Two Wheels To There

Two Wheels To There

Two Wheels To There

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Pherther-Grams

twowheelstothere

The mid-May weekend was looking decent, so Surtch Pherther, jonesing for a desert rip, would hit dirt again. He’d aimed to dark-wander with good tunes and smoke, but ride-tired and for the week’s work and a nightfall chill, was fine turning in early to breeze on the fly and nothin’ otherwise. The next morn, he tracked dawn up a near, near-familiar ridge for fossil-hunting and a sudden snake-watch after a biggun rattled itself know, and then throttled off for fuel, food, and a Bud at a state-line oasis, where he met two dudes who’d cycle-slogged two-hundred-fifty-ish miles through downpours and desert heat just to carve a glacier.

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The mid-May weekend was looking decent, so Surtch Pherther, jonesing for a desert rip, would hit dirt again.  He’d aimed to dark-wander with good tunes and smoke, but ride-tired and for the week’s work and a nightfall chill, was fine turning in early to breeze on the fly and nothin’ otherwise.  The next morn, he tracked dawn up a near, near-familiar ridge for fossil-hunting and a sudden snake-watch after a biggun rattled itself know, and then throttled off for fuel, food, and a Bud at a state-line oasis, where he met two dudes who’d cycle-slogged two-hundred-fifty-ish miles through downpours and desert heat just to carve a glacier.

A Mire, a Maunder, and Musings – 2011.10.09

Published on January 29, 2017 by Ry Austin 13 Comments

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

Escape Artist lay kill-switched in the sludge of Lambstone Valley Road while dumbfounded Surtch Pherther wondered how it had simply slipped away.

At a sudden hum down draw, he swiftly stooped to right the ride, and a small rattletrap pickup on accidental slicks squirmed around the bend. It was the balding, ragged dude that had lazy-waved from a slouch in his collapsed driver’s seat on the remoteness side of Threshold Pass.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

“Hey, bud, need a hand?”

“Nawww,” Surtch’s voice strained at his bike’s heft, “but thanks, really.”

“So, d’ya know where it goes, if the slop gets worse?”

“I swapped here, went wide, the shoulder sucked my rear, and I fought the shit sideways… Or so it seemed.” He was glad for the full-face obscurity. “Yeah, up through the junipers to a saddle and then down steep ’n’ tight to Kinscore Pass—it’s bound to worsen before it gets any better.”

“Hmmm… Well,” smiling wryly, “I gotta give it a shot. Good luck, bud.”

“Hey, you too, man—you too.”

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

Fake-adjusting his gear, Surtch discreetly watched Escape Artist’s right mirror for ragged dude’s disappearance, unsteady and sluggish, before quickly remounting to slow-flee that scene of his latest embarrassment.

Aiming left from the right shoulder’s slant to drag him down, over-gassing ’til his ass wagged like a tease or a taunt, and with his feet as outriggers, he muck-touched off ’n’ on the miry mile back to Lambstone’s Y-junction with the gravelly Mochila Trail.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

It had been a week of autumn everywhere—cold and damp in the City of Contradictions, snow atop the Westwitness Peaks, and in the remoteness, rain galore and a dusting on its heights—a carpe diem season in a life that Surtch Pherther had lately been striving to live so.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

From a Lost Springs pit stop, south he shot on terra seemingly firming up, through a riverbed anciently dammed by lava and recently “haunted by desert fairies”, and then swayed a way into the Wapiti Hills on the floor from a prehistoric lake that happened thirty times in a million years and left soil so wistful for wetness that Surtch thought, I can go on slow and nowhere fast, or stick it swift in a soggy patch and get handlebar-hung or somersault-flung to a fate face-first into scrub and stone…

So, at the broad valley’s head, he pulled aside and shut off his ride, dropped the stand on some tuff and dismounted, grabbed water and snacks and a cheap cheroot, and struck off for some outcrops ’cause, when all else failed, there was always lone wandering, the best companion he’d ever had.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

Many say such spaces house spirits of those gone before, and though these places had always enchanted Surtch, he felt he had no right to such thoughts. Not only was he naturally skeptical of claims of singular connection and exclusive communion, for they smacked of charlatanism and of power-lust by the cunning and of those in the know versus the damned if they never get it, but he believed that his legacy precluded his access.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin
“Hellooo down there, Escape Artist…”

He’d always been uneasy about it, that his race flooded the New World and expanded west and drove tribes from their ancestral domains—tribes that then were seen as savages but since as resourceful dwellers amid severe ‘scapes that offered little for bodies but maybe much for the famished soul.

