I woke up in my one-man tent covered in sand. The tent’s large mesh cover, acting as a sieve, had let in only the finest of desert talc sand that clung to my sweat. The sun had just risen and it was already extremely hot. But who cared? I was out riding in one of the most challenging places in the world, the deserts of Lake Turkana.

A few months earlier, as I plotted my route down the east side of Africa, I focused attention on the one stretch that is not yet paved. Northern Kenya is covered by a remote desert that extends from South Sudan in the west to Somalia in the east. It surrounds the massive inland desert sea of Lake Turkana, also known as the Jade Sea, for its emerald waters. The main route from Ethiopia into Kenya passes through the border town of Moyale and then opens up to a heavily corrugated road, infamous in the adventure motorcycling community for ruining suspensions. Riding 155 miles of that kind of road with sanDRina, my heavily-laden Suzuki DR650, was not an alluring prospect. All my worldly possessions were already straining her suspension. Luckily, a pair of Dutch bikers who had gone down the eastern side of Africa ahead of me had told me about a more adventurous, alternate route.

It was to be a grueling off-road journey that went from the Omo Valley of southern Ethiopia down along the eastern coast of Lake Turkana before ending at Maralal in the mountains of central Kenya. The off-road enthusiast in me was salivating as it considered the terrain and remoteness. To add to the challenge, there were no petrol stations for 560 miles.

This is one of the longest stretches between petrol stations in the world. For exactly these circumstances, I had installed the largest fuel tank available for the DR650 on sanDRina, the 10-gallon (38 L) Aqualine Safari Tank made in Australia to tackle its vast deserts.

But even this was not going to be enough. In off-road conditions sanDRina consumes more petrol, reducing my range to around 300 miles as opposed to 435 miles on tarmac. I had to carry extra fuel and that meant finding other travelers—the four-wheeled kind.

Usually it’s difficult to coordinate among overlanders because of our varying speeds and schedules. Surprisingly, our convoy grew to five adventurers including Ferdi and Katie, a German couple, and their dog, Kayous, who were traveling in a VW Synchro 4x4 van; Guy and Lu, a young British couple in their baby blue Land Rover Defender; and Peter and Jill, an older British couple in their homemade Land Rover overlanding truck. And to keep it fun for me, there was Carlos, a biker from Spain on his KTM 640 Adventure.

All being independent travelers, to suddenly converge in this large group was unnerving. But we knew that in order to get through this difficult route we had to rely on each other. Descending from the Roof of Africa in the Ethiopian Highlands and leaving civilization behind, we filled our fuel reserves in the southern town of Konso before heading into the Great Rift Valley. As we drove farther into the valley the temperatures climbed as the highlands shrank, and greenery gave way to harsh desert tans.

From Turmi, we detoured to the remote immigration post at the town of Omorate, the last sizable bit of civilization for several few hundred miles. At that point I promised Ferdi and Katie my special chicken curry that night in exchange for carrying five gallons of petrol for me. From a small, cramped shop on the side of the road we bought two live chickens and had a nearby hotel’s staff prepare them right in front of us, stashing the fresh meat in the cooler.

Rejoining our original route, the track degraded from a hard-packed gravel road into a two-track, sandy path that drove straight into thick acacia bushland. Thorns scratched my panniers and low-hanging branches forced me to duck. The Lake Turkana route is littered with about 30 water crossings, and we had timed it to be here at the tail end of the rainy season, ensuring our crossing without getting mired in mud. Before accelerating into the riverbed, I scanned ahead to the other side and chose my path before taking the plunge and swimming through the sand with sanDRina.

After a few hours of going in and out of riverbeds, I left the thick acacia bush of southern Ethiopia and my GPS showed me that I was crossing the border into Kenya. For all the tight security that is generally associated with crossing international borders, I smirked as I rode into Kenya without formalities. I thought about how artificial land borders are in reality, yet, how savagely they are defended by nation-states the world over. This was a no man’s land in the true sense. Forget about the bureaucracy of government, even the remote tribes that live around Lake Turkana were nowhere in sight.

But paperwork was lurking in the first settlement that we came across. In Illoret, a large village surrounded by fishermen making their living from the abundance of Lake Turkana, I received a letter from the stationed policeman. It stated that I had entered Kenya on this date with this vehicle. I was to produce this letter along with my passport at the immigration headquarters in Nairobi to receive my entry stamp into Kenya. That meant I would travel hundreds of miles into the country without a stamp in my passport. I hoped this letter would satisfy any prying officials.

Our convoy left Illoret in a hurry to find a suitable camping spot before dark in Sibiloi National Park. From our last stop I turned inland where the track climbed up a craggy path covered in softball-sized volcanic rocks—standing on the pegs, charging up the path with good momentum.

Starting up the incline once again proved challenging as I had to slip the clutch heavily to achieve enough momentum to climb over a jagged surface. The riding was wearing me out and my shoulders were sore, but there would be no rest this evening—I’d promised to cook my curry!

We set up camp in a clearing with the lake in the distance. The sun had set and the respite in temperature was a relief, welcomed as much as Katie and Ferdi’s portable shower system. The making of our cultural dinner became a social event that brought our group closer together. I drafted everyone to help chop the tomatoes and onions that are so crucial to the curry’s scrumptious taste. I sweated it out in the back of Peter and Jill’s kitchen, cherishing this moment of cooking my curry in the deep wilderness of Africa. This dinner from the heart was wolfed down by all as Ferdi remarked that it was they who ended up with the good end of the deal. But as I drifted off to sleep smelling of garlic, and covered in sand with a wide grin on my face, I knew that the gift of sharing was the bargain of the experience.

While packing the next morning, I reflected on how the parched lands around Lake Turkana have preserved numerous hominid fossils over the eons, earning it the tagline of the Cradle of Humankind. Tribes still roam these parts and their culture wouldn’t be out of place if they were transported a few thousand years back in time. Alas, they won’t be left untouched by modern civilization for long. The fierce winds around Lake Turkana are a temptation for the wind turbine industry, and recently discovered oil under the desert is already attracting investment.

The journey continued through more sand and the father south we went, the firmer the ground became. By the next day we had reached Loyangalani, the largest village we encountered this side of the border. After a day off to rest our bones and the vehicles, the convoy continued south along the majestic lake. We soon left the desert behind, climbing back up the escarpment of the Great Rift Valley. The steep ascent had us riding rutted cliff roads all the way into Maralal, which signified the end of the Lake Turkana route as we had come across that ever-present marker of civilization, a petrol station.

The area around Lake Turkana has not changed for a very long time and that’s a rare find in today’s world. I felt like I’d gone back in time, but was very much present as I bounced on the ruts and felt the sand sucking at my tires.

What an adventure! There were challenging riding, exotic locales and my chicken curry! And even though the Lake Turkana route was the most challenging journey I’ve ever taken on, I rode away knowing that it took teamwork to accomplish my dream of riding in true African wilderness. Maybe that’s what it’s going to take to eliminate the borders of our nations in the future, as well.

Jay Kannaiyan rode his Suzuki DR650 on a three year, 64,000 mile journey across 33 countries from the U.S. through Latin America, Europe, Africa and India. He’s now offering guided motorcycle tours through some of the best places he rode. More details at JamminGlobal.com.

The Dakar Rally is a unique motorsport event, allowing amateur participants to line up with their professional counterparts and race over exactly the same course, under exactly the same rules. It’s also one of the few premier-level sports where men and women compete together on completely equal terms.

Originally conceived as the ultimate endurance test of competitor and machine, the Dakar has evolved into a big-budget factory showdown, and it’s now all about who is fastest off-road over an arduous two weeks and torturous 9,000 kilometers.

So, what continues to attract women to take part in what is often cited as “the toughest off-road race in the world”? British adventure rider, rally racer and 2011 Dakar competitor, Jenny Morgan, profiles three successful female Dakar riders, asking what inspired them to take on this brutal and often heartbreaking pinnacle of off-road motorsport.

Annie Seel

Number of Dakar Rally participations: 5

2002 Africa—54^th

2007 Africa—94^th

2009 South America—79^th (2nd moto feminin)

2010 South America—45^th (1st moto feminin)

2011 South America—83^rd (4th moto feminin)

Annie Seel, a petite and personable Swede, is arguably the most successful female rider in Dakar, having finished all five editions she entered and placing 45^th overall and first female in 2010. She is also the only woman to have raced in both the African and South American editions, together with a 100% finish rate in all 21 International rally-raid events she has competed—earning her the moniker “Rally Princess” by adoring fans.

Her determination stems from childhood, “Before my father died, I would spend weekends with him working on old cars.” In her late teens Annie started road racing, then achieved success in the Nordic enduro championships during the 1990s. “The moment I first rode on sand I knew I’d found my specialty,” she grins. Her first international rally was just 10 days later and she was a top 50 finisher, despite riding the last two days with a broken foot!

“I had friends who had raced the Dakar, but never thought I would be capable to take on that event,” she says. “But having finished well in other rallies, by 2002 I felt I might actually have a chance after all....” Misfortune struck just four days in when she broke her hand. Undeterred she struggled through the marathon task ahead of her and was rewarded with an impressive 54^th overall in her first Dakar.

After her crowning success in the 2004 Cross-Country Rally World Championship, Annie believed she could return to the Dakar in 2007 with a more professional and calculated approach. Plagued with technical issues, she was disappointed with her final position of 94^th.

Returning two years later to improve on that performance coincided with the move to South America, and Annie was struck by how different the Dakar had become. 

“In Africa, bivouacs were very basic, and short daylight hours meant you would struggle to get in before dark. It felt endless—and whatever you didn’t bring, you did without. Conversely, the overwhelming spectator support in South America means it has lost that profound feeling of survival I so enjoyed.”

Recurring injuries also mean that Annie has effectively retired from moto racing, and she’s now focused on four wheels—auto stage rallying, together with co-driving the Dakar this year in an SSV (side by side vehicle). “I like a new challenge,” she smiles, “because I still feel I’m at my best when things are at their worst!”

Patsy Quick

Number of Dakar Rally participations: 4

Africa 2003—DNF (injury and evacuation)

Africa 2004—DNF (timed-out due to adverse weather)

Africa 2005—DNF (withdrawal due to mechanical issues)

Africa 2006—Finished at last! 88^th

Patsy Quick’s tenacity during her four-year campaign exemplifies the “Dakar spirit”—failing to finish in almost every way possible, only to come back year after year ever more determined—ultimately achieving the accolade of “first British woman to finish the Dakar,” in 2006.

“It’s like a drug,” she says, “the Dakar really gets under your skin, and you just have to keep going back until you beat it!”

Her first attempt ended prematurely with a serious accident and medical evacuation, resulting in surgery to remove a ruptured spleen. Undeterred, she returned the following year—but was ultimately excluded after failing to make her start due to horrendous weather conditions—a casualty of the event’s rigid timekeeping.

Her third attempt was cut short due to a mechanical failure. “Dakar is like the ‘Everest’ of the off-road world,” she offers, “it was a mixture of stubbornness and determination to get that finish for everyone who had supported me—but most of all, I just wanted to beat the desert itself.”

It wasn’t until the 2006 edition—immortalized in the TV series “Race to Dakar”—that Patsy finally achieved her goal, together with her compatriot Clive Town. “It was a surreal feeling. You can’t really believe that after four years of blood sweat and tears, it’s all over. It’s hard to explain to people back home just what you’ve been through, and for a number of years afterwards I felt there was a huge hole to fill.”

Patsy decided to use that experience in developing her own rider training and rally assistance company: Desert Rose Racing (DesertRoseRacing.com), and continues to support riders from all over the world, including, of course, at the Dakar every year.

“The Dakar has really changed [since it moved to South America]—it’s become much more of a [professional] race now,” she suggests. “Before you’d have a handful racing, then the rest of us—now everyone is going as fast as they can every single day! In Africa, you’d all be queuing for breakfast together and sleeping in tents, now it’s all about who’s got the biggest motorhome!”

Patsy’s advice? “Be under no illusion how hard it is—you have to be utterly dedicated and committed, and I think a lot of riders still underestimate that.”

Tamsin Jones

Number of Dakar Rally participations: 1

South America 2010—86^th (4th moto feminin)

Tamsin Jones is typical of the new breed of Dakar racer, coming from a multi-disciplined background of extreme sports—long distance running, snowboarding, World Cup downhill mountain-biking and extreme enduro.

She is engaged to fellow British Dakar racer Craig Bounds and they currently run a successful enduro/rally and trials riding training school Black Desert Training from their base in South Wales. Tamsin and Craig also continue to support the local community with their long-term off-road training program for underprivileged young riders.

“I remember seeing some old TV footage of the Dakar, and the riders were so beaten up—and I thought, I want to do that! Then once I’d told all my friends, there was no going back,” she smiles. Tamsin is one of the few Dakar rally competitors who managed to finish the event on her first attempt. “It was still the hardest thing I’ve ever done—my motivation throughout the second week was to simply finish as I didn’t want to come back! I really would have dragged the bike to the end if I’d had to!”

Tamsin’s experience as a charity fundraiser helped her personal campaign, although she recalls how nervous she was at the start line, “I was thinking how little time I’d spent on the bike recently, with all the fundraising and physical training required.”

The first few days of the 2010 event pushed her to the limit mentally and physically, “You have to be stubborn—have a never-give-up attitude, be multi-skilled and prepared to do what it takes to get what you want. It’s quite a selfish thing to do,” she admits. “For me the most memorable days were those where you got in after midnight—that’s what I imagined Dakar to be, and for me it was!”

* * *

From these brief insights into what it takes to be successful in Dakar, it’s clear that despite different backgrounds and motivations there are common themes of determination, tenacity and, indeed, a degree of selfishness required to compete at this level. Even then it appears luck still plays an important part. 

For many the Dakar is a lifelong dream. I too have unfinished business with the Dakar, having suffered an accident and subsequent medical evacuation on the 2011 edition, and agree that once you get the bug, you do whatever you can to return.

Jenny Morgan had the support of an independent British team who plan to debut their own 450cc bike in the Dakar Rally 2015. It is also their intention to offer a second fully-supported team bike in an all-inclusive rental package, and they’re particularly keen to attract a rider from North America. Rally-RaidProducts.co.uk

There’s an undeniable mystique to the American West. Cowboys, Indians, outlaws and the Gold Rush—they all call as loudly as the wide open landscape itself. Inspired by our friend and Backcountry Byways author, Tony Huegel, and the custom routing he was working on for one of his adventure riding motorcycle clients, we decided to build a trip around this magnificently desolate place he refers to as “The Great Empty.”

It’s the big area of “nothingness” south of Lander, Wyoming, and north of Interstate 80, where there are very few roads and even fewer people. Originally from the east coast and now living in Idaho Falls, we have become increasingly enchanted with the western way of life and all the places to escape into the wilderness. With a newly purchased KTM 950 Adventure in the garage alongside my partner Edward’s KTM Super Enduro, the pull of the wide open west was too much for either of us to deny.

After months of Edward’s obsessive planning, we headed out of Idaho Falls on I-15 for about 40 miles. Exiting the highway at Mud Lake, we went north, taking some nice double track over Bannack Pass and crossing into Montana. We rode in a northerly direction for several hours, through miles of open range, leaving civilization farther and farther behind.

Medicine Lodge Creek Road brought us to Bannack State Park, the site of Montana’s first major gold discovery in 1862. The town was named after the local tribe of Bannock Indians, and swelled to around 10,000 people in its heyday. Bannack was also the capital of the Wyoming Territory for a brief period of time.

Once gold was discovered in nearby Virginia City, the population slowly dwindled until the last of the residents moved out in the 1970s. Now a National Historic Landmark with over 60 buildings, Bannack State Park is the best preserved of all of Montana’s ghost towns.

After nearly an entire day of solitude on the gravel roads, the number of tourists at the State Park was a jolt. When we were told that the fee was $22 to camp among barking dogs and belching RVs, we consulted the GPS and found a remote place on public land where we dry camped, sharing the last of the afternoon shade with a group of friendly cows.

Note in Edward’s journal: “No cars for hours. Chicken fajitas and three beers for dinner. Good start to the trip.”

We were at elevation and it was a cold night. Edward’s Super Enduro had trouble starting, so we rolled our bikes into the sunshine and waited. A while later everything had warmed up enough to kick over the engines and we rode out. With a huge hot breakfast in Dillon, Montana, we then headed for the Gravelly Range.

In the Gravellies, being virtually roadless means that what few roadways there are take your breath away. There’s a high elevation drive along the crest, with undulating mountain views on either side for miles. Part of the Beaverhead-Deerlodge National Forest, there are no services once you leave the highway, which suited us just fine with our inclination towards the wild and the remote.

The gravel road was easy and unchallenging, so it was effortless to focus on the alpine vistas, open foothills and coniferous forests interspersed with mountain meadows. We found ourselves riding separately yet together, each enchanted with the scenery. Later, I read that there are well over 250 species of wildflowers, grasses, shrubs, and trees occurring along the route. Even though the blooming starts in late June and runs through July, it was spectacular even in early September.

We spent most of the day under the enchantment of the Gravellies and considered camping there, but given our KTMs’ objections to the cold that morning, we knew that at 9000-plus feet of elevation we’d waste the next day’s precious riding time waiting for the mountain chill to recede.

Instead, we rode down to a campsite Edward knew in Red Rock Lakes National Wildlife Refuge. Spectacular in its own right, my only hesitation was the abandoned horse trailer with a multiplicity of printed admonitions to use it for food storage in case of bears.

Note in Edward’s journal: “Gravelly Range Loop was AWESOME! We must come back.”

We awoke to the serenade of trumpeter swans at dawn and ate our blissfully-unmolested-by-bears breakfast in camp overlooking the lake. Shortly after riding out we left the gravel roads and covered some ground along a section of the John D. Rockefeller Parkway, which connects Grand Teton National Park to Yellowstone National Park. Stopping for lunch at a picnic area, Edward braved the frigid waters of the Snake River for a bath. I refused.

Back on gravel, we rode over Union Pass at 9,300 feet. I was getting tired and making more riding mistakes than I cared for; however, it seemed to take forever to find a suitable camping spot that wasn’t private farmland. I stopped a passing pickup truck to ask a local where to camp, and he directed us to a spot on his land along the river, with a firm admonition to be on the look out for bears. Did I mention I have a thing about camping in bear country?

While discussing bear stalking and feeding theories, and what path a bear might take while crossing the river into our camp, Edward eventually walked away and started making dinner. He left me to put up the tent. When I was finished to the best of my bear-phobic satisfaction, I brought my chair over to the dirt area where he’d unpacked the stove and was boiling water for a dehydrated camping meal.

“Is that smoke?” I asked looking over his shoulder. He turned towards where I was looking and, as if time stood still, we both sat stupefied, seeing the black smoke of wildfire on the other side of the closest range of hills. We looked at each other and nodded simultaneously; with silent agreement we abandoned dinner, packed up camp and moved on.

Several hours of riding in the dark later, we passed through Pinedale, Wyoming. We navigated out of town to a remote spot Edward remembered from a previous trip. We set up the tent like robots using our head lamps to guide our actions, and crashed into our sleeping bags without eating.

Riding Lander Pass we were on gravel roads once again when we encountered a dirt and rain storm. The violent winds of a dark storm that the western states seem to brew up so easily was tossing the freshly graveled surface into the sky. Somehow we made it to the Lander Cutoff Road.

As the sky cleared, we found ourselves at a famous landmark -- the intersection of the Oregon Trail, California Trail, Mormon Trail and the Pony Express, before departing on the Oregon Trail through a whole lot of empty landscape.

Despite being used by 400,000 settlers migrating west across the United States, the Oregon Trail was difficult to ride. Two deep trenches, the width of wagon wheels, remain as a reminder of how difficult it was for settlers to travel through the harsh and inhospitable terrain. Riding our big bikes in the cavernous ruts was a workout.

The next day we came to South Pass City, the site of Wyoming’s biggest gold boom and bust. A lonely, windswept graveyard stood above town. The South Pass City State Historic Site preserves more than 30 historic structures, and the Continental Divide National Scenic Trail also passes through town. With a population of about seven people, “town,” is a stretch of the term—we didn’t expect to find any services there.

The Carissa Mine stands just beyond town, an immense structure which permanently ceased operations in 1954. The state of Wyoming purchased the Carissa in 2003, and has financed a massive renovation, including re-purchasing several essential pieces of equipment previously sold off. The Carissa can now be toured Memorial Day through Labor Day, but we were too late in the season.
In Atlantic City, Wyoming, we were drawn into the Atlantic City Mercantile, where history is alive in the décor as well as the preserved building itself. Atlantic City, with its 37 residents, is a metropolis compared to South Pass City. We left the friendly locals and decided to push on because we were now on the edge of the Great Empty—the crown jewel of this trip.

Note in Edward’s journal: “Nice morning. Many hours of the Great Empty. Great Riding.”

There were no houses. No ranches. Only endless horizon and little-used roadbed. According to the GPS, the nearest highway was over 60 miles away. We passed a sign for the Sweetwater Uranium mine, of all things, and knew we were beyond nowhere.

There wasn’t another soul around; the only vestige of humanity an abandoned and derelict settlement where a hardy soul had once tried to make a go of it in this harsh and unforgiving environment. Even when expecting a vast, empty plain, we were astonished at the desolation of this part of southwestern Wyoming.

In many places there was no visible life—not even the normally ubiquitous sagebrush. Just mile after mile of wide open road, fascinatingly empty landscape and nothing but the noise of the wind for company. We pressed on; knowing that if needed, it was doubtful there would be any salvation.

Note in Edward’s journal: “‘Holy Crap... I hope this goes through,’ was all I could think today. I’m glad I did my research.”

Eventually the formidable landscape gave way to low scrub and cow country and we came to a small stream where things were slightly greener and a little more forgiving. We found the bovine companionship gathered around the small patch of green reassuring company after all that great empty space, enough so that we decided to stop for the night.

The next morning we packed up and left our little oasis, setting out through the Great Empty yet again. The sun beat down, the road stretched on long and straight, and the dust plume behind us went on and on, lingering in the air long after the roar of our KTMs melted into the horizon.

Helpful Resources:

• Backcountry Byways Custom Trip Routing

Tony Huegel

BackcountryByways.com

• Bannack State Park

721 Bannack Rd

Dillon, MT 59725

Latitude/Longitude: (45.16212 / -112.99868)

StateParks.mt.gov/bannack

Open year round

Fall/Spring: 8 am–5 pm

Summer: 8 am–9 pm

• South Pass City and Carissa Mine

• Benchmark Maps

BenchmarkMaps.com

From seeing the Colorado Backcountry Discovery Route in a movie theater, to becoming one of the characters in the next BDR, Inna Thorn brings you this engaging, behind-the-scenes report of her off-pavement motorcycle adventure through Arizona’s backcountry.

• How it all Started

As I sat in the theater at the Colorado Backcountry Discovery Route movie premiere, watching a group of guys having the time of their lives riding adventure motorcycles in the majestic Colorado high country, I suddenly realized how much I missed experiencing the world on two wheels.

In 2008, my boyfriend and I quit our jobs and set off on a motorcycle adventure from Seattle to Ushuaia. For six months we tasted the world, mile by mile, as we traveled aboard our Kawasaki KLR 650s. Riding about 20,000 miles, we crossed 13 countries exploring some of the most remote and legendary places in the Southern hemisphere. Something inside us changed on that trip—we had the adventure bug.

A lot has happened since. We got married. My passion for adventure motorcycling guided my career, and I joined Touratech-USA. In 2011 our son was born. Motherhood and parenting consumed my life. Coming out of a year-long maternity leave, I welcomed the opportunity to work for the Backcountry Discovery Routes (BDR) as manager of the non-profit organization. The organization’s goal is to provide resources and inspire people to explore the backcountry by motorcycle.

That evening the COBDR movie reawakened my yearning for adventure. Motherhood aside, life on the road seemed so alluring again, but was it realistic? During the question and answer period afterwards, I asked if they’d consider having a woman in the next film? A week later, I was invited to join the BDR scouting team for the Arizona BDR documentary.

• Preparation Time

The report from Rob Watt who’d been scouting the route for the last two years sounded a bit unnerving. AZBDR is the most remote of the BDRs so far. We would camp for the entire nine-day expedition, encounter sand, steep hills with loose rock, and long days in remote areas. We would also have to watch out for cactus, snakes, scorpions, and something called the Valley Fever.

With just over a month to prepare, I took a dirt training class with PSSOR (Puget Sound Safety Off-Road). It made me realize that my trusty KLR 650 might be a bit too much bike to handle in the rugged terrain. A good friend graciously offered his ADV-ready Yamaha WR250R for the expedition. Another weekend-long practice in the dirt on the WR and I was ready as I could be. It was finally travel time!

• The Team

We met at GOAZ Motorcycles in Scottsdale, AZ, for final preparations. The group consisted of dual-sport enthusiasts from across the motorcycle industry. Tom Myers and Paul Guillien of Touratech-USA; Justin Bradshaw of Butler Motorcycle Maps; Rob Watt, owner of Trailmaster Adventures; Florian Neuhauser, editor at Road Runner Magazine; Austin Vince, the gregarious British adventurer and filmmaker; Jon Beck, photographer; Sterling Noren, filmmaker; and me.

• The Border

The Coronado National Memorial, commemorating the first organized expedition into the Southwest by conquistador Francisco Vásquez de Coronado, also marked the beginning of the AZBDR expedition. Dusty twisties led up to the entrance of the Coronado National Forest on the southeast flank of the Huachuca Mountains.

From there we could see deep into Mexico, including the border guard surveillance activities. We rode along a welded steel fence that marks the Arizona/Mexico border, a popular drug smuggling route in the Southwest. Despite the warnings we hear on the news of “Just don’t go near the border,” we never felt in danger, and encountered a number of friendly border patrol agents who just waved as we rolled by.

• Tough Terrain

The following day epitomized difficult terrain as we rolled out of camp and immediately hit soft, deep sand. I couldn’t gain much speed, my front wheel kept catching on the ruts and the bike kept going wherever it wanted. By the time this sandy section was finally over, I’d had at least four falls, was overheated and completely worn out.

