- Joined
- May 4, 2015
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- Bike
- BMW R1200GS Adventure
Day 9: Moab to Bluff via Hanksville: (continued)
At the Tamarisk, I spotted an older gentleman with a fully kitted-out Yamaha T7, clearly a seasoned adventurer with stories to tell. He is a solo rider who has been on the road for more than 6 weeks already, wild camping as he go… (With good quality kit: Klim Badlands suit and the rest is Mosko Moto).
Over breakfast Vaughn shares the reason for his grumpiness, he thinks he is developing a bout of pancreatitis. But don’t worry I have something for it in my bag he consoles me. I hope that the lavish breakfast will help with the cure but not long after we get onto Route 24 leading towards Hanksville we pull over. He pulls out the insulin syringe and gives himself a quadruple shot of insulin and takes another tablet or two. “I must hit this really hard and fast otherwise my trip will be over” he says while lifting his shirt for the injection. He clearly has done this before so I’m confident that he will pull through. “Oh, and there I was, thinking you were just your sarcastic and grumpy self” I say to him. He gives a wry smile and says “Snarky”. I shot him a puzzled look, to which he responded, "Snarky... the word you're searching for is “snarky”." I will have to wait until I get a Wi-Fi signal to look up the meaning this new addition to my vocabulary…
I take a couple of pics of the desert flowers next to the road. You know he says, this road reminds me of the road between Keetmanshoop and Aus. Yeah, you are right. But there is one key ingredient missing I say. He gives me a puzzled look, and what would that be he asks? You remember when we left Keetmanshoop I pointed them out to you? The African flower you remember? Oh, you can keep your fucking plastic bags. But I keep going… I think I should arrange a container full of plastic bags to be shipped over here and we can come and “plant” them on our next trip. It will spice up the dull scenery a bit I try to convince him.
Just before Hanksville we start to see a couple of sandstone gorges. This would be sign of things to come.
So, there we were, just about to cross the majestic Colorado River when something on the map caught my eye – Route 276 leading to Bullfrog. "Hey, this could be a fun little detour," I thought to myself, envisioning the extra bit of adventure it promised. The map showed that this detour would reconnect with Route 95 further down the road, towards Blanding. But what really sparked my excitement was the mention of a ferry ride across the Colorado River. "How cool would that be?" I mused, already sold on the idea.
Eager to suggest this spontaneous change of plans, I was momentarily deflated to see a sign indicating that the ferry service was temporarily unavailable. "Ah well, adventure still calls," I said, as we decided to press on. Soon enough, we stumbled upon a breath-taking spot, adorned with some of the most stunning rock formations you can image. With a car parked a little way down the road, I took the opportunity to wander off and snap some pictures, immersing myself in the natural beauty of the place. We were passing through Canyonlands National Park on the left side and the Glen Canyon National recreational Area on our right.
Upon my return, I noticed Vaughn chatting with someone. As I approached, Vaughn introduced me, and the topic of my being from Africa came up. The gentleman was immediately intrigued, sharing stories of how his sister and brother-in-law were practically aficionados of African adventures, having travelled extensively across South Africa, Botswana, Namibia, Kenya, Tanzania and Zambia. "They adore it, except for Nigeria; they're not keen on going back there," he mentioned, which didn't entirely surprise me. He then asked if I had ever visited his, now hometown, St. Louis, sparking a lively exchange of stories.
I recounted a memorable experience from the late '90s in St. Louis, involving a Cardinals baseball game. Just as I was settling into my seat, the atmosphere electrified, culminating in Mark McGwire hitting his record-breaking 62nd home run of the season, surpassing Sammy Sosa's previous record. The crowd's euphoria was contagious, even though I had barely grasped the significance of the moment at the time.
The gentleman, now visibly animated by my story, shared a fascinating anecdote of his own. Growing up in Pomona, California, in the late 1960s, he played ball with a “freckle-faced, red-haired kid” they called Little Markie-Mark. Little did he know, this kid would grow up to be none other than Mark McGwire himself. "It's amazing where life takes us," he reflected, marvelling at the unexpected journeys of people we once knew.
An interesting aspect of our encounter was his adherence to a 3-meter social distance, a habit lingering from the days of the Covid pandemic. Observing this, I playfully moved around, pretending to capture photos from various angles, and noticed he maintained the distance, adjusting his position with every move I made. It felt like a dance of sorts, each of us maintaining our spots in a constantly shifting triangle, almost like magnets repelling each other. It was a subtle yet amusing reminder of the times we were living in, adding an extra layer of uniqueness to our chance meeting.
After hitting the road south on Route 191, our next pit stop was a quaint little gas station at White Mesa. The petrol pump had a sign on the that read: "Stay on the trail. (Unless you've got hooves)." It was like stepping into a scene straight out of a western movie, especially when a couple of authentic cowboys – the real deal, not the pretend kind I encountered in Ely – sauntered in, each walking out with a six-pack of beers under their arm.
