The ExhaustNotes Blog

Salt 8

It seems like tents get larger the more time they spend exposed to sunlight. But the thing is, man, camps were made to be broken. As much as I liked the hot sun, dusty gravel lot and 4-mile walk to the KOA facilities, we had to go.

I’m good with the two days we spent on the salt. I feel like we got a really good idea of the situation and the Southern California Timing Association had their hands full. They didn’t need me prowling around stirring up the troops. The salt was in no mood to be trifled with and we left it to bake and heave, a different salt from a few hours ago and different from that salt in a few more hours.

There’s no good route east from Bonneville except for the hard slog on Interstate 80. From there it’s a long hot day south and the Husky beat out a steady tune all the way to Moab, Utah. The place was an endless parade of tourists, every one one of them healthier than the last. Their bodies were so chiseled they looked like they subsisted solely on finely ground pumice. Their smiles were stretched over perfectly dazzling teeth. I felt like Quasimodo lurching among this mob of Fits.

We swung through Monticello, Utah, a place where 11 years ago me and Hunter left Dave at a motel room with a broken foot and two hamburgers on his night stand. The past days and present days are crashing together on this ride. If you let your mind wander it’s easy to lose track of where you are on the continuum. The hamburger place where we stocked Dave’s nightstand is still there. Maybe Dave is still in that room. 11 years has gone-and-went representing one tiny tremor of time. What happened?

I rode away from Monticello on Godzilla back then. It was a hard pull up the grades. Sometimes the old two stroke held 55 mph. Now I rip up the same hills with the Husky spinning free. So much air pumping past 500 CC’s of modern 4-strokery. I’d still rather be on Godzilla. You earned a hill with that bike, man.

Tonight we’re giving Switchblade, the panhandler with a pickle, another shot at my ribcage in Window Rock. I wonder when I will be back to remember this place, to remember Switchblade. I wonder what the last place will be?

Get it while you can, boys.

Ride Easy, Mr. Fonda…

All good things must come to an end, I guess, and Peter Fonda’s life was a good thing that ended earlier today. It was too soon. He reached the ripe old age of 79, which is more than most, so in one sense I guess you could say he got his money’s worth. But it would have been better if he could have stayed longer. I liked the guy.

Peter Fonda first entered my life with the release of Easy Rider, a movie that hit the silver screen when I was a goofy teenager. Choppers entered the scene through that movie for me, and Wyatt was a character I think most guys my age wanted to be at one point or another in their lives. Billy, not so much. It was Jack Nicholson’s big break, and the movie put the idea of long distance motorcycle riding in many of our minds. It spawned a cultural and seismic shift in how most folks viewed motorcycles. It launched a motorcycle magazine of the same name where my short stories would later appear (yeah, I wrote short stories for Easy Riders back in the day). Easy Rider, the movie, by any measure was a big deal.

Fast forward a year or two, and it was a 750 Honda for me. I didn’t have the panhead Harley chopper, but I bought me a Captain America helmet and I was (at least in my mind) as cool as Peter Fonda. I wore that helmet on a motorcycle ride to Montreal. It’s all about the look, and I had it.

Fast forward a lot of years, and one day I was leaving Glendale Harley Davidson after stopping there to pick up a part and Peter Fonda was walking up the sidewalk as I was leaving. I said hi and he said How’s it going, man. It was a chance encounter I remember like it happened 10 minutes ago. He would have been in his mid-50s then, and I told everyone I knew for weeks after that I had seen Peter Fonda in person. I like to think that he told everyone he knew for weeks after that he had seen Joe Berk in person, but that was before I started writing the blog so deep in my heart I knew he probably didn’t. But for one brief instant we were equals: Peter Fonda nodded at me and asked How’s it going, man, like he had known me all his life. You can’t put a price on that.

Ride easy, Mr. Fonda. Thanks for the memories. And to answer your question, it’s going well, thank you, in no small part due to the influence you’ve had on many of us.

Salt 7

During Bonneville Speed Week enterprising teens set up salt washing stations.

The rough wet salt did not bode well for the speed trials this year. After seeing how the situation unfolded yesterday Mike and I were in no hurry to get out to Bonneville and in fact it was almost 11:00 a.m. before we paid the SCTA man another $20 entrance fee.

