The Big Ride, or We Need to Go! AZ-NM, Nov 2004

[Stephen]

It all started with a simple e-mail from my old buddy DB, now expat in Guatemala. He wrote me and some other friends, saying he was feeling stressed and needed a Big Ride with pals to unwind. Where to go? Meet up in Mexico? Rendezvous with our friend Mark in the Smokies? Fart around old stomping grounds in Texas? Visit more friends in Arizona? As our other pal was between jobs and thus couldn't go (huh? what?), I was the only taker, and we had limited time, we settled on touring the Boot Heel and NM/AZ border. DB was frustrated that he couldn't rent a GS like his and had to make do with a Harley Road Glide, but it didn't matter. He flew to Tucson, rented the bike and made tracks for our El Paso rendezvous.

He had to be careful:



I'm not sure why. Meanwhile, I headed west and spent a night in Davis Mountains SP. I likely could have made El Paso, but I wanted to ride the Scenic Loop in through the mountains, the highest paved road in Texas, and a curvy narrow slice of joy it is. I passed the McDonald Observatory.



And continued to El Paso, where I got to visit some friends I'd not seen in a very long time. Who knew there were such charming old neighborhoods there?



After spending a wonderful night with DB's brother and his charming family, we rolled out, first getting an extra card for my digicam. Did you know that they've quit making the kind my camera uses? Two stops, and I got the last one.

The v-twins rest while the Mountie poses:



Okay, he's not really from the RCMP. We had only the vaguest of plans. We wanted to hit the Road Formerly Known as 666, and we wanted to avoid the Interstates and the Big Storm. DB asked where we should go, and I said, "West". So we found NM 9 and ran along the border with Mexico. We did this for a few hours:



We ate lunch in Columbus, NM, quite the historic place. Pershing launched his punitive expedition against Pancho Villa from here. Not much has happened since, but the green chile cheeseburgers are excellent. They've got a museum that was worth stopping for.



It didn't suck. Always, always to the south, the mysterious mountains of Mexico.



We crossed the lower end of the Animas Valley, the setting for Cormac McCarthy's The Crossing.



It wasn't hard to imagine McCarthy's hero tracking a wolf from here into Mexico, and later almost losing himself there trying to get his horse back.



We skirted the southern end of the Chiricahuas, lamenting the lack of DB's GS; the dirt roads across the mountains seemed unsuited for a rented, expensive, and still unfamiliar hog. Darkness and rain caught us out in Douglas, which did not seem welcoming at all, so after some soda, we ran through the night -- a very dark, slippery night -- across the scented desert, up into the foothills to Bisbee. We found ourselves in a tastefully touristy historic district that seemed to have already closed for the night at a mere 8 pm. So what do we do? Park in the first lot, and get some coffee, chat with Officer Dave awhile, and learn of a nice little motel up the canyon. We got a room, got a swell supper, hit the cozy bar in the fancy hotel down canyon for a few brandies, heard the night clerk's ghost stories, and turned in. Tomorrow, we'll see what this place really looks like.

[Stephen]

We'd had a time finding the motel, running up and down Tombstone Canyon in the gleaming darkness, feeling as much as seeing that the town here was only a city lot wider than the road. We'd heard Officer Dave tell us to look for the John Quill Motel; I'd passed it twice before I recognized the neon flower that marked the Jonquil Motel. So much for oral histories. But the nice lady that owned it had coffee for us first thing in the morning -- a damn good cup of coffee, on a beautiful morning. We were in road mode. We felt great. The sky was cloudy, but it didn't matter; we didn't care. I wanted breakfast.

Our bikes attracted a local, a town councilman who was clearly a politician by temperament, who chatted us up and sent us to Dot's Diner.



The real deal, a friendly place to bang elbows while tucking into an appropriately greasy pile of eggs and taters and bacon. I love places like this.



It could have been 1956, if bikes back then had come with suspension and EFI. Dot's is behind the gas station, in a trailer park. The whole thing is retro, or maybe just old.



The back way out of Bisbee yields a good view of the old town.