The sand gave way to steep hills carpeted with loose rock where Sterling set up a shot at the top of a curvy hill. We were to ride up one bike at a time as the camera rolled. I watched other riders skillfully muscle their large bikes up the hill. I said my prayers before tackling the challenge and starting the climb. When I made it to the top of the hill I reveled in the feeling of triumph.

A few minutes from reaching pavement, Austin took a nasty fall and seriously injured his knee. Just like that his trip was over and we were forced to say goodbye. It was a bittersweet ending to an otherwise victorious day.

We awoke the next day in a cozy bowl of a valley, with towering saguaro cactus in full bloom painting the hills. The riding started out easy on a wide, hard-packed dirt road. After a quick fuel stop, we rode alongside old train tracks. The road was rutty but fun and fast-paced, the kind the WR is made for. I had a couple of scary moments, but managed and kept the momentum going with a huge smile on my face.

We crossed the Pioneer Pass at 5,900 feet and drank in the stunning high country scenery and lake views. It was BDR at its best.

• Putting the Backcountry in BDR

We entered the Sierra Ancha Wilderness of the Tonto National Forest. The road weaved in and out of the forest, opening to spectacular views of precipitous box canyons, high cliffs, and pine-covered mountains. The path was hard pan with jagged rocks for hours on end. Difficult riding and the heat of the sun quickly diminished our water supplies.

After another tire-changing break, we took a turn and descended on the twisty, rocky, slippery road that would be marked “Expert” in the final AZBDR route. It was a physical ride, but on my WR250 I just cruised down in first gear, dancing the bike around the big rocks.

By the end of the day everyone was completely exhausted, out of water and food, and low on gas. Finally at the campsite, we washed clothes in the creek, and gathered around the campfire for a five-star dinner and drinks.

• Mother’s Day

When I became a mom two years ago, I never dreamed I’d spend Mother’s Day 1,000 miles away from my baby, camping in the wilderness with a bunch of men. I woke up to the chirping of birds and the smell of coffee and the guys making me Mother’s Day breakfast.

It was an enjoyable and scenic day of riding. We were treated to iconic views of the plateau country and desert canyon country from the rugged Mogollon Rim, an escarpment that forms the southern limit of the Colorado Plateau. It drops as much as 2,000 feet in some areas and provides some of the most far-reaching scenery in Arizona.

On the fast gravel road we zoomed through the diverse landscapes of the Coconino National Forest, with its ponderosa pine forests, mesas, alpine tundra and ancient volcanic peaks, then continued to the Long Lake for photos. A rocky road through the bushy terrain resulted in more flat tires. Most of us ran out of water and food, a testament to the remoteness of the ABZDR.

In the morning we rode through black volcanic sand. I was intimidated at first but quickly got the hang of it, and then, no one could stop me. I was zooming pass the guys, jumping over the road humps feeling like a motocross rider.

• Grand Canyon and the Navajo Nation

We made a quick tourist stop at the Grand Canyon before heading to our next destination—the Navajo Nation. As we entered the large expanse of the Navajo land, with its spectacular canyon mesa scenery, the land felt venerable and sacred. A herd of wild horses ran off in the distance.

Rob had a very special cliff-side camping spot for us that night—right on top of the deep and jagged Little Colorado River Canyon. It had the most spectacular views of any site I’d ever seen. We pulled up to the edge to set up camp. The sandy soil made it hard to keep the tents staked down. Some brave guys even placed their tents just a bike length away from the canyon’s edge.

• Rough Night

As darkness fell, the wind grew stronger. By the time we were crawling into bed, the wind was beginning to blow our personal effects away. As the gusts became more intense, I feared my tent was going to lift up and fly away along with my helmet, my riding boots and my bike into the deep drop of the canyon. The wind was relentless. Blood-shot eyes told the story the next morning. No one slept a wink, and we were all wandering around looking for missing belongings.

Rob had another special surprise for us that morning, a view point of the Grand Canyon accessible by a secret track not easily found on the map. Our group took in the dramatic views of a place most people have never seen—a perfect ending to our Grand Arizona Adventure.

• Gift of the BDR

For many people, adventure travel means going to faraway places on the other side of the world, taking months off work, investing hours into planning. The gift of the BDR is the reminder that unique adventures are much more accessible than we may realize. Right here in our backyard are beautiful places for motorcycle riding. The routes are established and the GPS tracks are free. In less than a week’s time you can have memories that will last a lifetime.

Experiencing Arizona by remote backroads on two wheels gave me a new appreciation for its natural beauty and its iconic landscapes. On a personal level, AZBDR was a tale of a Hero’s Journey: the call to adventure, the doubting of my abilities, the support and camaraderie of the team, the tests, challenges and tribulations, the rewards and the final triumphant homecoming.
AZBDR made me face my fears, and instead of dreading the sand or the rocks, I learned to conquer them head on. Apart from experiencing the beauty of the world, for me, this personal growth is my favorite element of adventure motorcycling.

I sit here writing from an Airbnb in Cape Town, South Africa, somewhat in disbelief that my fiancé and I have traveled here not by plane or boat, but overland on a motorcycle. We rode out of a sleepy village in the U.K. 283 days ago with everything we’d need piled on the back of our BMW R1200GSA. An adventure that would take us over 41,000 km through 30 countries and across three continents.

Why the disbelief? Rewinding the timeline just over a year, I had no motorcycle, no motorcycle license, no riding or camping gear, and neither of us had any adventure motorcycle travel experience whatsoever. From there, we didn’t start a story of calm, easy travel on smooth tarmac roads; we were destined for true adventure. We rode some of the most challenging roads in the world, crashed in Albania, were escorted by the Iraqi military, overcame a multitude of logistical nightmares, crossed crocodile-infested rivers in the middle of the Zambian jungle, camped with tribes and rhinos, and much more.

I did have some motorcycling background. My dad, a keen biker back in the day, had me riding a 50cc Honda Monkey around the yard as a wee lad. That ignited a flame; I quickly developed a passion for anything on two wheels, spending much of my teenage years racing downhill mountain bikes and modified pit bikes.

On the other hand, Lucie had absolutely no motorcycle experience and not much interest. She had the sadly-too-common story of a motorcycle-related death in the family. Her parents remained in denial about our adventure plans until the day we wobbled up outside their home on the imposing R1200GSA. I didn’t help matters when I accidentally dropped it on their car!

Our inspiration will come as no surprise—watching Charley and Ewan on the Long Way series. As a young lad with a passion for motorcycles and a developing interest in travel, seeing that one could ride around the world on a motorcycle… well, it was one of the coolest things imaginable. But it wasn’t until we rewatched the series a few years ago, while serendipitously planning a sabbatical to travel the world, that the mental gears started turning… “Could we travel by motorcycle?” It was a thought that led down a rabbit hole of researching all things related to adventure motorcycle travel. Before long, a plan took form. We had a rough idea of a route, booked training, and eventually obtained a motorcycle license, found a suitable bike, ordered everything we’d need, and eagerly began preparing for the trip of a lifetime.

We hadn’t planned everything perfectly, though. The first time we loaded the motorcycle was the morning we left. I couldn’t believe how heavy it was… it felt like the sidestand had been welded to the ground. But thankfully, once the mighty GS got rolling, the awkwardness all but disappeared. It was easy to maneuver and very comfortable.

After some sad and somewhat concerned farewells from family and friends, we set off for the channel tunnel. The first month was spent acclimatizing to this new way of life, figuring out our gear, cautiously trying to wild camp, finding our roles, and gradually building confidence on the BMW. Eager to reach further afield, we crossed five borders in five days to arrive in Switzerland. Over the following weeks, we meandered through the Alps, crossed northern Italy to Slovenia, then followed the Adriatic coastline to Greece, where we turned inland to head east through Turkiye.

One of our big targets was the infamous Pamir Highway in Central Asia. But upon reaching Georgia, we learned the Azerbaijan border was closed indefinitely. After exhausting all the options, we reluctantly accepted that our Pamir dream was over. It seemed the universe had different plans for us. In Armenia with no feasible way of continuing east, we were left with a choice: return to Europe or turn south, through Iraq. We chose Iraq. 

The experience that unfolded during our time in the beautiful desert country was one of total and complete wonderment, kindness, openness, adventure, and selfless hospitality free from expectation. We could write several articles about this alone! Our journey through this lesser-traveled part of the world demonstrated the stark difference that can exist between images and words used by the media and the actual reality of the people and culture. We were shown hospitality, kindness, and love on a whole new level. It completely took us by surprise.

Following an unforgettable time riding through Iraq, we reached Jordan and continued on to Saudi Arabia, where we took a ship across the Red Sea from Jeddah to Port Sudan, our gateway to Africa. With a warm welcome from the Sudanese bikers, we rode through the country with an open heart and open mind, despite the country’s reputation and history of unrest.

Days before we planned to leave Khartoum, the capital of Sudan, to ride to the Ethiopian border, we heard news of an overlander stuck at the border due to a change in the law. Ethiopian customs now demanded a cash bond/deposit of many multiples of a vehicle’s value. Again, it seemed the universe had different plans for our trip. After weeks of research, deliberation, and discussions with other travelers and locals, we decided to airfreight our bike to Kenya. At $4,000 including our own flights, this pushed us way over budget, but the only other option was to end the trip and fly home. We’d just landed in Africa with our sights set firmly on reaching Cape Town, and we were not ready to give up.

After finally clearing the BMW through Kenyan customs and reassembling it at the campsite, the journey continued. We spent a couple of weeks exploring Kenya and relaxing by the Indian Ocean before turning south once more to cross through Tanzania and Malawi, then west through Zambia, Zimbabwe, Botswana, and Namibia where we reached the west coast, the Atlantic Ocean. Namibia was an absolute dream for adventure motorcycling and quickly became one of our favorite countries where we enjoyed a month of exploring remote areas off-road, getting stuck in the sand, wild camping with rhinos, and meeting so many amazing people.

Click here to read "Riding Africa's Wild West: A Namibian Adventure"

Then it was on to our final country, number 30, South Africa. Not wanting the trip to end, we explored the Western Cape and took our time slowly working towards Cape Town, where we eventually, and reluctantly, finished the trip at the Cape of Good Hope, the most southwestern point of Africa.

It’s funny how this lifestyle became so normal to us. After nine months on the road and more than 40,000 km since we left home with shiny new equipment and no experience, the day-to-day adventure motorcycle travel had now become our life, our routine, our normal. It has taught us that we (that means you, as well) are capable of so much more than we ever assumed. All it took was to believe in ourselves and get out there and do it, making mistakes and learning as we went. It’s truly amazing what can be achieved by simply taking one day at a time—when, before you realize it, you might find yourself on the other side of the planet!

The Pillion Perspective

When Matt brought up the idea of doing this trip, I had a lot of questions. At that time, we’d only had a bit of experience riding two-up on mopeds in Thailand and Indonesia. That was a great way to see areas of a country one may not otherwise visit, but it was a long way from an RTW on a GS! At the time, Matt didn’t have a motorcycle license and had never even touched a big adventure bike. But as we further researched and the planning came together, discussions of traveling by motorcycle became more normal.

I was always quite comfortable riding pillion. Being smaller folk, we had plenty of space on the big GSA and I would sit with my hands in my lap—and Matt often said that he didn’t even notice I was there. But then we had our first serious fall in Albania which ended up with me spending a night in the hospital. Our confidence went from leaning over and scraping the pegs around corners, to slowing way down and riding with caution on twisty roads. We slowly regained our confidence and again began enjoying the twisty mountain roads.

My favorite part of motorcycling is off-road riding. I love the challenge and working together as a team. Many ask, “Do you stand up?”—of course I do! I think the riding would be very hard for Matt if I didn’t and it would feel like I was being dragged around without helping at all. I stand when Matt does and sometimes even without him. In the beginning, we communicated a lot when we stood up and sat down, but eventually you learn to read the road and know when it’s necessary. The back end moves a lot more freely when I’m standing and moving my weight around. You learn the bike’s limits, and feel when it’s tipping too much. Eventually, I was really helping to prevent the bike from falling over on those rocky or sandy tracks.

Matt Shields and Lucie Vivian are a British couple with a thirst for adventure travel. While they enjoy sipping cocktails on the terrace of a sunset villa in the Maldives, they get much more from straying off the beaten track and trying to avoid the tourists. You can follow their adventures on YouTube and Instagram @we.are.adventure.riders.

Almost three years in the making, this trip started after seeing a photograph of a Royal Enfield Himalayan high in the Himalayas, whereupon my friends, Nash and Ladd, and I went to work planning the trip and making contacts. Royal Enfield recommended Vintage Rides (Vintagerides.travel) touring company as the best in the business. Not long after we paid our deposits and began packing our bags. That was in February of 2020, a month before COVID hit. As a result, we rescheduled and rescheduled again until June 2022. And so, it began…

Day One and Two: In Dharmsala, India, we picked up the Royal Enfield Himalayans. From there we rode into the mountains near the home of the Dalai Lama where we walked among the Tibetan monks in the land of an exiled people. At 5,280 feet, we were a mile above sea level. Although we quickly acclimated to the rules of the road, our first impression was that we’d meet our doom in the horrific traffic. Yet by the end of the trip, we miraculously never saw a single traffic accident other than witnessing a bus slide off the side of a mountain!

Day Three: Chamba, India, it rained for half the day, but at least there was less traffic. All roads were single lanes with intermittent stretches of gravel, asphalt, mud, and packed dirt, as well as a recent landslide. Cars, trucks, motorcycles, and scooters worked together to navigate around as efficiently and quickly as possible. Dinner was melt-in-our-mouths tandoori chicken and lamb.

Day Four: Killar, India, it was raining again as we rode out and continued until a police checkpoint at Sach Pass (14,420 feet) around noon. The pass was snowed in, and the police would not let us attempt it. But an hour later they let us go. Both adventure bikes and cars struggled mightily, and each of us riders fell more than once. At the top of the pass, we were able to forge on once again after a bulldozer cleared the snow. As Neil Peart wrote in Roadshow, “Adventures suck when you’re having them.” This may have been my best day ever on a motorcycle.

Day Five: Following the Chenab River to Jispa, home of an ornate 700-year-old wooden temple, we spotted a tiny farming village on the side of the mountain. One of the men was so enamored with Nash that he invited him to his home and gave him a hat made of flowers and vines. After lunch, the roads were mostly paved and much fun.

Day Six: From Tso Kar the roads got dusty and rough, but the people colorful and inviting. We met Francois, who left Paris on his Ducati Scrambler just before COVID and never stopped traveling. He’d met a young lady in Lebanon who decided to buy a motorcycle of her own in Delhi to join him. Another rider, Bhuwan from Bangalore, had been traveling on a BMW 310GS. These bikes stood out against our sea of Royal Enfields. We crossed several passes getting to Baralacha La at 16,298 feet. A first aid kit I’d strapped to my bike came in handy after our tour guide, Johann, hit a boulder tumbled. Lots of sand riding that day—I hate sand! Johann called it fesh-fesh, which reminds me of the grey moon dust I’d encountered in Iraq. We crossed about 12 miles of wide-open flat terrain where there were no roads, just multiple dirt tracks in the general direction we were headed. While our throttles were pinned skipping over rocks, a herd of running wild donkeys approached from the left and ran with us for several miles before eventually peeling away—it was like a dream sequence! Our hotel that night was at 15,000 feet, without electricity, hot water, cell service, or Internet. Bliss for some.

Day Seven: Crossing the Taglangla Pass on the way to Leh, one of the guys came down with terrible altitude sickness and was throwing up. We had no choice but to rush him down the mountain. At 17,582 feet, it’s the second highest pass in the world, made even more spectacular because we had it to ourselves. Descending through a magnificent red rock canyon, we finally arrived at Leh. There we had to change from Himalayans to Bullet 500s as part of an economic agreement that protects the locals and their ability to earn a living through tourism. The hotelier was overjoyed at our arrival as we were the first of the foreign motorcycle tours to return to Leh since COVID began. Throughout history, Leh has always depended on travelers as it was originally a stop along the Silk Road from Punjab to China. You can still see the Chinese influence on the local menu, although we stuck with Indian and Tibetan food for dinner.

Day Eight: The day started poorly when I injured my back. I could ride but was in excruciating pain. This was not a new injury, but I usually took strong painkillers and muscle relaxers for a few days to recover. It’s unwise to mix the drugs with motorcycling, so I had to tough it out. Finally, we made it to the “Crown of the World.” At 3.5 miles up (18,379 feet), Khardung La (“La” is “Pass” in the local Lehdak dialect) is touted as the highest motorable road in the world (higher passes, such as Umling La, are currently limited to military traffic due to tensions with China). Snapping a selfie at the top of the pass seems to be the No. 1 attraction in Leh, which is unfortunate because there is so much more to see. Thinksey monastery sits atop a hill overlooking the city swathed in color. The market, with its wide walkways and open spaces, gives a very European feel while preserving the Asian flavor.

Unfortunately, the return trip to Delhi was made dangerous by the traffic heading up to the pass. Prior to this, the folks we shared the road with were considerate and cooperative. But this wave of traffic behaved like they were in a race and oblivious to everyone else on the road (the only time on the bike I felt threatened by traffic). To make matters worse, on the way down, my Bullet 500 died, as did Nash’s. Switching to reserve (the Bullet is carbureted), only Nash’s bike started. Since it was all downhill, we coasted until about a half-mile from the hotel. Nash rode ahead to send the mechanic. Usually, I’m reasonably adept at diagnosing and repairing mechanical issues. Still, I wasn’t in the best of moods between the back pain, the recalcitrant old motorcycle, and the dangerous traffic. The mechanic quickly diagnosed the problem (a blown fuse) and we were on our way again.

Day Nine: After trading the Bullet 500 fleet back for our now beloved Himalayans, we followed the Indus River to Tso Moriri. The terrain changed constantly but remained rugged and mountainous. In that arid range, wherever a little rain has fallen, colors quickly blossom and rapidly fade away. There was a haunting beauty that took my breath away. Tso Moriri is the largest high-altitude lake in India and supports a diverse but sparse ecosystem. The water was brackish but crystal-clear. Nomadic Tibetan herders raise goats in this area to produce fine-quality wool (Pashmina). A 400-year-old Buddhist monastery overlooks the lake and the small town of Karzok, where we stayed in luxury tents. At 15,000 feet, we slept close to the stars on that cold, moonless night.

Day 10: Backtracking a little (conflicts in the regions prevented us from making a loop), and after five hours of mixed off-road and rock-strewn dirt roads, we were thrilled to be back on the smooth two-lane bitumen. Sweeping curves and rolling hills provided a welcome change of pace. And it was big smiles all the way to Sarchu Adventure Camp. It was cold as the sun set, but we were welcomed at the cookhouse where it was warm and full of wonderful fragrances. And the experience gave us a chance to watch a Tibetan couple working together to prepare the meal for about 25 visitors with made-from-scratch chapatis (unleavened flatbread), palak chaat (crisp spinach cakes), and aloo gogi (potatoes and cauliflower). By the time we were shooed away for dinner, our bodies were warm, and our stomachs rumbling.

Day 11: Our final riding day was almost entirely on good roads, but the environment changed again from dry desert to a land reminiscent of the Swiss Alps. We were on the way to Manali, but rather than crossing over Rohtang Pass, we took the newly completed Atal Tunnel. At 5.6 miles, it’s the longest single-tube tunnel highway above 10,000 feet in the world, saving almost 30 miles of dirt roads after a very long day. Upon its exit, we quickly dropped into the town of New Manali—an Indian mountain tourist mecca with parasailing, four-wheelers, zorbing, zip-lining, and a dinner-in-the-sky novelty restaurant. Thankfully, we continued on to Old Manali and our hotel, where we turned in the Himalayans and prepared to gather for a final dinner celebration. Dinner was at the Johnson’s Hotel Cafe and Bar, where we ate and drink like conquering warriors. The food, ambiance, and music were all first-rate, and by the time the evening was over, we were tentatively planning our next trip together. Maybe we’ll visit the eagle hunters in Mongolia….

Trip Statistics:

• Total riding distance 945 miles
• 63,519 feet of elevation climbed

James Carlisle is a retired military officer and a current fourth-grade teacher in Fairfax County, Virginia. He’s been an MSF Rider Coach for six plus years and has traveled the world on and off the motorcycle. He also works as a moto referee for USA Cycling and runs a small charity for underprivileged youth in South Carolina. When not in the classroom or riding, you can find him in his garage tinkering on cars and bikes.

Where chivalry still exists, cowboys rule, and the riding is mighty fine...

It was the type of winter that drives motorcyclists crazy because the snow and cold temperatures had extended into April—that typical Idaho winter where riders long for sunshine and the first glimpse of spring flowers to herald the riding season. In January, I had purchased a 2006 950 KTM Adventure and my thoughts were consumed with taking a trip on her. Lamenting this to my friend Carolyn, she invited me to ride to Texas and see what made her state so great.

Departure day dawned frigid and snowy, no surprise in Idaho, so I waited until late morning for the roads to be cleared. The snowfall made for spectacular contrasts in the canyon country of Utah, but it was too cold to camp so I overnighted with friends and pushed on, eager for warmer climes.

Taking the long way to Texas, in Arizona I looked up my friend Sydney, a female rider I’d met the year before, when we were both riding to Alaska. At dinner we chatted about my trip to Texas and my plans of meeting my friend Carolyn to do some dual-sport riding in Big Bend National Park. On an impulse, Sydney decided to join us, and went to work the next day requesting a week off.

Sydney, Carolyn and I met up in Fort Stockton, Texas. At the campground we drew a crowd as we pitched our tents. For we three independent travelers, it’s common to travel solo, camp off the grid and be self-sufficient. But to the RVers, we were definitely unusual. Other campers took photos of us and asked questions about our travels, as if we were a rare American breed.

The following day it was an easy ride down to south of Alpine. Our destination was Cowhead Ranch, an Old West-style guest ranch where we could bunk for about $20 per night. Voni and Paul Glaves, Texas friends who hosted me on my South America trip, own an adobe across the street, so it was a natural stopping point.

Paul had agreed to be supervising mechanic for some minor repairs of mine, including my first rear tire change on the KTM. After a day at the adobe doing small fitment repairs and general tightening of nuts and bolts on all three bikes, we had dinner with Voni, Paul, and Cowboy Chris from the Cowhead Ranch, not expecting to see them again in just a couple of days.

It would be a shame to be in that part of Texas and not visit Terlingua, so that’s where we headed the next morning. Terlingua is a ghost town that’s slowly being refurbished and brought back to life; it has even entered the digital age with a dot com on the town’s sign.

Home to squatters and renters, artists and shopkeepers, locals and transplants, you’ll meet most on a walk through the small town. With a reputation for being home to a broad range of independent thinking, most residents are colorful characters in one way or another.

After lunch, it was exciting to ride into Big Bend National Park. None of us had ridden there before, and the dirt roads on a borrowed map teased us. It was a perfect Texas riding day—sun shining high and not too hot, with a warm breeze. Riding until the shadows fell long, the three of us found a campsite at the Rio Grande Village Campground for the night.

We didn’t want to chance losing our gear by leaving it in the campground, so Carolyn, Sydney and I were heavily loaded. This was not ideal, and we decided to take local advice and stick to some of the easier off-road tracks through the park, although the way wasn’t always clear.

Because of the dust, we rode at a distance from one another—periodically we’d catch up, look at the map and make directional adjustments, then take off for the next junction. During one of these excursions, while picking my way through a particularly rocky trail, I came across Sydney’s downed bike, with her in excruciating pain.

What to do? We were in the middle of nowhere with no cell reception and limited options. Incredibly, Sydney offered to ride out. We managed to get her on the bike, and somehow made it to the nearest paved road. Once we were rolling on tarmac things didn’t seem so bad, although stopping was pure anguish. Together we came up with a plan that involved riding back to Voni and Paul’s with Sydney sandwiched in the middle, not stopping at corners and cautiously rolling through stop signs.

Voni and Paul lived along the direction to the Alpine Hospital, so we figured it would be easier and faster to head their way. The boys were terrific and quickly shuffled Sydney into the car and took her to the hospital while we waited at the adobe for news.

Sure enough, Sydney’s ankle was broken and it was the end of the trip for her. She’d catch a train back to Arizona and pick up her bike in a few months after she’d healed. It was sad to say goodbye. Very few times in our lives did we manage a dual-sport adventure just with gal pals, and it was a shame to have it end in injury.

Carolyn and I headed back into Big Bend, but without Sydney it wasn’t the same. After a couple of days we decided to head to Carolyn’s place south of Waco, and do some day riding from there.

As we rolled into Amistad Reservoir late in the afternoon, we strategically pitched our tents at the water’s edge. But our seemingly idyllic location turned out to be the local party spot, and around 2:00 a.m. a group of drunken locals arrived at a nearby boat launch, hollering and partying, with music blaring from their pickup. Unfortunately, they also spied the bikes.

Our bikes had drawn a lot of attention during the trip, Carolyn’s KLR because of its unique camouflage wrap, and mine because it was a lesser-known brand. This was true even in the middle of the night. We huddled frightened in our tents without saying a word, listening to the revelers’ footsteps as they walked around the bikes.

We hoped that, because we were riding large enduros, the partiers would assume we were men and keep a more respectful distance. Sure enough, they eventually stumbled back to their pickup and drove off. As the country music receded into the distance the next thing we heard was even scarier—a lone set of footsteps walking around our bikes.

I peeked out of my tent and saw a dark silhouette standing between the machines. Did they pretend to drive off and leave someone behind? Were they just pretending to leave and then were going to circle back on foot? I laid there petrified long after all the sounds were gone, too frightened to whisper to Carolyn, “Did you hear that?” I didn’t want to add a woman’s voice to the mix of the night’s events.

The next morning we discovered that the lone footsteps were a vacationing Texas Ranger on leave. He was camped down the lake and had heard the partiers come to our site. He also knew we were women camping alone, and had come by to see if we were all right. God Bless Texas.

