HIGHWAY 61 REVISITED

Unfortunately the rain limited my opportunity to do much sightseeing in Duluth. I was restricted mainly to housekeeping duties. But a weird thing happened anyway. The previously mentioned restaurant offering coronary occlusions on the dessert menu had a young Aussie guy working there as a waiter. He was an extroverted fellow with a loud voice, who clearly enjoyed his work. At the first available opportunity I buttonholed the guy and had a chat. It just struck me as an odd place to find an Aussie, its kind of an off the beaten track place. Anyway, I asked him how come people could understand him, when I had to say everything three times before anyone could understand me. He did say he has a lot of trouble when he uses the words "water" and "butter", but he looked like he was managing ok to me. More on that later.

So I left Duluth and headed north on my journey up around the top half - no, make that two thirds - of Lake Superior. The Minnesota and Ontario coastlines. On the US side, the Lake is bordered by Wisconsin and Michigan as well, that's how big it is. On the way out, I followed Minnesota Route 61 which runs right on the edge of the lake all the way up to the Canadian border. It soon became apparent that the hoi polloi of Duluth reside on the edge of the lake. The gated waterfront mansions with huge blocks and huge but perfectly manicured gardens were something pretty spectacular. So too was the fact that out on the lake, I could see full size ships. The lakes are simply freshwater oceans, such is their size.

Then I began to think. "Highway 61 Revisited" is the title of an album by one Robert Allen Zimmerman, better known to the world as Bob Dylan. In fact the album opens with the classic "Like a Rolling Stone", which was yours truly's first encounter with the great man. All six minutes of it, and voted greatest song of all time by Rolling Stone magazine in 2004. Cool. Even though I didn't think it was that good. The album cover features a very young Bob wearing a white t-shirt with the Triumph logo on it. Doubly cool! Then I remembered, he was born in Minnesota. Not only that, but in Duluth! I wondered whether Bob had ever ridden his Trumpy along the same lakeshore, along the very same Highway 61? Undoubtedly, was my conclusion. I can't prove it, but just the thought of it gave me a huge buzz which kept me going for the rest of the day. If he did, he would surely have enjoyed it, just as I was doing. I believe he had a Tiger 100, which  he stacked up badly while paying his motorcycling dues. He's no orphan there.

Two full days of riding to cover about 66% of the shoreline of just one of the five Great Lakes. The scenery was quite spectacular and one never knows when to stop and grab a picture, but the vistas just kept on coming, and photos don't really do it justice. So I didn't take many photos. What did surprise me was that as soon as I crossed back into Canada, the speed limit dropped to 90kph. I could see no reason for this as the road itself was good for 120 if not more in most places. However, there is a lot of truck traffic on it, and in fact its one of only two routes the trucks can take in these parts if they are driving across country. However, I did see one accident where a car ran off the road and was "saved" by the cheese cutters, those tensioned steel cables that form a guardrail. Made a big mess of the side of the car too. It happened about a minute in front of me. Sometime before that incident, I had seen the police heading in the opposite direction, followed by an ambulance and a lunchtime chat with some fellow bikers revealed that a pickup truck had rolled, in fact the same pickup that I had spent the morning alternately passing and then being repassed by. One of those guys that just can't make up his mind. And it particularly annoyed me because I had cruise control set most of the day. Hard to imagine either accident happening if the drivers had their mind on the job. That doesn't mean it should have been a 90kph limit though, but that's the way lawmakers think, sadly.

An overnight stop in Sault Saint Marie, which looked a bit of a dump to me, had me heading further east on Canada 17 towards Sudbury and North Bay. The traffic volume increased considerably, but still only one lane in either direction, although there were a lot of passing lanes included in the mix, and that frustrating 90 kph limit.  However, the inescapable conclusion is that Canada needs to invest in better roads, at least in this part of the country. On the way into Ottawa, finally, some decent roads. A freeway with dual carriageway and a 100 kph speed limit. I'll take it!