And though he could only guess why his ancestors had crossed oceans, he knew why they’d trekked west: to flee persecution by their countrymen in this land of religious freedom, persecution for a belief that Surtch had twice or thrice tried—with a sincere heart, with real intent—but failed to embrace, a belief that failed to embrace him.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

Many would allege that he hadn’t prayed hard enough or that his character was flawed, but after spending over half his life fitfully trying to cram in that puzzling piece of a confounding creed and racking his brain and wrenching his soul and lacking proof that he was being heard, whispering alone in the dark had become absurd to Surtch, and waiting for something transcendent to reach back, vain.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

“My ancestors,” he said at the void, “devout great-granddad whose name I bear, what would you think of me, this non-kindred kin? Would you embrace me, or shun me? Would you be proud, or ashamed?” He ground out the spent cheroot. “No, none of us have to look very hard to feel we don’t belong where we are.”

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

When he came down from the mount, though the daily ground beneath his feet would remain as fluid as always and as everyone’s, that ancient lake-bed terra had meanwhile firmed up enough for a carefree, late-afternoon ride out of the remoteness—and… And the skin of his face shown.

Surtch couldn’t wear his ancestors’ beliefs—they wouldn’t have been fooled by the poor fit anyway. And he couldn’t bear burdens for his race—no one could for any. Sure, Manifest Destiny might have been rationalization for bad behavior, but in many ways the won West was a good thing.

Besides, from his experience, in his life, it boiled down to the only scripture that had ever made sense to Surtch—to love thy neighbor as thyself. After all: Go back a ways and we’re all from elsewhere. Go back all the way and we’re all from the same place.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

Filed Under: Escape Artist, the remoteness Tagged With: kinscore pass, lambstone valley road, lost springs, mochila trail, motorcycling spills, real characters, religion, solitude, the remoteness, threshold pass, wandering, wapiti hills

The Real Stuff – 2011.10.01(a)

Published on December 28, 2015 by Ry Austin 10 Comments

In the dawn-cast shadows of the Westwitness Peaks, the short-o’-forty miles of interstate through south City of Contradictions, around Transit Point, and into north Shamton were as dull to Surtch Pherther as any ever. Though he loathed slab by bike, avoiding it when possible whatever the weather or time of day or quality of light, he took it that early morn to get there quick, to the real stuff–to sooner hit the dirt of Smuggler Road.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

Just in from the teeth of Shamton Canyon, he caught it sneaking off the highway and into the brush. From there, Smuggler’s first few miles were a gravel-strewn, worn blacktop up-snake with curve-pit erosions plenty hollow to wholly swallow the wheel of a jacked pickup and thus gaping enough to single-gulp a reckless rider too. With some road-know, Surtch might have slain the steep serpentine, but as he hadn’t before been there, he carved the curves with care.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

At its first fork the pavement veered right into a dead end lovers’ lot overlook while the left turned to a poof-dust and loose rock meander up a broad bench past gulch-heads and valley views along the face of the south Westwitness in the chill morn that still pledged a mild day among thickets and dry glades and hardwood groves with papery leaves all shades of flame wherein the blue and white were clouds and sky and all that was left after autumn’s slow burn.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

From a high point turnout where Surtch lingered over granola bars and thermos brew and views of south Shamton and Friar Canyon’s mouth, Smuggler Road, now prickly with stones and gouged from four wheel wallowing when wet, swung around a nameless peak to tease the lips of little gullies on its wander down a thirsty dell to a T-junction with the left fork of Fetter Draw–asphalt again already after a mere sixteen miles.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

Within a few sweeps at street speed, Surtch shook off the dirt-feel of peg readiness and hands happily clutch- and brake- and throttle-tired from the rough stuff and re-embraced the full body bike-hug that winding pavement promotes.

At the draw’s fork he put a foot down for a gang of wild turkeys on the trot for a hidey-spot ahead of Thanksgiving dinner and then hung a left up Fetter’s right, where–after nine-ish miles, and to his delight–the blacktop vanished before another poof-dust meander over the head of the draw and beyond, into open range and a tangle of dirt roads.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

For his area-ignorance and the vagueness of his map, Surtch lost nearly an hour to probing dead ends and other wrong ways, even toppling once from a frustrated quick-stop at a bad lean in a turnout’s deep gravel. He managed to right Escape Artist just as two dudes in a beat-up pickup with windows down to let the smoke out clattered over a rise and skid-stopped nearby in the shoulder’s soft dirt.

“Hey, man. We heard that somewhere around here is a way through the hills to San Cosme Reservoir. Do ya know where it is?”