We packed up early and after a long day’s ride through Hill Country we were no longer keen on weekend remote camping in Texas. Instead, Carolyn led us to her friend Norm’s ranch. He let us set up our tents in the “back forty” and was surprised we didn’t ask to sleep inside, but we had been too exhausted to think of it.

The next morning Norm treated us to a cowboy breakfast of home-cooked biscuits and bacon. He proudly showed off his prized bull, tame to him, and gave us a tour of the old homestead—the smokehouse, butchery and bunkhouses. Carolyn had been there before, but for me it was a privileged view into true Texas cattle ranching.

We said goodbye to Norm and made it back to Carolyn’s ranch by late afternoon. There were lots of chores to be done, so we pitched right in. Carolyn keeps a combination of farm critters and rescued camels along with other exotic animals, and her husband was more than happy to have our help, so I stayed a few days before it was time for farewells.

After a taste of Texas, with all of its harshness, beauty and unique brand of hospitality, it was difficult to head home. Good thing it’s such a big state; there is plenty more to explore.

Postscript:

Sydney’s broken ankle healed just fine. True to her adventurous spirit, she quit her job two years later and rode her motorcycle for five and a half months around the United States. Alisa and Carolyn continue to meet in interesting places and ride together, and have just registered for the 2015 all-female Rallye Aïcha des Gazelles (Gazelle Rally) in Morocco. They will be the first American motorcycle competitors on motorcycles in the 25 year history of the rally.

As I roll towards the edge of the canyon it feels like a stage curtain is rising, revealing the opera unfolding below. Shafer Trail drops down into the valley with a series of exposed switchbacks, like the walls of a huge amphitheater, setting the scene for the surreal world I am about to enter. Here, the earth reaches up to cradle me in its sprawling hands on the crumbling edge of the canyon’s rim.

A great motorcycle ride often unfolds in chapters, allowing you to move through yourself as you move through the landscape. You change, reflect, grow and expand as you overcome obstacles, marvel at the vistas, and emerge from the experience subtly transformed. For 100 miles through one of the American West’s harshest deserts, this is what the White Rim Trail does—offering a moment to test yourself against edges and abysses, marvel at the raw beauty of the canyons, and escape into an era lost in time.

I first came to the Canyonlands on my pilgrimage across the West in 2021—a shakedown trip for my eventual journey to South America. The recent death of my father drove me to the road; the trip was a chance to sort through waves of grief in the isolation chamber of my helmet. In the canyons of Moab, I found the solace I was looking for, brushing up momentarily against a pure expression of the vastness of the world laid bare. Feeling the tiny insignificance of a human life, but also the grand resilience of all living things; from the small kangaroo mouse scrounging seeds in the desert to the prickly-pear cacti clinging onto life on harsh layers of windswept stone, blooming briefly and vibrantly. Growing up in the lush and verdant Pacific Northwest forests, this place felt like an absence. For my heart, the desert was a place for grief to blow across like the wind.

At the time of this pilgrimage, I had neither the skill off-road, nor the required supplies of water, food, and tools to ride the entirety of the White Rim Trail safely. Entering it briefly, camping on the most approachable of the sites, it was a place that touched me deeply with its power. I always dreamed of returning one day, and this spring, that chance suddenly arose.

• The Trail

Before the National Parks existed, a road was blasted and carved into the stone by uranium prospectors, hoping to find deposits of the element that fueled Cold War weapons. The layers of sandstone and labyrinthine canyons proved to be barren in this regard, revealing no grand deposits. Yet once Canyonlands was established as a park in the 1960s, the White Rim Trail (WRT) was preserved so visitors could experience this generally unapproachable terrain. From the entrance at the Shafer Switchbacks to the exit at Mineral Bottom Road, the White Rim Trail itself is approximately 71 miles long. With a departure from Moab and exit to the highway, the loop is 120 miles. This road has never been paved and is rarely maintained, shifting and transforming through the seasons as stones crumble and sands drift across the mesa. While not especially technical in favorable conditions, the isolation and lack of any services make this a more demanding ride. It’s possible to complete the trail in a day, and many dirt bikers do. The more beautiful way to appreciate the White Rim is to camp somewhere along it, in one of the 10 official camping zones, which allows for a much deeper experience of this otherworldly place.

A unique aspect of the WRT is that you can only ride it with a permit from the National Park Service. There are day-use permits for driving the road often available at the last minute, and camping permits which book out for the peak seasons of spring and fall months in advance. Yet if you have the flexibility for a spontaneous visit, there are often cancellations of campsites about two weeks out. This is how I scored a camping spot at Hardscrabble Canyon and found myself unexpectedly plotting a return to the trail. Unlike most off-road trails in Moab, the White Rim is only for street-legal on-highway vehicles with registration. This, along with the low permit numbers each day, has kept the trail free from the hordes of side-by-sides that tear through the surrounding landscapes and degrade trail conditions with their careless use.

• Ready for Launch

With my partner Steve and our friend Pat, I set out on a bright spring morning to finally attempt the entire White Rim Trail. With many miles and experiences under my belt, the gaping mouth of the Shafer Switchbacks no longer terrified me as they had at first sight. Many of the obstacles on the trail are an illusory mind-game of sorts—not overly difficult, but with elevated stakes due to the steep drops and sudden edges of the towering canyon walls you will traverse.

One of the challenges of completing the trail as an overnight motorcycle expedition is carrying enough supplies, especially drinking water. In the arid, often scorching desert conditions, the National Park Service recommends one gallon of water per person per day. We loaded up our bikes like dromedaries—water strapped in pouches and pockets to all the available surfaces on our machines. This proved to be an unstable solution almost immediately when Pat raced off on his KTM 890 at rally pace, and one of the soft waterbags popped like an overripe melon only a mile into the ride.

We gulped down what remained of the precious liquid and carried on through the maze-like landscape of towers and crags. Rock features named like chapters in a story, The Washer Woman, Murphy’s Hogback, and the ominous Hardscrabble Hill. Throughout the ride you follow along the white upper layer of rock deposit that gives the White Rim its name, carving a course around the base of the Island in the Sky mesa. While I have heard it said that the White Rim Trail is a “beginner ride,” for me it held a variety of trials and obstacles. The greatest is likely endurance—between the unforgiving desert sun, and mile after mile of staccato sandstone ledges bouncing and pounding my Suzuki DR650, I found fatigue the toughest aspect to manage. There are a few spots of deep sand to negotiate which can be difficult on a heavier bike, but also sections of sandy two-track that can catch you off-guard with their rattlesnake-weave if you are not focused fully on the trail ahead.

• Getting Technical

I had done my research and knew to expect two tricky hill climbs along the trail. Yet when the exposed ridge of Murphy’s Hogback reared up before me from the vast plain, it still sent my heart skipping like a river stone. The climb up is at a sickening incline, with a dizzying exposed drop, and sugarcoated with a layer of powdery silt. Muttering a mantra of “Stay on the pegs, stay on the throttle, you can do it!” through clenched teeth while never glancing down, I somehow made it up. A spellbinding vista of the Canyonlands unfurled all around, which I had been unable to take in during the tunnel vision ascent. High on this sky island, we shared our snacks with a grateful troupe of mountain bikers and drank in the seemingly infinite views.

Riding through this terrain is as close as you can get to riding on Mars, and time after time I found myself stopping to soak in the otherworldly surroundings, feeling like an astronaut setting foot on an undiscovered planet. There is something about the vastness of the Canyonlands that does not come across in photos—its scale is overwhelming as it engulfs you.

Rolling into our campsite in the late afternoon, dusty, worn, yet grinning from ear to ear, we set up our camp among the black brush and spring wildflowers. Spending a night in a place this remote is almost a holy experience. Each campsite is isolated several miles from the others, allowing you to truly experience the isolation and silence of the Canyonlands. A silence or rather stillness that transports you an eon into the past with only a rare airplane echoing in the canyons to break the spell momentarily.

The great desert poet Edward Abbey called this stillness “A suspension of time, a continuous present.” Spaces where you can still feel this aloneness are a rare treasure in our frenzied crowded world. Waking in the night, I was astounded by the spectacle of stars visible through the sheer net of our tent, the thick blanket of the Milky Way pressing down on the black sandstone walls. It was a glimpse into ages even greater and brighter than those that shaped the mesa.

At times it seems this mercurial landscape is ruled by the whims of trickster gods. The mocking chatter of inky black ravens, and the yipping cries of coyotes in the distant valleys seemed to sneer at the human folly of entering a place this primal and wild.

We awoke in the morning to find one of our bikes would not start, and the Colorado River had flooded its banks and drowned the trail ahead in waist-deep water. Through sheer serendipity, we joined forces with another group of travelers confronted by the same river puzzle. They agreed to ferry the uncooperative 890 through the river on the hitch-carrier of their truck. The rest of us banded together to get the remaining bikes across the flooded arroyo, pushing and riding them through the silty water to safety on the other side.

For a ride like this, you need contingency plans, companions you can trust, and a bit of luck on your side. In a place this wild and raw, you will always be confronted with unique conditions and challenging situations, but the reward for braving the cliffs and canyons of the trail is great. I’m already dreaming of my next return to this Island in the Sky, and the ways the desert will continue to teach me and change me in unexpected ways.

Redd Walitzki is an artist, explorer, and avid naturalist. For several years, Redd has been wandering in the wild beautiful spaces from North to South America, sharing the discoveries they find on the way. ReddWalitzki.com | Instagram @explo.redd

On the edge of the Sahara sits Marrakech, a gateway city surrounded by mountains, spanning the end and beginning of two worlds, where West African and Saharan cultures blend with the traditions of their North African neighbors.

I rode from England to Marrakech on a 24-year-old moped, a Honda C90. It took two and a half months and it felt like a milestone to arrive in Marrakech—the last hub of familiar culture, where things seemed exotic and easy, yet a place where I could still easily meet fellow Europeans. My girlfriend had flown in for a week, adding to my sense of comfort before I ventured out into the sands of the great unknown to ride across the Sahara.

My anxiety had been building in the  month before I attempted to traverse the desert. I thought about breakdowns, water shortages, running out of petrol, miles of solitude, and Saharan jihadists. I tried unsuccessfully to find travel partners. When the time came for my girlfriend to return to England, the last time I would see her for the better part of a year, I experienced one of the loneliest moments of my life.

Alone, riddled with doubt and fear, sitting on the bed where we’d nested over the previous week, my heart felt raw now that my love was gone. I sat there, lonesome beyond anything I’d known before, about to ride further into my fear.

On the second day after leaving Marrakech, I arrived at the edge of the desert—a land called Hammada, a barren and seemingly endless plain of rocks and sand where the dwindling Atlas Mountains further diminish as the road stretches out of sight. Vehicles became scarcer, as did people and dwellings, yet as human presence vanished, the forces of nature became more dominant.

As my wheels slowly put the miles behind me, the wind picked up. The locals call the wind “Sirocco,” and I quickly understood why it was looked upon as something that deserved a name. It transforms the landscape.

The scarce plant life there is bent and contorted, and the mountains on either side of the road are carved to the point where you can see the layers of time etched into the rock, almost as if they were living things. By no means are they as big as the Atlas range before them, but in this barren landscape they are omnipresent.

Riding through Hammada, I pulled over to the side of the road for one of my frequent stretches. A man started waving from a distance—maybe a kilometer away, so I waited for him to come over. He was a goat herder, wearing simple clothes and a black turban. He asked if I had run out of petrol. Although we couldn’t speak each other’s language it’s amazing how far we got with gestures.

Eventually, he invited me to his home for food and tea. Not wanting to pass up my first chance at human interaction since Marrakech, I accepted. He pointed to a track I could ride while he ran over the sand. About two miles out we arrived at his makeshift home. It was very basic living, a wooden bed with a few sheets, bare walls, empty space and a rug. Around it were animal lodgings where he showed me, with considerable joy, his two newborn baby goats.

Over a fire he started from scratch in about twenty seconds, he made a mint and very sugary tea in a tiny kettle. We then ate a stew that he’d made earlier. I had to show through gesturing that I was too full so he wouldn’t offer it all to me.

When the time came for my new friend to return to his goats, he gave me a parting hug, a customary kiss on each cheek, and then ran back over the sands to his livelihood. I rode away from that moment with a newfound sense of why I was doing this. Acts of hospitality like this remain some of the kindest things strangers have ever done for me.

Within a few days, I’d officially crossed into the Western Sahara. I’m not sure if “officially” is the correct term, as borders in this part of the world are heavily disputed. It’s clear that Morocco is winning. Moroccan Dirham is the currency, and a vast number of Moroccan military and police, as well as a substantial NATO presence, are evident.

Sadly, one of the pitfalls of this territorial dispute is that the area is now one of the most heavily mined places on earth. And one of the many desert wonders, along with the mirages and whistling wind, is that the dunes shift. Of course, this means that the mines drift, too—a fact I didn’t take lightly when searching out a place to camp.

Aside from dodging mines, finding places to stay in the sand turned out to be one of my favorite things while crossing the desert. After hours on the windy road, combating blasting sand while trying to keep the bike upright, it was a delight to find quiet places. As the wind settled down most evenings, I was free to take off most of my clothes to set up camp.

Detaching myself from the riding gear, I’d lay on the sand, watching the sky as blue turned to pink, orange and then a deepening purple, pierced with tiny, bright specks. Those sunsets were treasured moments, and I was content, lying there on my own.

I looked over to my bike, standing beside the tent without complaint. It was a precious thing to me and had become my friend. I couldn’t believe its tiny engine and wheels had brought me to this place. It was the object of freedom—we were now on the journey. I had found the joy that I had been searching for, the joy of solo travel on my own two wheels.

Originally, when I imagined crossing the Sahara, I envisaged pulsing heat and a ferocious and blinding sun, causing the landscape to evaporate before me. The latter was true to some extent, but ironically, as it was winter, the Sahara was one of the wettest places of the journey so far.

One night, as I camped on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, I sat for hours watching a lightning storm far out at sea, amidst the dotted lights of a few distant boats. The bright bolts carried no sound as they shot into the once black, then illuminated water. Just as I settled into bed the storm began to descend on me. The lightning became brighter, and the thunder roared closer until it was above me.

The wind and rain came hard and fast. Against their driving forces I had to brace the bending tent poles. The rain soaked my sleeping bag and I barely slept that night. In the morning I packed everything away in the rain and rode away from the cliff covered in mud. Definitely not one of the scenarios I had imagined.

Within a few days I came to the end of the Western Sahara, reaching my first true African frontier—the Mauritanian border. I had read that the road leading to the border was notorious for banditry and the scene of a recent Al Qaeda kidnapping—although I didn’t remember this until I arrived at the campground in Nouadhibou that evening. Fear seemed to have left me.

The no man’s land, a three-mile stretch that’s totally unpaved and ignored by both countries, was a startling reminder of how far away from home and culture I’d come. Yet, it’s home to a large number of people—West African refugees who were denied access to the Western Sahara and can’t get back to Mauritania. They eke out their living by any means they can, on land that’s essentially a minefield.

It had taken thirteen days to reach Nouadhibou from Marrakech. For me, Nouadhibou signified the end of my solo trek across the Sahara. On my second day there, which also happened to be my birthday, I met up with other travelers, ceasing my solo travel for the time being.

My time crossing the Sahara on my own, where every decision I made formed the path in front of me, marks one of the pinnacles and definitive moments of my journey. It’s a place I look back to when times get difficult. It has inspired me to travel alone again; without fear, without doubt, with the pure exhilaration of just me on my bike, with the conveyor belt of the world flowing under my two wheels.

Liam Parkin was born into a family of travelers in a small country town in the North of England. Taught from a young age that travel is the best education, after completing a fine art degree at Manchester Metropolitan University, Liam set off to traverse the Earth on his Honda C90. 

The fog swirled in, swiftly covering any recollection of a beacon. No matter which way I turned my head, I couldn’t shake the thick invasion. Direction became murky as I tried to rely on intuition as my inner GPS.

I heard the voices of my loved ones calling to me from different locations, but the sounds of home faded into the distance. I was lost… and, I hadn’t even left my head.

As I slipped further into the automation of daily routine, the idea that it had been three years since my last solo weighed heavily. There was just one prescription to lift that “fog.” And, that could only be made by the road doctor—Jack B. Nimble, my DRZ.

His prescription was: “Three weeks on the road, solo, where I am the needle, and you are the thread, as we stitch together the most beautiful tapestry of connection with nature, with friends, with ourselves.”

“As usual Jack, you’re a wise little bike. Think I’ll take heed.”

And out the door we flew, after kissing my angels goodbye. You see, my kids have grown up knowing how important these journeys are to me, and to them. They get to witness me living life in a bigger way, and are embracing it for themselves. There will come a day when they, too, will spread their wings and have the confidence to find the highest thermals.

For some reason, I hadn’t been drawn to sit down with the maps to flush out a route. The only things set in stone were the homes of loving friends who were waiting for me to make my way to them in Arizona and Colorado. The pull that I felt strongly, though, was the desire to fly by the seat of my pants and leave it all to serendipity—a decision that would chart a journey of the heart. At every turn, friends, strangers, and circumstance would nudge me in the direction I needed to follow to fill my soul.

My first day on the road felt like I wasn’t soloing at all. I was in the company of trusted friends—familiarity, excitement, freedom, and oneness. Jack was packed for adventure, while I wore extra armor of self-sufficiency.

Along for this ride were products that would make me lighter and more efficient, and would help me to document this trip as never before. I took on the challenge of videoing this journey hoping to capture innermost desires and revelations from myself, others, and the landscape.

Oh yeah, I know it adds at least quadruple the road time to set up the shot, turn on the camera, go back to enter the frame cleanly, stop beyond, and come back to retrieve the camera, and so on. And, invariably around the next corner after getting a shot, there would be a more beautiful piece of scenery to capture.

The blooper reel will be hilarious, as I had to run back to get the camera, huffing and puffing in moto gear and helmet, over and over again. It was all so worth the effort to capture these gems of authenticity.

My first night’s destination was a remote campground at the Painted Rock Petroglyph site just northwest of Gila Bend, AZ. Having this place all to myself, I felt a deep sense of ancient history from the Indian tribes and long-ago explorers who left their inscriptions in the rock. After a quick camp set-up, I scrambled up the volcanic rock formations to catch the petroglyphs by twilight.

The past surrounded me in a way I had never felt before, giving me the sense that I actually had the power to help create new history for my own people. Later that night, after slipping into my Big Agnes Copper Spur 2p tent and BA Roxy Anne sleeping bag, I reflected further on how to effect change in this world. As I drifted off to sleep, I realized it would be through finding ways of giving back, and inspiring others to live life more fully. What a powerful way to start this journey.

I knew the next leg would  test my dirt riding and navigational abilities. I also knew that staying open to the way the adventure unfolded would keep me flowing with the current rather than rowing against it. Friends Roseann and Jonathan Hanson, founders of Overland Expo, invited me to stay with them on their 23-acre off-the-grid Arizonan desert oasis.

The screen shot they emailed showed that all roads were marked, and seemed comprehensible. I felt confident that I could find them. But, after two hours of circling around on unmarked dirt roads with deep wash-outs, ruts, baby head boulder fields, and 30-foot soft sand pits, I needed an alternative solution. I had a SPOT satellite messenger, but didn’t want to press the help button… just yet.

I flagged down the first car that happened by within a two-hour period. “I’m trying to find Roseann and Jonathan Hanson on Cloverfield Road. Do you happen to know where that is?”

The husband looked at me quizzically, then responded, “No, I can’t say that I do.”

His wife smiled and while gently backhanding his shoulder said, “We live on Cloverfield Road.”

He laughed embarrassingly. “All I know is that I live next to a big cactus.” And we all had a chuckle as they pointed in the direction of the Hansons’.

I finally made it to my friends’ hideaway. Over the course of one of the most beautiful desert evenings I have ever encountered, these dear souls taught me the nobility of leaving a small footprint on this Earth. I fell asleep in the guest tent adorned with African handiwork, while I dreamt of building my own future off-the-grid home.

The next morning as I returned to the pavement I was proud of myself for staying upright through the torturous dirt-riding test with such a big load. Almost back to the tarmac, and on my way to visit Michael Battaglia of the famed Tucson motorcycle shop, On Any Moto, I realized I’d forgotten to put on my deodorant. As I flicked down the side stand, pulled my backpack around and took care of business, a sudden gust of wind knocked over the bike over.

Would I be able to get myself out of this predicament without anyone else around? Running the video camera out of battery juice only added to the comedy of errors as I filmed unloading the little beast to get it lifted. It was quite a feat when all was said and done. I sure hope Michael and crew appreciated how great I smelled by the time we cruised into Tucson.

With a new pair of Dunlop D606 shoes from On Any Moto, I rolled on to the quaintest of hillside towns, Bisbee, AZ. It was another gorgeous day of Arizona riding as I pulled up at sunset to my friend Grant Sergott’s custom hat shop, Optimo Hatworks. Grant knows the ultimate scenic backroads of Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, and Utah like the back of his hand, and took it upon himself to map out my entire route. For this, I would be ever so grateful.

The landscape that these roads took me through was life-changing, and the most powerful experience there landed me in Navajo territory for a couple of days, at the Canyon de Chelly National Monument in northern Arizona. This was just before the government took it upon themselves to shut down National Parks for a few weeks to sort out their crazy red tape affairs.

Here I became fast friends with Howard, the Navajo owner of Spider Rock Campground, and took advantage of the culinary skills of his grandchildren, who were busy cranking out fry bread. That evening, I topped mine off with butter and powdered sugar, the perfect dessert after wolfing down a homemade rehydrated East Indian dinner to the Sunset Channel of Mother Nature’s big screen TV.

The next morning I set out early with a backpack stuffed with camera, tripod, camp chair, and lunch to discover the rim trail, which took me right to the expansive canyon striated with grades of red rock. Having this natural splendor all to myself was beyond anything I could have imagined, and it gave me a deep sense of clarity, with visions of my future as if I were already walking it.

Within this vision, I saw a greater tomorrow that’s growing exponentially. So many people are creating ripples of action that turn into huge waves of change. This concept of the “butterfly effect,” where the flapping of a butterfly’s wings might affect the outcome of weather across the continent consumed me for the rest of the trip.

The idea played itself out in a small way when I donated my time at the Thodenasshai Navajo Shelter Home.

No matter the size of the action, the people it touches will pay it forward into a larger wave of compassion. It was at this shelter that I helped Ron Grace’s Lost for a Reason deliver direly needed supplies to women and children. As I looked into the eyes of the four-year-old Navajo boy trying on a new jacket that would get him through the winter, I saw the future of humanity dance.

And, I took that vision home with me as I swept my children up in my arms to feel our love as one. And just beyond this embrace as I felt its power growing, was a butterfly in the garden gently opening and closing its wings to the sound of our laughter.

It was a hot summer evening, sitting with Stergios on our balcony in Athens sipping cold beer and chatting about our travels when a memory came back from years ago: our first beer together. We were in South Africa and had just left Joburg riding towards Lesotho. It was the first day of our trip together on a “test ride” because we hardly knew each other and didn’t know how things would go with two almost-strangers riding two-up on a Vespa. After a smooth first day on the road, we pitched our tent by a lake. The place was idyllic; after dinner, Stergios went to the store for a couple of beers and we drank them sitting next to each other enjoying the moment.

How many times do we say, “the first time I...” in our lives? Some are lucky enough to have a lifetime full of firsts, both big and small. That day, it was just a beer at a campsite somewhere in South Africa, but for us, it was the beginning of our story together, the first time I rode the Vespa and the first time Stergios traveled with a pillion.

When Stergios decided to leave everything behind to scooter through Africa, he didn’t think he was doing something special or breaking any record; he just wanted to see the world. Many first-time events, such as pitching his tent overlooking the Atlantic Ocean in Western Sahara, weren’t worth mentioning because wild camping for the first time was all about overcoming his fears and insecurities and nothing else.

We all grow up in different environments and our development often depends on that background. A Westerner may feel that life has little or less value in the developing world, that there is violence and hostility towards Americans or Europeans, and that people “in those countries” are different and don’t understand us. Despite all that, some decide to ignore what they’ve heard and venture off despite the alleged danger. Unlearning our biases is not necessarily an easy process. But it’s something most resist.

So, when Stergios got into his tent that first time, his fears made it difficult to sleep. “Will someone rob me?” “Will I be attacked?” However, the following morning, a group of fishermen gathered around who just wanted to offer him tea and were curious to learn his story. Later, in another incident of unfounded fear, it turned out that two Cameroonians who were shouting at him, were only trying to convince him to follow them—offering dinner and a safe place to pitch his tent next to their hut in the forest. A humble offer by complete strangers who didn’t want anything in return. An act of kindness, and nothing more. In many of these cultures, food is not just food, but a cultural exchange—a way to communicate and get closer to others, to break the ice. So, learning to say “yes” to such offers is a way to honor them and free up one’s perspective.

Sometimes, there’s no other option than to trust a stranger. But what happens when there’s no other choice? When Stergios ran out of fuel in Mauritania crossing the Sahara Desert, a passerby told him that when he got to the next town he’d send someone with gas to meet him. It seemed impossible to believe him, but what else could he do? About 10 hours later a man approached with the promised fuel, explaining that he was the person the man had sent.

And what about the unpleasant first times? I wish I could say that everything is idyllic, that all people are always great, and that nothing can go wrong, but that’s not the way it is. Accidents, robberies, and other misfortunes will all happen, too. In our case, we had an unpleasant first when we were almost robbed in downtown Johannesburg. The GPS had malfunctioned, so we stopped to sort out the problem. Suddenly, we were surrounded by suspicious types in hoodies. We immediately got out of there, but it was a close call and we chose to see it as a useful lesson. From that day, we decided not to lose trust in others but to always be a little more mindful.

We all tend to feel more comfortable when in control, preferring the ability to predict and anticipate what’s next. Conversely, we feel exposed and insecure when this seems impossible. The better organized the society, the more difficult it is to get out of our comfort and security zones. Vulnerability is widely regarded as a weakness—a situation no one enjoys—so why make the choice to abandon our security voluntarily?