And up Tombstone Canyon:



We headed north, hardly slowing for Tombstone, which was also retro, but not in the good way, and plowed across the San Pedro Valley. Somewhere near Sonoita, we saw a buncha fellers that looked like ADVriders, an MPY GS, a DRZ, a KLR, if I recall right, headed south. Anybody here? That would have been Monday, 8 Nov 2004.

Seems that around Sonoita, it's wine country and horse country. Since getting a horse, my love of grassland has intensified.



What is it about the prairie? The waving grass, the openness? Somehow it clears my mind, calming me, yet exhilarating me. It feels exotic, yet familiar.

The prairie gets drier still as we move west. We were objects of curiosity to everybody we met, it seems.



DB wanted to see Patagonia, where his wife's grandparents used to vacation, so we pressed on, through the quiet and lovely little town, up a scenic canyon.



The long vistas of the range and basin country are great, but the little hidden places have the water and the trees, and offer a sense of discovery, of finding something secret, and valuable. The contrast heightens the sensation, and the autumnal cottonwoods are like nuggets of gold in the dust.



It's neat place, but we can't sit still for long, and we don't want to miss lunch back in town. So I lead off.



We eat, then we leave the mountains behind and head back across the prairie.



We are cowboys on fast horses. We are sailors on a sea of grass.



We cross the San Pedro River again. No wonder that it's been a route north for centuries, for millennia, offering more than a path, more than water; shade, shelter, and easy game. Now, it is an obstacle for travelers, who depend on an asphalt trail and fuel from the other side of the world.



We find a lonely, rough, but paved road around the south end of the Dragoon Mountains to the highway. Past the new old-time religion churches and beer stores and real estate offices, through the retirement ranchette estates and cheezy golf course, we find the turnoff for Cochise's Stronghold. The KTM mocks the speed limit, running the paved whoops like they weren't there. Only one big enough to send me on a ballistic parabola to the far uphill side causes me to slow down. The Road Glide is far behind me when I slow further as the grass yields to brush, which then embraces the narrowing road even closer. The deers' refuge is a threat to me.

The pavement ends, and we stop at the park entrance. I phone my family, and my battery dies as my wife tells me of the latest failure of the mechanical systems at home. How does this always happen when I'm on the road? Once it was a water heater that split. Once it was the air conditioning. While on our honeymoon, our adult son got the mumps and a sewer line uncapped itself in the basement. I don't remember what it was this time, but it was no good. And I wasn't there. And my phone is dead. I did the only thing to do: I took a leak.



The sun had already gathered its cloudy bedclothes close as it slid down the other side of the mountains, and we had several miles of dirt yet to go. The canyon narrowed as we climbed, crossing a dry creek several times as the road jinked from one side to the other. As dusk began in earnest, our headlights just evidenced themselves on a boulder the size of a house dead ahead of us, but the road once again found a way left and then right, and we found ourselves in a granite bowl a hundred yards across. The flat bottom was a grove of small oaks, sheltering a tidy campground. We used the last of the light from a glowing sky to pitch the tent and gather enough wood for a small fire by which to enjoy a dry supper of bread and jerky and fruit. I decided to ride back out and find a pay phone and call home. The dirt road in the dead dark, on a growling KTM freed from its cobber was just plain fun. At the convenience store fourteen miles back, I met yet another ex-KTM racer, toothless and drunk, and friendlier than I needed while I patched things up long-distance. A cowboy came by and pronounced the 950 "the dirtbike from hell," with great approval. The ride back to camp was even better.

We sipped Jack Daniels and pondered this oasis, this stronghold, and we wondered just where in the rocks above us Cochise might be buried. As the fire died and the cold trickled down the side canyons and pooled around us, we smiled at our good fortune, to have such friends, such time, such bikes.



And once again, we wondered what the hell the place we'd landed in looked like in the light.

[bavarian]

Some great story. Thanks. Made nice reading.

[k7]

Great stuff.



Those trailers are actually rental units set up in the period of their production... supposedly right down to TV's inside the units.

You can read more about them here

[Stephen]

Originally Posted by k7lro

Great stuff... Those trailers are actually rental units set up in the period of their production... supposedly right down to TV's inside the units..