Along one stretch of Canada 17, something really weirded me out. On the shoulder of the road, I noticed thin parallel lines in the gravel surface. Further along, I noticed three horse drawn carriages in single file, again without paying it much attention. Then I copped a look into the rear carriage. There was a lady in a black dress, wearing an old fashioned black bonnet on her head, a guy with a broad brimmed hat, and lots of kids. Sure enough, it was a bunch of Amish people, probably on their way to or from church I figured, seeing it was a Sunday. I say Amish in the generic sense, because I think there are a few such sects. It just looked so very strange, especially with all the traffic on the road, that here are some very different people. That really got me thinking.

I have often thought that life used to be simpler, even in my own lifetime, and pined for it to some extent occasionally. Usually when I am bamboozled with technology, which is to say, almost all the time. But to pretend its still 1860 takes real commitment! And where do you draw the line? Do you use electricity? Do you use a telephone? Do you do every single thing the hard way? What do you do when you are sick? What do you teach your kids? And how do you stop kids from wanting all the stuff everybody else has? Beats me! But then I thought, if you live in a first world country, you are in fact free to choose whatever you want. Even if it is weird in my view. Or in anybody else's. To paraphrase Voltaire, "I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it". That's what freedom is all about, isn't it? Tell that to ISIS. I still think they're a bunch of whackos though. The Amish I mean. No, make that both. But at least the Amish mind their own business. However, the same moral principle should also apply to ISIS, I guess. Hmmm. I seem to have painted myself into a bit of a corner, philosophically speaking. Looks like there is still a place for bigotry after all. That is a relief.

 So Highway 61 revisited, and 1861 revisited. All in the space of a day or two. Weird or what??

MINNESOTA

This is a first. I've never been to Minnesota before. The land of ten thousand lakes is what it says on the numberplates. I have heard this descriptor before though. I recalled that up in Alaska, they dismiss the whole notion as fanciful. You see, up there they reckon you'd see 10,000 lakes in the first couple of hours after crossing the border. And they may be right. I'd certainly hate to count them all. Meanwhile, the countryside changed from rolling hills and grasssland about halfway across South Dakota. Gradually I noticed much more cultivation, and by the time I got to Watertown near the eastern border, it was all highly productive wheatfields and cornfields and other crops. Certainly not much space goes to waste around these parts. So onwards into Minnesota.

I decided to take roads less travelled, as is my inclination, as there was really no direct route to Duluth, where I was headed, on the western tip of Lake Superior, making it the westernmost point of all the Great Lakes. There are roads going in all directions around here to provide farm access and connect numerous small towns, but it was very blustery, and having to stop and unfold the map every 15-20 minutes was becoming a pain. So I just punched Duluth into the GPS from a long way out and let it do the work. Of course, it wanted to go on the Interstates, which I noticed were becoming increasingly heavily trafficked compared to those out on the the Plains. Then I remembered why I don't like riding on them, as I was constantly beaten up by the trucks. Its also fairly easy to pick up on the fact that the State is heavily populated by people with Scandinavian links. And their pro Football team is not called the Minnesota Vikings for nothing.

When I stopped at St Cloud for a bite to eat, something occurred to me. At the servo where I stopped, I noticed a person of African-American heritage, and shorty afterwards, a whole lot more. The last time I had seen a similar hued person was in Seattle. Two weeks ago and half the country away! This is purely an observation, but I would like to know if that's just a coincidence? Anyway, about an hour from Duluth the skies really darkened ominously, so I stopped and put the wet weather gear on. Not a moment too soon either. The heavens opened and bombarded me all the way into Duluth. Did that slow any of the traffic down? Not on your life. Another good reason to stay off the Interstates. A lot of this State seemed pretty flat to me, and the thought occurred that if this keeps up, those ten thousand lakes will all just merge into one great big lake and make Lake Superior a bit bigger. I found out later that parts of the State had been hit severely over the last 24 hours, to the point where the Interstates were flooded in at least two places. A look at the Weather Channel in the motel really freaked me out. All kinds of meteorological mayhem had been wrought on various parts of the country and it wasn't over yet. Parts where I intended to go, and in some cases, very soon. Like tomorrow. Out came the maps again, and I began putting together a Plan B, and resigning myself to my fate.