One answer to this is the sense of adventure. Security and control can be illusions, anyway—a fragile state that can change in a moment. And what happens if or when all we took for granted is lost? That depends on how prepared we are. An RTW, for instance, is a good way to play with the limits, where at some point the only choice is to let oneself lose control to see what happens.

When on the road, you forge ahead because the only other option is to go back. Travel is addictive, but it’s not always easy. At times it can be difficult. I still remember the difficulty we experienced the first time we asked permission to camp at a gas station in the middle of the Argentinian pampa. Now, after dozens of similar nights, we prefer it over other options we may have.

As one thing leads to another, we now find ourselves feeling comfortable in situations that once would have been unthinkable. So, when we were in a small town somewhere in rural Brazil, and a complete stranger invited us to stay at her home, we immediately nodded “yes.” After three years we’re still in contact with that lovely woman and her family who welcomed us into their home and treated us like old friends.

Although a long-term trip can be full of big life lessons, sometimes first times can be fun, with no deep meanings or big life lessons attached. Like the time when we agreed to go dancing at a local traditional fair in Brazil, or when we helped an Argentinian shepherd put his goats in their pen. Previously, we would have politely refused to make a fool of ourselves trying to follow the steps of traditional Brazilian dances publicly, and we would have definitely refused to take the risk of herding 300 goats into their pen. After our years on the road, we can now say that we are addicted to “first times”. Whether it’s something small, easy, and trivial, like a new taste—a food we did not think we could enjoy—or something more important, such as a decision that can change our lives or the way we look at things.

So, what is the thing that makes an RTW trip so unique for those who choose to do it? I would say that it’s the dots we connect to form the pattern of our lives: all these first times that we’ll always remember.

Stergios and Alexandra first met in 2014 in the Democratic Republic of Congo while Stergios was on his RTW, and Alexandra was doing Ph.D. fieldwork. Since then, they’ve been traveling together. They write, film, photograph, and ride their vintage Vespa scooter around the world, combining their passions—and have recently released their first book “Rice & Dirt: Across Africa on a Vespa”. WorldVespa.net

It was almost 1:00 a.m., dark, dusty, cold, and quiet, when Anton and I made the final transition from dirt to pavement. Eyes blurry and teeth chattering, we exchanged tired glances of acknowledgment that we had officially conquered the 1,217 miles that is the Road of Bones. As the dust settled, the gravity of what we’d accomplished began to set in, but that’s not where this story began. To fully understand and appreciate accomplishment, we had to reflect on the previous seven days.

In the early hours of 4:30 a.m., the sun was already well into the sky in this northern region of Russia; the sky only darkens for a couple of hours during the summer months. We loaded our motorcycles to catch the 6:00 a.m. ferry out of Yakutsk. There are no roads to this near-Arctic city; a ferry ride across the Lena River is the only real option. The hour-long boat ride would take us to the town of Nizhnii Bestyakh and the starting point of the Road of Bones. And after a quick fuel top-off, we headed into the unknown.

Neither of us had done extensive research, so there were many unanswered questions we’d soon find the answers to. The only thing we investigated extensively was distances between fuel stops; the average of which was about 150 miles, with 250 miles as the longest stretch. Outside of these assumptions, we had nothing but the warnings of others to guess about what the road had in store for us. We’d been told repeatedly that the likelihood of making it to Magadan, the final destination, was slim to none.

I also heard warnings about the lack of suspension, ground clearance issues, and how open belts were a terrible idea, blah, blah, blah. But I’ve learned over the years to ignore most of what the nay-sayers have to offer and carry on regardless. Anton received similar warnings about the inherent unreliability of his 32-year-old Russian-built two-stroke Izh Jupiter 5—but the critics didn’t consider his uncanny ability to fix almost anything with a toothpick and duct tape. Anton was essentially a Crimean MacGyver.

That said, none of this answered the question “Why?” Why were we going to such great lengths to ride one of the most formidable roads on the planet on motorcycles absolutely not intended for this type of adventure? For me, the answer is easy. My chopper is the only bike I own. After nine months and 31,000 miles of travel, finishing my around-the-world journey on one of Earth’s most challenging roads seemed like an obvious choice. What better way to test your mental and physical stamina? I also admit that I wanted to find out if it was even possible on a motorcycle like mine. I knew I might be forced back at some point but suspected that was unlikely. I also enjoyed the idea of being the first person, I believe, to ride a chopper to Magadan. I can’t verify this claim, but I’m fairly certain it’s accurate.

Anton was tackling this road for an equally absurd reason—a group of his friends had bet that his little Izh would never make it from his home in Crimea to Magadan… and back. He proved them wrong, and to make things even more difficult (and ridiculous), he towed a homemade trailer built from a sidecar behind the two-stroke motorcycle. This is one of the main reasons why when I met Anton in Krasnoyarsk, I immediately recognized him as a perfect travel companion for the Road of Bones. We would both be slow on equally inappropriate motorcycles, battling time-consuming breakdowns along the way.

So how was the actual ride? In a word, brutal. The level of difficulty was everything I expected, oftentimes much worse. The most challenging aspect was the ever-changing conditions. The moment we began to feel comfortable with one element, it would change, and we’d suddenly have to adjust our riding styles. The road would shift from hard-pack dirt to deep sand in the blink of an eye, then deep loose rocks, then mud, then washboard, then back to hard-pack, and so on and so on. The easy hard-pack sections were short-lived, almost a tease. I learned not to enjoy them too much since extreme difficulty would inevitably be just around the next corner.

The brief sections of reprieve would come at a high cost, and the better the reprieve, the higher the cost. For example, a 10-mile section of good road would be followed by 50 or more miles of the worst road you’ve ever seen. The reason the road was so bad would vary, but I found the loose rock sections were the most challenging, with mud being a close second. And fist-sized rocks often blanketed the route, proving to be a near unmanageable wrestling match between man and machine.

Ruts worn into the loose stone track added an extra layer of difficulty. If I took my eyes off the road for even a moment and caught an edge, I’d quickly slide sideways down the road, fighting to keep the bike upright before getting back onto the track of choice. Choosing the track to the far right was typically the best option. It allowed room for the occasional passing truck, carrying a plume of dust in its wake so thick we’d often be forced to come to a complete stop until visibility returned. These clouds were so thick that visibility dropped to 10 feet. And if you think those conditions sound bad, the mud was even worse.

We were warned on numerous occasions that rain would be our worst enemy, and such warnings proved accurate. On our second day, we found ourselves staring headlong into a sizable storm. Dark clouds veiled the sky, strong winds battered the surrounding trees, and bolts of lightning struck the soil not far from where we stood. With no choice but to carry on, we braced for the worst. As expected, the falling skies turned what would have otherwise been a relatively easy section into a slicker-than-snot muddy bog. The sticky top layer stuck to everything, making it nearly impossible to keep the bikes upright. We continuously dropped our motorcycles in an effort to maintain forward progress and had to constantly stop to clear muck from between the tires and fenders.  Progress was slow, dirty, and exhausting, but progress was made, nevertheless.

Secretly, we’d both come here for moments like this—the challenges of rocks, mud, sand, river crossings, and exposure to the elements. The higher the difficulty and risk, the higher the reward and sense of accomplishment. No one embarks on an adventure such as this because it’s easy. Had we found optimal conditions, we’d have been disappointed. And with the trip finished, I can say with confidence that we got what we wanted out of this ride. The 1,217 miles over the course of seven days, ranging from 15–18 hours of gut-punching challenges a day, was a monumental challenge accepted and accomplished.

With all we experienced, reaching Magadan was a little bittersweet. It marked what was essentially the end of a nine-month, 32,000-mile journey around the globe. I was sad but filled with an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. I spent a few days in this Far East port town preparing my motorcycle for shipment to Manzanillo, Mexico, where I would fly to retrieve it in a few weeks. From Manzanillo, the plan was to meander back north and eventually pull into my driveway in Longmont, Colorado, where this adventure began. And then, as this ride officially comes to an end, the planning for the next adventure will begin immediately.

Charlie Weisel is a traveler, adventurer, and limit pusher. He has covered over 265,000 miles on his chopper across 29 countries, 48 states, and three continents, and he has no intention of stopping anytime soon. You can follow these adventures on Instagram @travelingchopper and @roadsareforjourneys. You can also read more on RoadsAreForJourneys.com.

Walking alongside your bike as it struggles to inch forward isn’t what anyone wants—least of all in Tajikistan, at 15,000 feet, in freezing mountain air. But we had known this moment would come, and here we were.

We arrived in Tajikistan in August on our two Honda Ace CB125s, eager for the Pamir Highway—a stretch of road we’d dreamed about since leaving London in May. The Pamir Highway (or M41, to give it its official name) is a Soviet road built between 1934 and 1940 that cuts across the Pamir Mountains, linking Afghanistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and Kyrgyzstan.

It is the second-highest highway in the world, climbing to over 15,000 feet, and the Tajik section is legendary: remote, demanding, and beautiful, with challenging riding and famously hospitable locals. To put it in perspective, the road runs through a region that makes up nearly half of Tajikistan’s landmass but is home to just two percent of its people. For hundreds of miles it follows the river-border with Afghanistan, giving riders the surreal experience of peering into Taliban-held villages across the rushing water.

• Carburetor Trouble and Early Roadblocks

Our problems began before we even reached the M41. Our bikes run carburetors, which need adjustment at high altitude. Normally, riders swap the carburetor jets to keep the fuel/air balance right. But Tajikistan imports spares from Russia, and with sanctions crippling supply, Dushanbe’s shops were bare. That left us with no choice but Plan Z: attempt the Pamirs with stock carbs. As if altitude wasn’t enough, roadworks soon tested us. About 60 unavoidable miles of the approach road were shut twice daily—07:30–12:30 and 13:30–18:30—so crews could blast cliffs and dump the rubble into the river below. The only way through was before 07:00 or after 18:30. 

We hate night riding, so the alarm went off at 04:30. By 05:00, we were rolling into the dark, headlights barely illuminating two feet of gravel. There were no streetlights, just blackness, a sheer drop to our right, the river roaring below, and Afghanistan on the opposite bank. As if that weren’t unnerving enough, stray dogs repeatedly charged us from the shadows, snapping at our ankles.

Disaster struck at 6:30 in the afternoon: a puncture. By now, though, we were practiced. In less than 45 minutes we’d swapped the tube, dug out a massive nail, and were on the move again. But the delay was costly. A few miles later, a Tajik official in a high-vis vest blocked the road: closed until noon.

With no signal and nowhere to go, we waited with a couple of cars and three locals on a tapchan—a wooden platform that serves as bench, bed, and table. We shared food, traded stories through Google Translate, and watched the hours crawl. At one point, a Taliban Hilux, flag flying and machine gun mounted, rumbled past on the Afghan side. Not exactly a comforting sight.

At 11:30, we were suddenly told we had ten minutes to go. We leapt onto the bikes and rode hard. The road went from bad to worse, smashing one of our front suspension seals. Fatigue from the early start gnawed at us. The scenery was jaw-dropping, but we were too worn out to take it in.

• Into the High Pamirs

After a couple of nights in Khorog—the Pamir regional capital—we patched the suspension and set out again, heading for Yamchun, 110 miles away. This section was a joy compared to before: still unpaved, but compact dirt instead of loose rocks, which let us finally pick up some speed. The Hindu Kush loomed in the distance all day. By mid-afternoon we rolled into Yamchun, bikes covered in dust but spirits high.

We explored the ruins of a centuries-old fort overlooking the valley, then limped to natural hot springs. The pools were segregated, swimsuits forbidden, so the locals got an eyeful of pale untanned skin while we soaked our aching bodies in sulphurous water. After a cozy night under thick blankets in a homestay, we set out for Alichur.

Up to this point, the route had stayed near the river and at relatively sane elevations, but the road now turned away from the valley and climbed over a little-used 13,780-foot pass into central Tajikistan and the “high Pamirs”—terrain where everything sits above 13,000 feet.

The ride began like previous days: dusty tracks, villages tucked into green pockets of the valley, children darting into the road for terrifyingly risky high-fives. Then came the climb. Switchbacks snaked upward, cut into the mountainside, before spilling us out onto a vast, empty plateau above the tree line. There wasn’t much up there—just rock, sand, the occasional abandoned building, and endless sky. The views stretched so far you could see snowcapped peaks in India.

 As the bikes climbed, their strength faded. They coughed, sputtered, and eventually refused to move in anything higher than first gear. We were now crawling only slightly faster than the maniacs touring on bicycles. But crawling is better than stalling, and eventually we crested the pass at 13,780 feet. A small victory—and a good omen for what still lay ahead.

• Murghab and the Road to the Roof of the World

After a freezing night in the tent, we carried on toward Murghab. The road held steady above 13,000 feet but leveled out enough to let the bikes get some speed.

Murghab itself felt like another planet. Founded as a Soviet outpost in the late 1800s, it was never meant to be permanently inhabited. But when Kyrgyz shepherds were driven from their homeland by collectivization, they settled here. Today, people eke out a living from goats and yaks.

The town’s main feature is its shipping-container market. At least it had puncture repair kits, which we badly needed, since we were burning through inner tubes at a worrying rate.

Life at this altitude was harsh. Nights in the tent were bitterly cold, mornings brittle with frost. The road stretched flat across vast plateaus with little sign of human life, just grazing yaks, scattered herds of goats, and endless wind. Riding here felt like being on another planet, far from the valleys where we’d started.

• The Final 15,000-Foot Test Along the Afghanistan Border

The last day in Tajikistan brought the ultimate challenge: crossing the 15,272-foot pass into Kyrgyzstan. The road started out paved—though cratered with potholes—and the surrounding mountains gleamed with snow. But as altitude climbed, the bikes faltered. Kiley’s managed to chug along, but Rory’s sputtered to a stop at the base of the final ascent. Desperate, we pulled the spongey air filter and replaced it with an old t-shirt—an improvisation a passing local called “Tajik engineering.” With fewer layers of cloth, the bike could breathe just enough to lurch forward.

Kiley reached the top first, then ran back to find Rory stranded on the last switchback, bike sideways to keep it from sliding backward. We weren’t giving up. Together, we turned the bike uphill and pushed, legs burning, while the engine chugged in first gear. Inch by inch, we forced it upward until finally, we stood at the top: 15,000 feet. No carb jets. Just grit, stubborn riders, and underpowered machines that didn’t know their own limits. We did it!

• Descent Into Kyrgyzstan and a Final Reflection

The Pamirs had been everything promised: gnarly roads, broken suspension, too many punctures, freezing nights, thin air, and underpowered 125s pushed to their limits. But they had also given us staggering landscapes, unforgettable encounters, and the adventure we came looking for. If you’re building a motorcycle bucket list, the Pamir Highway deserves a place at the very top. 

Kiley Shields and Rory Gibson, an American and Brit, drove around the world on various dilapidated Hondas and now help travellers looking to cross the closed Azuri border via Georgia to Azerbaijan Vehicle Shipping.Kiley Shields and Rory Gibson, an American and Brit, drove around the world on various dilapidated Hondas and now help travellers looking to cross the closed Azuri border via Georgia to Azerbaijan Vehicle Shipping.

I’m no hero. But I have chosen an unusual life, twice abandoning a successful career to travel the world by motorcycle. Unlike others whose stories of intrepid solo adventures to spectacular, far-flung places have inspired my dreams, I’m a somewhat unremarkable traveler. I’m not attempting world records or challenging myself to do something that has never been done before, and not even facing the world alone. I ride with my partner, Aidan, who is always there to help pick up my bike and to put me in the right headspace to tackle the tougher trails. He goes first, and if his heavier BMW F650GS can do it, then surely so can I on my lightweight Honda NX250.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’ll never be a fierce rally rider, flying over sand and loose gravel like it’s nothing, but I still fully intend to reach awe-inspiring locations! One such place came up after we’d left Vancouver and were riding the Baja California coast. Other riders we met kept asking if we’d seen YouTube videos of Copper Canyon, which is deeper than the Grand Canyon. That settled it. We’d been enjoying the holiday feel of the lonely beaches and cactus-studded deserts, but it was time to move on to the “real” Mexico waiting for us on the mainland.

To get to Copper Canyon, we’d planned on taking the ferry to Sinaloa, but reports of drug cartel activity put us off. The locals told us it wasn’t safe and online reports concurred, so we decided not to camp in the area. That meant a short detour into one of the canyons to a hotel at the town of Urique. The locals in Choix told us it would take about six hours to cover the 100-mile distance to get there, so we figured the road was in bad shape. But it hadn’t looked all that tough on YouTube, and the shots of stunning views into the canyon convinced us do it.

During a fill-up, a gas station attendant further warned us not to foray into cartel territory; the knowing look in his eye was cause for anxiety. How bad was this road? Was I headed for more trouble than I could handle? What if… I had to stop those thoughts right there. I’d never reach those wildly beautiful places if I chickened out every time someone said something would be difficult.

Leaving the last small village behind, we began a tight-turned climb that drew us quickly upward, my ears popping along the way. White clouds lazily moved across the sky, keeping the scorching sun at bay along a road surface that was hard-packed and even. This wasn’t so bad at all! I cleared the worries from my mind and relaxed, fully present and in the moment, even having fun. As if to affirm my change in attitude, a gap opened between the leafy trees to a stunning view over an indigo-blue lake in a canyon deep below.

After we took a wrong turn, the driver of an oncoming truck leaned far out of his cab with a big smile and waved us in the right direction. This sent us downhill across loose stones the size of watermelons, where deep ruts formed in the wet season when the road temporarily became a river. Aidan stood on his pegs, which I knew by then was the right thing to do, but I still hadn’t mastered the technique, so I stayed seated for the precarious ride. The sun came out, warming the cool mountain air—we were squelching in our gear, wrestling the bikes over ambitious inclines, around rim-bending potholes, and through small river crossings.

Every now and then, we’d come across a beat-up old truck coming in the opposite direction. Often, a driver’s weathered face under the straw cowboy hat would burst into a smile as he lazily raised two fingers off the steering wheel in the universal peace greeting. The further we rode from civilization, the more surprised they seemed to see us. But the greeting was a far cry from any gun-wielding cartel henchmen we’d almost expected.

Around noon the valley opened up, making space for a picturesque river alongside the road. I was fading, making silly mistakes from the lack of concentration, so we stopped near the Ruinas Iglesia Jesuita for a sandwich of buttered bread layered with green salsa-flavored tortilla chips. It’s all we had in the panniers and was surprisingly good.

From there the road climbed back into the mountains, taking me far beyond my comfort zone. The sheer inclines and descents demanded my full attention. The surface was unpredictable, constantly changing between loose sand and corrugated gravel, with deep potholes and stone-filled ruts hidden from view until the last moment in the glaring sunlight. Rocks protruding from soft sand would suddenly throw me sideways as I sped down an impossibly steep section, barely able to maintain control of the bike. A tight bend at the bottom perforated by deep and diagonal ruts forced me to pick a line and commit—no time to think—just ride! Then up the other side, the bike bouncing wildly over loose stones as the rear tire spun freely, never coming off the throttle for fear of sliding backward. I finally reached an easier section and took a breath… then off again, braving the next bit. It was impossible to relax into a rhythm. I had to take each new challenge one at a time with adrenaline-fueled focus. I was pushing myself to my limit.

But just then, an approaching dune buggy ripped me out of my trance. I was surprised to see a tourist way out there but also relieved because it meant we are nearing Urique. The road became wider and easier as we passed a working copper mine, the dump truck drivers greeting us with lazy two fingers as we slalomed around them on the slippery gray mud. Leaving the copper mine behind, we sped up, changing to third gear for the first time since morning. The well-graded gravel road took us even higher, into pine forests where I was finally able to relax a little.

Of course, this easy bit was when I crashed, almost like it was overdue. I struggled and failed to pick up the bike until Aidan came to the rescue. The sun was getting uncomfortably close to the horizon, but we allowed ourselves a quick break overlooking a lush green valley. Another tortilla chip sandwich and a good giggle at Aidan’s beard being white with dust below the helmet line was just what I needed to muster the energy for the last leg.

We’d arrived at a viewpoint we had seen in the video. From there, the river and town of Urique below were nothing more than a silver line surrounded by a few indecipherable dots at the hazy dark green bottom. It seemed impossible that just 12 miles would get us there. But a few lights were coming on, twinkling like stars and reminding us that it was time to get going.

A murky stream crossed the road, posing the usual questions of how deep it might be and whether there were hidden rocks or holes. But before we could get off our bikes to prod it with a stick to find out, an oncoming minibus slowly rolled across, providing all the assurances we need. We rode in with a big splash and emerged damp but unscathed on the other side. Around the next bend, the narrow dirt road steeply twisted down the canyon wall in tight switchbacks. We nervously feathered our clutches and brakes back in first gear, exhausts popping as the engines reduced our freefall to slow motion, fishtailing through occasional spots of loose gravel and rocks, tossing our bikes precariously close to the unfenced edge for a great view into the canyon.

It took us a good 90 minutes to cover those last 12 miles to town. We found a hotel and fell into bed, completely exhausted yet exhilarated. We’d made it! This was by far the most challenging ride we’d ever done, and to my surprise, I found that I really enjoyed the trickiness of it. Today, we are heroes, too.

Inspired at a book signing during a motorcycle show in London, Maria Schumacher and her partner Aidan decided to ride around the world by motorbike, even though they had never sat on motorcycles before. Since then, they have led a life interrupted by travel across Europe, Turkey, Georgia, India, and Australia. They started their journey on a pair of BMW F650GSes, but while Aidan still rides his, Maria switched to a Honda NX250. They have lived in Vancouver for the last few years and are now on their way to Argentina.

With borders closed and wildfires across our home province of British Columbia, all plans for a summer ride were decimated. My partner Ray had a milestone birthday approaching and I wanted to take him away. Knowing experiences are more important to him than material things, a road trip seemed the best gift. But where to go? Was there a place we’d not yet explored?

Putting our heads together, it was not long before we hatched a plan for the remote and relatively untouched wilderness regions of northern Vancouver Island. While I’ve spent my entire life living on this island, it’s only been the last few years that I really began discovering all it holds. So, as we often do, we decided to travel without an itinerary, leaving us to explore without constraints or schedules. And as much as we would be disconnected there, it turned out that this trip would bring clarity to the connections that surround us daily.

The first day out was a pavement slog through heavy, long-weekend traffic. We were loaded: Mosko Moto luggage jammed with clothes, first aid kit, safety and repair tools and, of course, camera equipment. Once north of Campbell River, cell service disappeared, only to be had in towns. Ah, being disconnected felt great!

There’s something different about the north end of Vancouver Island which I noticed as it attacked the senses: the feeling of fresh mountain air as it streamed through my HJC helmet and REV’IT! gear vents, the smell of fir trees and wildflowers, and the grandeur of island mountain ranges as we rode along the coast. One can get lost where there is nothing but you and nature.

Port McNeil, our home base, is part of what the Islanders lovingly refer to as the “TriPort” area, along with Port Alice and Port Hardy. A quaint town, this “gateway community to the Broughton Archipelago” and home to the World’s Largest Burl, lies along the Queen Charlotte Straight and has the basic necessities but boasts nothing extravagant. Perfect. A hot meal at the local pub, a stroll along the waterfront, and a front-row seat to a momma eagle encouraging her two playful offspring to fly provided a magnificent end to a long day in the saddle.

The next day we rode south toward Zeballos, known for its sport fishing and ecotourism, and decided to navigate the north end of Atluck Lake—and are we ever glad we did. The dirt road that hugs the edge of a crystal-clear blue lake provided yet another front row seat to the lush green mountains on one side and a jagged rock face on the other. Little traffic on this road meant the freedom to choose our lines, slow down, and enjoy various side roads, as well as the opportunity to snap a few images. The logging roads are mostly ungated or open, offering unlimited options to travel the remote areas of the north. If you come this way, make sure you have a SPOT device, or similar satellite tracker, the north is truly that isolated.

The town of Port Alice, along with the surrounding area, offered a ton of paved fun and laughs. Highway 30 is a rider’s dream no matter what flavor you ride. The 30 kilometers of undulating tarmac with its sweepers and decreasing radius corners were a hoot. While Ray yahooed into his Sena comm unit, I lost my tummy and found some air on a few whoop-dee-dos. It was all I could do not to throw both hands up in the air as this roller coaster of asphalt provided huge entertainment.

Here one doesn’t have to look far for adventure, either. Once outside any of the small towns it’s a rider’s paradise. As we headed west, we reached Coal Harbour, with a classic wooden sign, hung slightly askew, stating it is a “whale of a town.” The history tells that this fishing village, along Quatsino Sound, had been a military base, as well as Canada’s last whaling station. Float planes remain a way in and out of the sound for many, and the old hangar contains a 20-foot jawbone from a blue whale, the largest found in the world. We took a quick stop here and then continued westward to the tiny village of Holberg.

Our map indicated approximately 50 kilometers of gravel road, but the difficulty was not what we expected. Think about piles of “marbles on the floor,” a metaphor that sounds about right; it demanded total concentration. After a few handlebar-clenching kilometers, we pulled over and aired down the Dunlop Trailmax Missions. So much better! Rounding a corner, we were greeted by foreboding signs advising road users about steep grades, blind corners, soft shoulders, heavy equipment, and logging trucks. Directly across the road was a red Cadillac crushed by a huge old-growth tree with a large sign, “Be prepared for the unexpected.” We could not help but play tourist, climbing on the car and grabbing a few shots. The sign provided a little foreshadowing, but not for reasons you might expect.

Here’s where the human story, a story of connection, enters. About 10 kilometers from the town, three adventure motorcycles pulled in front of us from an adjacent dirt road; we followed them the rest of the way to Holberg. When we reached the corner store, we were surprised to see it was none other than a fellow adventure rider we follow on Instagram, Joel Ross (adv_rider_joelross). We knew from his recent posts that he was on the island, but what are the chances we’d end up meeting in this tiny town of only five full-time residents? He recognized us immediately from our license plates.