Wow. Thanks for that contribution , K7. Live the dream, the dream that was the fifties. I promise you that it's a surreal place, even without going inside the trailers.

But then, most of Arizona seems kinda surreal to me. Maybe it's all those BW movies from the postwar period, where weird stuff happens in the desert, and always involving people who are from somewhere else, sometimes not even from California. In 1981, I ate lunch in Tonopah AZ, the cook had a ducktail the size of the fins on a 61 Caddy. The cafe was the only building for about fifty miles whose foundation wasn't wheels. Nobody was from there. Everybody seemed to have a secret, as if everybody else didn't. It was like the movies. It was creepy. But I'll give it this: it felt like a place, a real place, even if it hadn't been there long, or not like that for long. It wasn't someplace else, not like miles of strip shopping in Tucson that could be anywhere, if anywhere was a place where the sun could bleach the color out of lump of coal. It could be the loop around Silver City NM. It could be Burnet Road in Austin, Texas. Tonopah was where it was.

Southeastern Arizona is different. It is where it is, but it's not quite so... I guess desolate is the word, spiritually and emotionally if I can say stuff like that. It is sparsely populated, and doesn't see much traffic, surely, but the people and the countryside seem a little warmer, maybe softer -- in the good way. There is, after all, more shade and more water and more grass; the sheltering, nourishing things. And it's older. People have lived there for thousands of years, and even the folks there now seem to have lived there for awhile. They haven't just blown in on I-10 and piled up there in dusty drifts. Well, some of'em, anyway; enough to change the feel of the place. Historic Bisbee is kinda trendy, but not over the top. The folks are friendly and the coffee is good. It is tourist-oriented, but has neither the enthusiastic cheap hucksterism of Tombstone nor the seamless artifice of a Disney park. Dot's and Shady Glen seemed more a labor of love with hopes of some prosperity than a fleece-the-tourists booster's coke-dream.

East of the Chiricahuas is different yet. BeemerChef has made his home in the Boot Heel, which is part Texas ranch culture, part ancient aborigine, but mostly, well, still Mexico, Gadsden be damned.

[Stephen]

We woke up early. Now, neither DB nor I are exactly morning people, but we've been known to get up smartly when there's fun to be had. We both tend to stay up late, but damn, it's cold at night, so we were turning in a lot earlier than we would have had we been in our warm and illuminated homes. And the nights in November are long. By the time the sky was bright, we were up, though the sun hadn't managed to trickle down into the canyon yet. Fired up the little stove and made coffee and oatmeal, and set about packing up. But I'm movin' slow. I'm surprised DB could work his camera.



Now we can really see what a nice place this is, a sky island, a sheltered grove, surrounded by rocks.



We are truly in a castle's keep.



We decide to head north and east and ride 191. We never really knew where we were going from day to day. That was the idea. It was a good plan. A year and some before, we had driven DB's dogs to Guatemala from Texas. That trip had a tight itinerary -- well, as tight as such things can be in Mexico -- and though it was a blast, it was not really our natural style. This was different. We didn't care where we went; it didn't matter.

Soon, we're back in the saddle and headed out. We have a long way to go; today we cross the desert to ride The Highway Formerly Known as Satan's. US 191 is not long, but it will take some time to get to the far end, and some effort to get there before dark. So we ride. The HD does just fine on a dirt road like this.



Of course, on the KTM, I find it's not much different from pavement. We proceed across the flats, through truly barren land, through prairie, through cultivated fields, past Kansas Settlement headed for Wilcox.

We look back at the Dragoon Mountains. That rocky place in the mountains is where we spent the night.



While DB took that photo, I waited a mile ahead and watched hundreds of Canada Geese rise from the wetlands to the east attempting to get their shit together and head south. They reminded me of the rides I've taken with ten guys. DB joined me and watched, fascinated, listening to their melodious honking. We spent a half hour there with hardly a word; just an occasional laugh at the geese's antics. Of course, it was only funny because it looked so... human.