The ticket man told us to avoid the start area as it was getting churned up and the competitor’s vehicles were getting stuck. It was kind of a pain because the start area was where we wanted to go. One thing I’ve learned in my short life is that there’s no sense in railing against mushy salt.

My hamburger-stand-at-noon meter told me there were fewer spectators and contestants than yesterday. Bonneville isn’t spectator friendly to start with as the courses are far in the distance. You pay to be surrounded by the ambiance: great things are happening just over the horizon.

The pits are very open, you can go bug the racers all you like. They really seemed to appreciate my helpful suggestions for grabbing that final 1/10 of a mile per hour.

I don’t know why my motorcycle brothers were being so obtuse on the track today. They consistently failed to clear off the course after their run much to the dismay of the hundreds of waiting competitors.

Even without the motorcycle guys gumming up the works wait times between runs stretched to 15 minutes. Multiply that by 100 or more competitors and you start to get at the immensity of the problem caused by Mother Nature shutting down three courses.

Bonneville is one of those events where it’s easier to compete in than spectate. After one really lengthy pause in the action we decided that racing may be over for the day. We headed back to camp feeling ill-used for our $20 entrance fee but it all goes to a good cause: The pursuit of speed.

Unrelated to anyone’s efforts on the salt, one of the bolts holding the luggage rack to the Husqvarna had fallen out somewhere on the trip to Bonneville. I removed the opposite side bolt for a sample and took the thing to Ace Hardware where they had no metric bolts. The next place I tried, CarQuest, had two of the small, 4mm bolts.

As soon as I located the correct bolts I should have known I was in trouble. The Husky uses those captivated-nut type of deals where a threaded nut is crimped into the aluminum frame tube. It gives you something sturdy and steel to screw into.

When the sample bolt was removed the captivated nut became a free range nut and it wandered off into the frame tube. Of course I had no idea any of this was happening.

I kept trying to screw the sample bolt back onto the Husqvarna. The thing would not start. As I became more confused I became more irrational. It was hot, Mike was making suggestions and I was not wanting to hear them: “I just took the bolt out of the F-ing rack minutes ago! Why won’t it start?” Semi-blind from sweat I removed everything off the back of the bike and it became clear that the bolt was never going to thread into the hole because there was nothing to thread into. It was a void, man.

Back to Ace hardware for a $35 drill motor, a $14 drill bit set, and assorted 1/4″-20 bolts and nuts. That bastard rack was going to be secured by any means necessary. I drilled all the way through the frame tube and into the plastic inner fender. Now the longer bolt was slotted through into a locknut on the other side.

This all sounds simple but it took three separate trips to the auto store and hardware store to achieve. I gave Mike the new drill motor hoping the shiny bauble would make him forget all that he had seen earlier. I spent the remains of the day sitting by the KOA swimming pool and drinking gin & tonics. Tomorrow we break camp and start heading back to God’s country: New Mexico.

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Salt 6

A Ukrainian guy crashed his 900-volt electric bike at 150 miles per hour. He’s okay but the bike is a bit bent. It’s been a hard day on the salt for motorcycles and not much better for the cars. The course is rough and soft.

I hear the grumbling as I cruise the pits. “No records this year.” “We might as well go home.” “They should call the whole thing off.” Conditions have restricted the racers to one course for experts and one course for rookies. At the start area the blue course lines are close together and they get wider apart the further down course you go.

A Buell rider was 5th from the start line when racing was called for the day. He’d been in line since 7:00 a.m. and the line is a mile long. It takes patience to go fast.

The Bonneville speed trials are spread out over 8 miles. There are thousands of rebars pounded into the salt and miles of yellow plastic tape denoting areas but it all seems so random. We ride over and under the tape. No one bothers us. The tape is just to give your mind something to work on in the featureless white plains. Mostly the pit area is near the middle and the course is a quarter mile away. Bring binoculars or all you’ll see is a tiny object speeding from your right to your left.

Walking the pits is a 6-mile proposition. It’s huge and the blinding white salt burns your skin from underneath. You really need two hats: one on top as normal and one with the center cut out and the brim circling your neck like a Queen Elizabeth collar.

