Custer’s (and very nearly my) last stand

A Motorbiking saga in two parts

Part Two – Cascading Mistakes Prompt Early Exit

The “Big Summer Tour 2009” route plan included one funky collection of roads in Montana that would lead from the Little Big Horn battlefield to Red Lodge, a welcome night in the KOA campground and a next day ride across the Bear Tooth Highway and into Yellowstone National Park. But that was not to be.

Readers of this blog have realized by now that I don’t typically write in first person, but this one time (I hope) I’m going to break with tradition, because there really is no other way to tell this particular part of the story.

So, I rode all the way from Thermopolis, Wyoming, to the Little Big Horn fueled only by the wonderfully greasy and delicious breakfast I had in Greybull. I assumed there would be some kind of food (and air conditioning) at the national monument. There was neither. Mistake number one.

Because it was ungodly hot, I rushed through my tour of the monument and forgot to take a break – you know, sit in the shade, drink some water, take it easy. Mistake number two.

The little mini-mart at the Little Big Horn looked pretty unappetizing, so I assumed there would be someplace to eat in the next town, Crow Agency. Mistake number three.

I had chosen a route from Crow Agency to Red Lodge that was pretty obscure and most likely would include some unimproved roads. The names of the roads should have been a clue. I took the Crow St. X cutoff to State Road 313 to the Prior St. Xavier Highway, where, as predicted, it turned into Prior Road – a pea-sized gravel ranch road. Mistake number five.

So, now I’m really tired, really hungry and really thirsty. Add on top of that the fact that I got hit right in the breastbone by a honeybee at 80 m.p.h near the little burg of St. Xavier. The little buzzer amazingly survived the impact and crawled around in my jacket stinging me at least once in the middle of the chest. It was several minutes before I figured out what the heck was happening, get to a stop and do the wacky “I got a bee in my jacket” dance. Should’ve taken a break right then, but didn’t. Mistake number four.

As I rode Edgar Road all was going well, the gravel was loose and dusty but in pretty good shape and in my addled mind I could see a glistening Tasty Freeze in the little town of Edgar just a few miles ahead – mmmmm ice cream treats. Daydreaming; mistake number six.

As I approached Edgar I came down a hill, going 35-40 mph, standing up on the pegs. At the bottom of the hill I hit a patch of deep gravel and the rear tire on my 2006 R1200GS washed out right. I counter-steered, but not enough and the tire washed out left, just a little bigger. Mistake number seven.

Instead of giving it a bit of gas, I rolled off the power just a bit, and it made my loss-of-traction issue even more serious. Mistake number eight.

The rear tire oscillated back to the right, at a much higher wavelength this time. I tried to get my weight back and up on top of that rear tire, but it was too little too late. Mistake number nine.

The tire whipped back left and the bike went down hard on its right side as I did my best to do a standard “dirt bike get off” but I slammed into the road on my right side, skidding head first as my helmet filled with light brown dust and gravel. I don’t know if I lost consciousness or not, at the time I didn’t think so, but it was such a remote landing site that there were no other vehicles or witnesses, so I really have no way of knowing. To me it seemed that I instantly got up and began to assess the damages to both myself and the motorbike, but I could have been out for some time.

Happily, my Aerostich combat-lite riding boots and Roadcrafter jacket performed as advertised. My Nolan helmet was essentially totaled, but my face was untouched. Later I’d discover quite a nice “hangman’s” bruise on my neck from the chinstrap, and I’d develop a black right eye, but other than that the helmet performed very well. No cuts, no blood, no broken bones. No mistakes made here. I was going to be sore, though, and black and blue all over.

So, I figured I’d grunt the motorbike up on its wheels and be on my way. Unfortunately, my beloved GS was down for the count. Headlight and instrument cluster totaled. The front fork and the handlebar were decidedly out of alignment; seriously bent. The right side cylinder head was cracked and leaking oil – its protective crash bar bent all the way back and broken at the welds. No point in even trying to start it.

Even though I was about six miles from Edgar, there was good cell phone coverage. After dialing 911 I had about a ten-minute wait for the arrival of a Montana State Trooper. The motorbike was eventually hauled to a U-Haul rental place where it could be loaded for the long ride home inside the truck’s box.

These are the moments when you find out who your friends really are. One of mine dropped everything and flew from Santa Fe to Billings the next day to help me drive the bent and broken BMW back to its final resting place. That same friend would come to the aid of my frightened wife when I developed a fairly common concussion-related syndrome one week later that would land me in the hospital for four days.