“Shit. I can tell you where it ain’t–been lookin’ for it myself. I’ve a sneaking suspicion it’s back the way you came, near that last stream crossing.”

The dudes exchanged glances, said, “Thanks. Good luck,” and resumed their shake, rattle, and roll down the road.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

Morning had blossomed by the time Surtch found the way in question–a weathered two-track atop a spur a throttle-twist past a wrecked gate-for-no-good. Shortly thereafter he gained the main ridge above the water.

From there his route leapt side to side deer-like for six or so miles up through nakey quakies and past hunters here and there–more here, after Fetter Draw and in the warming day, than there, in those chill, dawn-cast shadows on Smuggler Road.

07.2_Escape Artist on Ourantah Ridge

Then, at its highest point on San Cosme Ridge, it as good as took flight. Here the vague map indicated a split: a fine right leg hugging the pine-covered mound ahead to a soon union with a gravel road out of sight, and a rough left leg plunging down a zigzag ravine. Yet scan the scene as Surtch did, the right leg didn’t exist, likely never had.

Well, he thought, I could return to the overlook to hit that other road to the reservoir and lose even more time, or…

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

Applying theory anxiously–on pegs, ass back–and the front brakes gingerly to load the fork, Surtch engaged the ravine’s drop-in. A third of the way down, though, for its steepness or looseness or his inexperience or all, he had to lean heavy on the back brake too. Escape Artist’s rear chattered, locked, and then skidded the rest of the way, swinging out to the right all the while.

Damn, thought Surtch in a lull at the base, if I wasn’t committed before, I sure as hell am now. I couldn’t buck and chuck back up that thing if I wanted to.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

From the ravine’s sheer walls, thick-trunked pines stretched out and up with their limbs entwined and their prickly needles meshed, straining sunlight. Though morning was well-on, this place was dim and cool, and pungent from moss and constant damp, from soil–a place to keep all that throughout the summer, though the sun would peak and the surrounding ‘scape go dry.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

Among random boulders, through patches of shifty, streambed stones, and over terra-folds and surfaced roots all greasy, Surtch worried and weaved Escape Artist, a capable machine somehow tackling an earthbound pitch and roll with an inept captain at the controls. Though a mere fragment of a mile long, the ravine was as good as endless to new-to-dirt Surtch, who was surprised to finally return–he and Escape Artist, unscathed–to the candor of the mid-morning sunlight, a gravel road in sight.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

After a short stretch off the saddle to calm his jello-jiggly limbs and to consult that map of lies once more, Surtch was back astride his ride and hard-throttling steep, washboard curves toward the next fork and fairly familiar roads–those he’d fooled ‘n’ tooled around on a month and a half back over a family weekend at San Cosme Reservoir, back when the aspens still held all their li’l, green tremblers and lush was the undergrowth of tender grasses and wildflowers and small ferns.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

Indeed, at higher altitudes, season shift is swift. Surtch had seen it when a younger self and his brother and his sister and their dad once backpacked their typical twenty-odd miles deep into the Cairn Mountains Wilderness and camped there eight days straight.

At the usual eleven, twelve, thirteen thousand feet and then some, they’d climbed rock pile passes and peaks, tromped through marshes and meadows and woods, weathered downpours and dodged hailstones and lightning bolts, fire-gazed after nightfall, and they’d witnessed the wildscape’s dash from summer to fall’s foreboding doorstep. It barely was late July.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

As for this small fall adventure, Surtch had embarked for reasons typical and not: to catch and snap some autumn leaves before they all took the short flight to that long decay on the forest floor; to reduce pavement to mere stepping stones between the real stuff; to nudge the dirt closer to home, and his riding horizons farther out; to forge links from the sensational to the divine; and to further explore and finally begin to embrace dual-sporting.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

Sadly, the seed planted by that once-upon-a-time, Vespa trip to Lake Mackenzie and the next year’s rerun with his brother at his side, to merge into a master passion his lifelong love for camping and his fresh obsession for riding, had been neglected–nay, ignored–for too long: For two years he’d had Escape Artist, and he had yet to put it through its paces. Though Surtch certainly had been put through his.

15.2_Surtch Pherther with Escape Artist

Sure, there’d been challenges inherent in lover-swapping a short, smooth Italian for a seriously tall German–he had expected a learning curve. But what a blind corner that shred of time had been, and oh, the motley hazards that had lurked around the bend: a swift smackdown by an early misadventure in the remoteness; continued abuse by folks he’d generously served for too damn long; loved ones’ deaths and, ugh, the closeted skeletons that started a-clackin’; plunging and twisting of countless other knives; and a seemingly calculated strike by a mindquake out of the blue–and all at once. None could have foreseen that.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin
One Ba-a-ad Traffic Jam

Of course, there’s always “pick yourself up, and dust yourself off” and “every cloud has a silver lining” and “it’s always darkest before the dawn”, but cliches and simulated sympathy never aid when one’s been broadsided by circumstance and the absurd.