Ok, I cannot let this go unrecorded! I just had tea in an establishment right next to my motel. On the dessert menu was- wait for it--Bacon Sundae!! Three strips of cherrywood smoked bacon on top of two scoops of ice cream, according to the description. I didn't order it. I couldn't bring myself up to the required level  of desperation, but when I polish off my remaining Jack Daniels, I might just go back there. This is of course no more than I have come to expect over here. All kinds of weird and wonderful combinations of stuff concocted in the never ending search for the next taste sensation, that elusive, world beating flavour. The side effect being to pack the absolute maximum amount of saturated fat, salt and sugar and of course, calories, into every mouthful. Like a burger made with a croissant instead of a bun, which Burger King make. Like bacon and cheese stuffed pizza crust. Like crushed Oreo cookies turning up in fudge and ice cream and maybe even beer, for all I know. Even at Subway you can supersize your choice by doubling up on the meat component for a small premium. Even for a regular sandwich they can pack twice as much stuff into a bread roll than is usual in Australia without having to resort to using a hydraulic press to close it and wrap it. Are we being ripped off at home? The smallest drink container available anywhere is about the size of a 44 gallon drum and if you like popcorn, be prepared to deal with an industrial skip full of the stuff. Then, if you are really hungry.........this is the place for you. If they ever introduce eating as an Olympic sport, nobody else would stand a chance. But the Turkey Jerky isn't bad though. While I'm on the subject, in Spearfish I introduced my hosts Brad & Lynn to Australia's black gold, you know, Vegemite. Brad didn't think it was too bad, kind of meaty he said. Lynn couldn't handle it at all, and the look on her face was priceless! In retaliation, she made me some grits. Of course I'd heard of this southern staple, but never had the opportunity to try it. Its grey and has a texture like lumpy glue, I thought, and actually pretty bland. Just the kind of thing you'd go for if half your teeth were missing. It was not unlike polenta, but the flavour comes from all the stuff you stir in, like salt, cheese, pepper and whatever else. I mean it might actually be healthy before it's doctored to make it palatable. Personally, I though it could have done with some Vegemite in it. And as for polenta, I used to use the stuff to make burley. Dampen it then add a dash of curry powder to it, squeeze a handful of it onto a spring sinker and the Easter mullet at Brown's Beach would commit mass suicide on your hooks. True story.

THE BLACK HILLS OF SOUTH DAKOTA

On my previous visit to this part of the country, I checked out Custer State Park and had my first encounter with the very large and cantankerous bison, aka buffalo. These animals look twice as big when one is sitting on a motorcycle as opposed to sitting in a car. So I felt no need to risk a second visit. Instead I decided to stay in Spearfish, a small town 17 miles west of Sturgis. The latter needs no introduction to most motorcyclists. The annual Black Hills Rally has been happening here in August for 75 years and they normally get an attendance of about 4-500,000 people. I imagine the place is a zoo, so I had planned to avoid it. However, preparations are gearing up, and people are starting to trickle in. I took the bike into Sturgis this am for a service, basically a $200 oil change, at the BMW dealership. Yes, there is a BM dealer in Harley Town! Already there are humungous tents going up, like the one at the Ulysses AGM, but a lot more of them, and I even saw a replica wild west town under construction. The Sheriff is going to have his work cut out in this town.

There are numerous destinations convenient to Spearfish, such as Spearfish Canyon, the towns of Deadwood and Lead, Mt Rushmore, and the so called Badlands a little further east. All with pretty good bike roads connecting them, so a good base for a few interesting days.

                               Two shots taken in Spearfish Canyon.

I also made a day trip to the Badlands. I understand the area got its name not from being the hideout of outlaws and bandits, but because of its unsuitability for farming and /or traversing by wagon trains. The kind of geological formation throughout this very large region looks to me like eroded soft sedimentary rock such as mudstone or sandstone. It reminded me very much of the formations visible right on the coast of Adelaide, specifically at Hallett Cove Conservation Park and from Moana through to Maslin Beach. These would be familiar to any student who ever took Geology at the University of Adelaide. Old Dr. Alf. Kleeman has been taking students on field trips to these sites ever since the Mesozoic Era. Old Alf must be getting on a bit these days.