The place is solid enough where compacted. Out towards the edges and further north the salt gets crunchy and damp. It feels like the water table is a few inches down.

2:30 p.m. and racing is over; spectators and racers wander away from the salt in dribs and drabs. It’s a slow exodus with a heavy flat head V-8 feel to it.

Old Salts tell me attendance is down this year but that guy who waited all day for his run thinks that there are plenty of people. I’m a rookie so it looks fine to me.

The track radio announcer who is from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is also in charge of the Porta Potties. There are 74 plastic potties spread around the 8 miles. I told him number 68 out by Mile Marker 7 was not sitting level and could he shim the thing properly. He wants to set a record with a ZZR Kawasaki but has run out of money. Announcing is a slow business with 75% of the track closed but he makes a good job of keeping it interesting.

I met a chick with a turbo CB125 Honda. She was in the empty impound area where the record setters await a second pass to make it official. She said the track was rutted and bumpy but she managed 57 miles per hour. Somehow that was a record. The soft salt sucks power. It’s like racing through sand.

On the ride back to town you’ll pass hundreds of campers parked alongside the road. It’s a free camp area but the facilities are zero. It’s primitive but for the guys watching TV in motorhomes it all looks the same.

My buddy Old Iron says that to find a good restaurant in West Wendover look for salt in the parking lot. The more salt, the better. If there’s a turbine powered car parked up you’re golden. It works, my brothers.

Salt 5

West Wendover, Nevada.

Where else can you find an old flathead Ford Hot Rod and a 27-foot long turbine powered Liner parked up at the cafe?

So many talented builders are in Bonneville. The trailers are works of art, their suspensions complex links and air bags. It’s like a superior race of mechanics from another planet has landed on Earth.

We can’t go a block in the mini-casino town of West Wendover without stumbling on something cool, something Rod-ish.

Right now, in this town, the combined brain power could accomplish any task. And it would be accomplished with glossy paint and many, many holes drilled for light weight.

Salt is everywhere. The cars are covered in it. It falls off in fist-sized chunks and then the salt chunks are pulverized by passing cars.

But back to camping: my tent has changed shape in the 6 years since I last propped the thing up. The poles are all the wrong length and I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to cut large sections out of the walls to assemble the thing.

The tent is standing but it looks more like a pile of dirty laundry rather than a house. All these geniuses surrounding me. How do I tap into that knowledge?

The Husky is getting a bit cranky. At low speeds It’s stalling frequently. The clutch is dragging a bit and with no flywheel the thing will just pop and die. I think I’ll check the intake manifold rubber for tightness.

Had a great dinner at the Prospector Cafe: fried chicken with salad, bread and iced tea, cheeseburger and a Modelo dark beer totaled $20. A guy could get used to casino living.

Salt 4

Caliente, Nevada.

I moved my camping gear 510 miles today. The longest I’ve had to endure the Husqvarna’s ridiculous seat. I feel like the monk in that old joke.

This was the longest day. We covered a lot of miles so that tomorrow’s ride into camp will be short and sweet, leaving us plenty of time to ponder how the tent goes together.

Caliente is shut down. Nothing is open, the road into town is lined with old railroad cabins. The cabins are restored, Some people would call them cute. I see hard work. In a land of space, where the view goes on forever, the cabins are only feet apart. It must have felt safer together against the huge West. Tracks run behind the cabins rattling doors and windows. Man, I can sleep right through that sound.

So many elevation changes and temperature variations on the road. You can feel agriculture. The spot humidity rises, a quarter mile of cold runs alongside dark green crops, all alive against the tan dirt. And then you are back in the desert. Warm, dry air fills the road. I can look ahead and predict the local weather.

On the long days there’s not much human interaction. Ride, gas, ride, gas. Repeat over and over, each fill up is 150 miles of seat time. The long passages give you a lot of time to think great thoughts, maybe a new idea for land terracing or a way to move 60-lb bags of concrete more efficiently. I thought about the Husqvarna seat.

Did I mention the seat? Because it’s all I think about. It’s a major player in my dreams and nightmares. I imagine the seats in hell are shaped like the Husqvarna thing-between-the-frame-and-your-butt.

