Tag Archives: National Parks

Costa Rica

Costa Rica was near the top of my keen to visit countries.  Sadly, it’s obviously high up on a lot of other peoples’ lists too as many areas are full of tourist shops and attractions which are teeming with foreigners.  Everything was top dollar – the costs had rocketed!  Gid hasn’t stopped whinging.

We picked a fair sized town, Liberia, for ease of finding our first accommodation in Costa Rica but found that full.  A motel along the highway just beyond it did the job although the roar of traffic through the night barely stopped.  The dipping pool was one very pleasing bonus after what felt like a long hot day – Central American border crossing days always feel like that, although pouring rain might be even worse.

Our second night’s stop was in a much more rural area, right on the edge of Rincon de Vieja National park, where we were told that we could stay for only one night because they had a coach load coming tomorrow – although a campsite was available.  This kind of booking was verified as common by a very nice English couple, who had joined us at the previous night’s motel, having just flown in from the UK and like us found the town up the road full.  They told us their itinerary and explained that when Booking.com says it’s full just phone the place and they’ve probably got space.  ‘The tour companies make block bookings and then can’t fill all the spaces so they’ll have rooms spare’ we were told.  Our hearts sank.  This was supposed to be one of my prized countries to explore and here we were on a roller coaster tourist track.

At Rincon de Vieja we did at least get away from the tourist trail approaching via it’s ‘back door’ along dirt roads to a shut gate.  Thankfully a man came out from the bushes, charging us a National Park entry fee he gave us access to the park.   Once settled in our accommodation we took a local walk through the woods to a cataract but got more than we bargained for.  The morning after I woke up at 4:15am in a panic because I had ‘things stuck to my legs’. Bed bugs?  No internet to check!  Ticks we discovered, once our online research told us to count their legs (8). Gid delved into the First Aid kit for the tick remover tool, and we spent a tedious hour clearing each other’s wrinkly bits. Sadly, we found a few more over the next 24 hours. I thought I’d probably picked them up weeing in the woods on our walk but we were both covered in them.  15 – 20 each!  We were still in a state of hysteria when, a few hours later, we piled into a car with two other people to go on a sloth seeking tour near La Fortuna.  With a sigh of relief we settled once the guide told us that there are no deer here so no Lymes Disease but a wash down with alcohol would be a good idea.

Reaching speeds of 70km per hour is quite exhilarating at first but by La Fortuna’s fifth zipline wire I was a bit ‘Done That’.  Thankfully there was a Tarzan swing line to try out too.  We both enjoyed the ride but wouldn’t seek it out again unlike our fellow zipliner who said she seeks them out and has done many. 

Our sloth tour and bird watching trip, both with guide Jose, had more lasting impact.  Seven sloths with one slightly moving was awesome as were the two different sorts of toucans on our bird watching tour. The local frogs were pretty cool too. Costa Rica is famously good for wildlife spotting, which is much easier with local guides who communally know where the beasties lurk. However, a rather sad observation has been made that the wildlife spotting is easy partly because so much forest has been cleared that the wildlife is now crammed into relatively small areas, separated from each other by grazing and farming clearances. The country clearly manifests a conservation ethic, but like the UK’s, a lot of primary forest is gone. With the realisation of what it’s lost Costa Rica is now trying to regenerate areas of forest.

(Photos taken through a spotting scope were taken by the guides, using our phones).

  • At Rincon
  • Typical Sloth Sighting – Furball
  • Jose’s bird table!
  • Poisonous!
  • This motmot was on our last day in CR

San Jose

Having indulged in total tourism for a couple of days it was back to more serious stuff.  Our bikes were booked in to be serviced at a main dealer in San Jose and we had two parcels to collect.  One was from the UK.  A collection of lost, broken or never realised it would be so useful items collected by Jo, Gid’s sister, and sent to a DHL collection point.   A second parcel collected by Jared, a Bunk-a-Biker host, who had been kind enough to receive several Amazon orders.  Well, one order came twice and the third not at all.  Such was Amazon and the US postal system.  All gratefully received.  Christmas had come!

Gid: Although I had done the last few services, I decided to get the bikes professionally listened to at 24,000 miles, and certainly a quality wheel repair was beyond my abilities. My deteriorating front wheel was more thoroughly repaired than it had been in Mexico – the workshop replaced the steering head bearings too, presumably this was a consequence of the last few weeks wobbly front end.  We got new chains, although the current ones were not yet a problem, they had done 12,000 miles or so. We left the tyres, although they give us a dilemma – there’s plenty of tread left by road standards, but at what point will they become a liability on dirt and mud?

In San Jose, like in Mexico City and Guatemala City, our choice for a place to stay was a yuppie flat complex. This time we were on the 29th floor, in a studio flat, with spectacular views – including views into the next door flats – privacy was a little lacking. The building’s décor was a so-Hispanic mix of really fancy, surrealist stuff, and unfinished blank concrete. But, it had good parking, and a really rather good gym. Legs didn’t really need a gym, with 29 flights of stairs available. There were a few interesting places to visit in San Jose, although, definitely, too many pots in the museum.

The Pacific beach at Uvita was a spectacular beauty, a cliched arc of pale sand with coconut palms on one side and blue waves on the other – waves and howler monkeys competing.  The serious boardies stay a little to the north, where Dominical has expert grade waves. Uvita has gentler stuff and was sparsely dotted with beachgoers and a few boardies at the small breaks. The sea water was cool bath temperature, barely cooling at all.  Although it was overcast, I was dripping sweat after 1 and a half laps of the beach, while Clare collected sand dollars and admired the agile crabs running over her foot.

The only outstanding bike job was to fix my rear pannier.  I’d got too close to a truck when lane splitting in Guatemala City, and the truck’s extended wheel nuts took off my rear pannier corner protection.  A lucky escape!  I should never have been that close.  I could have gone flying.  There’s no spare part, so it has to be bodged:  At the coast a local surf board shaper had no interest in slapping some glass fibre on the corner but the metal worker down the road was happy to cannibalise the pannier’s rear inner corner protection to move it the the front outside corner where the pannier is far more likely to need protection even without me trying to vie for space with a trucker.

At this point, riding in drizzle and mist, we realised that our rear lights basically didn’t work, nor did our brake lights. I had fitted “upgrade” LED bulbs from the UK, in Mexico City (USA bikes are sold with ordinary bulb lamps, unlike everywhere else in the world who get LEDs from the get go. I think it’s called a “non-tariff barrier”). Anyway, obviously crap LEDs, as they’d deteriorated to near invisibility in 6,000 miles. Hazards on then, team! Fortunately the replacement spares (also LEDs) that I’d bought in Mexico City, proved nice and bright.

The Caribbean beach at Cahuita isn’t a patch on the Pacific beaches, but that wasn’t why we’d come. Lonely Planet states that despite some development in recent years it has kept its Caribbean vibe.  True enough, Bob Marley’s One Love amongst many other hits were blasting out of several brightly painted eateries along the coastal road.  Alas, whatever we planned here has to factor in the unseasonal cloud and rain that’s visiting us now.  Locals are appalled – it doesn’t do this. ‘Rain at this time of year will ruin the fruit crop.  The fruits will swell and burst!’  But yes, it’s overcast with some torrential showers. It’s one month short of the rainy season so whether we like it or not we need to get our act together to deal with this wet both on and off the bikes.  Two out of three of our recent dawn choruses had been thunder, the third howler monkeys.

As the “unseasonal” rain continues day after day, gradually confirming that it’s just an early start to the rainy season, we should admit that although unhelpful, it ain’t that bad. Very often, the mornings are fine, with the humidity rising until rain breaks out in the afternoon. A lot of the rain falls overnight – thank goodness for Clare’s brilliant bike covers. We can mitigate it a lot by getting up, and getting going, early. It doesn’t rain every day, either. We do still get caught out occasionally though. And of course, it’s warm rain, being wet is just, well, wet. Not welcome-to-Scotland-in-August-dangerously-hypothermic-wet. Equally, I’ve worked it out now, that if I want to go for a run (which I fail to do weekly), we either have to be at a height of over 1500m, or it has to be raining, otherwise it’s too hot. Which leads to the odd, flapping, flatfooted experience of running in my basic Teva sandals, rather than trainers. Or just occasionally, the treat of running barefoot on a sandy beach.

On the Caribbean we visited the Park National Cahuita but on this occasion we went for the option of a guide.  It’s about 50 – 50 whether or not we get a guide but with a guide we are guaranteed to see some prized wildlife in the area – they know where the beasties are, and the guides in an area share sightings.  This was again the case at the Quetzal National Park (actually just outside at San Gerado de Dota).  In the quetzal park we left at 05:30 with our guide Inaki to stand for the nearly an hour with just a few common birds in our view.  Inaki showed his prized pictures of quetzals, the National bird of Guatemala, in this tree to our left and that one behind us justifying why we were standing here.  Then a whirlwind hit.  The walkie-talkie squawked.  Cars were dashing past, we were legging it to the buggy.  There was a mass exodus down the road where every group found a spot to park, jumped out and joined the throng.  Scopes pitched, necks craned told us where the quetzal was. Three quetzals, in fact.