My medical malady turned out to be something called “syndrome of inappropriate anti-diuretic hormone secretion” or SIADH, and I’d advise anyone who has experienced even a minor concussion or blow to the head to be on the lookout for this particular reaction, also known as “hponatremia,” because it’s pretty freaky and, in my experience, hard to diagnose.

Happy Ending

Exactly one month after the Montana crash I took possession of a new 2009 R1200GS Adventure. My State Farm Insurance agent (also an avid rider) did an amazing job guiding me through the claims process for my totaled ’06, paving the way for the purchase of the GSA. Now all I have to do is remain patient through the long, long, snowy winter until the 2010 riding season starts – so I can go on the next tour, and finish one this time.

Custer’s (and very nearly my) last stand

A Motorbiking saga in two parts

Part One – The Little Big Horn

Because of classic shows like “Bonanza,” Gunsmoke,” “The Lone Ranger,” and “The Rifleman,” the lore of the old west is engrained in anyone who watched TV in the 1960s.

The ultimate old west tale – one taken from real life – is the story of Custer’s Last Stand, the battle of the Little Big Horn, June 25, 1876. Adding to the fascination is the more modern difficulty that Americans have with how this country’s indigenous people were treated by those American through immigration.

It’s for these reasons, and others, that the site of the battle in southern Montana is a fairly major attraction that would be a really major attraction if it weren’t located in the middle of nowhere. But for the motorbiker, the middle of nowhere is sometimes the ideal, especially when it’s combined with the boyhood fantasy of joining the Calvary, strapping on a six-shooter, holstering a Remington, and doing some old fashioned Indian fighting.

Luckily we grow out of most of our boyhood fantasies – hopefully all of the politically incorrect ones, anyway.

One fantasy remains, though, to stand where Custer and hismen once stood, where they drew their last breaths, to look out over the landscape that they saw for the last time. To try to understand better why it happened the way it did.

Getting to the Little Big Horn Battlefield National Monument is a hike. Steadfastly avoiding the highway makes getting there even more of a hike, but a hike well worth the effort.

One route begins in Thermopolis, Wyoming, and winds its way north on U.S. 20 through rich farmland to Greybull. At Greybull you head east on U.S. 14 and the ride gets really interesting. Winding your way through the Bighorn National Forest is a real blast because of both the exhilarating road and gorgeous scenery. After you crest the mountaintop and pass Burgess Junction the road gets even more interesting. Ride this one right away because they’re building a new road even as we speak that takes out about 90 percent of the coolest curves you’ll ever ride.

At Dayton you can take State Road 343 to U.S. 87 north to Lodge Grass, or stay on U.S. 14 and take Interstate 90 all the way to the National Monument.

The Little Big Horn Battlefield National Monument has a small museum that does a good job of giving nearly equal time to both sides of the story, native and military. Several of the park service personnel are Native Americans and they add credibility to the interpretive explanation of the times and motivations. The walk up to “Last Stand Hill” is a somber one, given that the whole place is basically a big graveyard.

Standing at the monument to the fallen U.S. soldiers you’re struck by the smallness of the battlefield and reminded that fighting a war from horseback is a decidedly smaller scale experience than the more contemporary, 20th century battles.

In summertime, bring water and food if you can. It’s blast-furnace hot and there is precious little infrastructure near the site other than a gas station with a mini-mart.

The distances between stops in this part of the country are immense. Infrastructure is sparse – so the old rule of “eat, sleep and poop when you can” really applies because you can’t be sure there’s an Applebee’s in the next town over – meaning you can inadvertently find yourself overly hungry, tired, and distracted at the end of a long journey. In fact you could easily find yourself at journey’s end.

Oxygen is Overrated

One of the things you have to both love and hate about places like Estes Park, Colorado, is how kitchy-touristy it all is. Estes Park is the gateway to Rocky Mountain National Park, and at 7,800 ft. the one true tourist items seemingly everywhere is a t-shirt emblazoned with what must be the town motto, “oxygen is overrated.”

All roads westward from Estes Park lead to the mountains. And for a $10 motorbike entrance fee you can experience a glorious road called the “Trail Ridge Road,” that fully lives up to its name. The road climbs and climbs and climbs, you almost hear a voice in your head say, “the Captain has turned off the seatbelt sign, so you’re free to move about the cabin.” And the road offers up more twisties than you can almost imagine.