As we chatted with Joel and his friends, the store’s owner, Marc Hanslo, came out to greet us all. A lovely South African gentleman, he had made his way to Canada to support his son’s motocross racing dreams. Later he purchased the Holberg General Store and expanded it, adding a dedicated campsite for motorcyclists. As Holberg is a jumping-off point to Cape Scott and the North Coast Trail for hikers and campers, as well as an adventure and dirt biker destination, Marc may have just found a diamond in the rough.

We lingered for quite some time around the table with these riders we knew from social media but had never met in person. I loved the exchange of stories, tips and laughter. Ray and I frequently discuss the upside of social media and how we have connected with “Instafriends” from around the world. Meeting them in person and having an instant kinship is the positive bond that social media can bring. And we’ve played host and been invited to visit others more times than I can count. The human connection was never clearer than on this trip. As we parted, I couldn’t help but smile at the amazing afternoon we’d just spent.

The ride back was even more picturesque and less traveled. As we rode out, my thoughts drifted to our connection with others, and now as we descended along an ocean inlet, the connection with nature. Flower-filled fields and stunning vistas had me feeling the sense of adventure on a much deeper level. More than just ripping along a dirt road, it filled me with happiness.

The north island was so intriguing we decided to do an additional 100-kilometer loop of gravel road around Lake Alice. Along the way we stopped to photograph the Eternal Fountain, a waterfall that appears from nowhere and then disappears back into the ground. We also saw the Devil’s Bath, one of Canada’s largest cenotes. Nature’s wonders never cease to amaze us.

On the long way home, I couldn’t help but think we’d done something so much more than an adventure ride to stunning locations in the far north of Vancouver Island. The ride, the adventure, the views, nature and, most importantly, the people, all provided such a connection—the kind that stays with you long after the ride. And THAT is why we ride.

Cheryl Jones is a Registered Nurse and mother of three who has discovered a passion for adventure riding. She has traveled through Europe, Africa and most recently part of Asia on two wheels. An avid photographer, she enjoys the candid capture and has a love for writing. 

It was my son who planted the seed for doing something that would help overcome the horrors of 9/11. “You should ride your motorcycle around the world for peace, Dad!” he said.

From the mouth of a ten-year-old came the realization that change in the world had to begin with me. The weeks that followed were committed to turning his dream into reality. It would take intensive planning and training to get this solo feat underway. But whenever I shared this bold plan with others it was met with the same word, “Impossible.” No one from my homeland of Indonesia had ever attempted a ride like this.

Then, in an instant, the dream came to a screeching halt. A car slammed into my bike, crushing and trapping me beneath it—I was so bashed up they almost left me for dead. I awoke in the hospital to hear the doctor’s five devastating words that still ring in my ears today, “You will never walk again.”

Physical and mental obstacles only fueled my fire. Nothing was going to steal my spirit for life. From deep within, I willed my body to heal. Slowly it began to respond, as bit by bit I struggled to overcome the crippling physical prison. And, within seven months, a miraculous healing took place, whereupon I had the joyous satisfaction of riding my dream bike, a BMW R1150GS Adventure (christened: “Maesa Adventure”), to the doctor’s office.

“Remember me?” I asked with a smile full of hope and determination. The doctor’s jaw hit the floor as he shook my hand in disbelief. And with his seal of approval on this extraordinary recovery, the Ride for Peace was a go.

It took many more months of preparation to line up the needed support, equipment, bike mods, sponsors, and visas. With this investment of time and a deep sense of purpose, those around me began to understand what this whole journey was about. And, judging by the number of people and the media who attended the grand send-off, it was clear they were behind the Ride for Peace, after all. Finally, on April 23, 2006, I set out on the long journey from Jakarta, Indonesia.

There were plenty of challenges along the long road of the first leg. I passed through countries in conflict, the scorching hot Sahara Desert, and even encountered unexpected “friends,” like the black bear I met while wild camping in the extreme cold of Nordkapp, Norway. But the worst was another accident, a hit-and-run in the middle of nowhere in Pakistan’s Kharan Desert. There, I was left with a fractured arm, a badly mangled bike, and a broken GPS.

Stranded and weak from heat, thirst, and pain, I was in big trouble. But, my son’s dream kept me going. Bodgering the hopelessly damaged bike together, I somehow got it running again. Nurturing a deformed arm, I limped on but without GPS  the situation was desperate.

Eventually, I spotted power lines in the distance leading to a small village  where I was able to obtain help. I’ll forever be grateful for the selfless generosity and kindness of the people who took me in, nursed me back to health, and made it possible to get back on the road again.

In Afghanistan my faith in humanity was tested once again when, within a bomb-torn town, I witnessed a man being shot to death. Shortly afterwards I was robbed but thankfully they couldn’t lift my bike to steal it, too. Yet no matter how relentless the obstacles, I never lost the sense of purpose behind the ride, knowing there’d be light in the end.

It was at this point in my journey I took time off for self-reflection. Returning home to Indonesia, I poured my journey of the soul into a book. It was so rewarding to discover that when Wind Rider was published it was immediately accepted not only by fellow travelers, but also the general public and local schools, as well. The life lessons that had taught me well on the road were now being passed along to the next generation.

A few months later in Amsterdam, I woke up one morning only to realize that Maesa Adventure, my partner and best friend, was gone. We’d been through so much together. After the initial pain of the loss, I resolved that they could steal my bike, but not my son’s dream. So, I went out and bought the same model, but a couple of years older. My new pal, Silver Line, launched us courageously onto the next leg of the journey.

We were a new team on an old mission. This segment took us from Paris across the great expanse of Russia and Siberia to Kazakhstan, then from Mongolia back through Russia to Japan before making our way to the U.S.

I’ve been in constant awe over the overwhelming friendliness, inner beauty and loving nature of most people I meet along the way. Everywhere, the humble message of peace seems to arrive ahead of me. And, more often than not, the media is waiting to capture words from its messenger. It was becoming a wave with its own momentum.

Through all the trials and tribulations I’ve come to realize that the more difficult experiences could easily have colored or distorted my point of view. Subsequently, there have been times when I’ve had to reach deep to find peace. One has to find comfort within uncomfortable zones, and by doing so it seems we can get through almost anything.

In reality, though, the nastier aspects of life are rare and I’ve found far more beauty in people everywhere, time and time again. In Deadhorse, Alaska, I found myself in need of food. Those who have been there know it’s the end of the line at Prudhoe Bay within the Arctic Circle. A lonely and expansive place with nothing but mud and stark industrial buildings, even commercial signage is rare.

I asked a motorist where I could find the nearest store. He indicated I should follow him and, after pulling into a store’s parking lot, asked what I needed. A short time later he emerged with a large grocery bag filled with dinner items along with extra fruit and a few goodies. With a smile and a handshake, he refused payment.

The journey also had its fun, not to mention its share of humor. One moment that particularly stands out occurred while staying with the First Nation in a hamlet called Lil’wat on the west coast of Canada. Ned John, a Native American, took it upon himself to teach me how to ride a horse. Within five minutes of instruction I was joining the best of them, chasing wild ponies around the meadow, whooping Indian-style just like in the movies.

Puzzled by this, Ned told me it usually took a minimum of five months to learn how to ride. After leading him on for a bit longer, I revealed that I was actually a horseman my own country. It was a silly practical joke that had us laughing for hours and made us feel like brothers.

Out of the goodness of people’s hearts, everywhere, these acts of brotherhood and kindness are often paid forward. They affect me to the core in many ways I find difficult to describe. What I do know is how much I look forward to passing similar kindnesses along to others. When these acts multiply and momentum of kindness is gained, a movement of peace is formed. And, there will come a day when we can’t live without it.

Since the beginning of the Ride for Peace I’ve noticed that no matter the changes in skin and hair color, eye or face shape, religion or culture, our seeming differences and so-called boundaries are beginning to blur.

And, no matter where I go, or who I meet along the way, I know I’ll eventually return home to share with my son how he started a huge wave of peace across the world.

Since leaving Indonesia, Jeffrey Polnaja has so far journeyed over 70,000 kilometers. He’s currently riding Central America from where he’ll continue on through South America and Australia. Jeffrey expects to return to home in Jakarta sometime in 2015. RideForPeace.net

The ancient Silk Road is synonymous with legendary stories and characters. The trade route between Europe and Asia initially brought Chinese silk and other exotic goods to the Roman Empire. The most famous traveler was Marco Polo, who reached China via the Pamir Mountains. But it’s the southern “road” through Iran’s deserts and Pakistan’s mountains where you can still experience adventures like no other.

• Anatolia Mon Amour

Istanbul’s mosques along the Bosporus were the first indicator we were entering another world. As the road wound deeper into Turkey through sunburst planes, climbing conifer-covered mountains to Göreme, Cappadocia, every merchant we encountered was a further reminder we were following in the footsteps of long-ago commerce. Caravansaries are massive, unassailable buildings with central courtyards where caravans to and from the Far East rested. Their hosts offered us trade goods and weren’t discouraged when we explained we didn’t have room on our motorcycle. Instead, they’d persist by inviting us to buy smaller objects or, if we preferred, to have them shipped to our home—and if that won’t work, what about our friend’s home? From Cappadocia onwards, we were offered deals on everything, including carpets, tea, coffee, and tobacco.

• Where Orient Begins

The real adventure began after crossing the Euphrates River into the barren plains of Kurdistan. This was one of the Silk Road’s main junctions, between the Eurasian steppes in the north and the Persian route in the south with a history of prosperous times interrupted by conflict. The main was the advance of the first Caliphate in the 7^th Century, after Muhammad’s death. Thirteen-hundred years later, this part of the world is afflicted again by a newly self-declared caliphate whose appearance has halted traffic and trade and reignited old conflicts.

We had coffee and spent the night at a tea house in Siirt; many warned us it was dangerous to travel in the dark. The guerrillas they speak of seem contradictory to the kindness and hospitality of those surrounding us in their traditional garb.

Everyone wanted to talk and offer tea. The tension from the previous night, when we stopped due to gunfire between Marxist-Leninist rebels and the military, vanished like the mountain’s dust on the road leading to Sirnak. We spent an entire day riding just a few dozen kilometers, meeting a family washing their carpet along a river and enjoying a day with them, drinking tea and smoking hand-rolled tobacco.

• The Real Truth

We stayed almost a week in Sirnak with Amy, an American journalist who dedicated six years to the Kurdish cause, helping Yazide refugees who escaped Iraq when militant enemies attacked. These were days of intense storytelling about hopes, tear gas, and military tanks. We were touched by the Kurds’ struggle and their oft-ignored plight.

Crossing Iraq en route to Iran was like traveling in another dimension. Constant military checkpoints seemed incongruous against the rugged mountains with pastures populated by shepherds and smiling children. I pondered what was left of the ancient route where goods, ideas, music, and religions moved. What remained after centuries of conflict? The love and brotherhood that these peoples offered over the ages were still here, evident in locals’ hospitality, despite the eras of bloodshed.

• In the Land of Persepolis

Contrary to the impressions we’d been given, Iran was so quiet and safe that it was almost boring. Every time we stopped, someone offered hospitality. And we often met people with illuminating wisdom.

In an economic system originally based upon international trade, Muhammad mandated his followers help travelers and others in need. And it is important to note that the friendly Iranians we met wanted us and the rest of the world to know they are not terrorists.

Iran may be the country that provided the strongest sense of reliving Marco Polo’s adventure. All we had to do was lose ourselves in any bazaar, crowded with veiled women scurrying amongst spices and other exotic items around tiny, centuries-old shops, while mosque officials called the faithful to prayer five times a day from their minarets. In the larger cities, where bazaars often teem with tourists, Western women wore the hijab (imposed by law), often playfully, like modern “Mata Haris.” Iranian women have learned to get around the strict theist laws by showing small locks of hair through the hijab, fashionably framing their beautifully made-up faces.

• The Desert’s Color

The Iranian plateau is a dry mountain range. Over the centuries, they’ve learned to save every water drop and maximize air currents, key considerations of their architecture. We headed for Yazd, the driest city in the country. Surrounded by deserts, Yazd’s skyline is a contrast between the domed mosques and wind towers designed to capture and move breezes through underground tunnels as natural air conditioning.

The city of Shiraz was built along similar lines and equally impressive. From there, our journey continued to Balochistan, a region divided between Iran, Afghanistan, and Pakistan. Many years ago, this was the branch of the Silk Road connecting China to the Indian Ocean, along the Indus River and Karakorum Range.

We stayed for a few days in Bam, at the Akhbar Guest House, enjoying dates, tea, and chats with Mr. Akhbar, well-known to overlanders from all over the world. We wanted to relax before tackling Pakistan, where our travels would become riskier. Everyone said Zahedan, the last city before the border was a crossroad of opium smugglers, Taliban, and Baloch nationalists. We had to be escorted by police, who took our passports and gave us no choice but to follow their every rule. Although they were strict and allowed no photos, they were as kind and hospitable as the rest of the country.

• Balochistan Police, Your Best Friends in Pakistan

Crossing the Pakistan-Iran border took an entire day. We joined a caravan with two German bikers we’d met at Akhbar’s along with a few others led by a tour operator. The Pakistani border, unlike its Iranian counterpart, was shabby and seemed devoid of security precautions. After crossing, we spread our sleeping bags in a police station that night, as the chief told us about their main enemy—the Taliban.

These policemen, whose motto is “Your best friend in Pakistan,” were precise and professional despite their limited equipment. Leaving and riding into the desert sunrise brought some of the most amazing views of our trip, but our convoy’s slow speed was certainly not a motorcyclist’s dream. The worse was 18 hours of riding at the max speed of 30 km/h, with the police constantly on alert as we were surrounded by a sense of danger. We stayed in Quetta for a day, guarded in a hotel under police surveillance even though the real target for the Taliban was the police themselves.

The escort continued to Multan, where we met the most famous biker in Pakistan, Muhammad Iqbal Ghangla, who is always ready to host visiting motorcyclists. Iqbal’s hospitality was total. After a princely breakfast every day we’d have meals at one of his friend’s homes or visit the sights of Multan City, experiencing life from inside such a different culture.

From there, we stayed with a family in Islamabad, receiving another warm welcome before heading out on the Grand Trunk Road, crowded by trucks, buses, pedestrians, carts, cows, and chickens… it seemed anything that could move was on that road. The traffic was crazy. Everyone seemed to drive without rules on roads so dusty that attempting to clean our visors was pointless.

• Karakorum Highway, Finally!

From Islamabad, we made it to the Chinese border in about a week, where we achieved our dream of riding the Karakorum Highway. It was thrilling but difficult, following the Indus River through lost mountain villages. We were in a different world, where men wore the traditional dress of baggy pants, long shirts, and half-dome caps known as Taqiyahs.

From Abbottabad onward, the police were again with us most of the time, and we grew accustomed to their Kalashnikovs, while occasionally joking around or taking photos with them. You might imagine us taking the pictures, but it was the other way around. We were constantly surrounded by crowds armed with smartphones. And always, the same questions: “Anything I can do for you, Sir?” “Need help?” “Let’s drink a cup of tea!”

At Attabad Lake, created by a massive landslide in 2010, swarming crowds brought every kind of goods imaginable to and from China on motorboats. It’s their life here, exchanging goods, ideas, and technologies just as they’ve done for centuries. It took four hours to load our bikes onto a boat, a difficult task for workers on the steep gravel shore.

Here, where the Karakorum range meets Himalaya and Hindukush, where Asia geologically melds with Europe, we experienced a world we assumed had disappeared long ago. Although everything had changed, the spirit of the Silk Road still existed.

• Out of the World in the Wakhan Corridor

We were nearly frozen by the time we made it to the Khunjerab Pass, near the Chinese border at 4,700 meters. Everything was covered by snow. In that infinite white nothingness, a yak looked on, ignoring us shouting and waving our arms to celebrate our victory. China was there, but we would not enter; we spent some days in Zood Khoon, a small village in the Chapursan Valley, only reachable by crossing 50 kilometers offroad.

There we were hosted at the Pamir Serai Guesthouse of Alam Jan Dario, a poet, musician, philologist, and anarchist traveler. At his traditional home built around the fireplace without electricity or running water, we discussed the problems of this part of the world—and how they could be resolved by education. Alam believes there cannot be progress until educational reform displaces religious fundamentalism. But the people we’d met along this trip were serene and peaceful, despite their difficulties and lack of possessions when compared to our Western culture. I could only hope that as things changed that they’d never lose their better values.

We eventually made our way back to Islamabad and then Lahore, where we’d continue to India. But that is another story….

Antonio Femia is an Italian travel journalist and photographer. At 30 he jumped on a saddle and never looked back, using motorcycles as a tool to discover the world. And at 40, he quit his career as an architect to ride the dusty roads, searching for beauty mostly where a motorcycle isn’t supposed to be. TotoleMoto.it

In U.S. motorized iconography, the legendary Route 66 opened in 1926, providing a unified roadway stretching from Chicago to Santa Monica, some 2,450 miles. By its creation, the myth of the endless straight road was born. Although the route officially disappeared in 1985, thousands still travel it every year looking to soak up some genuine Americana.

However, there’s a much older, far less known historical path that runs from ocean to ocean, across eight states and 2,500 miles: The Old Spanish Trail.

I began the route in St. Augustine, Florida, a charming town that proudly boasts of being the nation’s oldest city, founded in 1565 by the Spaniard Pedro Menéndez de Avilés (Florida ceased belonging to Spain in 1821).

Continuing towards Tallahassee, I visit the Hernando de Soto Winter Encampment Historic State Park—named after explorer Hernando de Soto who wintered in this spot in 1539, celebrating Christmas here. He and 700 men had landed that same year near Tampa and over the next two years carved their way across 3,100 miles, to discover the Mississippi River.

Next stop, Pensacola, where a sign informs that it’s the oldest settlement in the United States, founded in 1559 by the Spaniard Tristan de Luna y Arellano, who attempted to establish the first permanent colony before a hurricane swept away the newly founded site. Spain fought a decisive battle in Pensacola in 1783, regaining Florida from the British.

That battle was also crucial for the independence of the United States because it strengthened the rebels, who stocked supplies along the Mississippi River and the port of New Orleans. The hero of that victory was Bernardo de Galvez, governor of Spanish Louisiana and the only Spaniard to have a statue on display along Virginia Avenue (also known as Avenida de los Libertadores) in Washington, D.C.

Heading into New Orleans, a skyline bristling with skyscrapers appears at the end of the seemingly infinite Lake Pontchartrain Causeway Bridge. At first glance it’s like any other city.

But that impression  lasts only until one leaves the interstate and gets lost in the French Quarter, one of the most architecturally captivating neighborhoods in America. New Orleans has personality—lots of personality. Houses with porches, balconies, railings, lanterns… you can feel an inner soul within these buildings and streets.

Along the famous Bourbon Street, the traveler may be surprised to discover street plates made ​​with tiles from the Spanish town of Talavera de la Reina. Bourbon Street was originally del Borbon during the Spanish presence after 1763. The entire historic center is well stocked with ceramic plate antiquities reminiscent of old Spanish names.

Farther down the road, Texas is the second largest state in the Union after Alaska, and was under Spanish regency until the 19th century. A good proof of its Hispanic past can be found at Goliad, the third oldest town in the state, founded around the mission of Our Lady of the Holy Spirit of Zuñiga and a Spanish fort called Presidio Bay. South from there we find Laredo, a municipality of the province of Nuevo Santander, colonized by the Spaniard Jose de Escandon, first Count of Sierra Gorda.

Following the border with Mexico I cross the Pecos River and everything seems to change in this part of the west. Fewer people, fewer cars, and immense spaces. I arrive at Big Bend National Park, which takes its name from the 90-degree curve of the Rio Grande—a huge 250-mile loop. The foothills of the Chisos Mountains can be seen in the background with the Emory Peak at 7,825 feet.

The clouded horizon wears an unreal bluish tone. Distances are huge and social interactions are scarce. Perhaps that’s why insanity seems so possible here, as exemplified by the Judge Roy Bean, self-styled “Law West of the Pecos.” Elected Justice of Peace in 1882, his exploits included the likes of suspended judgments to sell liquor in his tent-saloon, fining a dead man, and holding a boxing match in the middle of the Rio Grande.

The trails of yellow dust get lost in the arid distance leading to the Mexican border. The park spans more than 1250 square miles across the void where only cacti and docile reptiles seem to make up the desolate ecosystem. But, in the cool of the night, the desert is revived by the nocturnal activities of rabbits, peccaries and coyotes.

The first European to travel this land was the Spaniard Alvar Nuñez Cabeza de Vaca. He was part of the ill-fated expedition of Panfilo de Narvaez’s from Florida. Shipwrecked in 1527, he was one of four survivors who walked 3,100 miles over the following eight years, naked and unarmed, surviving as slave trader and shaman to the indigenous people of the southwest before reconnecting with Spanish colonial forces in Mexico. To this day his adventurous account remains one of the most amazing stories in North American history.

In Alcalde, New Mexico, I visit the impressive statue dedicated to the last Conquistador, Juan de Oñate, who was the state’s first governor and accomplished explorer of the Colorado territory in the 16th century. It’s the largest equestrian statue in the world at 11 meters and 16 tons.

I resume my ride by way of a hidden local road parallel to the Mexican border. Drivers suspiciously scrutinize the unknown rider. Among the dry bushes sways a rattlesnake and an old van spews black smoke as it passes at full speed. Border patrol officers, known as the dreaded “La Migra,” stop trucks looking for illegal immigrants. The desert lays infinite under a reddish horizon.

Still in New Mexico, I ride among the earth-pounding oil wells in an arid territory that was once the Spanish province of Sonora. It’s a bleak landscape of ghost towns, where almost on the border with Mexico lies Columbus, a tiny village that had its moment of fame when Pancho Villa raided in 1916.

Across the state line into Arizona is the Chiricahua National Monument and Coronado Forest, named in honor of Francisco Vasquez de Coronado, a Spaniard from Salamanca who, from 1540 to 1542, at the age of 30, commanded an expedition across North America. He did not find the Seven Cities of Gold he was seeking, but he did find a real treasure: the Grand Canyon.

The road becomes an unpaved trail as I ascend 7,500 feet of a rocky and steep path that sometimes turns into thick mud. There is snow in the shady areas. After two hours of riding I arrive at a yellow dusty path that soon takes me back to the asphalt. In the south of the state are the cities Tombstone and Tucson, two names that bring to mind Western films.

However, by the time John Wayne conquered the American Wild West on the big screen, this area had already been claimed by Spain. Tucson was founded by Hugo O’Connor, an Irishman who’d enlisted in the Spanish military, known as the “Red Captain” by the Indians because of his hair color.

Nonetheless, the true conqueror of this wilderness was Juan Bautista de Anza. Born in 1763, Anza was the first Caucasian to successfully travel overland in a 750-mile odyssey from southern Arizona to the Pacific Ocean in California. North America has recognized his feat by dedicating his name to the Anza Trail and the Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, the second largest state park in the continental United States.

From Borrego Springs I travel to San Diego, where I visit the first Franciscan mission founded in 1769 by the priest Fray Junipero Serra, the only Spaniard to have a statue in the city. In total there are 21 Spanish missions spread over 600 miles of what is still known as the Camino Real or the California Mission Trail. It’s a wonderful experience to cover that route—a trail that winds through magnificent landscapes of dry deserts, lush forests, white beaches and fertile valleys.

Northbound through the amazing Carissa Highway I navigate among vineyards and rolling hills of dry grass caused by the recent drought. It’s like surfing an ocean of yellow dunes. Filled with motorcycle ecstasy I arrive at the Mission San Antonio de Padua—a wonderfully peaceful place.

Built with whitewashed adobe, the main church is a saddle roof building with high front facade from which spread one-story pavilions that form a cloister garden in whose center bubbles a fountain. Cool and quiet, the mission offered rest for travelers and care of Native Americans, a refuge for prayer, and administrative management of the mission’s agriculture and livestock.

I exit the mission and take the Nacimiento Road, a narrow path that runs through the foothills of a mountain leading me into the Big Sur area of the Pacific Ocean at sundown. In front of me unfolds California’s Highway 1, one of the most beautiful roads I’ve ever seen.

It clings to the ocean through miles and miles of curves, ups and downs, reminding me of the Mediterranean landscape of the French Riviera, or the Spanish Costa Brava, or the Costa Blanca.

At the end of this wonderful journey I meet my goal, exemplified by the proud Golden Gate that crosses San Francisco Bay. Its name originated on March 28, 1776 when the legendary Spanish explorer Juan Bautista de Anza arrived here by land.

I have just done the same, but on the back of a motorcycle—a journey with its own sense of overlanding explorer romance. Maybe that’s why, deep inside, I too feel like a discoverer today.

Miquel Silvestre is a Spanish writer and motorcycle world traveller. So far he has ridden across more than 80 countries and is currently following the route of former Spanish explorers for a project called Ruta de los Exploradores Olvidados—The Forgotten Explorers Route. Along with BMW Motorrad Spain, Miquel Silvestre is looking to resurrect the memories of many lesser known explorers—tracing the humble human stories of these great men. MiquelSilvestre.com

By the time I arrived in Bolivia, I didn’t know which was in worse shape—my body or my bike. Beyond the common travelers’ ailments, the fan had stopped working on my KLR685, and an infection had reached my kidneys. We both ran a fever as we limped around La Paz looking for a cure.

I had searched all over the tangled city, frustrated at being turned away, or outright ignored… left wondering if it was because I was American or a woman… or both. It wasn’t my lack of Spanish; I had enough skills to hold a conversation. I tried checking with the motorcycle mechanic at the police station, where they rode newer KLRs, in hopes a spare part might be my ticket out of this country.

Alas, no, but I eventually found a man who would talk with me, even though he barely believed that I was riding by myself, and was even less convinced that I had any mecánica skills, or knew what was wrong with the bike. Finally, he understood that I didn’t need someone to look at my motorcycle, just someone to fix the part I had in my hand. He agreed to take the fan motor to the right guy because, for some unknown cultural reason, I wasn’t allowed to do so.

