The brightening of the eastern sky ahead was a welcome sight, giving
promise that the cold night was nearly over and we would soon be riding in comfort. This route into
Death Valley was a pleasant experience, with the twisting pavement finally offering the type of riding
we had been hoping to find, and the temperature rising to a pleasant degree with the drop in altitude.
Finally, at around 6:00 AM, we arrived at the motel at Stovepipe Wells
and found the front desk. The night before, I'd phoned them from farther north to assure the
management that we would indeed be arriving eventually, just hold the room and charge the credit card.
So it didn't take long to get checked in and parked in front of our room, the luggage unloaded and stowed
inside its spacious air-conditioned comfort.
Arriving when we did, just a short time after sunrise, there were people
already up and about, enjoying the cool of the morning before the hot desert sun began beating down on
this little oasis. This reminded me that breakfast would soon be prepared, and I was feeling hungry
after our all-night ride with its chilly temperatures. Russ preferred to inspect the back side of
his eyelids for the moment, so I left to wander about, hoping to locate the dining room as well as
find any others from the COG group.
There was a lovely swimming pool near our room, and it dawned on me that
I'd forgotten to include a pair of swimming trunks in my packing. Guess being surrounded by snow
when I was packing at home had pushed the thought of swimming from my mind. This wouldn't be the
last time I'd regret not having the proper gear for taking a dip.
As the sun climbed higher in the sky a few more of the vacationers came
out of their rooms into the rapidly-warming daylight, and I started meeting some of the riders who had
ridden to the spot the previous day. Soon I was seated at breakfast with a couple of them, and we
began to get acquainted over our morning refreshment. It was nice, finally being able to relax with
no distant destination imploring me to hurry.
While I realized I should lay down and get some rest, I was feeling good
after breakfast, and there was too much to do and see for me to feel sleepy. Many of the riders took
off for a circuit of the valley that would take them over passes and through all the most scenic areas.
Having just parked the bike, and afraid that I might be too tired to keep up with all these fresh riders,
I decided to stay closer to the motel. In a little while Russ was up and ready to take a ride with
me, so we headed south to investigate the rest of the valley floor.
By now the sun was beating down, and although it was a "dry" heat, it was
still mighty hot for two Alaskans dressed in motorcycling gear. Our first stop was at the Furnace
Creek Visitors Center to grab something cool to drink and to discuss our potential route. We decided
to see how bad it could get and headed on south toward the spot marked on the map as the lowest elevation
in North America at 282 ft. below sea level.
While we rode, I kept a close watch on my digital thermometer, as I was
interested in what extremes this whole tour would present. Watching as the digits climbed above 100,
hovering at 103°F for several miles, then climbing again as we continued to descend, the highest reading
that stayed on the display for more than a few seconds was 105. Perfect! I prefer nice, even
numbers, and with the -15°F that I'd recorded 4½ days earlier this would make the extremes 120° apart -
good enough for me. So as we approached the turn off to Artists Loop I slowed and turned in, coming
to a stop on the edge of the side road. However, as soon as the bike quit moving the heat from the
fairing and the engine below it hit the sensor and the temperature indication quickly hit 120 and
climbing. I'd wanted to take a photo of the high temperature, so this wouldn't do. We could sit
there in the sun, waiting until the indication came back down, and if either of us lived long enough, we could
snap the photo for our survivors to enjoy. Somehow that didn't appeal to our sense of logic, so
we had to come up with another plan.
Russ had a bottle of juice that he'd purchased back at the Visitors Center,
so I asked him to put a drop or two on the sensor to cool it off. That worked - too well. Now
the display indicated it was only 89° out there. Well, nothing to do now but wait, as we knew it
would climb back up, and all I had to do was be ready when it passed through 105 once more.
Now Russ had shown a lot of patience with me and my idiosyncrasies
to this point, but I believe his patience was growing thin as he stood there in the still, hot air,
with the bright California sun beating down on his black FirstGear jacket while I waited for the exact
moment to snap my photo. Finally the numerals appeared as they should, I got the shot and put my
camera away, and we continued through the twists and turns of Artists Loop.
Most riders are familiar with the fact that if you are riding at 53 F,
and the temperature drops to 52 F, you can feel it nearly instantly. For me, it was the same way on
the Alcan as the temperature dropped from -12 to -13, then to -14, etc. But Death Valley was off my
personal scale. There was no sensible difference from 100 to 105°F, so far as I could discern. For
this test I'd purposely left the Mira-Cool vest in the motel room, wanting to see what effect the heat
would have on me, and how long it would be before I noticed it. Didn't take long. About 30 miles
after we left the last stop (at least it seemed that far, might not have been), I started feeling the
first hint of nausea. Told Russ it was time to turn around. We got back to the Visitor Center all
right, and sat in the shade sipping iced tea for a while before venturing out into the sun again.
