably, it was only a matter of time before the Japanese attempted to do the same. Two L-Twin Japanese motorcycles emerged in 1997: Suzuki’s TL1000S and Honda’s Super Hawk (not to be confused with their Super Hawk of the mid-1960s, as shown above in this Twins story). I opted for the Suzuki variant in red. I just liked the looks of it; I felt it was a prettier motorcycle than the Honda.
The Roadmaster. This thing ate miles and speed limits voraciously. I toured a lot of Baja on it. This photo was taken somewhere in northern Baja.
The Suzuki was the fastest and hardest accelerating motorcycle I ever owned. It would lift the front wheel when shifting from second to third at over 100 mph. I dropped it twice getting in over my head, but I never really damaged the bike or myself. I used the TL as a touring bike, and I covered large parts of Baja with it. It was a fabulous machine and I wish I still had it.
2020 Royal Enfield INT
My most recent twin is the Royal Enfield 650 INT. Enfield called it the Interceptor initially (which is a much better name), but they quickly changed it to the INT (my guess is because Honda threatened to sue them, as they already had a model called the Interceptor).
The Motorcycle Classics magazine centerfield showing the two Enfields Gresh and I used for touring Baja. It was a fun trip.
Gresh and I conned Enfield North America into loaning us two bikes (a 500cc Bullet and the new twin INT) for a comparo ride in Baja. We had a great trip, trading bikes off each day and blogging extensively about our impressions. I liked the INT so much I bought one shortly after we returned. It’s a great bike at a great price and it has all the performance I’ll ever need, both as a street bike and as a touring bike.
So there you go. I’ve owned a lot of twins. To me, a well-engineered twin makes a great street bike.
You know what? In searching for photos of my old twins, I found another single I’d forgotten all about. It was my Triumph Cub.
I never put the Cub on the street. I just rode it a bit in the fields behind my apartment building and then sold it. It was crude compared to other bikes of the era, but it was nice. It would be worth way more today than what I paid for it or what I got when I sold it.
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.
It started like any great ride: a cool Thursday morning, Sedona fading in the mirrors, Bisbee as our stop for the night, and an early morning border crossing on Friday. I was back on Tippi, my Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro. Tom rode his Yamaha 900. Ahead of us? Three days with Tom and Lynn in their Sonoran paradise and, of course, some excellent Bacanora—a local smoky cousin of tequila.
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.