Quite a remarkable place. Another remarkable place very near here is the National Historic Site housing a display relating to the Cold War. How so? This region of the US was dotted with underground Minuteman missile silos, all aimed at the Soviet Union, and one silo and its control room has been preserved, (minus the nuclear warhead). A chilling prospect to contemplate really. Don't worry, they still have quite a few left. Just in case. I did mention to some people that this potential nuclear armageddon and the ruination of planet Earth was in some small way facilitated by a kow-towing Australian Government, (and I think in this case, a little kow -towing is probably a good idea) courtesy of several US bases on Australian soil, such as Pine Gap, Narrungar and North West Cape. They looked at me as if I was bonkers, and parents started gathering up their children. There's no telling some people, especially if all they want are hats, t-shirts and coffee mugs emblazoned with slogans like "making the world safe" or "preserving peace", and to know where the nearest ice cream shop is.

While in Spearfish I visited a most interesting gallery, operated by Dick Termes. This guy is a freaking genius, and I don't use the term lightly. His speciality is perspective. Remember those brain twisters by M.C.Escher, with staircases going up and down at the same time, and all that stuff?  Well, this guy does similar stuff, but on the surface of spheres. They are called Termespheres and they are mind blowing, both in terms of the concept itself, and in its execution. The complexity of some pieces only becomes apparent when the spheres rotate. He has been doing it since the sixties, and while its tempting to say you could do it on a computer (a 4 year old could probably do it on his mobile phone), his work is all done the hard way. Using psychotropic drugs (no, I'm joking). His gallery is awesome. I actually purchased a piece, and will have it mailed home before I leave. The guy could probably understand the Theory of Relativity. Really.

And to wrap up, on my way out of the Black Hills, heading across South Dakota towards Minnesota, I went through a fly speck on the map called Faith. So what? Well check this out.

You would not have wanted to be around this place 65 million years ago. The most complete skeleton of T-Rex ever found, in fact all of it, was unearthed right here. It's now on display in Chicago. All poor old Faith got out of it was this lame sign. Oh well, them's the breaks. Dr Kleeman could probably tell you first hand what T-Rex smelled like.

On my way across the vast rolling prairies of The Great Plains, probably the heart and soul of America, I observed some of the extremes that nature can dish out. I nearly got blown off the road by vicious side winds, I saw endless grassy plains and tried to imagine immense herds of buffalo grazing on them, prosperous looking farms, large lakes, hunting lodges, grotty looking Indian Reservations and habitats, small towns like Faith where I stopped for coffee and a chat with friendly people, and vacant property such as the farmhouse below where it had all gone wrong.

Oh, and I crossed the Missouri River, and bloody nearly got blown right into it.

An interesting week all round sofar. Shortly I head into Minnesota, then back into Canada for a look at the northern shore of Lake Superior in Ontario. Catch you then.

BEING DISGRACEFUL

Pretty soon I was in Wyoming. There is an awesome bike road which runs between Dayton and Greybull, which I stumbled onto by accident on my last visit. It runs up through Granite Pass. That time, it was cold, there was a bit of snow around, it was early evening and I had the entire road to myself. So naturally, I let rip. One of the most memorable moments of the whole trip. This time round,  I had a bit of time to kill, so I actually backtracked from Sheridan just to ride this stretch again. Unfortunately there was a fair bit of traffic around, so I had to blow a few people away. This time I noticed a 40 mph speed limit on most of the climb up to the top of the pass, and double lines nearly all the way. Didn't remember that from last time!  Anyway, you only live once, so I went for it again. The mighty Gruntmeister did not disappoint, it was like an attack dog let off its chain. No chicken strips on the tyres now, and are those four pot Brembo brakes any good!

The task ahead -- the climb to the top of Granite Pass, on US14. And down again. Yahoo!

A couple of times I got stuck behind out of staters and other rubberneckers who were on their way to church or to the library. Well I didn't wait four years and spend a pile of hard earned just to get stuck behind some retired law clerk or schoolmaam too scared to step outside the box they've been living in all their miserable, boring lives. I could almost hear the mutterings, "Look at that idiot". I just hope nobody shot any video on their phone, or I will do hard time for sure. I promise I won't do it again. Well, probably not there anyway. But it was a hell of a rush!