What are the odds? The guy running our motel wants to build one of those bicycle motor things. I kid you not. I whipped out cell phone photos of Huffenstein and we both got excited about the project, me for the second time. I’m sure he’s gonna buy a motor.

Bonneville tomorrow!

Gunstock Refinish: Part I

I’m refinishing the stock on my .222 Remington Savage 340 and as promised, here’s the beginning of the story on this project.

The Rifle: A Savage 340

This story goes back a few years when I spotted a Savage 340 on the used gun rack at a local gun store. Several thing about the rifle intrigued me…it was cheap (it was only $180), it was chambered for the 222 Remington (a very accurate cartridge), and the stock was scratched and worn (but the damage was superficial). I thought the little Savage would make for an interesting refinishing project. But I guess I’m like Gresh. Some things need to be put on simmer for a while.

The rifle shot well, I played around developing a load for it, and it was only after the thing sat around for a couple of years that I finally got on with my refinishing project. I’ve blogged about this rifle a couple of times before, and I’ll give you the links to those posts at the end of this blog.

The Original Finish

The Savage had some kind of a shellac or varnish finish that was flaking and scratched in a lot of places. The underlying wood was sound; there were just a lot of finish scratches all over.

Other light scratches. Like I said, the underlying walnut was sound.

The rifle had a black butt plate with a thin white plastic spacer, and the pistol grip catch had the same deal. I knew I was going to delete the white spacers because I like the look better without it.

I’ll show you what the butt plate and pistol grip look like without the white line spacers in a subsequent blog. Trust me; it’s way more elegant.

TruOil to the Rescue

Me? I’m a big fan of oil finishes, and my soup du jour is always TruOil for projects like this one. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The best stuff ever invented, TruOil is.

Barreled Action Removal

The first step in any gunsmithing project is to make sure the rifle is unloaded, which I did, and then I remove the barreled action from the stock. That was easy peasy…the Savage has three screws securing the metalwork in the stock. It’s the rear trigger guard first (and unlike most rifles, on these old Savages all that rear most screw does is hold the rear of the trigger guard in the stock; it does go all the way through to the receiver). Then it’s the screw up front, which taps into a barrel retainer. And then it’s the main action screw, immediately under the forward portion of the receiver. It’s an unusual setup. Most rifles are secured by bolts through the trigger guard/floorplate that secure the receiver to the stock. Having only one attach point to the receiver and another on the barrel is supposed to hurt accuracy. No one told that to my Savage, though. It shoots into an inch at 100 yards all day long. After that it was the sling swivels, which unscrew from the stock.

Three screws release the barreled action from the stock (the barrel mount, the forward action, and the rear trigger guard screws). The sling loops unscrew, too.

The rear trigger guard screw and the action screw.

The next steps are to remove the butt plate and the stock’s pistol grip cap. Those are retained by Phillips head screws and they came off easily.

That’s it for now. The next steps will involve stripping the finish, and that’s a topic for the next blog in this series. Stay tuned. If you want to read the original blog we posted on the Savage 340, it’s here.

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Salt 3

Window Rock, Arizona.

I thought the guy behind us was yelling at the black SUV. The SUV drove on but the guy kept yelling. Strange garbled words, some Navajo, some English, it was difficult to say if he was angry. He was smiling all the time.

The words kept pouring out as he bumped into me, wanting to shake hands. He didn’t care for the standard handshake and performed a fist bump/hand wrestling sort of ritual. All the while speaking fast, using unrelated words to string together ideas in an almost-sentence way.

I started to pick up a few bits of the conversation: He called me the N word, but in a nice, brotherly way. At least I think it was brotherly. Then he said that I was in his town then some vague broken bits about cutting people with a knife. “What language are you speaking?” I asked him. “It doesn’t matter,” he said to me and then showed me his drivers license. He was from Arizona.

Tall and good-looking, the guy may have been a great warrior chief in an earlier time. Now, he wanders parking lots jabbering at people in a confused muddle, his skill set woefully out of sync with life in 2019 America.