Surtch had instead seized upon “this too shall pass”, a balanced mantra that can humble the haughty and render hope to the hopeless.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

But enough! Enough of that–that way-back-when. Now?… Now his sights were set on spring and his family’s yearly, first of the season retreat to a remote spot amid sand and rocks–a new chance to put Escape Artist through its paces after all, to shoot for a sense of accomplishment, and to stalk that master passion.

19.2_Escape Artist on Ourantah Ridge

Yeah, on this small, fall adventure, Surtch had embarked for a reason and with a plan: to know, before burdening his bike and perchance encumbering others, if his new-to-dirt skills could deliver; and for some peace of mind in the face of the tough terrain he required, to ride light. Well, save for petrol aplenty.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

Sure, he could have run the numbers from charts and specs, but Surtch was all thumbs with math like that. Besides, he’d always reckoned that fuel off road was like water in the desert: have for every day and then some–in case of a breakdown, in case of a delay, in case of a fellow traveler in need.

The lashed-on cans were a mere security blanket–because Surtch was still learning the ropes and shaking down his bike; because the road ahead might be more than he could chew, and he didn’t wanna bite; because he was riding by a proven map of lies; and then…

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

After sixty miles since the last asphalt in Fetter Draw–sixty miles of that hour lost to seeking the way and then toppling in a turnout’s deep gravel, leaping side to side deer-like up San Cosme Ridge and then plunging down that zigzag ravine, re-riding roads he’d fooled ‘n’ tooled around on a month and a half back, and being astride Escape Artist for seven-ish hours already–Surtch arrived for the second time that year at the T-junction of Ourantah Ridge Road and the rural highway between Trapper and Portcullis.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

Ahead?… Well, south by ninety-odd miles of blacktop through small towns and a tiresome shot across a clayscape waste flanked by the Bucksaw Cliffs lay Blakesville, where Surtch would overnight in a cheap motel. Doubtless countless dirt roads also lay between, but they’d have to wait, to remain hearsay for now, rumor roads–routes of rides to come.

And behind?… Well, behind was a good day of nudging the dirt closer to home and reducing pavement to mere stepping stones, of catching and snapping autumn leaves and further exploring dual-sporting, of forging links from the sensational to the divine.

Indeed, behind?… Behind was a great day of the real stuff.

23.2_Escape Artist on San Cosme Ridge

A few miles out from little Amalgam town, where he would stop for fuel and–in lieu of a late lunch–trail mix and a cold Coke, Surtch was approaching the junction at Portcullis when he spotted a cemetery just off the highway.

Though he’d driven this stretch once before, it was an after dark detour for a wreck in Friar Canyon. Nevertheless, he knew what this place was about.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

At the turn of the century, in the town of Snowbound, near Friar Canyon’s summit, a coal mine exploded. Over 200 men were killed.

At the time, Surtch’s great grandfather and great, great grandfather were living in Portcullis and working its mine. They left shortly thereafter for somewhat safer lives as farmers, shepherds, lumberers, teamsters, you name it.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

A few years later, in the Portcullis Mine, three explosions in quick succession destroyed the surface operations, hurled utility poles and a coal car almost a mile across the canyon, embedding that wreckage in the talus, and killed nearly 200 men between the ages of 15 and 73. All were immigrants from Greece, Italy, England, Scotland, Wales, Japan, and Slovenia.

Between the explosion at Snowbound and those at Portcullis, several hundred wives were widowed and many hundreds of children were left fatherless.

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin

Now, except for a low hum from the coal-fired power plant at the nearby junction, and highway noise from occasional, passing vehicles, the Portcullis town site was quiet.

No structures were left: Such company towns had commonly moved those from boom to boom. Scattered masonry walls, well-built by proud, Italian immigrants, and weathered headstones bearing exotic names and cryptic characters were all that remained.

27.2_Reservation Ridge

Through his mother and her father and his father and his father, Surtch was linked to those laid to rest in this melting pot cemetery, the men and boys put here by the great equalizer. With them, his ancestors had toiled and rested and sipped coffee and eaten and smoked. Perhaps they’d rejoiced and lamented together, maybe even worshiped.

To them, through them, with them, Surtch was connected, as through humanity’s beautiful, dreadful, and fascinating past we all are connected.