On my way to my next lodging in Spearfish, I detoured to have another look at the Devil's Tower, a remarkable volcanic plug (Google it) which is slowly disintegrating. I'm sure it was bigger four years ago.

And on the way, I passed a prarie dog town. These little guys are so tame and used to people within the Park, that they just ignore them. Mostly.

Despite provocation from a budding David Attenborough.

When I stopped for refreshment just outside the Park, I bumped into this fearsome lot of hard core bikers, all from far away Tennessee. Potential Ulysses members for sure.

The guy third from the left was a Vietnam Vet who had R&R in Sydney in 1969. He wanted to know if Whisky Au Go Go was still in business. It is, isn't it, or did it burn down? Funny how you just park your bike and people just start talking to you. I had a great chat with these friendly, affable guys, who wanted to know all kinds of stuff about Australia, and also where I was going and what I was doing. Like if I had ever met "one of them Aborigines". It was a real crack up. And I can tell you for sure, nobody over here has ever heard of Adelaide. But these are the moments I live for. 

And for those of you who may not be familiar with the kinds of RV that populate the roads of America, check this out. Its a house with wheels, literally.

 And they can go at 80mph on the Interstates. I know, one of them passed me!! Disgraceful, but with money.

MORE OF MONTANA

Boy I've been busy. Busy having fun, mostly. Since I got rained on leaving Bigfork, I have put in some miles. In between time I have been visiting phone outlets trying to get my communications sorted. I junked my $100 prepaid non refundable plan with some mob called T-Mobile, because it gave me nothing but grief and never worked from the time I signed up in Seattle. This in turn has restricted my ability to contact my bank at home to sort out a technical issue relating to my continued credit.  DONT EVER EVER HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH T-MOBILE, EVER. THEY ARE HUCKING FOPELESS AND THEY SELL CRAP THAT JUST DOESN'T WORK. Thanks to AT&T, I am now sorted. And thanks to C2.0 calling my local bank branch for me to set up a line of communication, I can rely on my credit cards working. I needed all that like a hole in the head, but its all good from here.

After a day of riding through vast open spaces and rolling hills I spent a night at White Sulphur Springs, Montana, for no particular reason. I needed fuel and had a choice between the shiny new servo or an old beaten up garage with a dilapidated pump out the front. Just for the hell of it, I stopped at the latter. Up until now, to get fuel, I have had to go inside, ask for the pump to be unlocked, leave my credit card as collateral, fill up, then go back and pay. Why? Because I can't pay at the pump with my card because I don't have a zipcode, which is the first step to validate the transaction. Total pain in the butt, but there you are. Same problem as in 2012, and I knew what to expect. Anyway, I walk in, credit card at the ready, and this old guy in denim bib and brace overalls and an oil stained baseball cap, who has been eyeballing the stranger on the weird looking motorcycle through the window, says laconically "Just go put the gas in, son, then come in and pay". Which I did. We then had a chat for about 20 minutes. Inside the building were two old cars, one I recognised as a 1957 Chev, the other an even older Ford. Old but not dilapidated. Turns out the garage used to be a car dealership, and they belonged to the boss, who hadn't actually gotten around to doing anything with them despite promising to back in about 1975. Time stands still in White Sulphur Springs. As in Australia, country folk are different. They are truly the salt of the earth, the foundation upon which the rest of our society is built. They know what they have to do and they know how to do it. I respect that. And I just like talking to them.

Continuing on through the rolling hills, I approached the famous site of the Little Big Horn Battlefield. Where General George Armstrong Custer and the 7th Cavalry faced off with a large band of Indians, led by Chief Sitting Bull and others. The General was intent on teaching the natives a lesson. It didn't end well for George. What did surprise me was the number of headstones, which mark the final resting place of the soldiers. This was a big stoush, and the ebb and flow of the battle is well documented and on display.

Well, the Indians might have won the battle, but you wouldn't like what they've done with the place in the years since. As you approach the site from either direction, you can't help but see the squalor in which Sitting Bull's descendants live. Dilapidated houses, overgrown yards filled with junk, a sorry state.

To the victor go the spoils. Not in this case. Nevertheless, the adjacent trading post seems to be going ok, and Sitting Bull's descendants were helpful and friendly enough. And check out the real teepees.