After three days of “Que estará listo en la mañana (it will be ready in the morning),” I anxiously walked back with the mended motor to the courtyard of the hostel where I was staying. While waiting, I’d flushed the radiator with fresh green blood (wishing I could do the same with my kidneys), replaced its oil, and lubricated its joints.

All it needed now was the reinstallation of its fan to get us back on the road. The cure for my motorcycle had been relatively simple, but my body was another story. Although the chills and fever had subsided, the pain had not—I ached. So, I drank a cocktail of antibiotics, apple cider vinegar and water, hoping to flush this ailment through my body. At this point, all I wanted was to leave Bolivia.

The next day, possibly against better judgment, I packed and departed with a sore lower back, making my way out of the maze that is La Paz. Midway through a long day’s ride, I passed the festivities brewing in Oruro, where brightly dressed marching bands gathered.

At the largest celebration of Carnaval in Bolivia, sequins and beer cans sparkled in the mid-day sun as they prepared for La Diablada (the Dance of the Devil). I watched the entrancing parade on a big screen at a pizzeria that night, about 200 miles away; that was close enough for me.

The next morning, I reunited with Deb, an Australian and fellow solo female rider, and her BMW F650GS . Being one of the highest cities in the world at 13,420 feet, Potosi took our breath away. But, as my body hadn’t fully recovered, we delayed departure one more day before heading south toward the town of Uyuni, knowing it would be healthier at the lower elevation.

For some reason I failed to stop for gas in Potosi. I’d been unlucky in the bigger cities with fuel purchases, sometimes having to stop at as many as three stations before one would sell any. A foreigner, on a foreign motorcycle with a foreign plate meant filling out all kinds of paperwork to appease the Bolivian government bureaucrats.

Hence, the phrase “No factura (no bill)”—meaning either that they didn’t have fuel, or didn’t want to sell it to me because it was too much bother. When I did find a willing station, there would inevitably be a sign that read: “$3 bolivianos for locals, and $b9 for extranjeros (foreigners).” Fine, take my money, but get me out of here!

So, as my miles increased and the fuel decreased, I crossed my fingers that the small towns ahead would have a tienda (store) to purchase a pre-measured pitcher of gasoline from limited reserves. The octane was never certain; sometimes as low as 81, and here, on a rural highway, I was happy to find any fuel at all.

As I exited the main highway onto a dirt road that led into town, I was thankful to have my face shield down. I learned the hard way that the children who stood along the side of the roads, often with water balloons and long-range water guns, had good aim.

Under the guise of Carnaval celebrations, they squirted anyone who passed. But, this time it was not water… it was a rock that hit my helmet square in the face as the child yelled, “Turista!”

I pulled in front of the adobe brick building and bought ten liters, for a negotiated $b60, from an old man through a half open door. As I poured the contents of the plastic jug into the tank, I watched a woman smile at the drunken two-man marching band wandering around the square; merriment was everywhere. After the brief break, I hopped back on my KLR and speculated on whether it was going to get better or worse in the miles ahead.

There was freshly laid pavement connecting Potosi and Uyuni, with ample curves carving their way through a magnificently layered landscape. The blacktop and multi-colored terrain ended in the town of Uyuni, where rough dirt roads connected the sun-bleached buildings.

Layers of silt and sand kicked up by 4x4 tour vehicles seemed to cover everything. In a quest for a hostel with a courtyard to securely park the bikes, I reunited with another Aussie female rider I had met in Mexico, who was now two-up on a KLR, along with a couple on a KTM.

Wanting to get the best photos the sky would provide, we decided to visit the Salar de Uyuni for sunset. This was our one chance since none of us planned to stay another day. The 25 kilometer ride to the entrance was a bumpy one, and the unpaved ripio rattled bones, as well as the bolts on our bikes.

After parking our motorcycles for a few shots, we rode to another location just as the setting sun lit up the sky, providing a magnificent backdrop to work within. Then, as the light of the day extinguished, it was time to go.

The next morning we got off to a late start with the words of the hostel lady looming in our ears, “That’s a good road, as long as it’s not raining.” So, we took our chances, but racing against darkening skies we knew it was not a matter of if, but when, the black clouds would open with rain.

Dozens of Toyota Landcruisers, filled with tourists, kept the clay roads compacted. When dry, the road was comfortable for cruising at speeds of 55 mph. But, as rain fell, minor dips in the road filled with water, creating muddy pockets. The tour guides didn’t allow any extra room for our big foreign bikes, and with Jackson Pollock-like precision, one SUV even maneuvered toward potholes to intentionally splash burnt-red water over our bikes.

As the rain wasn’t heavy enough to wash the grime off my face shield, I tried to wipe the dirt away with my glove… but pounds of layered mud seemed to accumulate and stuck to my suit as well.

Reaching San Cristobal, which is more of a mining project than a town, we decided to stay for the night at the only hotel in town, not caring that the electricity was out, or that there were barely enough hot water showers. We would wait, and hope for sun in the morning.

While discussing the following day’s plans we realized our intentions of riding through the Eduardo Abaroa Andean Fauna National Reserve to San Pedro de Atacama, Chile, were unreachable. I’d heard of nothing but mile after mile of stunning rock formations and wildlife along the road to Laguna Verde and Laguna Colorada.

But, given our broken bikes and bodies, the excursion would have to wait for another day. That view came with the cost of treacherous terrain, and we were not up for the task of picking up our overloaded bikes time and time again. Instead, we chose to cross into Chile at Ollague via the easy road.

As light broke over the horizon that morning, we jumped for joy at the sight of blue skies interrupted with white clouds. Our wheels navigated by sunshine through a topography that lived up to the reputation of Bolivia as a place worth visiting. Even if it was not the Eduardo Reserve, we still basked in Bolivia’s brilliance.

Like most folks, my first experience on a motorcycle will be forever etched in my memory. I had taken six months off work, acquired a driver’s license, and, knowing nothing about bikes, bought a Cagiva Elefant 750. About 500 miles of riding later I was fully loaded and setting off from my home in Sheffield, England—towards Mongolia.

Unable to get a foot flat on the ground, and with two spare tires on board, I only made it to the end of my street before I was lying on the ground, wondering why in the hell I was doing this.

I returned from this monumental trip a different person with a permanently shifted self-perception. I could tolerate only another five years of the daily grind before something deep within called me back to the open road. I needed another challenge—to attempt something I did not know if I could finish.

So I sold my house, quit my job, and set about deciding what bike would be my home, companion, nemesis and savior. I decided that building my own classic bike out of a variety of old parts would be a good idea. It had to be something simple, but visceral—a snarling beast of vibration, oil leaks and fumes. I saw an article in a classic bike magazine about Metisse frames—built for scrambling in the ’60s, solid, and capable of taking a variety of engines.  

To increase the range from that of a trials bike to something more useable Parker Fabrications made a custom aluminium gas tank.

I was astonished to discover that they were still in business. What’s more, the owner was keen to see one of their frames getting some serious “long distance testing”—amazingly, he also offered me a workbench to build the bike.

I should have broken in the engine more delicately, but I had put myself under a strict deadline to get on the road. As a result, there were several fixes required along the way, culminating in a major breakdown in Iran. It was there that a local family came to the rescue, inviting me into their home, showing the greatest hospitality and kindness I’ve ever witnessed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, they helped ship the bike to India (where I hoped to find parts), bought me a plane ticket to Delhi, and provided constant support and encouragement through every step. After a rather emotional farewell, I was off to India and back to repairing my broken machine.

Parts had to be sent from England, and the whole thing needed a damn good fettle. By the time I was ready to leave Delhi, there were only two days left on my visa. The ride to the border was through some of the worst traffic I had ever experienced. But Nepal was like stepping from a fire into cool, blue water.

In Pokhara, I made some friends who were looking for a mini-adventure. The team consisted of Fern Hume (an English girl riding a Suzuki DRZ around the world), Ben (a young English guy riding a 100cc Yamaha RX back to the U.K.) and Sonu Gurung (a young Nepali woman, also on an RX, working at a bike hire and training center).

Our destination was Manang, in the heart of the Annapurna conservation area—a National Park with 8,000 meter-plus peaks.

Maps do little to convey how difficult a ride it was actually going to be. We had over 200 kilometers of mountainous dirt roads to cover, and I’d never really ridden off-road before. As the track rose, the climb became steeper, the rocks larger and the dry, fine dusty bowls deeper and more threatening. Overly aware of the drop to one side, my pace fell to a first-gear crawl.

Approaching the village of Chamgye, we knew there was a tough section ahead. The way I had been riding just didn’t feel right, so I tried something new. Trying to remember as much as I could from a motorcycle trials show I’d seen on TV, I gunned the throttle, gripped the tank between my legs and hoped beyond reason for a good outcome. To my amazement, the technique worked perfectly.

I can’t speak for the rest of the group, but I felt incredibly lucky to have gotten this far without a bad fall. Given the drop-off, the phrase “bad fall” took on a whole new significance—you cock it up, you die. In addition to concerns that my skills might not be up to the challenge, and my stones not big enough, I also had major doubt over whether my bike would survive the trip.

We could see another steep climb ahead. With my heart in my mouth, I gave it as much gas as I dared—which got me up the bad section. However, it was too much for Ben’s little RX, the clutch had died—it had to be trucked out. His ride was over.

Setting off up another steep slope my bike made a horrible noise and stopped. I struggled to get it started again without losing control as gravity pulled me towards the cliff’s edge. With more throttle and a bit of paddling I just managed to get enough momentum to clear. At the next stop, I could see in the faces of Sonu and Fern that we were all thinking the same thing—this was madness and we should turn tail and flee while we still could.

But, we were determined to push on and make it to Manang. After resigning ourselves to just keep going, a switch in my head flicked. Pinning the throttle wide open over hard sections, allowing the bike to jump around under me while relaxing my grip on the bars, the ride suddenly became fun. With each hard climb and steep descent my technique improved, my speed picked up and the grin on my face got bigger.

By the end of the day, I was chuckling like a hyena and spraying dust and gravel everywhere I went. Fear and trepidation had been replaced by adrenalin, dopamine and serotonin. I wanted more, and luckily that was exactly what we were going to get.

We found a small guesthouse in Dharapani—the only place where we could get the bikes off the narrow track, and made it our home for the night. I awoke the next morning feeling like a kid on Christmas. The track ahead was my present and I was desperate to unwrap it. I didn’t have to wait long to get my first real treat—the most technical section so far.

Rounding a bend carved into a sheer cliff face the track suddenly turned from a mixture of dust and stones to large angular rocks. A large waterfall crashed into a small, shallow pool, maybe 15 feet across, covering the track. The runoff then formed another waterfall that fell an unknown distance away—maybe 100 feet, or 500 feet, I couldn’t be sure. Either way, if anyone slid over that edge on the wet rocks it was game over.

It was into the pool, full throttle out the other side and I was through! I then rode the lightweight RX through and helped push Fern’s DRZ, getting several lung fulls of exhaust, struggling to keep the bike upright and get the back wheel over the worse bits. The mixture of heat, exhaust, adrenalin and relief was too much—I was on my knees throwing up.

After more exciting riding, several river crossings and some lovely wooded trails, we arrived at Chame. The track took us into a narrow scoop being cut out of a vertical cliff, and this in turn led to some superb single-track, then more river crossings, tiny suspended footbridges and great riding as we rolled towards Manang.

At Lower Pisang, I was stopped by a large river. There was an old track on the other side, but the water was deep, opaque and fast moving. Doubling back to look for another place to cross I found Sonu and Fern trying to start Sonu’s bike. The spark plug cap had broken off, so Fern and I blasted off to find a replacement.

A charming facet of the Nepali language is that their word for “mechanic” is “mystery.” We were assured that the next village had a “mystery.” But the real mystery was why anyone thought the guy was a mechanic—he was of no use to us. Sonu was luckier. By complete fluke she met a trekking guide whose friends promised to go back to Chame for the part. Just in case that fell through I made a bodge repair.

The morning came, and although we were keen to get moving, the fact we had to wait for the part gave us ample opportunity to recover from our banging headaches. Roksi, a local moonshine, is evil stuff.

By midday, the plug cap still hadn’t arrived so we fitted the repaired one. The rest of the ride to Manang took us through breath-taking scenery on fantastic dirt roads. We had made it to our target, but there was a growing fear in the back of my mind. I had learned how to ride up the difficult sections—going down might be another matter.

After a fitful night’s sleep, I put the bike in first gear and simply let it roll along—with only a few little slides, and no drops or falls, my worries ended up being much harder to swallow than the actual ride down.

Looking back, it was incredibly satisfying to know that we had conquered our fears, pressed on into the unknown and emerged victorious. From out of my depth to revelling in my element. I had searched so long for a feeling like this. Suddenly selling my house and all my possessions had been justified. Now, all I had to do was find something harder....

HeartsAndTears.com

You could ride through Mexico in a week. Charting the most direct route on Google Maps, you can put together a journey of 2,688 miles comprised of mostly well-paved highway, passing through much of the country but interacting with little of its culture, history, or the people that make it magical.

On the traditional Pan American North-to-South-America route, many riders devote a month or less to Mexico, a country that spans the same length as the west coast of the U.S., with a culture running back to at least 1,500 BC. Even this route misses more wonders than you can imagine: tiny Pueblos Magicos (“magic towns”) in the highlands, pristine stretches of unexplored coastline, and ancient pyramids tucked deep into the jungle. So, I opted to discard the traditional to focus on a more varied journey, one that would take me six months and cover over 9,000 miles.

When I set out from the southern U.S. border in December of 2021, I had no firm plan for a route or even a clear destination. I had a six-month visa, and a dream to slowly explore as much of Mexico as I could at that time, all as part of the ultimate goal to reach Patagonia.  My trusty Royal Enfield Himalayan (nicknamed “Kaleidos”) and I traced a circuitous route across mountain ranges and through barren deserts, along both the Pacific and Gulf of Mexico shores, from the Baja Peninsula to the Yucatán. Taking it slow, taking the road less traveled, to destinations hidden from the well-trodden tourist route, opened my eyes to countless rich facets of this beautiful place.

Some days, I’d cover less than 100 miles, on roads so serpentine it would take hours to go the briefest distances. Other days, I would stay put, living for a short time in a town or village like a local, riding my motorcycle only to the market to buy mangos and guayabas (guava), taking in the stories, flavors, and colors. While this is not the kind of journey that follows a plan or an itinerary, I did set out with a string of “quest markers,” descriptions of places along the way that would catch my imagination: a church buried by lava, a lagoon of seven colors, a cloud forest dancing with butterflies. I looked for places with mythical-like names and finding them was the quest. Experiencing them, falling into the awe of the moment, falling in love with them, is the story. That is, my story.

At the Cancún airport, you can buy most traditional Mexican handicrafts unaware of the origin of any of it, from colorful Alebrije spirit animals to ornately painted ceramics. I’ve always been inquisitive and learning about the sources of beautiful art and craftworks resonates within my soul. My curiosity brought me to a remote region bordering the states of Puebla and Hidalgo, where indigenous Otomi artisans in a string of tiny mountain towns produce an exquisite type of rainbow-colored embroidery called “Tenagos.” The landscape there is a picturesque tapestry of winding mountain roads, some made of patchy cobblestone, others dirt or stretches of rough pavement. They lead to the types of villages that might not see a foreigner for months at a time. With lodgings few and far between in this area, I stayed in a small eco-hut near Honey, Puebla that looked like something dreamed up by mountain elves. When I asked the innkeeper about a local waterfall, she told me she could provide a guide to explore a few of the secret cascadas(waterfalls) not pictured on any maps. Delighted I accepted without hesitation.

The guides turned out to be Ozmo and Lupita, ages 10 and 8. I wandered into the woods behind these children, amazed by the perfect maps they carried in their minds. They told me about different plants and flowers while sharing secret nooks of their playground with me: three waterfalls and a tiny cave that smelled of deep, damp earth. This short glimpse into their lives, what it would be like to grow up in a remote little village in these rolling mountains, stuck with me—one of those moments that makes travel to other cultures so precious.

Another similar wandering path led us to the tiny indigenous town of Angahuan. It’s situated at the base of a volcano that had formed in 1943, swallowing the village of Paricutín in lava, devouring everything but the church. My dream was to ride the Enfield across the flowing fields of black lava to the buried church. At first this proved difficult, with the main path blocked to keep travelers from attempting it without a paid guide on horseback. Back at the cabin I was staying in, my host Juan drew a map on a napkin, including the areas of the volcano to skirt militia activity, before setting out for a second try.

Some silty two-track led to the lava fields, and riding across the expanse of obsidian sand to the church proved as surreal as I’d hoped. I had a quick lunch from one of the many quesadilla vendors and explored the ruins of the beautiful little church, the volcano’s cinder cone watching from the distance. Unfortunately, upon returning to Kaleidos, I discovered I’d picked up a nail in the rear tire. Adding a little air to the rapidly deflating tire, I limped back to town. While I had the tools to change the tube, it was a task I’d never tried alone. With daylight on my side, I opted to make the push home, and again my host came to the rescue, tracking down a mechanic on a Sunday, fittingly named Jesus. He fixed the tire in no time with tools from the back of an old pickup truck. Just one more small example of the generosity that permeates this land and people.

I have a passionate curiosity about nature and wildlife, especially entomology*. One of the most enchanting moments of the journey came unexpectedly when I took a gamble and followed a detour to chase a swarm of butterflies. For weeks, as I was weaving a wandering path through Jalisco, Guanajuato, and Michoacán, strangers asked me time and time again, “Are you going to visit the monarchs?” I was uncertain—it was early March, and this late in the season, my expectations of viewing the mass monarch migration were low. Yet I found myself within a day’s ride of the mountain range where the butterflies overwinter; even the butterfly murals lining the tiny pueblos along the way seemed to beckon me. When the monarchs darted around Kaleidos as we crawled our way up the steep, narrow cobblestone road to the entrance of El Rosario Monarch Sanctuary, and my local guide Carmen began to show me clusters of butterflies, it was all very exciting.

Coming from Seattle, this upper-altitude forest felt like home—the whispering pines so reminiscent of the northern groves near Mt. Adams that I almost forgot I was in the heart of Mexico. Signs built up the anticipation—200 meters to the butterflies… 100 meters… all of which felt ridiculous because there were butterflies as far as the eye could see. The monarch colonies, high in the branches, were utterly surreal and utterly breathtaking. Orange and black honeycombs of wings, delicate against the rough pine bark, the butterflies grouped together so tightly, fluttering and shivering their wings in the cold morning sunlight, it was like they were talking to the sky. As I stood speechless, they began to awaken. A small group of us observers and guides watched in silent awe. More and more monarchs caught the wind upwards, dancing between the branches and gaps of every part of the forest. The beauty of their flight was completely overwhelming, so much so that I was on the verge of tears. The monarchs were on the cusp of their great northward migration, and you could almost taste their anticipation as they began to awaken and fly. It struck me that their journey north would cover as many of the miles I had ridden south, our paths echoing each other in reverse.

It’s easy for most of us to fall into a script of what a long overland adventure should look like, or even avoid a country because of what others say about it. Life, time, and money are all real hurdles, but I believe that life is brief, and hurdles can be overcome if one allows their dreams to transform into realities. There is something wonderful to be gained from exploring a single country or region more deeply, doing your own research, and taking the time to really get to know its people and cultures. Perhaps smaller bites can be as nourishing to one’s overlanding appetite as a single giant meal. I’ve leaned into this mindset and taking on “the epic ride” in chapters has proved a more feasible and more rewarding way for me to undertake this journey. My bike is waiting for me at Royal Enfield Cancún with plans to return to it after organizing the Central America chapter of our voyage.

While I long to return to Kaleidos and begin the next stage into Belize, Guatemala, and beyond, in truth if I was left with only the choice to continue to explore Mexico, I would do it without hesitation, backtracking along winding dirt roads with the fading glow of a high desert sun tracing our shape into the distance.

* The branch of zoology concerned with the study of insects.

Redd Walitzki is an artist, explorer and avid naturalist. With her Royal Enfield Himalayan “Kaleidos”, Redd is on a journey from North to South America, sharing the beauty they find on the way. You can follow the adventure at ReddWalitzki.com and @explo.redd on Instagram.

Like the instantaneous flick of a switch, there’s often a catalyst nudging people off on their big adventure. For some, it’s a tragic event that sends them searching for deeper meaning. For others, it is their quest for purpose. For me, it was a common case of post-graduate burnout.

Working hard to get a degree with little hope for a future outside of a hamster wheel wasn’t my idea of living. I couldn’t bear the thought of it. But with the looming specter of a grim tomorrow came a light bulb moment, “Why not just travel the world by motorcycle?” Who cared that my ex-student bank account couldn’t even get that dream out the door?

I roped a buddy whose bank account exactly matched mine into going with me. All we’d have to do was work our way around the world. That’s when “2-1-0” was born: Two wheels, One world, Zero money.

The plan was to start in Berlin, Germany, then travel east until we reached Berlin from the other direction, and that’s exactly what I did. More than a year later, I had succeeded in changing almost everything in my life. I was traveling the globe, vulnerable to the whim of the road, and away from the demands of the “fast-paced” life. It couldn’t get much better. But then, this journey of a lifetime threw me a curve.

My bike broke down in one of the world’s least favorable places—Pakistan. There I was, only 40 miles from the Afghani border and an hour from where a French tourist was kidnapped only weeks earlier. And I was on my own, as my buddy had returned home months ago.

At that moment I came to a big revelation. With only a few dollars in my pocket, and facing a potentially dangerous situation, I didn’t regret any of the decisions I had made. As far as life-transforming experiences go, the journey had just begun. Up to this point, my confidence had been growing—as a self-reliant rider and participant in the human condition. I had whittled down my adventure load to the sheer essentials.

There was such a feeling of freedom to this forced simplification of life. When I couldn’t fix a problem myself, I seemed to always meet someone who could. Not only were these random encounters consistently positive, but I also learned something valuable every time.

As I sat there trying to gather my wits, I reflected on how I realized this entire experience was for me. I had my first taste on the road when my buddy and I reached out for work after running out of gas with no money. Still strongly connected to the lives we were hoping to escape, we didn’t look for jobs immediately around us. No, we sent out email blasts and asked for paid work. Someone offering manual labor in London responded first.

And even though taking this offer meant going off route, we went for it. For the next two months we worked around the clock fitting windows on a construction site, painting a bridge, printing banners and stickers and laying the neighbor’s floor. Although it made us feel self sufficient as we worked hard to put gas in our bikes, it was at times stressful. Ultimately, my buddy preferred the stress of the hamster wheel, but the freedom of the road was calling me.

I was now faced with three obstacles to handle on my own: The unrest caused by the conflict between Kurds and Turks in eastern Turkey, the bloody demonstrations in Iran, and the suicide bombings and kidnappings in Pakistan—all lay on my route with no alternative way to go.

The more I researched these places, the more I was frozen in my tracks. The people in Iran were unhappy with the outcome of the election. They felt they were betrayed, and peacefully demonstrated in all major cities to show their frustrations. However, the Iranian police and army responded rigorously.

I read about people being shot in the streets and journalists ending up in jail. With my visa about to expire, I had to make a move soon. I was particularly worried about getting searched at the border because of the equipment I carried.

I’m a filmmaker, and documenting this trip was important to me. Cameras, microphones and laptop aside, I was also carrying a satellite modem that enabled me to keep a daily blog. The last thing I wanted was to be arrested for being a “journalist.”

My research was correct. Iran was in turmoil. But I was reminded that the media only portrays a fraction of the actual “news,” when they’re not skewing it altogether. I wanted to see a better, more complete picture of the world, so I got out there. And the result was that I had a wonderful time in Iran and enjoyed exchanges with some of the friendliest and most hospitable people I’ve ever met. As I moved on, I discovered the tensions were increasing as I approached Pakistan.

My sister’s email with a news article about a recent kidnapping didn’t help. It was quite common during this time for local criminals and the Taliban to go after ransom money. Since Pakistan became an Islamic and Parliamentary Republic in 1956 no government has been able to make it through their four-year ruling period without being overthrown. Despite all this, there was no other way but through. In order to minimize all risks, I planned to transit through Pakistan in only four days.

At the border, I met a motorcyclist from New Zealand going the other direction. He’d come from India and through Pakistan. His whole body shook as he told me he’d never go to Pakistan again. He hadn’t slept for days because of the constant sound of bombs going off at night. This wasn’t what I needed to hear, but it was too late to turn around.

With my passport stamped, the bike’s documents processed, and money changed, off I went. I didn’t get far before a band of military vehicles encircled me. Apparently they believed they needed to escort me, “For your safety!” I wasn’t sure whether this should make me feel better or worse.

The guys were friendly enough, and in their way—funny! The comedy show was not their pistols, machine guns and ammunition belts, but rather their counter-fit sunglasses, flip flops, and T-shirts with “No Fear” written on them.

In the next moment, an unexpected situation unraveled before my eyes. Even my “posse” couldn’t protect me from it. In the middle of the Baluchistan desert, a stone’s throw from the Afghani border, the bike that I had owned for 15 years let me down for the first time. The drive shaft’s universal joint packed it in.

I was stuck in the Pakistani desert with a bike that was in no way rideable. In hindsight, I’m grateful for this incident because if the bike hadn’t broken down there and then, I would have rushed through the country and failed to learn another important lesson. What happened next changed everything. And by “everything,” I mean the way I look at the world.

The escort organized a truck to get me out of the desert and up to Quetta. I rode 12 hours on the back of the truck at the mercy of a bumpy road in 125°F heat. It was grueling. Just when physical misery demanded all of my attention, the truck swerved off the road when overtaking another.

The lorry came to a full stop leaning at a dangerously steep angle off the left shoulder of the road. We were stuck until another truck came to the rescue and pulled us back onto the road.