The dual carriageway, CR32, down towards Limon was our first experience of Costa Rican contraflow traffic.  Cars approaching us at speed was somewhat alarming.  ‘What the heck is this?’  A few more expletives passed between us as the odd car, truck or lorry came hurtling along from the other direction right towards us separated by a thin white line.  Initially, some obstacle was placed in the fast lane to force the traffic to merge into one.  Nothing unusual there.  There is often an obstacle in the road.  From there we were separated by the occasional plastic pole set into a small concrete disc.  So infrequent where they that occasionally a car would cross to overtake before weaving back into our lane.  We got kind of used to that but it went a step further on our return.  Out of the blue there were three arrows on obstacles semi blocking our road pointing leftwards across the central barrier.  Gingerly we went across with no further indication that this was correct.  ‘Local traffic,’ Gid said explaining some cars still on the other carriageway.  ‘It’ll soon cut across and join us.’  To be fair on coming traffic did seem to be using one lane but that was of little comfort when we were on our own.  Gradually we caught the traffic ahead but reversing lights were on.  It seemed to be stopped and even backing.   Just before them was a gap in the central reservation.  I was through it closely followed by Gid.  We’d no idea what was going on but had had enough of where we were when the road looked perfectly good to our right.  A few seconds later we could see that the contraflow lane that we had left was blocked.  That’s why the cars were backing up the dual carriageway.  They had to reverse back to the gap.

But moaning about the dual carriageway is rather missing the point about Costa Rican roads. It’s not a large country, so with two indented coasts and four mountain ranges up to 3,800m (https://lacgeo.com/mountain-ranges-costa-rica) many of the roads are twisty and steep. I don’t suppose Costa Rican bikers suffer much from “squared off” tyres. The ride from San Gerado de Dota to Puerto Jiminez was pretty much 170 miles of convolutions. Of course, a faster bike than the Him would have livened it up, but with such short sightlines at the incessant bends, going much faster might prove fatal. Often 30-40mph was ample. One thing we are seeing in CR though, first time since the USA or maybe Mexico, is locally registered “big” bikes. Whizzing past us, sometimes, but that’s fine by us, we don’t know the roads at all. Another aspect is that, curiously, as we sweat along in 35°C temperatures, some of the countryside looks like, well, Devon. Rolling hills, green grass, rickety fences, processions of cows heading for the milking shed. Curious indeed.

Guayab, our stopping point when returning along this road, is the site of the National Monument.  Pre-Colombian is the most specific information about the people who built this city.  The site is quite small compared to the Mayan ruins we’ve seen as the foundations of the buildings is all that is left together with two water cisterns and a section of road way.

Later we were going to pass the turning to Sierpe which leads to the Finca 6 site – UNESCO listed since 2014 because it is of world significance and interest.  It is again the site of Pre-Colombian civilisations dating from 200BC to 800AD and had many strong similarities to the National Monument at Guayab.  They both had raised circular mounds bordered with large stones where it’s believed a large conical wooden hut was built, with a thatched roof.  The significance of Finca 6 and its surrounding area of lowland was the large stone balls varying from small to 2.6m wide.  The stone balls are, it is thought, a mark of prestige, power and honour when placed outside a house.  Others of the balls were placed to line up with the sun or moon in a similar way to stone henges extensively found in north western Europe which also align with the summer and winter solstices.  Although, similar to the henges, there is much debate as to the precise placing and use of these stone balls.  Only a few are thought to be in their original positions.  Certainly it must be quite an effort to reduce a large boulder to a near perfect sphere using only stone and bone tools, so they were obviously important.

Our last port of call was to the tip of the Oso peninsula, billed as the largest expanse of untouched wilderness in Costa Rica where from Puerto Jimeniz there is a unique opportunity to explore an area of ‘untouched’ wilderness.  At Surco, one tour operator, Sean the young salesman was busy selling us the benefits of a two day, over night trip to explore ‘untouched’ wilderness in the Corcovado National Park.  Despite my saying that I get quite sea sick he didn’t seem to think it was pertinent to tell us that the seas are quite rough at the moment which resulted in one boat flipping a couple of days ago.  He didn’t mention that either!  We settled for the one day more local trip. Oh yes, and it’s Easter: Everyone is on holiday and half of the businesses are shut. But there was quite a lot of wildlife going on at the wonderfully jungly Chosa Manglar hostel we stayed at.

  • Can’t remember where we saw this.
  • Typical Puerto Jiminez Old House

To compliment the untouched wilderness tour we took a local ‘night tour’ with the same Sean.  This was a tremendous success with us seeing numerous frogs, spiders and small things, three or four mammals and a couple of birds but the piece de resistance was a fer de lance snake.  One of the most deadly in Central America.  Gid’s cayman is also pretty cool. And I started getting to grips with the new 60mm macro lens that was the main thing we’d collected from Jared.

Four percent of the worlds biodiversity is in this small area of Costa Rica, the Corcovado National Park.  The day of our tour we set off full of expectation.  The ‘How to deal with a big cat interaction’ noticeboard raised the stakes.   But let’s get real here.  There were twenty or more of us split into different groups all with tour guides trying to justify their near extortionate charges.  Our guide Esteban, seemed to know the area well.  He was searching one spot saying that the green and black frogs are often here.  Right on cue – here are two.  The local animals must be very familiar with the whole routine and stay a discrete distance away unless they are quite relaxed about the whole performance. We saw families of coatis on our way out and finding them again on our return trip where I was no more than six metres away from the female and her kits.  Overall it was a fun experience with the crocodile and anteater at the top of our best sightings list. The scarlet macaws and squirrel, spider and capuchin monkeys were almost omnipresent and provide excellent entertainment value as did the coatis.

Meandering through Mexico

Mexico had such impressive pre-hispanic ruins that we gave them their own post. So what else did we do in Mexico? We certainly zigged and zagged. North and east of Mexico City to start with, then south to the Pacific coast, then north east again to Yucatan. Cheap, basic hotels are readily found in most small towns, but we generally pre-booked to stop in tourist hotspots.

After Mexico City and Teotihuacan, we travelled a short day’s ride to Real de Monte the Mexican home of Cornish Pasties and a British style graveyard dating back to the 1880s.   Cornish miners were encouraged to travel the world to find work back in 1880s when Cornwall’s mining industry was collapsing.   One intrepid group had arrived in Real de Monte.  Families had packed up shipping everything from personal possessions to heavy mining equipment, and not forgetting the recipe for their prized pasties, to their new homes.  The streets were littered with signs for Traditional Pasties, and we’d arrived amidst some kind of fiesta.  It had to be done.  We tried a few.  My first mouthful almost reduced me to tears as the chilli, not a modest amount, scorched my mouth.  I courageously swallowed it washed down with copious amounts of cold drink.  Now my whole throat was on fire.   ‘No chilli / Sin picante!’ became a new phrase in my Spanish vocabulary.  Our Cornish friend, Tony, complained that they weren’t properly crimped.  Neither were they limited to swede, tatties and mince.  An interesting take was the rice pudding version. We tried a few others over the next few days.

Arriving in the town had been an interesting experience.  Once off the main intertown route the streets were pretty much all cobbled.  Garmin was navigating us to hotel accommodation which Gid often sorts out on-line, but had not this time.  We would stop, he’d speak to the receptionist and a decision was made – yes or no.  On this occasion, complicated by it being a bank holiday weekend, the first nice looking accommodation was deemed too expensive.  We tried a couple of others which were full and ended up heading off out of the city centre. It was, naturally, rather warm, and compounded by the steep 45 degree cobbled lanes – a number of them being blocked by bollards necessitating a u-turn, or festivities linked to the bank holiday, I was getting rather fraught.  Across the valley we’d seen an orange hotel halfway up the hill and headed for that.

Not so simple.  The sinuous narrow roads were blocked by delivery trucks, the street names weren’t visible and who knows whether this road would actually go somewhere.  The sat nav didn’t distinguish between the tiny streets and twittens with staircases.  We ended up going far too high up the hill and clearly needed to head back down to find the orange hotel.  Gid was leading.  The road got quite narrow heading steeply downwards.  I refused to go.  Very quickly Gid realised it wasn’t such a great idea (steps, bollard) and was trying to u-turn.  Nope that wasn’t going to work either.  He accelerated at the grassy bank thinking that he might progress a little bit up it and then be able to roll back.  Wrong!  The front wheel went down not up, now he was stuck in the hole.  I had to get off and help but was on quite a slope myself.  I managed to turn my bike around by going into an entrance to my side.  “Reception”, it said on the side of a rather grand looking building.  Staff rushed out.  They were keen to check my non-existent booking. I needed to help Gid.  ‘Esposo stuck’, I repeatedly said pointing over my shoulder in a down the lane direction.  Communication established two guys rushed off to pull Gid backwards.  Minutes later he arrived by my side.  After thanking the staff he asked me if we were going to continue looking for cheap accommodation.  He must have seen the glare on my face as he conceded we were staying here, in possibly the most expensive boutique hotel in town. While there, Clare found that nearby was a rather exciting via ferrata course. She did (Clue: Photos not taken by Gid!).