Oh, the mutual respect that such a fathomless, shared history should afford…

Surtch Pherther at Two Wheels To There: A motorcycle blog by Ry Austin


poof-dust (poof dust) n.
1 especially fine and light, dirt road or gravel road dust that becomes airborne easily and settles onto and into anything and everything

Thank you, Bill Bass, for introducing “poof-dust” to my vocabulary. Bill is a fellow dual-sporter I met in the middle of nowhere in September 2015 and with whom I lunched and shared great conversation for over an hour at an equally middle of nowhere truck stop. Though it’s been said a thousand times, it bears repeating: You meet the nicest people on motorcycles.

Filed Under: Escape Artist, Ourantah Ridge Tagged With: autumn leaves, fetter draw, flow, motorcycling spills, ourantah ridge road, portcullis, recollections, san cosme, smuggler road, solitude, the mindquake, westwitness peaks

From Ruins to Ruined – 2009.10.31

Published on February 13, 2015 by Ry Austin 2 Comments

There was a smother of dust–Surtch Pherther could taste it. There was a low idle and a rhythmic click… click… click… And there was intense, sharp, dull, sharp, dull throbbing in his right leg. Yet somehow he managed to stand, weighting left, favoring right. Through hazes of mind and dust, he gazed back along the dirt road. At about three yards lay the right pannier, its immobilizer hyperextended. At his feet lay Escape Artist, just weeks old.

Gingerly, he began trying to “walk off” the severe pain that was centered in his knee and was surging up and down from there. Luckily, no bones were broken. What remained concerning was a coinciding quivering weakness–his knee threatened to give at any moment. And, of course, that annoying click… click… click…

“Shit!” Suddenly realizing that Escape Artist was still running, its rear wheel off the ground and turning, he hobbled over and hit the kill switch.

1.2009.10.31

Surtch began inventorying the physical pieces and trying to collect the mental ones, to assemble the puzzle of the incident: There was his downed bike and its dumped pannier, the desolate road in the remoteness, the throbbing in his leg… And scattered in the pale dust around him was what looked like a small fortune of brown coins; against Escape Artist’s bright yellow, what appeared to be drops of crimson paint; and dripping from his face, what certainly was blood.

He knelt with difficulty, removed his thin leather gloves and crooked half shell (his full face helmet was back ordered), and inspected himself in the mirror. Blood was smeared across his mouth, chin, and right cheek and was trickling from his nose. With a left hand pinch, he stanched the flow, and with his right hand, fumbled through the attached pannier’s tossed contents for tissue to wad. He then limped out to the dumped pannier and, with his free hand, carry-dragged it back to the scene. He cleaned his face with dabs from his canteen.

5.2009.10.31

Surtch had rounded the south end of Lost Springs Peaks en route to Kinscore Pass and had become lulled by the gentle bounding and dodging of the road–of course, the throttle might have creeped a bit too. Cresting a rise, he’d seen a sharp turn ahead and a small washout between. The next thing he’d known was the dust, the clicks, and throbbing pain. He must have panicked and grabbed the front brake. As for the bloody nose, he could only guess that he’d punched himself when his elbow hit the ground upon his going down.

He righted Escape Artist–tweaked handlebars, cracked fender, scraped side, and all–and rehung the pannier, securing the mangled immobilizer with “just in case” toeclip straps he’d packed with him.

Surtch’s motorcycling maiden voyage into the remoteness had begun well: He’d roller-coasted the Wapiti Hills of golden bunch grasses, late-blooming sagebrush, and humble junipers, and had continued around to the west side of Barrel Mountain toward a spring of the same name. He’d found the map-marked ruins he’d gone seeking, and though merely concrete foundations and slabs, they were mysterious installations in the middle of nowhere, without clues to indicate their purpose. He had wandered around, kicked through settlement debris typical of such sites, and eaten some snacks before mounting up and returning via the same Wapiti Hills roller coaster.

8.2009.10.31

Sure, his leg was throbbing something fierce, but it would heal; Escape Artist was tweaked and cracked and scraped, but it could be repaired; and his pride was injured, but he was old enough to know that pride is just vanity, skin deep. It was his wounded confidence that worried Surtch. For that can act like a repressed memory, can embed, can become hard like a stone, can surface later, and can reopen and get infected. Surtch knew all too well that wounded confidence can corrupt.

Yeah, the day had begun well.

Filed Under: Escape Artist, the remoteness Tagged With: barrel mountain, flow, kinscore pass, lost springs peaks, motorcycling spills, ruins, wapiti hills