The guy kept stumbling into me, by accident or by design. It was annoying but he seemed happy as he asked me if I’d like to be stabbed and thrown into a ditch. It was the most non-threatening threat ever. Was he serious? There were a lot of ditches around. I made a mental note to start looking down for bodies.

It dawned on me that the guy was completely bonkers and then he asked me for two dollars. “That’s F-ed up, man,” I told him “I don’t want to be cut and thrown into a ditch.” He didn’t seem surprised at my refusal; I’m guessing his unorthodox panhandling method turns off a lot of potential marks.

We went into the only place open in town, a Taco Bell, the glass door 0f the Taco Bell seemed to frighten him and he drifted away towards the street. Still happy and still wanting to kill someone.

The rain started around 3:00 p.m. and kept a steady pace. It was a cool, 54-degree August day in northern New Mexico. So much different than the hot, dry morning. Now we were marooned with just enough gas in the Husqvarna to make 10 miles. The next town was 20 miles away.

I was waiting at a liquor store/gas station that had no electricity for Mike to return with a can of gas. Mike’s BMW can go 200 miles on a tank. The Husky taps out at around 150 miles. From my perch under the store awning I saw 700 to 800 cans of beer get sold in a few hours. Skinny people, fat people, old people, young people, no one bought less than 48 cans. They carried the stuff out by the armload. Thank goodness the cash register was on battery backup.

The power would come on and I’d run out to the pump then the power would go off. This happened about 20 times. One of the liquor store staff was an adorable woman complaining about menopause: “You don’t know what it’s like, one minute you’re fine, the next you’re on fire!” The power sputtered. All of us, customers and staff, started yelling, “Lights on! Lights off!” in synchronization with the flickering power.

“Would you like a hotdog? Free, I won’t charge you for it. They’re still kind of warm but we have to throw out the hot foods after a few hours of no power.” What a nice bunch of people. Free hot dogs, all the beer you could fit in a trunk, we had a good time, you know?

“Your friend has a funny accent.” said Menopause Woman. “Where is he from?”

“New Jersey, or somewhere back east,” I told her.

“I suppose he thinks we sound funny too,” she said in that rising, musical New Mexican lilt I’ve come to love.

Mike came back with the gas, we dumped it into the Husqvarna and lit the bikes off. Into the rain we motored on. Gasoline is freedom, man. About 10 miles later we saw a lineman sitting in his truck, rain pouring down. For all I know the power never came back on back at the store. The lives we shared at that place didn’t matter to us anymore, we were back on the road.

Salt 2

I like going camping with a truck. You’ve got plenty of space to load your gear and when you get there you can set up a nice little spot. I guess I’ve already told you how much I hate carrying camping gear on a motorcycle and that motels near Bonneville, Utah are expensive. But it seems I can’t stop myself, I just keep complaining. I see those BMW earth-roamer types with all the gear piled up over their heads and I think, “Oh, Hell no! I’m cool as an ice cube, that’s not me.”

Yet here I am. Here I am piling camping junk over my head like a Starbucks-sipping, Hi-Vis wearing, midlevel manager-who-mistakenly-thinks-corporate-values-his-efforts, Beemer rider. The shame, it burns hot.

That’s not the worst of it. I just know the flimsy aluminum sub-frame on the Husqvarna is going to break. It has to. This bike was designed with two things in mind: to pop wheelies and flee from the Po-Po. Because I don’t have a running street bike I’ve turned the Husky into a single cylinder Gold Wing. It burns, man.

No way was I going to get all the camping stuff onto the Trophy Rack that the Husky was wearing. I had to dramatically expand capacity and the only way to do that was with saddlebags. To do bags I needed some infrastructure in place that would prevent the bags from tangling in the rear wheel and melting to the high mount, noisy, life saving, public opinion destroying, Arrow exhaust can.

I have no way to weld stainless steel but I have a lot of stainless tubing so I chopped it up and took the sticks to Roy’s welding (out by the mini goat farm) and the fine crew at Roy’s stuck it all together.

Next I needed a few plastic bits to fit the existing rack and give my U-bolts something to tighten against without bending the metal straps. I knocked these out of some thick plastic I had left over from a boat job 35 years ago.