Another box to tick was ‘the best roads in Mexico’.  The Mex-175 was regularly near the top of the lists especially the section from Oaxaca down to the coast.  Gid wasn’t that fussed about going to the coast but I was keen to ride one of Mexico’s top roads.  Alex, in Mexico City, had told us it was through jungle which added to the intrigue.  The road itself was a delightful mountain road, full of twisties some of them very tight.  A little unsettling was the contrast between the bright sunlight which was at times dazzling and being plunged into darkness as we cornered round the base of another ravine especially as the road surfaces are very unpredictable with ruts & ridges, gravel & gullies, pot holes and generally broken surfaces in the mix.  Not to mention topes (speed bumps), which vary considerably from signed, smooth sloped, rising mounds to severe unmarked, abrupt, high lumps.

Later we were on the Mex-190 which I think I preferred.  The road surface was generally a lot better and the bends were more sweeping meaning we could maintain a higher speed throughout the twisties.  The, at times, frequent cow on a yellow warning sign had vanished with a slinky big cat replacing it.  Later came an explanation – you might see one of Central America’s last remaining big cats but it is illegal to purchase a jaguar the signage declared.  Sadly we didn’t see one.

Pot holes which locals sometimes very kindly fill with anything from leaves and sticks and more usefully small rocks are everywhere. Cones are not unknown in Mexico, but absent officialdom, locals put rocks out, sometimes even painting them, usefully marking subsidence at the edge of the road.  The lack of any such notification on a section of subsidence caused Gid a flutter or two when he nearly took the nearside round one “pothole” only to discover that the road was completely missing.  The road had subsided down a small cliff.  We’d just passed subsidence on the opposite side of the road with an approaching car not far from it.  The height difference was about a foot which would have hit the undercarriage of most cars angled between the two.   I wondered how the approaching car was going to handle it and had luckily taken the higher section when we hit the same problem going round a mountain bend. In quite a few places, the villagers seem to dirt-fill potholes in the village, then stand in the middle waving a hat for change. This also happens by a tope, or, they put cones out to bring the traffic to a near halt. Unfortunately, a motorcycle doesn’t have a change pocket (HD or BMW might, electric of course), so we don’t contribute. Similarly we leave unremunerated the occasional jugglers, snack sellers and screen wash merchants at traffic lights.

It can be tricky to get the correct balance between making progress and going slowly enough to avoid all the pot holes, especially when dappled shade makes the surface hard to see.  It’s far better to be some way behind the vehicle in front especially through towns but not always possible because, inevitably, as a gap appears someone will overtake and fill it.  Among days of biking we’re going to get it wrong somewhere.  On one such occasion Gid hit a large hole at speed, the front suspension and tyre both bottoming out.  He yelped!  The bike felt ok but he could see the fork legs vibrating from 50mph – the cruising speed for these roads & bikes.  At an approaching village we stopped for lunch and to asses the damage.  Yep, he’d flattened a section of his rim, with four loose spokes. The massive front tyre* looked unscathed, and the tube obviously hadn’t split. We decided we could limp on but Gid was obviously disappointed and concerned.  He explained that there was a problem with his bike to the waitress who cheerfully said the mecanico de motocicletas was across the road 10 metres down a dirt lane.

Moments later we were in his yard amongst an assortment of relics and a jumble of tools straining our Spanish to explain the problem.  “Si, ahora”. He could fix it, right now.  Verily he did.  Off came the wheel, then the tyre.  Out came the dead-blow hammer. Bing, bang, bong.  Fixed.  Well almost.  Gid tried to explain about the wheel balancing and the need to mark where the tyre was situated to be balanced on the rim. Such interference was politely resisted, but our man – Tito – was very careful to line up the bolts to show the order of reassembling.  That worked well until one of his offspring, keen to be a part of the intrepid fixing of the European’s bike picked up Gid’s disc that had been carefully placed on a seat, bolts all in place and put it upside down on the ground.  That part was reassembled but back to front.  To be fair, it was very much a family affair as one person held this or that while dad walloped it. 

This process got the rim all but circular.  Unfortunately Gid had hit close to the balance weights, which Tito couldn’t replace, so didn’t take off, so that bit wasn’t hit and was still a little flat.  Tito was sure that he could do a better job so into the workshop they went.  The wheel was placed on a big bearing press and a jack wedged in to try to press the last flattened part into shape.  The result was pretty good so the bike was reassembled.  Tito took a considerable time, with the traditional screwdriver fixed onto the forks as a guide, to tighten the spokes so that the wheel ran true.  And it did.  It must’ve taken 2 hours, albeit interrupted by other things.  We guess that straightening moto wheels must be pretty common on that road, and fortunately the Him’s are steel rims with spokes. The charge was very modest indeed, we tipped a bit, and later added him to Google maps and Open Street Map – his business was undetectable to the phone generation, which clearly included his daughter, who was inseparable from her device.

*Tyres: Dunlop Trailmax Mission, 21″. It has huge knobbles for highway and dirt, deep tread, and weighs about twice the stock tyre, or indeed most front tyres. We both commented on the bike’s loss of steering response when we put them on. But they’re versatile, tough (fingers crossed) and long-lasting.

At the coast we stopped at Zippolite, a wonderful Pacific beach resort.  It’s also Mexico’s only legal nudist beach, and a dangerous one.  No, no –  it’s because of the rip currents, it’s not a place for much swimming or beach toys. The beach boys, on the other hand, were out in force (did you see that!?).  We did a tiny swim – there sure were strong rips- but it was nearly sunset. Gid’s still wondering if he should have done his morning run along the beach starkers – but none of the other runners did.

Although Mexico has around twice the UK’s population, it is much bigger – each Mexican has, nominally, over 4 times as much space as a Brit. So there’s a lot of wild country and wildlife. From the Pacific we headed north to Frontera on the opposite, Caribbean Sea, coastline, and took a river trip into the Pantanos de Centia nature reserve.  Our hotelier had a mate, that old chestnut, who appeared very promptly at our hotel door, introduced himself as Negro Chon, and outlined the deal.  It sounded fine, just exactly what we were looking for and he could pick us up from the hotel.  All of this was agreed from our hotel room. 

At 9:30am promptly Chon was there.  And so was his car!    It hadn’t passed an MOT in the last 30 years.  No self respecting scrappy would touch it!  Gid, who’s normally quite particular about working seat belts, got in the front, relieved, I think, that the door did actually shut (allowing for a certain amount of visible daylight around the edges).  I climbed in the back.  The door almost shut.  Thankfully it wasn’t likely to rain.  I needn’t worry about seat belts – the  attachment point didn’t exist nor was the seat actually attached.  In fact the whole car, inside and out, was totally rusty, wrecked or ripped.  Off we went.  It did seem to work.   Around town Chon was perfectly cautious but once on his local road he changed up a gear.  Chicane Chon would have left any grand-prix driver in his wake the way he spun the wheel weaving left and right avoiding the pots holes, using the dust along the tree lined edge and back to the other side. The boat trip with his son-in-law was tame by comparison, but we did glimpse a croc – eeek! – and a multitude of diverse herons as well as other birds.

The next mission was another set of ruins, Calakmul, but this time in the jungle that covers the south eastern part of Mexico. The site is quite large, but isolated with a slow, narrow, jungle access road. Pootling along it, ocellated turkeys were little concerned about our bikes, and Gid glimpsed silhouettes streaking across the road, one probably a marmol or ocelot, and later we saw a grey fox. A day later, still based in the town of Xpujil, we visited some much smaller, quieter ruins. For 30 minutes we sat quietly on top of a small structure, at treetop height. To our right, a bat falcon polished off something more like a small chicken than a bat, and on a path ahead of us a grey fox lounged in the sun. Perfecto.

That evening we rode back down the road to the “bat volcano” and watched 3 million bats stream out of a cave at sunset.  The second largest bat cave in the world.  Talking to a Scottish couple at the event they exuded excitement about the cenotes they had been to.  It had become a theme in their holiday to explore as many as possible.  They were telling us the merits of this cenote over another.  We’d not even heard of these sinks holes / caves, many open to the public to swim in, which are abundant in this area of Mexico. Yucatan is dry on top, but made of limestone, it’s riddled with underground watercourses, many quite near the surface. Cenotes are formed when the roof collapses. Many are connected, and scuba diving them is popular.  Our new Scottish friends had said that they were often warmer than their hotel swimming pool.  Our posada (inn) in Xpujil barely had a shower.