We were out of tourist and mining country and into ranching and farming land. We buzzed through Wilcox, a largely charmless ag town -- though it did have a block and a half of historical buildings, including one that served fancy coffee. We demurred and pushed on. We even drove a few miles of I-10, because that's all there was, but soon exited onto 191, the road we'd spend the rest of the day on. This southern end of it was flat and straight, but offered a good view of the Pinaleno Mountains, wherein one finds Mount Graham, the highest point in Arizona and home to an observatory.



Judging by the map, the road up would be worth following, but it's mid-morning and we're already running late. Feh. On to Safford, a bigger ag town in the middle of good pasture and cotton fields. We'd been surprised by how much of the southeastern corner of Arizona is cultivated. Here in the Gila Valley, with acequias everywhere, farming rules. If I'd realized then that Pima was only seven miles away, I'd have not been so surprised. It seemed that the temperature had risen twenty degrees in the last twenty miles, so lunch in a dark and quiet restaurant that had been very modern twenty years ago took a long time. We felt better as we headed east towards the massive Gila Mountains, then north for Clifton where we hit serious traffic. For future reference, the Black Hills Back Country Byway roughly parallels the highway along here; it would be more fun than the highway, I reckon. Next time.

Clifton is a very old town. It looks like Mexico, pinned by the San Francisco River and a railroad against a huge dark cliff. Next time, I'll know what's coming and get off the highway for some photos, but this time it was gone before I had the chance. For now, here's a shot I googled that will give you the idea of the place.



At this point, we had about 90 miles to reach Hannagan Meadow, where there's a lodge where we planned to spend the night. A zillion curves away. But first, we had to get past the Morenci Mine.

[Drifting Fate]

Fantastic ride report about an area too few people have seen or appreciated. Love all the pics and details.

[1MPH]

[QUOTE=Stephen] This southern end of it was flat and straight, but offered a good view of the Pinaleno Mountains, wherein one finds Mount Graham, the highest point in Arizona and home to an observatory.


I really am enjoying your write up and even more so your pictures. I've ridden
most of it, and agree with you that it is large and beautiful.

Only Mount Lemon is 9,157 ft. and Humphreys Peak just north of Flagstaff
is 12,643 ft. in the mean time I'm looking forward to your write up of the trip
to Hannagan Meadow. Lots of curves.

[L1gunman]

191 is probably one of the finest motorcycle roads in the US. C'mon, lets hear the rest of it. Sounds like youre leaving the good part of 191 for kind of late in the day. Its not a good road to be on at night. im thinking theres some story yet to come

[Deano955]

[Stephen]

Hey, fellers, I'm not tryin' to build suspense -- just rebuilding a lot of the house "in my spare time", and here at the office they actually seem to think I should get some work done. Can you imagine?

You guys are right; this part of the world is fantastic for motorcycling. Especially in November. Amazing. Writing this, reliving it, really makes me want to go back.

Well, the drywall guy just called, and the door guy should be there soon, and the concrete guys are gonna pour at 1500, so maybe I can catch up on this when I go home at noon. I'll get to it straightaway.

[BeemerChef]

You were in my back yard!!! I live in Portal... actualloy 5 miles up in the Mountains! was in Bisbee actually monday... no tuesday... here is another view from up near the towers...




Did you see this car???




and tuesday night just relaxing a few feet from the cabin I live in...
You could have joined us for a great night... maybe next time...
Be well...
Ara

[Stephen]

Ara, I've kinda followed your move out West... I went across the Chiricahuas, through Paradise and Portal on an RS back in about 1981. What a great place!

I will go back, and I'll give you a holler for sure, especially as we're all foodies and amateur chefs at my house -- my wife even owns the best bakery in town. We can trade some recipes. Oh my god we're turning into a buncha old wimmin

Hell, while we're talking about food, I'll mention what seems to be The Dish of the area: Green Chili. In Northern New Mexico, it's the chile relleno; in the center of the state, it's fry bread, but down here, it's green chili, served over a beef patty, or eggs, or on a cheeseburger, or even just in a bowl. I ate it with almost every meal in one form or another. I miss cooking when I travel, but I also love trying the regional cuisine. On this trip, it was green chili. I love green chili, and green chiles. Yum.

Hmm, I feel an essay on travel and food coming on, but no time for that now. Gotta run. Cheers.