My Safety Exhaust on the Husqvarna is high and tight so I riveted a metal heat shield on the left side of the Super MoTour bike. My buddy Mike loaned me the saddlebags, I don’t want them to catch fire in front of him. You’ll be hearing more about Mike, as this Bonneville ride is his idea. All told, I’ve probably doubled the poundage of the featherweight Husky with this jungle gym hanging off the back.

Unrelated to the luggage situation but still needing sorting was the Husky’s headlight. The normal bulb is an incandescent 35-watt, both high and low beam. The bulb works ok in the daytime but it casts a feeble light for night use. It’s like having a Black Hole on the front of your motorcycle. The pattern reaches only a few feet into the gloom. On moonless nights it struggles to illuminate the front fender. It’s so dim bugs fly away from it. Hey, I’m here all week, invite your friends.

The other problem with the stock bulb is that it constantly blows out. The tiny filament shatters and when that happens you get an intermittent headlight that turns on and off as the filament shakes around making contact now and then. Sometimes the bulb will self-heal, the wire re-welds itself and the light may stay on a few hundred miles. Despite all this, the inside of the bulb is usually broken into a million pieces by the time 1000 miles rolls past.

I tried a bunch of different bulbs. LED, Halogen, HID, and incandescent; most of them ran too hot for the Husqvarna’s plastic reflector. For this trip I’ve settled on a cheap LED bulb with no watt rating or any information stamped into the metal housing. It is a very crummy bulb, perhaps even weaker than the incandescent bulb but I’m hoping it stands up to vibration better. A strange side effect of the LED electronics is that the high beam indicator light stays on all the time. I’m sure the bulb won’t short out and fry my electrical system. What could go wrong?

That’s it. I’m leaving in a few days so I’ll be blogging from the road like Berk taught me to do. See you in Bonneville.

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Indiana Jones: Part II (The Mo Gao Grottos)

A few weeks ago, I wrote a blog about the Indiana Jones aspects of riding a motorcycle across China, and in that blog, I told you about the Roman Legions that had settled in Liqian two thousand years ago. I mentioned that there were other Indiana Jones experiences to be had in China and I said I would write about them. It’s time to keep that promise. This blog is about the abandoned Mo Gao Buddhist grottos in the Gobi Desert. It’s an excerpt from Riding China, and if you want to get the whole story, well, hey, buy the book!

Dun Huang

The day was to be a short one for riding (only a hundred kilometers), but it would be rich with sightseeing in and around Dun Huang. It started with a short ride to Dun Huang’s vendor stalls with all kinds of brightly-colored trinkets, lots of Chinese tourists, and around it all, huge sand dunes. We had arrived at what might possibly be the least known and most inaccessible tourist attraction in the world: The Gobi Desert, up close and personal.

The Lake of the Crescent Moon in the Gobi Desert.

The signs pointed to the Lake of the Crescent Moon (and if that doesn’t sound like an Indiana Jones movie title, I don’t know what does). It was a small bright green crescent lake surrounded by the Gobi’s massive pale white dunes. The city planners in Dun Huang were making good use of it as a tourist attraction. It was amazing. The lake was a bright green arc of still water perhaps 300 meters long, forming a natural arc in the dunes, surrounded by bright green vegetation. I can only imagine how a camel caravan would have felt coming upon this place a thousand or more years ago, slowly drifting through the oven that is the Gobi, long before Dun Huang built its five-star tourist hotels. They must have viewed it as a miracle. A true oasis in the desert. It seemed to be a miracle to me and I had it easy; I had ridden here on my RX3.

Gobi Camel Riding

What really interested me were the camels. I was still feeling smug about seeing camels in the desert the day before, and I had wondered what it would be like to ride one. This was to be my day. There was a large camel riding operation set up specifically for tourists, and I realized I might never have an opportunity like this again. I needed to ride a camel. Yep, I became Joe Tourist, and I’m glad I did. It was fun. The camels took us to the top of one of the dunes, and I loved every minute of it. I’ve heard camels described as ships of the desert, and I realized as I rode along on mine that it was an appropriate description. A camel kind of rocks back and forth as it walks, the same way a ship does as it sails the ocean. The sand dunes, devoid of any vegetation, could be rolling waves. It’s all very calming. The camel behind mine came closer, and closer, and closer until its face was literally right alongside me. Its nose was just an inch from my arm. I could feel its warm dry breath on my arm and my face. It sounds a bit on the strange side, I know, but it was all somehow very soothing, riding along in the hot dry air, gently rocking left and right, with a camel breathing in my ear.