At the Tamarisk, I spotted an older gentleman with a fully kitted-out Yamaha T7, clearly a seasoned adventurer with stories to tell. He is a solo rider who has been on the road for more than 6 weeks already, wild camping as he go… (With good quality kit: Klim Badlands suit and the rest is Mosko Moto).
Over breakfast Vaughn shares the reason for his grumpiness, he thinks he is developing a bout of pancreatitis. But don’t worry I have something for it in my bag he consoles me. I hope that the lavish breakfast will help with the cure but not long after we get onto Route 24 leading towards Hanksville we pull over. He pulls out the insulin syringe and gives himself a quadruple shot of insulin and takes another tablet or two. “I must hit this really hard and fast otherwise my trip will be over” he says while lifting his shirt for the injection. He clearly has done this before so I’m confident that he will pull through. “Oh, and there I was, thinking you were just your sarcastic and grumpy self” I say to him. He gives a wry smile and says “Snarky”. I shot him a puzzled look, to which he responded, "Snarky... the word you're searching for is “snarky”." I will have to wait until I get a Wi-Fi signal to look up the meaning this new addition to my vocabulary…
I take a couple of pics of the desert flowers next to the road. You know he says, this road reminds me of the road between Keetmanshoop and Aus. Yeah, you are right. But there is one key ingredient missing I say. He gives me a puzzled look, and what would that be he asks? You remember when we left Keetmanshoop I pointed them out to you? The African flower you remember? Oh, you can keep your fucking plastic bags. But I keep going… I think I should arrange a container full of plastic bags to be shipped over here and we can come and “plant” them on our next trip. It will spice up the dull scenery a bit I try to convince him.
Just before Hanksville we start to see a couple of sandstone gorges. This would be sign of things to come.
So, there we were, just about to cross the majestic Colorado River when something on the map caught my eye – Route 276 leading to Bullfrog. "Hey, this could be a fun little detour," I thought to myself, envisioning the extra bit of adventure it promised. The map showed that this detour would reconnect with Route 95 further down the road, towards Blanding. But what really sparked my excitement was the mention of a ferry ride across the Colorado River. "How cool would that be?" I mused, already sold on the idea.
Eager to suggest this spontaneous change of plans, I was momentarily deflated to see a sign indicating that the ferry service was temporarily unavailable. "Ah well, adventure still calls," I said, as we decided to press on. Soon enough, we stumbled upon a breath-taking spot, adorned with some of the most stunning rock formations you can image. With a car parked a little way down the road, I took the opportunity to wander off and snap some pictures, immersing myself in the natural beauty of the place. We were passing through Canyonlands National Park on the left side and the Glen Canyon National recreational Area on our right.
Upon my return, I noticed Vaughn chatting with someone. As I approached, Vaughn introduced me, and the topic of my being from Africa came up. The gentleman was immediately intrigued, sharing stories of how his sister and brother-in-law were practically aficionados of African adventures, having travelled extensively across South Africa, Botswana, Namibia, Kenya, Tanzania and Zambia. "They adore it, except for Nigeria; they're not keen on going back there," he mentioned, which didn't entirely surprise me. He then asked if I had ever visited his, now hometown, St. Louis, sparking a lively exchange of stories.
I recounted a memorable experience from the late '90s in St. Louis, involving a Cardinals baseball game. Just as I was settling into my seat, the atmosphere electrified, culminating in Mark McGwire hitting his record-breaking 62nd home run of the season, surpassing Sammy Sosa's previous record. The crowd's euphoria was contagious, even though I had barely grasped the significance of the moment at the time.
The gentleman, now visibly animated by my story, shared a fascinating anecdote of his own. Growing up in Pomona, California, in the late 1960s, he played ball with a “freckle-faced, red-haired kid” they called Little Markie-Mark. Little did he know, this kid would grow up to be none other than Mark McGwire himself. "It's amazing where life takes us," he reflected, marvelling at the unexpected journeys of people we once knew.
An interesting aspect of our encounter was his adherence to a 3-meter social distance, a habit lingering from the days of the Covid pandemic. Observing this, I playfully moved around, pretending to capture photos from various angles, and noticed he maintained the distance, adjusting his position with every move I made. It felt like a dance of sorts, each of us maintaining our spots in a constantly shifting triangle, almost like magnets repelling each other. It was a subtle yet amusing reminder of the times we were living in, adding an extra layer of uniqueness to our chance meeting.
After hitting the road south on Route 191, our next pit stop was a quaint little gas station at White Mesa. The petrol pump had a sign on the that read: "Stay on the trail. (Unless you've got hooves)." It was like stepping into a scene straight out of a western movie, especially when a couple of authentic cowboys – the real deal, not the pretend kind I encountered in Ely – sauntered in, each walking out with a six-pack of beers under their arm.