But first, we had to return the maybe 40Km to Xpujil. In the dark. We knew there were a few big dangerous potholes on this stretch, but at least we had ample time and knew where to go. It was still terrifying at times. In daylight, we observed that Mexican vehicle lights are quite random – all sorts of flashing colours, indicators/hazards used according to all sorts of strange thought processes, none of them in the UK highway code, brake lights left broken.  At night – well, Mexicans driving at night either have very little or total trust to the gods, or fit huge LED lamps that only half of drivers dip. Even though traffic was light, it was scarey – statistics confirm that it’s a massacre. Our worst moment on this ride was when truck B decided to overtake truck A with us oncoming. The road there was actually quite wide enough to do this, but the b*st*rd didn’t dip his huge LED floods and didn’t indicate that it intended to pass (they never do).   We were completely blinded as it pulled out into our lane and couldn’t see the road 2 metres in front. It had taken us a while to realise what was going on, because most truck drivers did dip, and the relative positions weren’t clear in the dark. We pretty much came to a scrambly halt, unsure if in front of us was ditch, pothole, or road. It confirmed that riding at night in these parts was a very bad plan.

On a brighter note we spent much more time on larger single-carriageway roads, but the excursions were more interesting. Two of the pictures are points where we gave up and backtracked: One road shown clearly on the sat nav shrank and shrank until it completely ended in a logging camp. Another road was flooded out for maybe 50 metres.

A bit of research had us concerned at the cost of entry to some of the cenotes. Undeterred Gid came up with an area close by that had a few.  He picked one that we visited enroute the following morning. It was fabulous!  We’d become a bit wary as two of our selected underground attractions in the area had been closed since Covid.  One was a cave system with paintings the other was an underground water system.  Both shut.  The chosen cenote was open, cheap and not highly populated. We descended about 5m down a wooden stair, to water level.  There were two small diving groups who disappeared downwards to explore the cave system joining it to other cenotes in the area but the surface space was pretty much clear, except for their bubbles.  The natural lighting was beautiful clearly lighting the stalactites and different colours around the cave.  A guy who seemed experienced at the qualities of different cenotes told me that this one was one of the best because it had crystal clear water and you, together with the fish, could swim about in it.  He commented that some of them are rather pokey holes with murky water.  ‘The ones nearer ground level can be cold’, he added.

Looking at our Mexican travels on the map, there’s quite a zig-zag, but now we were getting to the end of the road Mexico. We decided to stop for a couple of days to catch up the blog and plan next steps. The east coast of the Yucatan peninsular is more beach resort than history, scenery and nature. We chose Tulum.  Tulum the town had every tourist facility at a US price, but we found somewhere cheapish.  After a stroll around Tulum’s small, but very scenic ruin, one of the few in Mexico to have been walled, we wondered down to the beach.  But the sun went on strike at the sight of Gid’s bethong’d behind.  Overnight it poured down with warm rain and into the next gloomy day which didn’t clear until the following afternoon making it perfect for updating the blog.

Wanting to finish this leg of our trip with something more Mexican we set off along the back roads and were rewarded with many rural villages.  We had hoped to stay in an isolated nature reserve at Noh-Bec where we might see the elusive jaguar but the rain thwarted us.

Not able to make it to Noh-Bec, Bacalar, a low budget traveller town on a big freshwater lagoon, became our final Mexican stop. The signage on the board walk notified everyone that swimming was fine but stay 3m away from crocodiles and not to feed them.  At the other end of the town the fort, Spanish built back in 1729 now a museum, was very informative.  It outlined the succession of invaders from the Spanish perspective.  In the mix was Sir Frances Drake.  Whilst the text acknowledged that Queen Elizabeth 1 had given him a knighthood, to the Spaniards he was no more than a bandit.

Let’s sign off the Mexico blog posts with a reminder of Mexico’s colours.

And so to Belize…

La Paz

The small city of La Paz sits near the south end of the Baja California peninsula. From there we would take the ferry to the mainland. La Paz faces into the Sea of Cortez, which divides Baja California from the mainland. The sea is warm, shallow and sheltered, attracting wildlife. It’s a beach hotspot.

We intended to spend a few days in La Paz but it was such a wonderful location it turned into a week.  I’d marked on the map that swimming with whale sharks was a possibility but knew little else – information online was confusing, so we’d check that out when we got there. 

Our Casa Buena accommodation was a real hit as it had a very comfortable room, a social area and a swimming pool that you could actually do lengths in.  15m wouldn’t qualify for a training pool but was wonderful to push off, stretch and not stub your fingers on the other end. And, apparently, Itchy Boots stayed here when she came through.

The town itself is a tourist resort which has managed to find the balance between tourist tack and a functional Mexican town.  The promenade provided access to the golden sandy beach although the advice was not to swim from the town’s waterfront.  There were plenty of cleaner beaches further along.

On our arrival in La Paz we pulled over at the posh marina (not inside, it wasn’t free!), and the gatehouse attendant dug out a jolly fellow called Oscar, who did boat trips, only to find out that the sharks are seasonal and won’t be in for another month but the boat trips to the island of Espiritu de Santa are still happening. ‘You’ll be able to swim with sea lions,’ he enthused.  Sea lions, they’ll do.  ‘Lunch on the beach and snorkelling over coral reefs during the afternoon.  Arriving back about 5,’ he continued.  Great!  But we couldn’t go for at least two days because the winds were too strong and the harbour was closed. 

The ferry from La Paz to Mazatlan goes three times a week and we had to be in Mexico City by 30th Oct. Putting our crossing back two days was still perfectly achievable. We instantly extended our stay visiting the museums and wandering around the town to fill the days.  The Baja California Sur Regional Museum was as to be expected – stairways to well organised rooms, displays annotated in Spanish, QR codes available for English translation.  The second museum was a real treat.  The Museo de la Ballena y Ciencias del Mar was a sandy grit base with three shacks housing exhibits with plenty more aquatic bone collections outside.  Pickled brains were a blast from the past and reminded me of my supper the night before which luckily Gid ate.  Hippopotamus and whales were on the same display and one of the earliest separations on the time line.  There were also a few electronic displays in Spanish but the cooling fans were the biggest attraction.

We started to understand where things were in town, and appreciate the steep price gradient as one got nearer to the Malecon (promenade). Speaking of which, Gid chose the statue of Jacques Cousteau as a running turn-around point, but couldn’t find him the first time and fell short. The run had to be completed by 8am, as by then it was getting much too hot. Locals knew that, the prom is pretty busy 7-8 but everyone soon vanishes, emerging again just before dark.

We arrived at the jetty at the appointed time ready for our boat trip.  The wind had died down but the sea was still producing some big swells.  We were one of two couples booked in for the ‘swim with sea lions’ boat trip, along with an extended family.

We set off full of expectation. It soon became evident that it was too rough for our crew.  As to be expected really, the swell was still up.  The two children were whimpering as the boat bounced along spray flying high.  Once we were heading away from the shelter of the land the chop became more intense.  Our plaining hull rose over one wave crashing onto the next covering us in spray. One wave came over the bow and ran a river down the footwell over our feet.  The children panicked. It might swamp the boat. The next wave we jumped had us all briefly zero-g above our seats. Gid and I would thrive on this excitement being seasoned sea-kayakers but the two children instantly burst into tears.  That was the end of that.  Sea lions were off!  The day turned into a snorkelling over coral in the sheltered bays exercise.  It was pleasant enough, and scratched our “beach itch”, but not what we had paid for. 

As we set off for home from our snorkelling pursuits Andrea, our guide, announced that we would visit the nearby lighthouse rock as it was reported that sea lions were there.  I assumed that they had had radio communication with the other tour boats in the area.  A smile was back on my face.. It wasn’t far to the rocks which we circled in the boat looking for sea lions.  Nothing!  Andrea asked who wanted to snorkel anyway.  Gid and I jumped at it but the rest were set for home.  We were quickly ready and in the water.  Circling the lighthouse rock the visibility was great on one side but less so on the other.  Just as we were ready to call it a day a squeal of excitement alerted us.  A single sea lion swam lazily past us.   Success!?

At breakfast the following day our German friends exuded enthusiasm for their trip where they had made it out to the island.  They were full of how wonderful the experience had been – swimming with numerous sea lions.  They talked of how close the sea lions came, the acrobatics they performed, the babies on the rocks and the unmistakeable bark of the sea lions.

It had to be done.  We extended our stay at the guest house again.  Thankfully we hadn’t booked the ferry yet – back that went another two days.  Once on the mainland we had to make Mexico City in three days now.  Perfectly do-able providing everything went well.

Our second boat trip was a totally different experience.  A more professional set up that cost twice as much but our guide, Andrea, gave a more extensive dialogue about the marine biology and geology we passed along the way, and more of a look at the local birds too.  It cost twice as much but was worth every peso. And, the sea was now flat.

Indeed, we swam with numerous sea lions.  They came really close, performed superb acrobatics, the babies were on the rocks and the unmistakeable bark of the sea lions surrounded us. 