Quite a sight. I enjoyed Dun Huang enormously. You may have seen this photo before. It’s the cover photo for the ExhaustNotes home page, and it as a two-page spread in RoadRUNNER magazine.

We spent the entire morning riding camels, taking photos, and being tourists. As much as I like riding my motorcycle, it was good to be off it for a day. We were all feeling great, even though it as incredibly hot. But it was dry, and that made it bearable.

A very attractive young woman who allowed a photo on our camel caravan. I told her I walked a mile for my camel. She smiled politely. I don’t think she spoke English.

The Mo Gao Grottos

That afternoon, we parked the bikes and rode in air-conditioned buses to the Mo Gao Buddhist grottos. This was more Indiana Jones stuff. It’s another incredible story, and it is one I had never heard until this trip. Listen to this: Ancient Buddhists created a massive temple complex in the grottos along a riverbed canyon wall in a location called Mo Gao. It’s in the desert outside of what is now Dun Huang. It was a thriving Buddhist center a thousand years ago, and then the people living there left. No one really knows why. Time and history forgot about the place. It was only recently rediscovered, and a few years after that, it opened to the public. The place was stunning. I can see it possibly being named the 9th Wonder of the Ancient World, just as Xi’an’s Terra Cotta soldiers (which I’ll describe in a later chapter) became the 8th Wonder of the Ancient World. It’s that wondrous.

The Mo Gao caves consisted of many smaller grottos that were apartments for ancient monks, and larger ones that held majestic statues and ornate decorations. I can only imagine what it must of have been like for the archeologists who uncovered these things. Today, it is all closely managed and Chinese police were there to enforce a photography prohibition.

A small portion of the Mo Gao Buddhist grotto.

A forbidden photo inside one the Mo Gao grottos. Once again, the Nikon D810’s low light level capabilities came through for me!

The sights and photo ops at Mo Gao were well worth the trip. There were many, many more, but I called it quits after grabbing these photos.

There are two reasons for a photography prohibition in these kinds of places. The first is that flash photography could degrade the statues and artwork. A natural light photo (one shot without flash) would prevent that kind of degradation, but most people wouldn’t understand the distinction and a “natural light only” photo policy would be too hard to enforce. The other reason is that the owner of the place (I assume it would be the Chinese government) probably wants to sell its photos. Allowing people to grab their own pictures would interfere.

The bottom line to all of the above is that the no photography policy only slowed me a little. I waited until somebody else took a photo and the picture police started yelling at them, and then I would discreetly do my natural light thing. I got some good shots, too.

Let me go tangential here for a moment and tell you a quick story about Joe Gresh. He is a great guy to travel with and I’d go anywhere with him. We both have a twisted, extremely wry, and very corny sense of humor. He cringed every time I said something I thought was clever, and I did the same with him. I enjoyed being with him on this trip immensely. The guy just has a way with words, which is readily apparent in his columns for Motorcyclist magazine. Anyway, as we walked along one of the landscaped Mo Gao pathways, I noticed a ground-mounted speaker that was in a plastic case designed to look like one of the naturally-occurring rocks. It blended in well with other real rocks along the path. I pointed to it and said to Joe, “Look at that…even a thousand years ago, these Buddhist monks had electric speakers…”

Gresh, without missing a beat, responded with, “Yeah, they loved their grotto blasters…”

I slept well that night in our unusually upscale hotel. I probably had dreams along the lines of an Indiana Jones movie plot, but I didn’t remember any of them. I was tired when I called it a night and I felt refreshed the next morning. This was the trip of a lifetime, and I was enjoying the hell out of it.

So there you have it. The Mo Gao Grottos. Lost in time nearly a thousand years, only to be discovered again a few years ago. And we were there. Indiana Jones? You bet! And if you want to read the earlier Indy in China blog about the Romans, it’s right here!

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