After getting back to the motel room at Stovepipe Wells we got cleaned up
and ready to attend the dinner party that was planned for the evening. A good crowd showed up, with
most coming from other parts of California. Frank Taylor and his lovely wife had ridden in from Salt
Lake City, Utah, "Idaho" Bob Rainey from his home state, and if my failing memory isn't too far off,
there were a couple of gentlemen from Texas. Wherever we came from, I believe the feeling was
unanimous that it was worth the distance. As with nearly all such gatherings, the lies and
tire-kicking continued into the night until heavy eyelids and planned early-morning departures brought
it all to a close.
Sunday, April 14, 2002 Stovepipe Wells, Death Valley, California
With no real schedule to keep to today, Russ and I made a late departure
from the motel. So late, in fact, I was afraid I'd be charged another day's room rent. But the
management was generous, and we got off with just the standard outrageous charge. It was in the
mid-80's as we headed west out of the Valley, and not unpleasant at all, now that we had acclimated.
Just to be safe though, I was wearing a Mira-Cool vest that had been soaking in water all night.
Combined with the extremely low humidity, this was as good as having air-conditioning - until we stopped
for gas at Lone Pine. But a cold bottle of iced tea took care of that until we were once again underway,
this time back north on US-395. We were going to retrace the route the others had ridden the
previous day, but in the opposite direction.
Arriving at Big Pine, we turned east toward Death Valley once again.
We'd been told that CA-168 crawled over two passes between the Nevada line and Big Pine, and provided
some great scenery. Having the time to enjoy the side trip, we were looking forward to it.
Coming down from Westgard Pass, and out of the trees, I turned back to
use the natural "facilities" the way we find ourselves doing in Alaska. While back a ways off the
road, I heard a motorcycle stop very near where mine was parked. Soon I heard a voice calling to
see if I was all right. I responded that I was merely answering nature's call, and the rider
acknowledged and rode off again. As he pulled away, I could make out enough of the bright red bike
to (mis)identify it as an ST1100. After all, aren't all ST1100's red?
Russ was waiting down the road a mile or two at a large gravel pull out,
and when I pulled in, he was ready to go again. I led as we continued east, past Spring Creek Ranch,
and up the hill toward the final pass prior to entering Nevada. As I got to the top - Gilbert Summit
- I pulled off onto a gravel patch to take some photos of the panorama spread out behind me while I
waited for Russ to catch up. And waited. And waited.
After a few minutes, I sensed that things were not as they should be.
There were no good spots to pull off and take pictures until this one, so Russ should be coming on up.
I'd better go back, it could be that this climb, combined with the heat and elevation, caused his bike
to act up and maybe quit on him. Not sure what I might find, I headed back down from the summit.
About half a mile from the top, the driver of an oncoming car flagged
me down. "Your friend ran off the road, but he's okay", she told me. And then went on to
describe how far back down the road he was. This was not the news I wanted to hear, but at least
Russ was okay, although how good "okay" was could be open to interpretation.
When I got near where Russ was standing, I felt much better. At least
he was able to walk around. His bike was down off the side of the road, in among some little
desert bushes, which were trying unsuccessfully to hide some rather large, nasty looking rocks.
By this time Russ had detached as many things from his bike as were readily detachable, as well as
a few things that shouldn't have been. His windshield was history, there was a deep ding in the
gas tank, one bag had been ripped loose from its binding, and the handlebar was tweaked severely.
Other damage surfaced much later, as we proceeded toward Las Vegas.
From the looks of the tracks, Russ had apparently taken the left-hander
a little wide, and once onto the loose gravel of the narrow shoulder, it was all she wrote. The
big rock right in his path as he headed out across the landscape didn't help, either.
When I arrived at the scene of the mishap, a very helpful gentleman had
already pulled up in his SUV and was doing what he could to help Russ. A few moments later a
motorcyclist pulled up and parked on the shoulder near where we were looking at the bike. As he
pulled up, I recognized the bright red as probably being the same one I had seen pulling away while
I was standing behind the tree earlier, and now noticed it was a PC800, not the ST1100 I had assumed
it to be. But when the rider removed his helmet, I was astounded to see that it was someone I
recognized from having dined with him in Glennallen, Alaska the previous summer. Will Edwards,
from near Seattle, Washington, just happened to be riding the same lonely road across the north
edge of Death Valley that Russ and I had chosen. Talk about a small world!
While I would rather have met Will again under better circumstances,
it was really good to see him again. A retired motor officer, he has many, many years of
experience on two wheels, and was certain to be a welcome addition to our little company. As
we stood there talking, Will told us that he had been heading for Las Vegas to see the "Art of the
Motorcycle" exhibit, as we were planning to do. Thus it was that we became three.
The helpful gentleman in the SUV lived in Las Vegas, and offered to
transport some of Russ' belongings to his home where we could pick them up later, after Russ got his
bike in better shape for carrying all the gear. So off we went, Russ in the lead, Will and I
following. As luck (bad) would have it, we were riding into a fierce headwind almost all the way
into Las Vegas, and with no windshield Russ was having quite a battle, hanging on to his bent handlebars
while nursing some soreness in his neck and back.