California Sea Lions – A pup and (probably) an adolescent male. No, those aren’t the tasty fish.

More videos here!

And there was another delicious ceviche lunch – a food we’d never heard of before La Paz.

Ever Decreasing Circles – Goodbye USA

The sensitive reader might look at the last few posts, and the dates, and wonder why we don’t seem to be making much progress in a southerly direction. At times, so have we. The zig back from Flagstaff to California’s northern coast was for touristic reasons, but otherwise we have been having a rather frustrating time of it…

We slowly circled around Reno trying to coordinate our AirBnb, the arrival of tyres, then the arrival of sprockets.

We planned a 3 day rest and IT stop at Big Bear (a ski resort, quiet and cheap in September), which extended when we had an IT crisis when our picture store disk failed, and a major crisis in our family at home.

We ordered some stuff from Amazon for delivery to a locker somewhere on day X, but then they said day Z, and it finally turned up on day Y.

The lawyers dealing with Clare’s 2022 motorcycle accident claim on the IoM organised an MRI scan in Mexico, but trying to choose a date when we’re moving and they are glacially dynamic meant we were hanging around in California for a week or two.

So we thrashed around a bit! It has to be said I’m more tolerant of stopping in odd places than Clare is! Joshua Tree National Park was well worth the two days there, though boy was it hot. And, maybe our first California crowded campsite – some pretty noisy neighbours, with a heavy stereo habit. Lots of nice photos though.

We were learning, or re-learning, an important lesson. In southern California, we’ve been alternating between coast and inland, and low and high, quite often within a day, and it’s really drumming home the lesson of how the temperature depends on altitude, and is different at the coast. As we left Joshua Tree NP, we descended (was it?) 1000m from the baking hot Mojave Desert, to the bonkers hot Colorado Desert. Fortunately we’d timed it well (early), so temperatures were muted. But it was very clear how the vegetation changed: Joshua trees vanished, ocotillos and smoke trees appeared, amongst other changes. Them tough ‘ole creosote bushes were in both though.

Salty Salton Sea was 72m below sea level and insanely hot – remember this is late September – and we really felt for the (presumably) Mexican workers picking in the huge fields of fruit and veg. Their convenience store, though, was one of the best we’d seen for a while. We legged it though – could not take the heat.

Now, our Amazon order: Maps, parts, and pants. Now, like most people, I’d heard of “Palm Springs”, the millionaires playground, but for some reason, thought it was in Florida. It ain’t, and I’d ordered our stuff to an Amazon locker right in it. Interesting. Madly hot – why is PS even here? – but very well kept. Lots of grass. Lots of posh shops. Lots of posh cars. Same endless traffic lights as most US cities. It’s a shame it was so hot, as it would repay a photo session – but not wearing motorcycle armour. We found a lovely campground, Hurkey Creek, forty miles away up a wonderfully winding hill road. But it was frustrating having to base there three days.

Still killing time, we decided to venture to San Diego to check out some moto clothing, and pick up the next oil change kit (Northern Mexico being rather short of RE dealers). The beach-side campground reminded us why we hadn’t much enjoyed this stretch when we cycled it in 2017 – crowded and madly expensive. And why do US state & national campsites penalise motorcyclists with “extra vehicle” charges! Still, I enjoyed an extended dip in the Pacific, failing to bodysurf in the nice little breakers: It was too chilly for Clare, and when I got out the second time, I was pretty cold. I somehow hadn’t expected that, right at the south of golden California, the boardies would all be wearing full wetsuits.

Finally, searching for a campsite within a short ride of the Mexican border, we stumbled across the campsite for Palomar Observatory. High up, shaded by pines, it was almost too cool. We took the nice walk to the 200-inch telescope and its museum.

Unfortunately our last 2 nights in the USA were again marred by noisy campsite parties. It’s probably fair to say California has cemented it’s place as our least favourite state, though it’s undoubtedly beautiful. Still, we’ve only ever visited 11 states…

Death Valley?

Death Valley had been on my wish list from the beginning.  Gid, however, was vehemently against it.  He is far more sensitive to the heat than I am.  Gid had bought mesh biking kit from the UK thinking that he would rather try to layer up and be slightly cold whilst I had brought full winter kit.  Recently I have purchased summer gloves and mesh trousers but I’m still in my full on winter jacket.  I just open up the zips, shrug occasionally to circulate some cooler air, boil a bit but seem to get by.  Gid has also had problems with becoming slightly faint when he didn’t realise how hot he was getting.  On one occasion when we did stop he was seriously affected.  Heat is an issue for him and Death Valley is seriously hot.

I hadn’t given Death Valley a second thought as we’d set off from San Francisco back towards southeast California, for a last bit of tourism before the real adventure resumed at the Mexican border. To begin, we were aiming for the Yosemite National Park.  Stopping for fuel on the way in I chatted to a couple of bikers swapping the normal stories.  Where have you been? Where are you going?  I spewed forth with the ‘On our way to Yosemite bit’ while they replied they were doing Death Valley tomorrow. ‘How are you going to do that?’ I asked.  Not even realising that it was ‘just down the road’ at that point.  Right off HYW 395.  They explained that they were booked into accommodation near the start of the access road and planned to be riding by sunrise. We said our goodbyes but the seed was now festering in my head.  If they could do it …

I relayed the discussion to Gid who’d not been there through the conversation and declared that I was going to do it.  He didn’t have to come I said we could meet up on the other side.  Gid was very uncertain about it but was at least not panning the idea but it was clear that if I did it he would come too.  Later in Yosemite Nat. Park we met more bikers.  They had crossed Death Valley.  ‘You’ll never see anything like it anywhere else in the world,’ one biker said and went on to describe some of the sights.  ‘It’s the right time of year’, he continued, ‘End of September and February/ March are best times to do it’.

Gid was starting to show some interest and looked at where we might find accommodation near the start as packing up the tent to be on the road by five would be tricky.  After leaving Yosemite, we agreed to visit the Lone Pine Visitor Centre situated at the end of the road leading to Death Valley to get an accurate weather forecast and find out more information.

Arriving there and off my bike first I strolled in full of confidence now that we could do this.  I asked the advisor if I could have an up-to-date weather forecast for Death Valley.

‘On the screen’ he replied without moving a muscle.  I looked at the screen which displayed a load of text.

‘No it’s not’ I replied.

‘It’s a rolling screen, it’ll be back,’ he added.

This was 4 in the afternoon and the temp was high forties.  He produced a newspaper style information brochure which I opened up to show the map.  Gid had joined me by now and asked how long it took to cross Death Valley and which bits were likely to be most challenging.  The advisor spewed out a load of statistics and information way to fast for me to comprehend.  I explained that I wasn’t familiar with a lot of the terminology he was quoting to me.  Please could he talk slowly so that I could have a chance to get my head around it.  He stated unfathomable feet rather than miles. I work in centigrade he was quoting Fahrenheit.  ‘It’s very hot out there,’ he restated.  He was aware I clearly wasn’t absorbing this.

I told our story of the biker who had said that this was a good time of year to do it and the guy who had setting off at day break to get across before the temperatures got too hot.   ‘It’s hot by mid morning,’ he said.  Still rattling out his friendly advise at a rate that I could barely take in.  ‘This isn’t fall here.  Fall hasn’t started yet!  It’ll be another month before we get fall.  End of October beginning of November the temperatures drop, that’s the time to go if you really want to do it.  That or end of March /April.’

Ok we’d got it we’re one month too early.

Gid asked how long it takes to cross Death Valley.  Using the map he broke the route down into three sections giving a time for each bit.  Two and a half hours at the national speed limit of 60mph.  We wouldn’t be achieving that.  ‘Stay on the main road,’ he said.  ‘That way if you do run into trouble you’ve got a chance that someone will pass you by.  A couple of German lads went along this other route,’ he showed us a smaller road on the map.  That’s the one that had attracted me because it passed to lowest point in the park.  ‘They got into trouble and they made it into the papers for all the wrong reasons.  They were on their own and they didn’t make it.’  Not that way then.  Gid questioned how many people travel along the main road.  ‘Oh you might expect someone to pass you every five mins,’ he said.   ‘There’s two mountain ranges.  After the second range you’re down into Death valley.  Then you’ve got to climb out of the valley.  Then what are you going to do?  You’re straight into the desert.  It’s mighty hot out there!’  He was talking to us in an exasperated fashion.

Gid pointed at a couple of towns on the map.  Our advisor’s retort was, ‘They’re just names on a map.  There’s nothing at those places.  That one’s got about five buildings, that one’s not got much more.  You won’t find accommodation down that road.’  I explained that we intended to head on down that road to Joshua National Park.  He nearly exploded. ‘You’re just not getting this are you.  This area to the east of Death Valley is all desert!  It’s all extremely hot.  I wouldn’t advise you to visit Joshua National Park.  That’s going to be extremely hot too!’