I was exhausted by the time I arrived in Islamabad, the capital of Pakistan. For a few days I wandered around town aimlessly—unsure what to do. On the search for a mechanic who might help me find parts, I stumbled upon a slum and was shell-shocked by the living conditions. Approached by a friendly father of four, I was invited into his home, which consisted of four brick walls without a roof. Over the course of a few days, his family and I became friends. I learned that all the people in this slum were Christians, and how tough it was to be a minority. He begged me to marry his underage daughter, so he would be eligible for moving his family into a European refugee camp. That must have been the lowest point of his desperation. This moment changed everything for me, and it has put things into perspective. I was broke, alone and stuck, but not as bad off as many people in the world. This put me at their eye-level, yet I remained privileged simply by means of the passport I carry.

I had my breakdown to thank for all this. And once back home after two and a half years on the road, I had come to one of the most important conclusions of all. No matter what the journey offered up in tough situations, all I had to do was stay actively inactive and let the Universe do the rest.

If there was ever a place to ride that sounded so wild, so beautiful, so outrageous that you find yourself feeling that it must be fictitious―that place could only be Namibia. It’s a country so remarkable and diverse that it takes the crown as not only one of the best motorcycle destinations in Africa, but possibly in the entire world.

 Before I arrived in Namibia, I’d heard a lot about it from friends, colleagues, and locals I’d met en route through the African continent. The conversations always went the same way: “Oh you’re heading south, make sure you leave enough time for Namibia. You’ll be blown away!” It was intriguing, especially considering most of these conversations took place over 2,000 miles and several countries away from Namibia. What made this place so special? Why were so many suggesting I hightail it across a continent to make certain I spent the lion’s share of my trip in one country? There was only one way to find out.

Upon crossing the border from Botswana, there’s an immediate change in the air. The world’s second most sparsely-populated country is intersected by huge, well-maintained highways, which conveniently cut the country into several large sections and connect the major cities of Windhoek and Swakopmund. While well-maintained roads are seldom on a list of adventure riders’ demands, these highways make it easy to head into the wilderness for adventure. The road system is like a pipeline taking you from a resupply point in the city to the real treasures of Namibia.

Arriving in Windhoek, I was immediately surprised by the capital city’s cleanliness and modernity. As a rider who often has little interest in big cities and concrete structures, even I had to admit it was an interesting place. A modern metropolis in the middle of a desert, it’s superbly structured and complete with a plethora of motorcycle shops and beer gardens pretty much everywhere you look. It was a welcome pit stop after months in the wilderness of Africa. Along with the coastal town of Swakopmund, it would become a unique starting point for a series of incredible adventures.

After stocking up, I decided to explore the southern chunk of the country first. This area is often featured in National Geographic or on BBC nature documentaries. As I found out, this was for good reason. As you turn off the main road, the modern 21^st century scenery quickly dissolves away, and the hustle and bustle of city life fades in an instant. In front of you are 1,000 miles of desert, mountains, salt pans and pretty much everything else that an adventure rider dreams about. The tarmac disappears, the sun beats down, and you’re soon melting in your motorcycle jacket.

The scenery undergoes a tremendous change. It’s as if the place has been carefully drawn by an artist with an imagination that’s a little too wild to make it real. Over the course of the ride south, you are bombarded with a whole range of geography including vast desert plains, scenic mountain passes through chocolate hills, large rock formations, a thousand hill valleys, dried-up riverbeds, and national parks with wild roaming oryx. Then, you are treated to the sight of the second largest canyon on the globe.

The entire region seems endless. Occasionally, through the infinite mixture of gravel and sand tracks, you see a roadhouse or a miniscule town with a few rusty derelict vehicles, a desert windmill, and a gas station, enabling you to fill up on petrol and supplies for the journey ahead. Even these small communities add to the experience; each looks straight from an old Western movie, complete with interestingly apt names such as the town of Solitaire or the Canyon Roadhouse. They are masterfully decorated with the colorful stickers of every traveler and biker to have passed through the area. It is an incredible place, but also a relentless one. The medley of gravel and sand roads, whilst initially pleasant and exciting, begins to wear you down with help from the extortionate summer heat to, forcing you to make camp and take shelter early in the day. All the more reason to relax, open a beer and enjoy the simple life of motorcycle camping. It truly is an adventure on its own, and once you finally reach the main road that marks the southern exit of the desert, you’re hit by conflicted feelings. The small happiness you feel knowing you can sit down and relax on your seat is immediately diminished by the vast sadness of being away from that visual masterpiece.

After you head back north and restock supplies in the city of Windhoek, the coastal section of the country steps in to grab the reins of the adventure and firmly takes the spotlight. As if Namibia hadn’t already given you enough reason to max out your camera’s SD cards, you are greeted with the Namib Desert and the Skeleton Coast. Local bushmen call this vast, beautiful landscape “The Land God Made in Anger.” Portuguese sailors called it “The Gates of Hell.” Whale bones littered this windswept coast in the past, but now it’s home to the remnants of ships that veered too close to shore―and the rare desert lion, if you are unlucky enough to bump into one on the passage through.

This is a popular sightseeing attraction for tourists and a wonderful backdrop for some beautiful off-road riding. The Namib Desert meets the coast head-on, towering above the ocean with sand dunes that would look more in place in a children’s cartoon than a real-life landscape. Motorcycles aren’t allowed in most Namibian national parks, but even the scenery outside of the boundaries is as spectacular as anything I have ever come across, and the gravel roads and sand trails dissect through the most beautiful of each of these natural monuments. Once again, one of Namibia’s well-kept cities provides a welcome break and pitstop from this haven. Stop in Swakopmund, and you can resupply and clean off the mud, sand, and salt before heading north into the journey’s final stage, into one of Africa’s last great wilderness destinations: Kaokoland.

The tracks north of Swakopmund take you through the Skeleton Coast National Park (where bikes are allowed to transit) and up into the northwest of Namibia. If the south and the coast of the country haven’t scratched your itch for adventure by now, this place really strives to go one step further. As you ride past the main road, the terrain becomes brutal all over again as the packed gravel and soft sand of the coastal roads make way for rocks and corrugations. I had plenty of photo opportunities, but several flat tires and a broken clutch cable served as massive inconveniences, reminding me this was not a place I wanted to be stranded. Keeping true with the north’s reputation as a wilderness location, the infrequent roadhouses and gas stations from the southern route are replaced with small local villages selling gasoline out of jerrycans and Coca-Cola bottles. Once again, you’re greeted with an ever-changing medley of scenery, from desert plains, red rock mountains and then finally the slowly emerging greenery that straddles the legendary mountain passes and the famous Etosha salt plains of the north.

A vast feeling of isolation complements this spectacle. It feels like the marvelous stone statues of the Kaokoland Lone Men are the only other living souls in this landscape. These can become a mysterious treasure hunt in the desert; the figures are masterfully hidden amongst the most desolate and interesting landscapes, their locations known only to those willing to search in the wilderness.

It’s something quite remarkable that so much scenery can be squeezed into a single country, and yet with all the wildness, and all the adventures to be had, you can still end the week with a cold Namibian beer in a 19^th century German bier haus.

By the time my visa had expired, and I had to move on, I finally understood why everyone had urged me to rush to this magnificent country. The diversity of Namibia ensures that a short stay could give you a taste of the country’s wonders, but you could easily spend a lifetime here and still want more. It truly is a paradise for motorcycling. You get beautiful scenery, incredible infrastructure, fantastic culture, and a variety in off-road riding so diverse that you find yourself thinking it must have been crafted deliberately. But, as in any great motorcycling adventure, this all comes in a rough and unforgiving package, one that constantly reminds you why you carry spares in your panniers and why you thumbed through that beaten-up Haynes manual for your motorcycle before setting off. As the Grand Tour so aptly stated after visiting this place, “Namibia, it is one beautiful bastard of a country!”

Luke Phillips is a long-time adventure rider and ex-British army paratrooper from Stourbridge, England. In 2017 he quit his job, sold all his possessions, and has never looked back. He’s ridden his Rally Raid CB500x all over the world, with 150,000 km, six continents, and 47 countries ridden. Luke is currently riding through Africa, and you can join his journey on Instagram at @LukePhill17

As the dust clears, I try to find my bearings and do a self-assessment. I’ve just finished skidding to a stop on a gravel road on the edge of nowhere. My Kawasaki KLR650 is lying on its left side about eight feet ahead in the middle of the road, but luckily is in no danger with the lack of traffic in Labrador. I feel okay—other than the adrenaline overload.

This open stretch of the Trans-Labrador Highway (TLH) is on a plateau and the strong gusts of wind combine with the crushed rock road surface to make the riding challenging. The road was freshly graded but deeply corrugated over the last 30–40 miles. And, when a strong gust blew from my right, I counterbalanced just before the wind suddenly dropped. Compensating instantly turned into overcompensating, which triggered several seconds of tank slapping before down I went. That’s it. But that’s all it takes.

Removing my helmet, I take off my gloves and check myself over. Nothing seems wrong, but when I move to stand up something isn’t right. My left leg feels strange and doesn’t respond  normally. Instinctively I don’t move it and don’t try to get up. I know it’s broken and needs medical attention. There’s a satellite phone strapped to the back of my bike and, if I can get to it, I can call for help.

The tank bag is stocked with an emergency blanket for the cold, and an air horn that will hopefully scare bears away. All this runs through my head in less than a minute as I watch my riding partner’s dust trail disappear over the hill. Brian will be back. In the meantime I need to figure out what to do.

Just over two weeks before, we took off from my home in western South Dakota for a one-year ride. I’d left a 20-plus year career and was taking some time off to get out and play. My job had been my focus for many years, and I reasoned that I hadn’t made enough time to relax and enjoy life. Although I’d been mainly riding cruisers for years, I had purchased my first dual-sport that may have been at least partially responsible for this line of thinking. So, following the clichéd, “If I can do it, anyone can,” of many riders before me, and after two years of preparations, I sold my house, packed up my gear and hit the road for points unknown.

I had ridden over 3,200 miles to get to this point, about 100 miles southeast of Goose Bay on the TLH. This 240-mile section, Phase Three, is the newest, having opened in December 2009. Part of the new road which lies between Goose Bay and Port Hope-Simpson, it is the longest stretch without services or towns. For the last 700 miles (around the Manic-5 Dam) we had seen few towns or fuel stations. S.O.S. phone booths were located approximately every 70 miles, and satellite phones are provided free of charge to travelers. Signs warn of scarce services—indications of the remoteness of this part of the world, and the seriousness with which one must prepare to ride the TLH.

Just when the reality of my situation begins to sink in, and as I ponder the obstacle of getting to the sat phone, a man walks up, seemingly out of nowhere, and asks if I’m all right. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police are the first on the scene. Seriously?! How lucky can a girl be? The relief I feel is immediate and for the first time I relax just a bit from being in hyper-alert survival mode. The officer retrieves several emergency blankets from his car and calls an ambulance. He asks if my injuries require a helicopter evacuation or if I can wait for an ambulance to drive out from Goose Bay. I tell him that I don’t think the fracture is compound, and that a helicopter isn’t necessary.

A cargo truck arrives from the direction I’d been heading. As the driver and the officer move my bike from the middle of the road to the shoulder, the damage looks minimal except for my left pannier, which took the brunt of the fall. A few minutes later, and just as Brian returns, a pickup pulls in behind the cargo truck and two Fisheries and Oceans Canada officers assist. The strong, gusty crosswind that played a role in my crash at least keeps the blackflies away, but now, as the adrenaline spiking slows, I’m beginning to feel the cold—causing concern that I may go into shock.

Even with all my gear, liners and several emergency blankets, I’m chilled and shaking. The men build a windbreak and cover me with their coats to keep me as sheltered as possible. We wait over two hours for the ambulance to arrive and then it’s another two-hour drive back to Goose Bay over the bumpy gravel road to the nearest hospital.

The X-rays reveal I have broken both my left tibia and fibula in spiral fractures. Surgery is needed, which means I’ll have to be flown to St. John’s, Newfoundland, to the nearest orthopedic surgeon. An air ambulance is requested for the following day as I settle into a room for the night.

The driver of the cargo truck offers to haul the KLR back to Goose Bay and store it until I can make necessary arrangements. Brian rides from the accident site more than 100 miles back to town and arrives shortly after my ambulance. I give him the latest news and we make a quick plan for communications and logistics, and discuss posting a request for help on a local ADV Rider forum, which Brian takes care of after leaving me in a morphine-induced sleep.

Within days, we have all kinds of offers from local people—to haul and store my bike, even for Brian and me to stay in local homes until I am able to travel again. The response and support are absolutely overwhelming.

After surgery, which involves a titanium rod and screws, I spend a few days in the hospital before Brian arrives. We debate returning home to South Dakota for recovery, but I am only too aware that I’ll have to return at some point to retrieve my bike to continue this journey. Ten weeks in Newfoundland sounds better than going home on crutches only to return a few weeks later, anyway. So, after discussing my recovery timeline with the doctor, we decide to stay in Newfoundland until the leg heals sufficiently to get back on the road.

In the meantime, we’re invited to move in with a local rider, whose generosity and hospitality go beyond words. Adding to that, the cargo truck driver stores my bike for a couple of weeks, keeping all my gear safe. Another Goose Bay rider then hauls my bike over 1,000 miles to St. John’s, delivering it to the home of another rider who keeps the bike for me while allowing full use of his shop and tools—not to mention taking us on several daytrips around Newfoundland. All this while yet another kind soul gives us use of his beach cabin so that I may still enjoy summer while recuperating! Need I say more? This Canadian network of biker brethren becomes my refuge.

In this way my accident is serendipitous—and so marked by the friends made and the opportunities to experience more of Newfoundland and Labrador than I would ever have if the original planned route and schedule had not been interrupted.

I’m consider myself an adventurer/traveler who rides, more than a typical rider. Cultures, people, music, food and landscapes are more important to me than trail difficulties, miles logged, ride reports and mechanics.

Yet, this accident forced me to spend time in a land I would otherwise not have gotten to know as well, and helped me to see the way I want to travel—at a slower pace, with less schedule and more spontaneity, less self-contained and more connected. Soaking in the places I visit and meeting fellow riders are the new preferences I’ve uncovered through this experience. And, I’m reminded to help other riders whenever I can, to participate in forums, national and local, even when I am not on the road.

“Paying it forward” has always been my nature, especially with regard to fellow riders, but now I’m even more conscious of finding opportunities to do so.

Helping others is a way of life in Newfoundland and Labrador, a necessity for survival in this harsh land that’s still being refined after hundreds of years. They have a saying here, “There are no strangers, only friends you haven’t met yet.” The people here have been incredibly kind, and I will forever be grateful for their help and friendship.

You can read more about my adventures at SturgisChick.com.

After years of anticipation and determined preparation, we pocketed the key to our empty D.C. apartment, tossed on our waterproof riding gear, and climbed on our motorcycles. I hit the start button and… click—dead battery. Thus began our epic journey.

• Some Context

For the previous three years, my wife Odessa and I had been saving, preparing, and ridding ourselves of possessions to set off on motorcycles. During that time, our KTMs had been stolen and (thankfully) recovered, and we’d spent many sleepless nights afterward wondering whether a thief would try again—so concerned that we stepped up the departure date to the end of summer. Armed with dozens of possible routes, the plan was to head west-northwest with our dog Surak until we ran out of roads, then turn south for the lands of warm winters and cheaper living costs.

Life on motorcycles still has responsibilities—a different set than normal life, but we set off with a list of chores. We found a home for the last of our stuff we were keeping and ventured to South Dakota to establish residency. With no deadlines but autumn looming, we rode through the eastern U.S. and the midwest at a too-fast pace that we had to accept.

Not that there weren’t fun moments—like clearing a trail in West Virginia, riding a creek in Kentucky, the wide-open skies and sprawling, fenceless fields—but truth be told, the riding between the Atlantic and South Dakota was mostly uneventful. We managed to avoid most Interstates and found endless miles of gravel to explore but unlike our first trip across the U.S. years ago, this one was defined by the folks we met along the way.

• We’re Being Followed

It started in West Virginia. Riding on the dregs of Hurricane Ida through the coalfields and squinting through a perpetual drizzle, we missed our turn. Suspecting the truck behind us had been deliberately following us for the last 10 minutes through all of our odd, obviously off-the-beaten-path routes, we pulled over to turn around—and so did the truck boxing us in. The window rolled down to reveal an eager couple who just wanted to talk about their KTMs.

During the chat, we got a sobering call about a family emergency, whereupon our new friends, in an outpouring of kindness, immediately offered anything we needed! After a night at their place and more of their amazing West Virginian hospitality, we managed to sort things out with the family, and continued on our way.

• Gorging Ourselves

Another stop: Famished, we stopped at Miguel’s Pizza next to Red River Gorge, Kentucky, where a fellow rider happily shared his pizza while we waited for ours. He also shared the wonders of pine tar fire starters—bits of wood so saturated with sap that a strike from a Ferro rod causes it to ignite immediately. It was late, so he led us to his go-to campsite, where we found wheelbarrows full of firewood (and where we discovered that Surak doesn’t enjoy riding in a wheelbarrow as much as on a motorcycle. Sorry, buddy!). The next morning, we confidently left our luggage at camp to ride through some Kentucky mud in the rain before moving on.

• The Guided Tour

As we headed westward, we had a pitstop in a small Indiana town. Parked in front of the Rugged Foot, an aptly named shoe repair shop, the owner greeted us and offered to repair anything we might have damaged along the way. Shortly after that, as we sat down at the patio next door for a snack, his son arrived on a KLR, and they joined us. Then came the invitation to pitch our tent, drop our gear, and go for a tour of the area through tunnels, a rocky riverbank, fun windy roads—places we’d never have known about just the following advice from a GPS. Returning late, we were treated to a meal to ensure we were energized for more riding the next morning down more fun roads in their exciting motorcycle playground. When it was time to continue on, they fed us yet again and then escorted us along our way before saying their goodbyes.

• Our New “Home”

South Dakota had us dying of thirst, racing down straight, dusty farm roads, all expertly engineered to align with the afternoon sun. We stopped at the only place around us along an Interstate—a combined bar, restaurant, and motel, and the single employee was also the owner, bartender, and cook. We stayed longer than expected, listening to stories of how COVID had changed life and how politics had a profound effect on a tiny stop along this lonely road. But before we set off to our campsite, he gave us an amazing picnic of brisket, bread, chips, and a Tupperware set of homemade BBQ sauces. We rode to our campsite and, before anything else, plopped down on the grass to enjoy the beautiful pairing of an unexpected dinner and the bag from a butchered box of wine that was bungeed to the bike.

Despite its low population density (46^th overall), South Dakota was where we had the most chance meetings. The city park in White River, SD, doubles as a free campground—convenient for us, since we had our passports overnighted to the local post office. It was then we realized that overnighting something with the USPS doesn’t necessarily mean that it will get there overnight… or even the second day!

Conveniently, the only tavern for miles was located right across the street from the city park. A wonderful kind of place, too, where everyone knows everyone, and you have to politely decline offers of shots from the local drunk. Our campsite in the park was our home for the evening but also doubled as our refuge from a nasty afternoon thunderstorm about to hit. A local rancher overheard our plight and offered up a house he normally rented to hunters. And more offers to help didn’t end there. Despite being sparsely populated, the hospitality we received in South Dakota was huge.

On a riding-related side note, we’d heard whispers of brutal dirt roads around us but couldn’t find any despite the hundreds of miles we’d already ridden. That was… until it rained. That nearby house we’d been offered—a paltry four blocks away—was decidedly not on a dirt road, rather a three-lane mud fest!

When we reminisce about the first leg of the trip, we rarely reference our memories by time, route, or even the places visited; rather, it’s all ordered by those we met along the way.

This is hardly a novel revelation; it’s actually the typical experience of travelers, especially motorcyclists. I can’t say exactly what changed, but until this point, at least for me, motorcycling had been a solitary endeavor.

Maybe riding with my partner changed that perspective, or maybe it was knowing there was nothing to go back to and that everything we had was clamped, tied, and bungeed to the bikes. Whatever the reason, the great people, and the kindness of others, in general, were the highlight of our trip.

• Freedom

Leaving South Dakota was the turning point. Free of administrative obligations and deadlines, and with temporary driver’s licenses in hand, we began wandering. We explored an old bombing range peppered with rusted shells of cars from the 1960s, rode the Badlands, dodged cows, and confronted bulls. We saw Mount Rushmore and encountered an unexpectedly-early frost. We also began to discover that, given freedom, our natural tendency is to drift towards trouble— but isn’t trouble just a synonym for adventure?

Scott Canto upgraded from a bicycle to a motorcycle in 2004 and an adventure motorcycle in 2011 and never looked back. In 2021, Scott left with his partner Odessa, and their dog Surak, to ride around the world. He continues to not look back—his mirror is broken anyway. See more of their adventures at ADVGoats.com.

Swapping the Dutch lowlands for a year in the mountains of Colorado seemed exciting enough—but I wanted more. From previous visits to the U.S. I knew how vast and beautiful the backcountry of the West could be, and I felt a strong urge to see and explore more of it.

Because of my interest in American history, I was drawn to retrace the Old Oregon Trail: 2,000 miles from Independence, Missouri, to Portland, Oregon. But, no wagon drawn by oxen for me—instead I chose a 17-horsepower Yamaha—a small bike, especially by modern overlanding standards, but big enough to do the job. Since I planned to follow the original trail as closely as possible, quite a bit of off-roading would be involved, so it was important that I be able to pick up the bike.

After all, I was going to do this trip alone, and worst case scenarios involved empty stretches of desert with temperatures going well above 100°F, where the only “help” would come from vultures and rattlesnakes.

My budget was limited, another factor making a used $1,000 ’87 XT 350 a perfect fit. It didn’t have fuel injection, so an occasional change of pilot jet would be necessary. It came with a Japanese butt-numbing “saddle” that felt like a piece of wood after riding more than 70 miles, and no fancy custom-made aluminium cases either, just a pair of waterproof saddlebags mounted on a homemade rack of bent aluminium tubes bought from the local hardware store for $15.

A cheap bike made the investment a lot easier, but a 25-year-old bike also has its down sides. Only a week before I planned to leave, the bike decided to stop altogether. It took my husband and friends a full day in the garage before they could coax it back to life (the culprit turned out to be a damaged wire that led to the ignition generator coil). That event made me realize just how vulnerable I was going to be, and I began to have second thoughts.

It wasn’t as if I was traveling the Sahara on my own, or trying to cross an Angolan minefield... or even riding the infamous Road of Bones in muddy and mosquito-infested Siberia.

But, it was exciting enough for me. Likewise, there wouldn’t be a back-up crew helping with technical issues, I carried only the most basic tools and spare parts. Cell phone service would also be sporadic, at best.

The wisest thing was get the bike in perfect shape before leaving, do the proper maintenance on the road, and hope for the best.

Meanwhile, I kept telling my parents just how safe traveling through the U.S. is for a woman on her own. But, whenever doubt arose, I reminded myself that this trip was about adventure. I wasn’t just going from A to B, I wanted to see this country, meet the people, and find out if I could make this trip on my own.

The Netherlands, where I’m from, is a small country where you are, at most, four hours away from home, or a telephone call away from road service or help from friends. Nothing compared to the enormous land that I was about to cross. This would be an adventure!

Between 1840 and 1860, an estimated 300,000 Americans went on an adventure, too. They traveled west in search of new futures, often to Oregon to farm, or to California to dig for gold. The remnants of the trail took me through the green prairie hills of Kansas, mostly on very passable and well maintained gravel roads.

On these roads, I was greeted by every pick-up truck driver, either with a raised hand, or, in case of a really cool guy, with just a finger lifted slowly from the steering wheel. It felt reassuring, if I was to have a breakdown here, help wouldn’t be far away.

Eastern Nebraska was still green, but the farther west I rode, the drier and hotter it became. This is open ranch country, where the yucca, sagebrush and prickly pear rule. This was where the “real” West started—exactly what I was looking for.

Although the landscape seemed unapproachable, the people certainly were not. Countless times I was asked: “Where you from?” or “Where you goin’?” People were genuinely interested in strangers, and glowed with pride when they heard I was fascinated by the history of their nation.

There is a collective national pride in this country, and I couldn’t help but notice how many people like to show this by their exuberant display of flags, something we cynical northern Europeans sometimes mistake for fanatical patriotism.

My journey wasn’t without mishap, however, and I had a skirmish with a land owner for illegally riding on her land. Being accustomed to riding in the “park” that is the Netherlands, the whole concept of trespassing was completely new to me—despite the very obvious posted warning signs, usually decorated with multiple bullet holes. But, once I apologized, she became very friendly and even showed me an alternative route to take.

Of course I couldn’t escape Mother Nature’s torments. High temperatures during the day and strong winds in the afternoons were common. And, occasionally I was given a little extra attention. Not long after riding into a dark sky somewhere near Glendo, Wyoming, I felt the first raindrops exploding on my jacket. For about 20 minutes I rode through a swirling downpour.

But soon nature’s bad temper was over, the sun broke through the clouds, and dried my soaked riding gear within minutes. I was riding off road through the beautiful Black Hills, in a world refreshed, all the while being stared at by curious antelope from a safe distance—making me realize just how lucky I was to make this trip.

Soon afterwards, I crossed the Rocky Mountains over the south pass, a much-dreaded route by overlanders. The landscape has hardly changed in 150 years since the first emigrants made their way. The narrow, rocky 7,411-foot path along bloodcurdling precipices would have had barely enough room for their wagons. And, the vast landscape of sloping hills only seemed to attract two living things: sagebrush and cows.

Despite the fact that I could only carry about three gallons of gas in my tank, I never had any problems finding fuel. Even the smallest town usually had a gas station, but to be really safe, I adopted the habit of topping off my tank whenever an opportunity arose, so I never ran into trouble.

Finding food, too, was never a problem. I made a point of only visiting the small, local places to eat, and I soon learned the Golden Rule of eating in the West: The more pick-up trucks in the parking lot of a restaurant or diner, the better the food.