Couldn't help noticing the sign on the door to the Visitor Centre.

You can't bring guns in here, this is a battlefield. Shades of the immortal Peter Sellers in Dr Strangelove: "Gentlemen, you can't fight in here, this is the War Room!"

LAS MONTANAS Y LOS GLACIARES

As promised its photo time. I should have brought a slave with me. Preferably one with a decent mobile phone and some tech skills. This blog would look a hell of a lot better. However, you get me, so suck it up. This next photo is not in Montana. I took it in the appropriately named town of Concrete, Washington.

 Just makes you wish you were here, doesn't it?

The lady who runs this coffee shop in the servo opposite Concrete's premier tourist attraction was a real hoot. She should be running for President. She had all the answers and really cracked me up. Yes, I had to ask. The town is called Concrete because they used to produce cement here, and store it in the silos. Ho hum, do I really have to explain the difference between cement and concrete? I mean, get it right!!

Fast forward to Montana again. I like Montana. I reckon its fan-bloody-tastic. My lodgings in Libby were pretty good, especially being right on the Kootenay River, but the freight trains did disturb me a bit. I mean, I had earplugs so combined with my rapidly progressing deafness, I didn't hear a whole lot of the noise. But the vibrations were a nuisance, the furniture kept moving. And I had the place to myself. However, I nicked off early next morning and headed for Kalispell. Well, it was too pricey for me there, so I instead scored another Air BnB place at Bigfork. And it was terrific. An orchard right on Flathead Lake run by a very nice couple, and I could not have wished for more hospitable folk. All the cherries you could eat, and I ate a lot. And there were another couple of guests there as well, Bobby and Kim, who had driven up from Georgia, quite a drive. We all got along like a house on fire, and enjoyed a great night watching the Fourth of July fireworks from the shore of the lake. Must confess, I'd never heard of Flathead Lake, but its impressive at 35 miles long. It would give the lower lakes on the Murray a run for their money,size wise, I reckon. But the mountains in the background clinch the deal for me.

This was my first glimpse of it, approaching from due west on Hwy 28. And it got better.

The following day, I had unfinished business namely Glacier National Park. This was snowed in on my 2012 trip, and I was keen to finally ride the famous Going to The Sun Road. As it turned out, it was as spectacular as I had anticipated, but it was pretty busy. The traffic kept moving though, with only a couple of holdups, but it was bloody cold at the top of the pass. As I was wearing summer riding gear, including flow through mesh pants, I didn't hang around. I definitely could have done with a bit of sun. I completed a loop through the park, then around its southern boundary and back to Bigfork, about 350 km. Not bad for a rest day! Fabulous scenery all the way, and lotsa nice twisties. The GS swallowed the lot. Its just a Gruntmeister, and there's not much it can't do. (When it starts).

As glaciers go, these were all very fine and good, but a little underwhelming. You could certainly see where they had been, no doubt about that, but I have to say what I saw here pales in comparison with the mighty Perito Moreno glacier in Patagonia, and a couple of whoppers I saw in Alaska.  (See earlier installments). I was probably a few million years too late. But it is what it is. (Profound or what? Even footballers say that now.) Anyway, its not all about the scenery. This park is also a vast wildlife refuge, and it takes in a sizeable chunk of Alberta, Canada and together they form  Waterton- Glacier Peace Park. I think this makes it very valuable indeed. I'm starting to sound like David Attenborough.

Western Montana seems to be all vast vistas of mountains, lakes and trees. Spectacular doesn't do it justice, the word grandeur comes to mind. Central Montana, where I am right now, seems to be more about rolling hills and grasslands. Less spectacular, but good farming country which reminds me very much of the mid north of SA, say Crystal Brook through to Orroroo. Not that its a contest, but we all like to have some kind of benchmark to make assessment meaningful.

Well it had to happen! When I woke up this morning it was raining. And it showed no sign of letting up. Out came all the wet weather gear. I hate wet starts. The road was a bit slippery, my visor kept fogging up, a couple of deer ran across the road in front of me, scaring the hell out of me, and it was bloody cold, especially round the head. The joys of motorcycling. This is the bit that makes the good bits so much better, right?