We left the visitor centre with our tails between our legs.  We would need to get up at four in the morning.  Sunrise is five, we’d been told.  It would take us 1 1/2 hrs to reach Death Valley from the nearest town.  Then 3 and a half to cross it with no photo stops.  We’d be pushing 11am by the time we got across when we can expect the temps to be getting seriously hot.  On air cooled bikes it was all looking seriously doubtful.

We agreed that crossing Death Valley wasn’t on for us but decided to visit the first viewing point inside the National Park, Father Crowley Point, and from there ride down into the first valley to take the Panamint Valley road back out.  The view was spectacular.  The road delightful.

Our route to the turn off in the valley took us past a Panamint Springs and its store.  We stopped to get a drink.  The cheerful young man in there said, ‘It’s been a hot one this year.  Up in the 50s’ – Phew he was talking centigrade.  ‘You’re in Death Valley National Park so you can get the sticker,’ he chuckled. We got the sticker.

Panamint Valley – Miles like this on either side.

Southern California

After San Francisco, we thought we’d had enough of the coast for a bit, and we’d both been a little frazzled by the extra population compared to our recent months in the mid-west. So we headed back inland, aiming south for Yosemite, the Mojave desert, and Mexico.

We set off cutting south below San Francisco across rolling hills, all golden brown with occasional trees sticking up.  The route was fine until we got snarled up in endless smallish towns.  All with endless traffic lights where we were stuck in the sun.  Stop start boil all the way.  We got out of that by cutting further east and heading along much smaller roads, ending camping at Don Pedro Lake – a huge but deserted site, shared only with numerous woodpeckers.  We both stripped off and jumped straight in.

From there is was easy enough to get onto the 108 for the Sonora Pass dropping down into the Yosemite National Park and then on down the Hwy 395.  Brian had recommended the 395 and it was coloured on the map as a scenic route. The first of the two highways was beautiful with a number of winding roads and high passes.  The Sonora Pass, the highest of them all, being quite spectacular with beautiful views spreading out before us.  From there we swept down towards Yosemite. 

  • Can you see Mt Whitney?

We couldn’t actually stay in Yosemite, having, again, arrived in a National Park on a Friday. But it’s a fairly small park, and Saddlebag just outside (chilly at 10,000ft!), then Tuttle Creek were hospitable. The latter gave us a day trip to view Mount Whitney, the lower 48’s highest peak (it’s the distant dit-dit-DAH peak in above the cornering motorcycle below).

Death Valley was only a day’s ride away, but that turned into a bit of a saga, with its own posting.

At this point we were feeling the looming pressure of a long overdue blog update and the need to prepare for Mexico, so we hunkered down a few days in underused ski lodges in Big Bear Lake. But – would the town still be there, on the other side of the hill?

And at the time of writing, that’s where we are.

To The Beach

After Reno & Lahontan, we stayed for a few days with our new Bunk-a-Biker host Brian in his mountain retreat, while Gid fiddled with chains, sprockets and swingarms in the garage.  It was a great place to be, surrounded by trees up in the mountains in a very quiet area outside town.  He had a couple of friends staying and between them they made a comedy trio.  Brian was the straight man, Larry the feed and Charlie the clown.  It was great fun to be around them.  Especially the evening they polished off a bottle of whisky – perhaps a little bit more subdued the morning after.

We were watching baseball the following day and I asked about the superimposed rectangle that kept appearing on the screen and the commentator’s words.  ‘That’s a strike!’  Brian stood in front of the TV explaining the rules of baseball.  He was simplifying the rules but very focused on giving an accurate account.

Larry interjected, “She’ll never understand that just say it’s this”.

‘Will you be quiet and let me explain!’

Charlie was bouncing about in his chair, chortling and throwing in the odd word just to stir things up.

When leaving, the trio very kindly led us out back into Tahoe National Park – it’s bigger than just the lake that we disliked in an earlier post.  When they had offered to lead us out I was most concerned that we would hold them up.  Their bikes were powerful Harleys and our best speed is 50+.  Winding up and down mountain passes we’d be even slower.  ‘That’s ok’, they’d chorused.  ‘The speed limit is only 50 and no one can go any faster on those roads’.

En-route we pulled into a layby to admire the view.  Across the gorge was a great view with snow clinging to the mountain tops.  We wound our way over the top and down to the breakfast stop.  A delightful little old village called  Downieville,  I wandered off to look at the gallows.  The only gallows in America that are still functional the sign states but the one and only hanging was back in 1884.

Following a great breakfast with the lads, four of them now as Richard had joined us, we wandered off to see the town as they set off to do some serious biking.  We had our route plotted out – firstly north to the Lassen volcanic park before heading west on the US 36.  It was the best road to the coast was the unanimous decision.  And no Gid, you couldn’t cut the corner off to reach the Redwood National Park quicker.  ‘You’d be missing the best part!’

We didn’t do the volcanic park justice.  We should have turned right to take us further into the park where we would have seen geysers we’re told but we hung a left more focused on finding a campsite as the daylight was drawing in.  The official campground was shut for maintenance, but there was free “dispersed” camping all around, informed the local lady filling her water bottles at the water spring. The only difference really is the lack of a drop toilet (so dig a hole), and a park bench (what are we carrying these chairs for?). So we filled up our bottles and camped.

Dutifully we went the long way round on the 36 and yes it was worth it.  Again we went through gorges, valleys and over mountain tops but this time the trees looked half dead but not burnt.  The leaves across most of the leafed canopy looked crisp and dull whilst there was a vibrant green sprig somewhere at the top.  Were the trees dead or alive?

Trundling along the US 36 heading for the California beaches I was having a rave.  ‘Surfing USA – trala la la la’. The odd riff that I remembered from the Beach Boys hit was on replay at full volume – in my head.  It was party time, giggling around in my saddle. No 200Watt speakers like the Harleys had – perhaps that’s just as well.

We smelt the sea before we saw it.  At Fortuna we’d stopped to put on extra clothing.  Down this low by the coast it was cold.  Perfectly obvious when you think about it but it hit us as a bit of a surprise.  Now heading north up the coast we were equally surprised by the mist.  The whole reason why the Redwood trees thrive in this area is the moisture from the sea mist.  It keeps the canopy damp.  Ferns, slugs and the trees thrive. Our preconceptions of California faded when we saw the beaches – scenic, but minimal waves this week. The few surfers, well dressed up in wetsuits, to keep the chilly California Current at bay were floating around on their boards.  Equally, the local towns looked as though they weren’t much benefiting from California’s famous wealth.

  • OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
  • OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Camping proved challenging as the National Park was fully booked, we’d arrived at a weekend again – when will we learn? We went further afield to pitch our tent and became tourists for the week exploring the coastal region on foot as well as by bike.   The scenic drives were awesome and neck breaking constantly looking up. Yup, they’re big trees.

Our route on down to San Fransico was quite an adventure but the bridge itself was shrouded in mist. Brian was there to greet us at his San Fran residence where later he took us out for a fabulous tour of the city.

The Colossal Canyon and the Lonely Road

Apologies, we’re a little behind with our blog: It’s now October, and this relates our time in Arizona and Nevada, 25th Aug to 7th Sept. More soon! We also had a bit of an IT disaster and lost a lot of Clare’s pictures from August and September, so the imagery isn’t what it should be.

Next on the list of must see destinations was the Grand Canyon.  Having done our homework we knew that the Northern rim was thought to be the more spectacular of the two.  We set off from Flagstaff heading in totally the wrong direction – southwards.  We wanted to take in the scenic roads that were either marked on the map or had been recommended by other bikers.  But we were in luck – to get to the northern rim – we had to ride along the southern rim – bonus! Being a weekend the super route out and round to the south was rather over crowded and we were happy to get out of it but crowds were something we were going to have to get used to as we reached the more populated areas.

Along the southern rim we stopped at three vista points and learnt that the gorge was formed by opposing tectonic plates clashing and forcing each other up.  This created a raised plateau. From there the Colorado river cut through the rock.  Because there is not enough information left geologists don’t know why the river didn’t take an easier route around the outer edge.  The high levels of silt carried by the river have carved a deep gorge which continues to cut its course to this day.  The gorge was beautiful but the vultures stole the day.  Several vultures and some falcons rode the thermals swooping to and fro right in front of us.  ‘Have you got it?  Have you got it?’  we cried as another swept past.

Up at the Northern rim an elderly park guide was enthusing to us about the benefits of doing the North Rim road.  He told us that there were many viewing points and it was good use of our time.  But Gid was keen to do one of the walks.  Neither of us considered the whole day North Kaibab trail.  An 8 mi down 8 mi up marathon but we did think we could do one of the shorter ones.  Was there time for both?  ‘Of course there was,’ I exclaimed. And off we went.

On the rim road the information boards were very useful although I couldn’t see the ‘obvious’ fault lines on the southern side of the canyon.  We were excited to glimpse the Colorado river on a number of occasions as we stopped and started along the route.  We seemed to have swapped the birds for some views of the murky river.  I was pleased we’d seen both sides.