This is not a road build for speed, however. The scenery is so spectacular that motorbikers and motorists alike will be craning their necks to take in the vistas, watching the road is a definite afterthought – so speed is not recommended. Even in July, the weather at the top of the world is decidedly windy and a cold 50 degrees. The ridge road tops out at about 12,200 ft., well above the tree-line. There are parts of the road that really feel tilty, like you’re about to tip over and go a-tumblin’ down. And, boy is the air thin. Thankfully, the R1200GS, like all newer oil-head beemers, is equipped with computer-controlled fuel injection, so the bike automatically adjusts for the lack of Oh-Two in the atmosphere, and so the bike never falters.

The rider, on the other hand, should be reminded to breathe in-and-out, try not to death-grip the handlebar, and pay no attention to that pounding pulse you feel in your temples – it’ll pass when you get back down below 10,000 ft. The GS dualsport proves its worth once again as the road from Timber Creek to Grand Lake is under construction and reduced to loose gravel, torn up asphalt and base-course. The street-knobby Metzeler Tourance tires bite right in and never miss a beat. Grand Lake really is grand – even zooming by at 55 mph.

Other nearby roads to recommend: Colorado 125 that connects Granby – on the western side of RM National Park – with Walden. It travels through the Arapaho National Forest and is just a blast. Another is Wyoming 789/US20 north out of Riverton. This road leads into Thermopolis, Wyoming, dropping into the Big Horn River Canyon – a surprise bit of beautiful, majestic topography in an otherwise flat, unadorned landscape. Not to be missed.

So, take a deep breath. Then another. Air Traffic control has given you go-ahead to throttle-up your motorbike and climb to flight-level One-Two Thousand at Rocky Mountain National Park.

Sometimes You Forget

Sometimes you forget how truly beautiful America is, particularly the Rocky Mountain southwest.  Sometimes you forget how much fun it is to be out on the motorbike, especially when it’s been a year or longer since the last big tour.  Sometimes you forget that there’s an America away from the Interstate.  Sometimes you forget that the people of that America are, well, nice.

Take Fairplay, Colorado for example.  Just a tad more than 300 miles straight north of home-base, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Fairplay is located on US285 – which also happens to run right through the City Different.  It’s a hardscrabble 

little town nestled in a wide, expansive valley, surrounded by peaks still dusted with snow in July and bereft of vegetation – as they all tower more than 11,000 ft. – the arborist’s dreaded tree-line.

Seeking a place to rest for the night you may want to try the tiny local U.S. Forest Service office, located right at the town’s main crossroads.  First thing you’ll notice is the welcomi

ng “I really want to help you” smile fromthe young woman behind the counter.  This is not a forced “corporate performance measure” smile – sometimes you forget that there’s a difference between a smile that’s part of an employee’s job and a smile that’s genuine.

The Forest Service maintains two idyllic (except for the mosquitoes) campgrounds near Fairplay, Horseshoe and Four Mile.  The Ranger is

actually camped out at the entrance to Horseshoe and also smiles a genuine smile, and is dedicated to finding campers a place to set up for the night.  When the campgrounds fill up, people are not turned away – instead the Ranger creates a makeshift little village of tents in a nearby grassy field usually used to park vehicles during firewood collection season.

The campsites are well groomed and the Forest Service restroom is typically as clean as a whistle.  The whole camping experience is very nearly perfect, but the ultra-aggressive, dive-bombing, Colorado Attack Skeeter very nearly ruins the experience.  Bring DEET.

Sometimes you forget how much fun it is to steadfastly avoid Fast Food America and resolve to seek out, whenever possible, those little mom-and-pop eating establishments. (Full disclosure, this blog was written in a Barnes & Noble Starbucks Café. Hey! Nobody’s perfect).  In Fairplay, it’s the Brown Burro restaurant, espresso bar and ice cream parlor.

The Brown Burro serves all meals, including a delicious breakfast.  If you are one of those who believe that hot food should be hot, then sit at the little four-place counter in front, and more than likely the owner, George Davis, will personally hand you your plate right out of the kitchen window.  As you gather up your helmet and motorbike jacket, don’t be surprised if each and every employee – including George – says something like, “have a great ride today,” and “please be careful and ride safely,” and, you know, they really mean it. 

Fairplay is steeped in the Old West.  The town itself looks like most of it was built around the

turn of the last century.  If you like your Old West towns to look a set from an old John Ford movie, then a visit to the 1880s restored mining town and museum, South Park City, is a must.  It’s located right in Fairplay – and though it might be a little rough around the edges and a bit cliché, a couple from Iowa with three very active youngsters said the kids loved it.

So here’s to remembering – Colorado is gorgeous, the people – in Fairplay at least – are warm and welcoming.  And the motorbike is just a fabulous way to take it all in.