ON THE ROAD AGAIN. FINALLY.

And about time. I know, I know. I've been having computer problems. Lack of Internet connectivity, to be specific. My bloody phone connects ok, so why doesn't my laptop?  Who knows?

The story so far. Finally the container full of bikes arrived in the freight depot yard in suburban Seattle, after what seemed like forever. There it sat, waiting patiently for me. My trusty vehicle had not been lost at sea after all. I reconnected the battery, fired it up, and.......cough, splutter, nothing. Well, that was a disappointing anticlimax. Five or six long bursts on the starter, nothing. This failure on the launch pad had not escaped the attention of my fellow travellers, and I could hear muttering and chuckling from all the non Teutonicically inclined owners. All sorts of thoughts from cold logic to blind panic ran through my head. One more try, before I really start to get pissed off, and do a Basil Fawlty with the nearest tree branch. Varoom, and a cloud of black/grey smoke filled the substantial sized shed, to the annoyance of absolutely everybody. Nobody else had the slightest bit of trouble starting their bikes. I'm warning you, BMW, no more crap from you or else I vote with my wallet as soon as I get home.

Pretty soon it was back to the motel. About all of 2km worth of riding on the right hand side and I was a nervous wreck already. Get a grip, Mike. Repacking took a while, then it was away next morning, on last Thursday morning. One of the other guys, Gordon from Sydney on his Triumph Tiger, and I had decided to leave together, and would go our separate ways when we were well north of Seattle on the I-5. From the motel, we had an easy entry to the I-405 N, and had hoped for an easy run after waiting for the worst of the morning rush to die down. Even so, it was actually fairly congested, and took us a long while to get out. Probably a good move to get straight onto the Interstates, at least all the traffic was going in the same direction, but we still had some weaving to do to accommodate all the vehicles entering & exiting the freeway. I turned east a little later, heading for the Cascades National Park, while Gordon headed north on his way to Alaska. OK, I think I've got it now. Whew.

A very pleasant ride followed, through the Park, and then across to Oroville, where I stopped for the night. I had stopped here in 2012, and so I used the same motel I used on my last trip. I even had the exact same room, spooky or what? Next morning I crossed the border into Canada at Osoyoos. After asking me the usual irrelevant questions, the nice lady Border Guard clocked the SA plates and asked how come my bike had South African numberplates? Do I look like a Zulu? Some people should get out more.

Ok, here's where it gets really interesting. I had booked accommodation via Air BNB at a log cabin in the woods near Gray Creek, BC, on a property run by a hippie looking chick. All on the strength of some photos on the net. On the way, I arrived at the outskirts of some tiny hamlet, and all traffic had stopped. It was Canada Day you see, and there was a parade going on in the main street. This is where they drive every vehicle with a flashing light on it down the street all at the same time. Some folks really are starved of entertainment. But the Mounties were there too, looking very dashing in their red tunics and lemon squeezer hats, plus the Sherriff and various others on horseback, all carrying lances with flags on them.This was just finishing as I joined the back of the queue of stopped traffic, so I didn't have to wait long. But guess what? Where there's horses, there's horse shit. Lots of it. And the cars in front of me had just spread the neat piles of it all out across the pavement. It was something to behold as I rode through the lot of it, and slippery. Not to mention the stench. I actually left tyre tread marks in the stuff! I expect it will wash off the bike in the rain sometime before I get back to Seattle.

Shortly thereafter, I stopped for coffee at a very nice looking town called Nelson. Little did I know I had stumbled right into Canada's version of Nimbin. And the first coffee shop I saw was full of freaks. Only I didn't notice that till I was inside, such was my urgent need for a caffeine fix. Everything in the place was organic. Dreadlocks, bare feet, exposed shrapnel, lack of soap, you get the idea. Oh well, live and let live. So I went outside to drink it. Then along comes a group of five tribespeople who sit down at the next table. Right then, one of them goes into a spasm of some kind, arms above her head, eyes closed, chanting some gibberish as if speaking in tongues or possessed by Satan, or whatever. Her eager young disciples transfixed on her every gesture and utterance. Two feet from where I'm trying to enjoy some serenity. I stared at them in some disbelief. A few feet away, on the other side of me, a couple of bikers were getting back on their Harleys. The lady biker and I locked eyes. Her lips flattened slightly into a wry smile, and one of her eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly. No words were spoken. No words were necessary. Now that's what I call communication. As they left, for the next 30 seconds nothing but the earsplitting sound of  four Harley exhausts could be heard, and for once I was glad of it. For once.