We hurried back to the start of the scenic tour road to pick up the hiking trail.  It was 5:15 when we set off on what was described as a 2-4hr hike.  We had torches and had been advised to take more water which we dutifully got.  Our walking speed is middling on most timed trails so I was predicting our return at around 8:15.  It’s dark by 8.  On a very uneven track how good was my torch?  Gid normally leads down hill and me coming back up, but I set off at a fair pace.  I wasn’t messing around we needed to speed this up.  Meeting a few people along the way was encouraging.  They were all on their way back but it was still nice to know we weren’t totally alone.  A few ‘not far now’ comments gave us encouragement but meeting a father and young daughter a few hundred metres short of our destination, Supai Tunnel, was quite a surprise.  We went through the tunnel, gazed down at the zig zagging path disappearing into the depths of the gorge and were ready to turn back.  One couple we’d met had done the whole day hike.  They’d set off at 8 in the morning and were on course to make it back completing their trek in just under 16 hours.

We made it back in good time just about catching up with the youngster and her dad.  Amazingly we did the round trip in just over two hours with just enough daylight, to pack our kit and set off back to the campsite.

We hadn’t got far the following morning before stopping for fuel.  Parked on the apron was a Royal Enfield Continental GT.  Paying for our fuel in the garage it was obvious who the Enfield belonged to.  This distinguished gent with a broad grin, a thick red beard and plaited hair readily admitted it was his bike.  We asked him about the unusual racking system he had and his tin seat.  Out we went to look at them.  He enthusiastically told us about his project to reduce the weight of the bike.  He lifted up the tin seat shaped to fit the gap between the metal rods and read from the bottom what the old seat had weighed and what his new tin seat weighed.  He proudly declared weight the saving.  He repeated this exercise with the side guards which were now leather flaps with another recorded saving.  The next project was the rear rack he declared.  That was trickly though as it had to take the cat.  At first I thought the bag of empty 5lt water bottles somehow housed the cat.  The cat, his travelling companion he informed us, was out prowling around back at camp.  The cat, he told us, could only manage three hours at a time on the bike.  With that saddle I’m sure I couldn’t manage any more.

Jamie Burns, the distinguished gent, had never been to Scotland even though he was directly related to Robert Burns the infamous Scottish poet.  ‘I  can’t go!’ he exclaimed.  ‘I’d have to set foot on English soil and I’ll never be doing that.’  A little later Gid pointed out the he must share some considerable empathy for the Native Americans with the atrocities that they suffered at the hands of the new settlers.  But he seemed to be handling American soil ok.

The Grand Canyon, Petrified Forest and our stop in Flagstaff ticked off Arizona: We were making good Pan-Am progress towards Ushuaia, on the southern tip of Argentina.  Next stop Mexico? Nope. North westwards to northern California.  We couldn’t miss the Pacific coast and the redwoods.  So we turned, heading back north up towards the northern tip of California.  We aren’t fond of megopolises, so for the second time, we avoided Salt Lake City, and this time, Las Vegas too progressing diagonally between them.  We’d soon have 12000mi under our belts so we chose Reno, Nevada, for a service stop.  It’s big enough to have everything, but not oppressively huge. Airbnb host Tyler was ok with us changing oil in the shade of his carport, and Royal Enfield dealer Eurobikes had got the service parts and our three new tyres in.

We headed westwards towards Reno along Highway 50 crossing the often empty Nevada, which passes just south of Reno. It’s dubbed ‘the loneliest Highway in America’ and served us well as it had little traffic.  The section we travelled from Ely to Silver Springs traversed great plains where there was very little to see except the next mountain range to cross.  It took ages crossing each plain, then we’d ascend up the mountains.  Most roads carve a pass through the summit with rocky cliffs towering on either side.  Pancake pass – 1988m – being the unusual one because it was flat.

The Pony Express central change over point at Old Middlegate Station on HWY50 was a wonderful choice for a stopping place, full of memorabilia with posters for ”Wanted’ criminals – Dead or Alive’, legalised prostitution advertisements and pony express riders job offers not to be missed.   Providing, that is that, you were under 18 and preferably an orphan who was prepared for high risk and possible death from their chosen employment.  The place was stacked with relics from the past both inside and out.  A quaint mix of old and modern as the petrol pump boldly claimed ‘no lead’.  Not now perhaps but there’s been no shortage of lead flying around this place I’m sure.  To add to the authenticity signage pointed out that Ned Kelly’s house was a stone’s throw away.

Our arrival in Reno was a little bit complicated, as we’d booked the Airbnb for Sunday onwards, not realising Monday was Labor Day.  Eurobikes and almost everywhere would be shut.  We needed to be close by Friday night, ready to hit the store Saturday morning to collect the service kits.  Experience told us that even ordinary summer weekends could crowd out the campsites leaving us struggling.  Lake Lahontan State Park was 30 miles out, a big reservoir with sandy shores, it seemed like a great retreat. We arrived with some trepidation about availability, but paid our fee at the unattended gate. We’d hoped for a pitch we could swim at, but there was a Red Warning stating that the lake was unfit for recreational purposes because the algae levels were unacceptably high. Oh no!  But we trundled round the shore, surveying the ad-hoc camping.  We found a beach spot facing the sunset: firm sand to park, soft sand and shady trees to camp. One RV right down on the shore was 50 metres away. The next units maybe 200m one way in a thicket, and 1000m the other.  On this side of the lake, people were swimming.  Definitely one of our nicest sites!  We stayed two nights, enjoying a starlit evening chat with the neighbours.

It was a short freeway ride to Reno on Saturday, but to return, we saw a wiggly back route going through Virginia City and tried it.  It turned out to be a local bikers’ favourite. Virginia City – City it says. Obviously swayed by the city part of it’s name I was expecting something big.  Bigger that is than a half mile main street, and not a lot else.  Rather than the boom and bust of many towns where a natural resource is found, Virginia City, once the mountain of silver under the city was depleted, has managed to maintain prominence albeit now as a tourist attraction.  Its high street is frozen in the style of 100 years ago with original buildings and facades, as are the rickety board walks beneath the overhangs.  There are tourist attractions like: the Silver Queen Hotel where the lady’s silver dress is a floor to ceiling art work modelled in silver dollars mined beneath the city.  There are many saloons, some with swing doors, eateries and tat shops, and events like camel races for the more competitive amongst us.

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Mark Twain, at least his wax model, peers out of one window where he used to work as a newspaper reporter.  Words such as ‘never let the truth get in the way of a good story’, accredited to him, live on.  His famous novels, Huckleberry Finn and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer still make it onto many a reading list.  The local museum claiming ‘Of great interest to adults and children’ displays many relics from past life in the area. Virginia City became our regular route between Reno and Lahontan.

The servicing went to plan.  Having done it all before it was quicker this time. Now Gid is becoming familiar with the process he’ll let me play too – next service I hope to do the oil changes.

We’d noted the bike chains had needed occasional adjustment, but annoyingly, as we approached Reno, Gid was having to tighten them every couple of days.  Knackered. We ordered replacement chains and sprockets at the Reno dealer but RE gave no delivery date. Were they coming from Wisconsin or Chennai? We decided to wait into next week before requesting that they might be posted forwards.  The dealership had a branch at the coast and was happy for us to collect them en-route but we couldn’t continue to stay with Tyler.  With time to kill we needed a new home.

To get away from the bustle of city while we waited we went off to explore Lake Tahoe.  Our Lonely Planet guide book describes it as a very popular location for winter skiing with slightly fewer visitors in summer.  Wrong!  It, or rather its shoreline, was teeming with people.  Adding to the frustration most campsites were closed because the trails were being repaired and supplies were dumped in campgrounds.  We u-turned and got out of there as fast as possible, riding right back up the 9,000ft pass we’d come in on, returning to Mt Rose campsite near the top.  It was beautiful.  Pine trees spread around large boulders –  the sort of things that are called erratics in Norway having been randomly dropped by the receding glaciers but here they were at 10000 ft high!  It was beautifully peaceful, until the generators started.  The site host agreed that it was a beautiful area informing us, with a wry smile, that the noisy school group had left 2hrs ago. It was nice for one night, but we couldn’t think of a better option than returning to Lahontan. The exact same spot, and now the nearest neighbours were maybe 2km away. No cossies needed.

Having missed petroglyphs at the Petrified Trees NP I was keen to see the ones in this area.  Grimes Point, the site of the petroglyphs and the Hidden Cave, wasn’t far away and reportedly had the best examples so it had to be done.  We would have liked to have seen the Hidden Caves, also at the site, but on contacting the area office to arrange a guided trip we were informed that due to sickness that was off.  Thousands of years ago the Hidden Cave appears to have been a site of storage: furs, tools and remains of clothing were found there.  It’s under lock and key now to preserve the site for future generations but our wished for visit wasn’t going to happen.  On the self guided walk around the petroglyphs, the boards told us that human habitation in the area dates back to 8000 years ago.  Lahontan Lake, now some 20-30 miles away where our tent was, would once have been lapping the edge of this area.  The boulders, plenty big enough to hide behind, would have been the perfect site to hunt the animals who came to drink.  Shaman, responsible to communicating with the gods to ensure a successful hunt, may have been responsible for the pecked or carved rock art.