In Idaho, I followed the Snake River. After this huge, winding estuary, I found the final waterway of this trip—the mighty Columbia. From 1846 on, emigrants had only two options when they reached the river: Sell all their livestock and travel over water, or take the road built by Sam Barlow. I decided on Barlow road, since traveling via river wasn’t exactly what the little XT was designed for.

It took several days to navigate through the Mount Hood wilderness, one of Oregon’s biggest off-road playgrounds, but I eventually managed to reach Oregon City. This was the end of the trail, I’d made it in one piece after about a month on the road. And the city marked the end of a fantastic, 2,000-mile journey through this enormous and beautiful country.

I wouldn’t call it a life-changing experience, but I did learn a thing or two about being on the road. And, it didn’t take long to realize that my fears about safety, or getting stranded in the middle of nowhere, had almost prevented me the trip.

I met so many kind and friendly people along the way, and I learned that no matter how deserted the land seemed to be, there was always help around the next corner. You have to let go of your fears and anxieties, because no matter what happens, you’ll never be able to control or prevent everything. That’s all part of the adventure.

“You sure you don’t want a Honda?” Kevin asked as we looked at the well worn green Russian-made Minsk motorcycle that his mechanic had just delivered. Being both stubborn and lacking much in the way of common sense I said, “No, ‘Lucy’ just needs a paint job, some racks and tools in case she breaks down.”

I came to Southeast Asia to meet people and explore. For the last several years, I’ve been working on a project called “The Bunny Teeth Movement.” The idea came about from a visit to Japan, where my friend, Manami, suggested that I travel the world handing out bunny teeth. She explained that the world is too serious, and that bunny teeth could lighten the mood, one smile at a time.

I’m not suggesting that bunny teeth are the be-all/end-all for world peace, but a smile is a positive in a world full of negatives.

I’d been in Saigon, Vietnam for two days, and was excited to both explore and hand out bunny teeth. Lucy had just been freshly painted, luggage racks were welded on, and the bike was now equipped with all the tools I might need. In hindsight, though, more spare parts would have been a good idea.

The plan was to leave the next morning with a couple guys that had bought Hondas from Kevin: Wes was from Canada, and Shane from California. They had been traveling around Southeast Asia for a couple months, and I found them valuable in my assimilation of the region.

The first destination was Vung Tau, the home of the world’s largest Jesus statue, according to locals. The journey to Vung Tau was nerve racking and thrilling at the same time. Riding a motorcycle in Vietnam is as mental as it is physical; someone or something is constantly trying to run you over or have you run it over.

Scooters, trucks, busses and chickens all compete for a little bit of asphalt; usually, it seems, the one that I am occupying.

Shane and Wes were on a deadline to make it to Hanoi, and I was planning on seeing a bit of the country along the way, so we split up at Mui Ne. I drove towards Dalat and they headed to Nha Trang. Lucy had been acting a bit temperamental the previous day, so after taking her to a mechanic and welder for a little repair, I left for what should have been a five or six hour ride to Dalat.

The morning started early and for the first time in a while it was raining some. I headed to QL-28, which would take me from the coast up into the mountains, and eventually to QL-20, leading to Dalat. The road was very nice, the rain had stopped, and there was no traffic. Just as we crested the mountain, Lucy sputtered a couple times and then simply stopped. There was plenty of gas but no spark.

I spent an hour going through my checklist of possible causes—all the while being watched by Vietnamese children who emerged from the jungle. Eventually, a gentleman rode up on a scooter and kindly pushed Lucy and me to the next little village—Gia Bac. As it turned out, Thang owned the feed/convenience store and was also the town mechanic. We ended up spending three days and two nights working on Lucy before Thang was able to get spark.

A lot of time was spent on the porch drinking coffee and being the town curiosity. Perhaps a Honda would have effortlessly taken me to Dalat, but I came to Vietnam for the experience, and three days in a remote Vietnamese village was that kind of experience. Besides, Dalat is a beautiful hill town famous as a honeymoon destination and for its coffee plantations.

Down the road there I needed yet another Minsk mechanic, who made a few more repairs while I handed out bunny teeth. Feeling secure that I would have spark for at least a couple days, I headed north skirting the Cambodian border. The countryside and people were amazing.

From these experiences, I learned a couple things about Vietnamese mechanics: They’re capable of doing almost anything on a motorcycle with a pair of pliers, a screwdriver and hammer, and the repairs are just enough to get you to the next mechanic.

That said, it took four mechanics in four different towns to get my rear wheel bearings replaced. But Lucy was running great... at least for the moment.

I’d heard of a town called Kham Duc that supposedly was the best place in Vietnam for Minsk parts—a hill town that still used Minsk motorcycles for logging. I rolled into town cold, hungry and very wet after being caught in a five-hour downpour. Kham Duc was different; something didn’t feel right. The smiles I’d received throughout my trip so far had been replaced by scowls.

I ended up spending several hours having my clutch disks and a seal replaced—the whole time cold and wet, with various people pointing and laughing at me. After a day of being soaking wet I was desperate to find a place to spend the night out of the weather. I finally found a compassionate old man who rented rooms to loggers. He led me to a little shack with a bed—where I was just happy to be out of the rain. And, I later learned that Kham Duc had been very heavily bombed during the war—no wonder they didn’t like me.

Continuing north along the coastline, I ended up spending a memorable Christmas at a hostel called the Phong Nha Farmstay. The Farmstay was run by an Australian and his Vietnamese wife—who were off to Australia for the holidays. Christmas morning was spent walking around the local village while Dave English, dressed as Santa, passed out candy to the local children. In the afternoon I went for a nice ride through the countryside and explored the caves at Phong Nha. I spent New Year’s Day in Hanoi, where I went to a water puppet show, visited Uncle Ho at his tomb, and met some really great fellow travelers.

From Hanoi it was off to Halong Bay to catch a couple ferries to Cat Ba Island. Halong Bay is famous for its limestone karst formations, and the cruise boats that take tourists for multiple day trips through the islands. After we arrived on Cat Ba, it was about a 15-mile ride from the ferry terminal to the town center. Cat Ba town looks like it was built in 1970 and hasn’t been remodeled since. Its main industries are fishing and tourism, but being off-season it was quiet in town.

After a couple of days, it was time to catch another ferry to Halong City. At the north ferry terminal are Chinese that conduct day tours. Their tour operators told me that the ferry had already left and that the next one wouldn’t arrive for another 10 hours. Since I could see the ferry coming, I told them I would wait. And, about 10 minutes later, I was on the ferry waving as we passed the tour hustlers’ dock.

From Halong City, Lucy and I headed to a town in the hills of Northern Vietnam called Lang Son. The 100-mile ride was very cold, wet and muddy. My hands were so cold the front desk girl had to unhook my luggage straps for me. I was the only guest in the five-story hotel—apparently, January is not the best time to visit northern Vietnam.

From Lang Son I followed Ql-4 to the town of Cao Bang. It was a relatively short ride of 100 miles, but the road conditions were pretty bad. Much of it consisted of foot-deep slippery mud, large puddles and stuck vehicles. I’m not about speed when I travel, but what should have been a four-hour ride turned into a solid eight hours. And, by the time I arrived in Cao Bang I was covered in mud. The attendant at the front desk showed me to a room under construction and allowed me to hose myself off before checking in.

Cao Bang is a nice city, and I found the people to be some of the friendliest in Vietnam. The countryside is very beautiful and full of terraced farm plots.

One day I rode out into the country and came across some very remote villages near the Chinese border. I’m sure that most of these people had never seen a Westerner, so when I stopped for a drink I was quite the curiosity.

The north was very cold and because the weather was turning even worse, I decided to ride back to Hanoi. Upon arriving there, I booked a train back to Saigon where I met a friend from Hanoi and traveled down through the Mekong Delta. Just like most of Vietnam, the people were very friendly, and the countryside quite lush.

Life in the Mekong revolves around the water. We spent days taking ferries, crossing bridges and shopping on floating markets. While I enjoy meeting people, I prefer traveling solo, so after a week with a traveling companion, it was time for Lucy and me to cross into Cambodia and continue on our own journey.

I recommend visiting Vietnam, but if Kevin ever asks you if you want a Honda, you should probably say “Yes.”

Cliff Danger is an adventurer and photographer who loves motorcycles and travel. If you see Cliff and Lucy on the road, please stop and say hello—they’ll have a set of Bunny Teeth for you.

The route from Washington all the way to California is home to beautiful fairytale forests, snow-peaked volcanos, lush valleys, old Spanish lighthouses dating from the 18th century, sea lions and alluring beaches. It’s a route that includes the majestic nearly 3,000-year-old growth redwoods with their distinct Jurassic era feel. Some of these giants tower over five stories high. Although it’s a well-trotted route, there are hidden gems to still see and explore along the way.

We did not stick to the normal route of strictly following The Pacific Coast Highway (PCH). Our journey took us towards Baja California using BDR and Butler maps and our own research. Fortunately, we were often distracted along the way. There was so much to experience and see it was impossible to stay on any single route. We decided early on to explore more of the backroads and dirt tracks winding through the magnificent forest areas.

The PCH is actually an unofficial designation for a couple of different roads, and basically applies to whichever is closest to the coast at any given time. For example, travelling south of San Francisco, the signage is for CA-1, and north of there it is US-101. Most of the PCH was built in the early 20^th century and in 1923 was proclaimed as the longest continuous stretch of paved road in the world at that time.

We found the inland scenery and landscapes just as inspiring with its displays of rolling grass hills, elaborate wildflowers, picturesque waterfalls, flowered meadows, lush valleys, and majestic coastal mountains. We avoided crowds because it was late summer, and it was not overly hot during the day. Evenings were pleasantly cool.

Beautiful old Douglas firs filled our nostrils with their sweet scent as we rode to our campsite on Mount Rainier. After quickly setting up camp, we went hiking almost halfway up the mountain following cool streams to where the snow cap glacier was more visible. This is a place where one can camp for weeks, and daily hike and explore new sections of wilderness.

From Mount Rainier, a dirt road took us along the edge of the rugged Mount Adams, the second-highest mountain in Washington State, and past the once-mighty Mount St. Helens. In May 1980, this volcano blew half of itself into the sky in an enormous explosion and forever changed the landscape of this once near-perfect volcanic cone, flattening huge forest areas which to this day have not recovered properly. There are secluded places to camp in the woods all along the dirt tracks of this corridor. Our pick was at Horseshoe Lake, a strangely warm alpine lake with great views of Mount Adams and not a soul around. It’s the perfect place to go on short or long hikes to see wildlife.

The area with Mount St. Helens and Mount Adams Wilderness still provides a true backcountry wilderness experience.

Crossing the Columbia River into Oregon, we stayed along the coast with its breathtaking views of the Pacific. Whale watching at Coos Bay, astonishing beautiful sunsets, quaint working fishing towns and craft beer are all part of the scenic ride down the Oregon coast. There are so many super-cool campsites along the coast there’s no need to stay in hotels. Local American campers were eager to chat with us and hear our stories; we would never have met so many interesting people if we’d been stuck in hotels.

“They grew old and bought recreational vehicles.”

I asked an elderly man what happened to the authentic real hippies that roamed California and the Pacific coast in the ‘60s and ‘70s? The ones that smoked weed and had naughty naked parties on the beaches. We were hoping to mingle with the real ones. His answer was “they grew old and bought RVs.” It was a sad state of affairs, but our confidence in the free lifestyle was restored by the sheer amount of younger van-dwelling travelers cruising up and down the coast. They were mostly youngsters in raggedy old vans and VW buses wearing their parents ’60’s clothes, but at least they drank as hard and smoked as much grass, keeping up the tradition.

With that said, we’ve never been offered so much cannabis so often as in Oregon and California… cough, cough. It happened in campsites and a few times even when we stopped for fuel or something to eat. Locals came up for a chat and then in the end with much laughter and good cheer offered weed as a kind gesture. U.S. law enforcement seems like quite an angry tight-ass bunch, so we respectfully declined. Along some parts of Highway 1, north of San Francisco Bay, we’d often whiff the pungent smell cannabis as we rode South.

The one big reason for travelling PCH is to visit the redwoods and the Avenue of the Giants in California. Those unbelievable photos on the internet where a tunnel was built through the trunk of a tree. It’s so big that people drive their cars through… unreal. Those trees are shockingly huge to see in real life.

There are few things more overwhelmingly spectacular to see in real life than the redwoods (Sequoioideae) trees.

Giant sequoias and California redwoods (also called coast redwoods) are skyscrapers in nature. Baby redwoods often sprout at their parents’ base, latching onto their roots for nutrients. Because of this they often grow in circular clusters called “fairy rings.” Redwoods have a chemical inside the pores that makes them weather-, insect- and rot-resistant.

Hiking around the Redwood National and State parks is a great way to experience the magnificence of trees and the forest. The best part of it is the numerous camping spots in the Avenue of the Giants, spending time among these skyscrapers. As it was late summer, the air was crisp in the mornings, which also left a nice and fresh aroma in the forest.

It’s humbling to stand next to a living organism the size of those giants; their presence turns even the hardest of souls into a tree-hugging hippy kid. It might even contribute to good mental health, to sit in a forest just enjoying the quiet calm with these wonderful giants towering into the sky.

With a staggering number of options to beach camp, Usal Beach in our books is one of those best-kept secrets. This remote beach with its black sand is about a mile long and quite deep at the mouth of Usal Creek. It’s a seasonal park and normally open from March through October with suggested to access by 4x4s and adventure motorcycles.

The dark shadowy damp forest road wound all the way along the coast and descended to the beach, breathtaking stuff! It is the kind of road that invites and rewards dual-sport riders. While enjoying a late lunch and some beers that afternoon, after setting up our wild camp, we got the most amazing sight. We were near the beach with a few other campers in the distance, when a massive Roosevelt Elk silently appeared a few meters from our tent. It is a striking and imposing creature to appear out of nowhere, but a wonderful sight. We followed the lazy grazing of two of these magnificent animals the rest of the afternoon. Days later, a local warned us that Roosevelt Elk can be very aggressive in mating season. Maybe so, but we had no problems.

Sea lions play in the surf along this part of the coast. Nearby is Sally Bell Grove, a strikingly gorgeous grove of old growth redwoods along an estuary. High up on the bluffs you can see for many kilometers out to sea, including a groovy blow hole and a gorgeous sea cave. Osprey hunt for food at all the beaches. It’s the kind of stuff National Geographic documentaries are made of, except we saw it in real life.

Big cities are not really a highlight of motorcycle travelling, but I guess there are a few in the world worth visiting if you find yourself nearby. San Francisco is one such city in the middle of this beautiful route. The City by the Bay is a melting pot of ethnicities, cultures, and lifestyles—relaxed and easy-going. Places like Haight-Ashbury, the Marina, Baker Beach, Alcatraz and Fisherman’s Wharf are all in a one-day trip, but ridiculously touristy. For foodies, San Francisco has some of the biggest variety of international foods available from every type of restaurant imaginable. Unfortunately, we did not spend nearly enough time there as it was quite a drain on the budget, especially for long-term overlanders like us.

Getting off the main route after San Francisco we headed towards Lake Tahoe and from there south into Yosemite National Park. The Americans did an excellent job building roads in and around Yosemite. As motorcycle riding nirvana, it’s not just the roads that make for a stunning ride, but also the spectacular granite cathedrals, soaring cliffs, domes, and free-falling waterfalls in Yosemite.

Yosemite Valley is a seven-mile-wide canyon with white granite rock formations including El Capitan, the world’s tallest granite monolith. Yosemite Falls is said to be the largest waterfall in North America. And to top it, the local Giant Sequoia are the world’s most massive tree, some estimated to be over 3,000 years old.

What makes them so unique apart from their humungous size is their very specific climate requirements. They only grow naturally in a narrow 400-kilometer strip of mixed conifer forest on the western slopes of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, primarily between 1.5 and 2 kilometers in elevation.

Continuing down through California, we saw only a very brief glimpse of the south coast and didn’t get a chance to touch the inland highlights like Joshua Tree or Death Valley. There’s so much to see and experience on the West Coast that it numbs the senses.  It’s a relaxed enjoyable motorcycle ride with all the smells, tastes, and visual pleasures for a memorable trip you’ll remember for a lifetime.

Michnus Olivier, GenX’er born and bred South African product. Known on PikiPikioverland as “The Tyre Fixer.” Not known to follow or believe his own advice, however he loves to share stories and inspiration with others. Michnus and his better half, Elsebie, left South Africa 10 years ago on an initial six-month planned motorcycle trip up to Europe through Africa. Sold mom and the family pets, hit the road exploring on a semi-permanent basis to this day.

I’ve spent the last six years travelling the world via motorbike. When I left home in the south of England, I had no idea of where it would lead me. With a one-way ticket to India, I’d figure it out from there. Being an extreme sports and motorbike fanatic, some would say it was inevitable I’d end up travelling the world this way. But after a while, I started seeking something outside of the usual road trips—something you aren’t likely to find on a tour or in a magazine article… the next level.

Indonesia was a country that had never been high on my must-see list, but it turned out to be the best place I ever visited. I landed in Bali, found a Kawasaki KLX150, and set off looking for any dense forests, jungles and anything that looked like it would be fun. However, after locating one jungle trail, the deeper I got into it the more I began to panic. Although I was enjoying every minute of the experience, fear got the best of me and I decided to head back to base. It was a pattern I’d repeat several times before re-evaluating my approach.

Realizing I needed a better plan, I decided to get a newer and more reliable bike and do an east-to-west trip on as many rural trails as I could locate. I found a 2017 Honda CRF150, had it bored out to 200ccs and rode it for the duration of the four-month trip. I packed only a first aid kit, waterproof jacket, and a few basic tools along with a compass in the tank bag in case my phone died. Then, using Google Earth I looked for any hint of jungle or mountain trails, jotting them down for a rough path to follow, and off I went.

The newer bike and basic baggage were far better suited for this kind of travel. For the duration, I used Geo Tracker to record my route in case I needed to backtrack and find a different way out, which happened with regularity.

The first few days I went as far as I could, riding tracks I found on Google Earth, but it was difficult going. However, because I’d started in Bali, I was never more than a few hours away from civilization—but this didn’t mean it was particularly safe. At one point, I slipped down a wet jungle embankment and trapped my leg under the bike; it took hours to get free, but not before it started raining heavily and grew dark. I remember laying there with rain on my face, laughing because as crazy as this was, it was exactly what I wanted, and I felt alive. I got into jams that made me think it was all a bad idea, but I kept on going anyway. The more I pushed on, the more I began to let go of control, and the more I started to just go with it and see what would happen next.

“When you visualize the things you want in life, you only see the coincidences, but let go of all control and that’s when the real magic happens.”—Alan Watts

Eventually, this mindset became my way of travelling. I learned to completely let go of any fear, and by doing this, everything that followed, and I mean EVERYTHING, went in a way I could never have imagined. I had a rough idea every day of where I wanted to end up, but everything in between is where I practiced this philosophy.

The more I travelled in this way, the more it became my way of life. There were times where suddenly, I would get this feeling to travel in a completely different direction, and it never let me down. From places I found, people I met and things I saw—everything that happened was a direct result of letting go and trusting life to take care of the details. By expecting nothing, I received everything. I realized that you have to have a dream, you have to have a goal, but how you get there is best left for life to decide. “If you don’t know where you’re going, then any road will take you there.”

After arriving in Java, I managed to tap into a network of trails until I came to a roadblock guarded by the local military. Beyond the roadblock, I could see the signs of an unbelievable adventure, so I pushed past my frustration to find a way through. I communicated using Google Translate and I’m not sure how I managed it, but I convinced the guards to let me pass. I showed them pictures of my trip and explained what I was doing here, they looked at each other, laughed and gave me a pat on the back before letting me pass. It was the biggest relief and the best outcome, because those trails were some of the best I’d ever encountered. I didn’t see another soul for a long time and the path constantly forked, making tracking difficult. The trails swooped in and out of the oceanfront and I couldn’t stop laughing the entire time. At one point a group of monkeys ran next to me jumping around in the trees—it all felt quite surreal. I completely zoned out and it was pure bliss.

I continued travelling in this way to Jogjakarta; as I passed through a small village near Tumpak Sewu Lumajang, I bumped into a group of local riders advertising an enduro event sponsored by Honda. The locals said they would let me ride with their team. Although I was extremely tired I couldn’t pass up the opportunity, so I joined them. The event had a large stage, music and hundreds of local riders, I was the only westerner and when I took my helmet off, they seemed shocked. The ride was incredible, weaving in and out of jungles and forests with great obstacles along the way.

After saying goodbye to the team, I continued on to Malang, where I made friends with another great guy, Uphi. He owned a company called Moto East Java, and let me ride with his groups as their photographer, showing me some secret trails as well.

Uphi was one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. We spent time together, doing different trails on different days, and meeting the people who lived along these tracks. The locals seemed amused that I was doing this off-road trip, and a large portion of them were enduro fans. Uphi gave me some local knowledge on the next leg of my trip and pointed me in the right direction to hit some extreme trails. He said I was crazy to do this alone, but was happy to help me.

I continued on until I made it to Jogjakarta, where I decided to return to Bali. By then I was exhausted and the thought of riding all the way back to catch my flight sank in. But, the journey back was the perfect time to reflect. The trusty Honda CRF had been a reliable ride and hadn’t missed a beat. I dropped the oil regularly and changed the sparkplugs and filters, but it was the best bike I could have used, although there were times I wished it had more power. Honda did a great job once again.

I barely touched regular roads during that trip to Jogjakarta. The network of off-road trails connecting this country are the most amazing I’ve come across anywhere. Used by jungle hunters, foragers, and other riders, it’s enduro heaven. I’d barely come across another foreigner over four months, and some of the things I came across had likely never been seen by any tourist. Many had been life-changing experiences, to say the least. Sometimes we get in our own way when trying to take control of everything, and I realized the best way to travel is just let go.

“We often kill the potential of a good situation before it’s had chance to unfold. Due to anxiety and the urge to control everything, we create our own depression.”—Harry Shelswell

If you are considering a similar trip to a foreign land, keep the following in mind: Always check weather conditions before departure; apply the gas-water-air rule (fuel, water, tires); have a clear map in your head of where you are going including stops; pack some food; and don’t forget the camera.

Harry Shelswell left home in search of adventure. Expecting to be gone for a few months, every time one trip was coming to a close a new one would spring into view. “I’ve travelled through eight countries so far. Rather than blasting through places I’ve learned to take my time to explore every nook and cranny. By travelling in this way, I gain a deeper understanding of the cultures and landscapes. And when I’m not on a bike I’m working as a photographer—combining two of my life’s passions as I get involved with many opportunities around the globe—capturing life in unique ways in an attempt to share the world as I see it.” Instagram @harry_shelswell.

If you are looking for a world-class adventure ride in the lower 48… look no further. This IS the ride to do!

The WABDR (Washington Backcountry Discovery Route) is approximately 650 miles of forest service roads, fire roads, and jeep trails connecting Oregon State to Canada. This incredible route will take you along the high mountain ridges along the Washington cascade, past the rich soils of Eastern Washington.

Living in Washington, and being too late in the season for another trip to Alaska or Mexico, I took a trip on the WABDR running south to north the first week of October. The first leg of the route is a great warm-up beginning at the “Bridge of the Gods” near Stevenson, where you will be led north through the heavy forest canopies of Western Washington.

This first leg ends near the small logging town of Packwood, where you’ll begin the longest stretch of pavement along the WABDR. This isn’t a bad thing as it will take you along Highway 12, one of the scenic highway passes, towards the east side of the state where you will rejoin the dirt for your northern treks.

The second leg is my favorite, being the most technically challenging (there are less challenging alternates for lesser skilled riders and bigger bikes). It was impossible to stop smiling as I shot along the backroads ranging from well-maintained forest service roads to forgotten jeep trails.

Like a mountain goat trail, the roads move back and forth as they climb the steep mountain walls providing breathtaking vistas all the way, every turn in the road calling for you to pause and take in the majestic snowcapped mountain peaks surrounding you.

As the WABDR transitions from the dense evergreen forest of the west to the sparse pines of the drier climate, the ground becomes looser and more challenging. Beastly bikes like the BMW R1200GS can wrestle and push their way through this second leg, like a bull pushing through a crowd of people.

It’s more work than pleasure, though, as this section is an absolute dream ride for bikes like the KLR650, BMW G650GS, or even my travel companion the BMW F800GS; the remaining four legs are easy to traverse even on a V-Strom, or other more street-biased adventure machines.

Of course there are less challenging alternatives for larger bikes or less experienced adventurers. The end of the second leg lands in the city of Ellensburg, where there are ample stores to resupply if needed (one of the best street rides in Washington leaves south from Ellensburg south along the Yakima river… worth the detour if you have the time).

The next four legs lead you to the Chopaka border crossing and continue to take you up and down the mountains, across valley floors, along the shores of Lake Chelan, through forest ravaged by fire, and along high mountain ridges where you will understand how Zeus felt as he looked down on the world below.

Camping is abundant along the way and there are even some state campgrounds if you prefer facilities. Each of the six legs lands near civilization for those preferring the comforts of a hotel and hot meal. Most of my adventure riding is closer to dirt than street, and I was expecting this to be a real bore… I was happily disappointed.

This ride rocks and was vastly more entertaining than even my recent trip to Alaska! Now I understand why adventure riders are flying to Washington State from all over the world to take advantage of these incredible roads and scenic vistas.

Maps and video of the WABDR: Touratech-USA.com

Free GPS downloads: RideBDR.com

WABDR notes:

• Most riders will take four to six days to complete the WABDR.
• Much of the route is without cell service so a SPOT, PLB, or sat phone is recommended.
• This is a great ride for riders with some experience but not good if it is your first time off pavement.
• Free camping is available along most of the route, pay sites are available as well.
• Route was selected for larger adventure bikes in the 650cc range and above.
• Route can easily be traveled as a complete route or in sections.
• There are a plethora of twisty scenic paved roads surrounding the WABDR.
• Pack a first aid kit and know what you are doing… these are remote areas.
• Strongly recommend wearing off-road boots or heavy-duty adventure boots.