Still, we were all young once. I well remember living in a car for two weeks with two other (now reasonably respectable) guys as we went to the Aquarius Arts Festival in Canberra in 1971. I know what it's like to drink beer all day and all night long, to take illicit substances, not to wash, to have long scraggly hair and to live in the same clothes for two weeks. It sucks!! And I am amused by the very notion that after some 3000 years of human progress through evidence based logic, that somehow the mystic healing properties of rocks, for example, have been completely overlooked by mainstream science.

Anyway, I found the hippie ranch, and had a log cabin all to myself. Not bad, but you soon realise the reasons that the table, chair and fridge were all invented. Not to worry, I was here to ride. The track up to the cabin was a fair test for the GS, as it happens, glad it wasn't wet. Yesterday, I headed up to Nakusp, one of the venues for the Canadian Horizons Unlimited rallys. I knew it would be good, and I wasn't disappointed. Between Kaslo and Nakusp lie 100km of truly awesome bike road. I had perfect weather, very little traffic, no cops (that I know of, yet), and tarmac as smooth as a baby's bum, for the most part.  Only a few tight corners, but mainly beautiful, long sweeping curves that really suit big lazy cruiser engines like Harleys etc. And it wasn't too shabby on the GS either. A quick feed at Nakusp, and then I went and did it all over again, in the opposite direction. It was about as good as biking ever gets. And I only just got here. Allright!

Right now I'm in Libby, Montana. I had a short run to the border this morning. Another nice twisty lakeside road, then on to a fairly remote Border Station at Porthill, Idaho. Only one car in front of me, and it seemed to take longer than I expected for a car with Idaho plates to get through. He must be getting a grilling, I thought. I soon found out why. When I pulled up at the window, I was greeted by a square jawed, stony faced prick of a Border Guard. Maybe his cat got run over yesterday, maybe he upset the boss and got sent to Porthill for a year, I don't know, but he wasn't happy to see me. A few terse questions about the bike, like the funny license plates, how much it cost to ship it here, where I landed in the US (ok, that one was fair enough), whether I was carrying alcohol, tobacco or firearms. Hey, there's a whole Federal Agency called the ATF that specialises in all that stuff, why bust my hubs? How much could I fit on a bike anyway? Not like I was driving an eighteen wheel B-double, buddy. No questions about my drivers license, whether I was carrying any insurance, whether I had import clearance, and so on. Not that I'm complaining about it. But I had the full pile of paperwork cued up ready to go, if the subject came up. I suspect having a US Visa instead of an ESTA or whatever stamp helped a lot. I had to jump through a lot of hoops to get that. Somebody else had done all the checking, so why should he worry about it. That's what I'd do if I was him, probably.

Idaho, or the little part of it I saw this morning, was interesting. Very nice looking countryside. The slogan on the vehicle numberplates says Famous Potatoes. I guess you go with what you've got. I mean what could be lamer than Festival State on ours?  I stopped into a picture postcard town called Bonner's Ferry, on the Kootenay River, to get some cash. Everything was closed up for the holiday weekend, being the Fourth of July tomorrow. Lots of roadside stalls selling fireworks. Its going to be big! But the further I went, I started noticing a disturbing trend. I don't wish to jump to any premature conclusions, but there seem to be a hell of a lot of good ole boys around here. Great big ones, and I do mean big. And the guys are worse. This became pretty obvious when I stopped for lunch at a diner in Troy, MT. Lucky the restaurant was on the ground floor, that's all I'm saying. That and the word 'banjo'. Anyway, I'm in a nice little lodge with the Kootenay River right out the front door, and the railroad track out the back. Well, you can't have it all.
For those that are still awake, that's a lot of typing, but it's about brought everybody up to speed. Photos on the next installment. Cheers.