Finally – good news – the chains and sprockets were in. We’d already been on Bunk-a-Biker and made contact with a friendly soul who offered us a bed, a workshop, and a breaker bar, just over the border in California. We were off again, albeit only for 60 miles.

Back In The USA

So, we’re across the 45th parallel – back in the USA.

Once in the “contiguous USA” our plans were some what sketchy.  We had three months and knew we wanted to leave going into Mexico travelling down the Baja peninsula.  We had the big three National Parks earmarked, Yellowstone, Grand Canyon and Death Valley plus the HWY 89, recommended by National Geographical magazine and Dave in Edmonton, highlighted on the map.  Dave and my cousin Debbie had both suggested things to see but somehow we hadn’t digested that into a formulated plan of what to do and see enroute.

Hwy 89 took us straight into Montana’s Glacier Park.  The scenic park road, Going to the Sun, took off westwards to a height of 2026m and seriously down the other side on mountain twisty roads.  We were in a line of traffic doing the tourism trail but that didn’t seem to matter as everyone was progressing slowly admiring the fabulous views of mountains overlapping mountains – great recessions disappearing into the distance, stopping to take the must have photos at the named features.  Fortunately we did too as the return route was marred by rain.  It started out as drizzle that was supposed to stop by lunch time and indeed it did.  However as the afternoon progressed so did the returning rain.  Slight droplets to start with but slowly gaining in intensity without us seeming to notice. I hadn’t taken my normal rain precautions.  Eventually it pissed down!  By then it felt too late to fuss about the rain, we focused on finishing the trip.  Once back at the start we cowered in the lodge drinking cups of tea. Umming and erring about our options we finally caved in and booked a room.

The following day my GoPro video camera, mounted on my handlebar, with the USB lead sticking out, was sick.  It was sodden.  Apart from visible water in the battery compartment it became evident that there was condensation inside the screen.  Gutted at my stupidity we set about trying to rescue it from what seemed like its inevitable journey into the bin. A day on the bike with the battery door open revived it. Don’t know how I got away with that one!

Gid decided he wanted to go and see the site of Custer’s last stand. Now it’s got a more sensitive or politically correct rename, after the location in which it took place, Little Big Horn.  We trundled along enjoying the undulating scenery and nodding donkeys, noticing also the considerable lack of campsites.  We spotted a small camping sign in the middle of nowhere some way before a lonely bar and u-turned to go back and check it out.   Thankfully there were a couple of people out the back.  One was the owner. Yes, we could camp.  Even better we could kip in the chalet that was still being fitted out. 

The Horse Thief Bar at Sunset

Eddie, the new owner of the Horse Thief Bar, was very pleased to put us up and spent the next hour or two telling us how he ‘d just got back from Sturgis with a new machine: a rather wonderful looking sage green & cream Indian motorbike complete with leather paniers and dangling tassels that he caressed. 

Eddie, at the Horse Thief Bar

Eddie was horrified to think that we were going to Little Big Horn and not Sturgis.  After all, Sturgis is an internationally acclaimed bike rally that was on this week – just another few hundred miles down the road!!   We would love it he was telling us.  The town comes to a standstill because of all the motorbikes!

Sturgis it is then.  I’d read about it back in the UK but considered it too far east.  Another 440mi to be precise.  A twelve hour day later we arrived in the dark after a long hard flog into headwinds.  But at least we’d identified a campsite in advance and could ride straight in.

Hog Heaven, a temporary campground was one of eight that encompassed the small town of Sturgis, South Dakota. It was $80/night, but well organised, spacious, and not at all squalid as English festival campsites notoriously are.

Sturgis, the bike rally, attacks hundreds of thousands of bikers every year for the one week long event.  Now aging and many trailing their bikes to the event the numbers are starting to drop off.  Some of the roads in the town were closed for bikers use only and the town was packed with tents and displays of biker kit and paraphernalia, not to mention plenty of opportunity to test ride and buy bikes – Harleys and Indians being the key brands.  Live music was playing all day in the town and at our campsite every evening creating a real party atmosphere.  A programme of events included: best beard and moustache, Jack Daniels tasting and BBQ, show us your boobs, although many didn’t need to enter any competition to tick that box.  Scanty was the ‘clothing’ of some of the ladies about town.

The event is popular not only for the entertainment in Sturgis but also for the fabulous roads in the SD Black Hills, which offer half a dozen of the best bikers routes we’ve experienced in the US in one relatively small area.  Roads like The Black Hills & Bad Lands, Devils tower, and Needles HWY are all comfortable day trips that attract bikers year on year for the multiple hairpins and twisties.  Iron Mountain road is another favourite with it’s multiple twisties and natural narrow tunnels.  One such tunnel had flaggers at each end because of it’s length and narrowness.  It was quite something to emerge into the path of at least fifty bikers waiting to go through.  All behind the flag man.  Mt Rushmore was another popular site to visit. 

The buzz lasted beyond the event itself but after four days we were ready to move on still discussing the amusement of this or that.  On a more sobering note we arrived back at Little Big Horn for a history lesson on the disposable nature of treaties and how the needs of Native Americans have been frequently marginalise for the benefit of the White Settlers.  It’s been easy to see where the Indian reservations are as we ride along because there is an air of greater poverty and run downness.  Plus a few stray dogs – well, maybe “stray” is the anglo-centric view, perhaps they’re communal as in many Muslim countries.

Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming was next.  A truly stunning place!  We approached from the north riding the spectacular Beartooth pass, wondering how even a National Park was going to trump this.

It did!  Panoramic views of pastures with bison was the first wow point.  Towering cliffs with mountain goats was a close second as was the mummy grizzly with two cubs.  The latter both in the distance but still fantastic to see.  From there the list continued to grow with birds of prey, elk, deer, coyote but the most impressive things were the geysers, blow holes and steaming sulphur pools. 

Yellowstone is one of the biggest geothermal & hydrothermal areas in the world.  It is still an active volcano!  Old Faithful is a geyser that has been closely monitored for decades to explain exactly what is taking place for it to blow every 90 mins-ish.  Because the earth’s magma is only 5-7 kilometres below the ground in this area it heats the land and precipitation significantly.  Rain water and snow-melt that seep into the land down cracks etc heats up very quickly.  In the blow hole of Old Faithful there is a constriction near the top causing a greater amount of pressure as the rising hot water gets trapped.  It finally explodes upwards with great force causing the geyser.  The temperature at ground level when the ‘explosion’ takes place can exceed that of boiling water.

Another key feature is the Grand Prismatic Spring which has rainbow colours that look straight out of photoshop.  It is caused by bacteria and other microorganisms that can withstand the extremely high temperatures.  As the water moves away from the central point it cools and different microbes can grow and concentrate causing different colours the further away from the central point.  Another wow moment!

An alert reader may have spotted that our Route 89 plan was taking us through the third vertical column of states: Montana, Wyoming, Utah and finally Arizona. There were odd side trips and corners cut – Sturgis is in South Dakota, and somehow we were in Idaho for a bit. Gradually ticking off the Must See Sites, Yellowstone segued into Grand Teton National Park (nearly as interesting and much less crowded) then we passed through Utah, which was stunning rock, rock, rock, but not so prominently named until we dropped into Monument Valley, on the Utah/Arizona border.

To get into Monument Valley, we were out of the almost continuous named National Forests into an area of desert.  The transition from one to the other had us riding along roads with sparsely spaced mainly fir trees through rocky canyons until the trees disappeared altogether and the vista was thinly spread scraggy shrubs and sand.  Gradually the shrubs disappeared too.  During this time the wind increased significantly until we were both squealing through the intercom about the severe cross wind and sand storm streaming across the road. We were not quite horizontal but getting there!  A large transporter overtook us causing the usual draught where we pinged away from the vehicle as the wind was blocked and true to form as it passed we got sucked into it’s wake but were very promptly spat out as the strong side wind caught us again.

This took place against a back drop of dark ominous clouds ahead of us to the left and right.  Lightning jaggedly illuminating them sporadically.  Our focus was fixed firmly on the small spot of blue sky and white clouds directly ahead separating the two.  If only we could get there before being engulfed in the pending storms to its sides.  What do you expect, a trucker at a gas station had told us.  ‘This is the start of the monsoon season!’  Certainly our focus has moved on from mosquitoes and is now firmly on how to cope with the 38+ degree temperatures that lead into the rain storms where the temperatures drop to 14 degrees within minutes.

But these stormy conditions usually didn’t last long. Seeking shade was more common.