Summer Dream 2006

October 10-11, 2006

The brainchild of Bob Peterson, owner of Classic Construction Models in Beaverton, Oregon, this is the second year of a wonderful program hosted by Caterpiller, Inc.. Bob’s company builds expensive and exclusive models of construction equipment. Cat is the primary in his line. He has a great working relationship with them as a licensee. Details are on their website http://www.ccmodels.com/ but here’s the real story.

Many of his collector customers wished they could drive a big bulldozer. In 2005 Bob contacted Cat and made just that arrangement. Forty people went to Tucson, Arizona to the Caterpiller test facility and spent "a day in the dirt". It was such a hit they did it again this year, this time at Cat’s big training center in Peoria, Illinois. I ran across this great opportunity, believe it or not, while getting the HHS plaques engraved for the high school reunion. I got on the waiting list and a lucky cancellation had me on the team this year. Here’s what happened.

Wednesday 10/10
An uneventful flight from Portland ended with a very chilly reception and snow flurries in Peoria. It’s only OCTOBER! But the evening get acquainted session in the lounge was a warm greeting with a bunch of grizzly guys who love construction equipment. Some of these guys are software engineers, an interior decorator and some equipment operators that can’t get enough of it. Fifty percent of this years ‘class’ are returned from last year, as far away as coast-to-coast, Ireland, Switzerland and Japan. What a following. Such great people. And what a common bond to have.

Thursday 10/11
The first day, cold as the proverbial well diggers butt, but sunny, at least promised a comfortable afternoon. A very hearty breakfast at this magnificent old hotel, Pere Marquette and fifty anxious little boys and girls climbed aboard the bus for the Mapleton facility, start of a day of touring. This is a foundry. Guess what… sixty tons of molten steel is still poured from a ladle, just like a century ago. Some technology just doesn’t yield to technology. (Unfortunately photos were not allowed on the tours, so words will have to do) The assembly line builds casting for engines. Do you know how big the engine is in a D11 tractor? HUGE. These engine blocks are cast the old fashioned way, with sand castings. All the hollow parts of the engine, like piston wells, have a structure called a core. This thing, actually a series of things, like one for each piston, will eventually sit inside the main mold and form the hollow interiors of the engine. It’s made of sand, a special formula that is hammered under tremendous pressure into a mold the shape of the ‘piston’. It’s cured to rock hardness and goes on down the line, later to meet its mold. The mold is made the same way, two big halves (call the cope (top) and drag (bottom) if you care). Also made of a special sand, hardened and sent to the end of the line. All the blocks of sand make up the engine.

They travel slowly through the factory on a moving floor. Realize that these molds are half the size of your automobile. When they reach the furnace room, the fires of the underworld take command. Remember Dante’s Inferno? Here it’s a way of life. Electric furnaces, gobbling up power as much as a small city, heat recycled iron into molten steel. Sparks, fire and slag everywhere. Hell hath a fury. When it reaches molten state, it’s literally dumped into a holding furnace until it’s ready to be poured. Then another dump into a cruicible. Pouring the fiery fluid, river of steel, 40 tons of it in one load. The crucible is then carried with very thick glovesJ to the molds that are slowly drifting by. Splash, bang, bam and the mold fills in about ten seconds. Flame belches from all openings. Gases ignite, an engine block has just been born. And the pouring continues, until six new children sit smoldering. They drift out of the nursery, flames licking out the openings in the top, cooling, crying out for life. Still ensconced in their sandy wombs, they are literally shoved off a wall about twenty feet high, into a huge room of slag and debris. The crash to the bottom shatters the sand surrounding the engine. The slap on the back that brings life. In this incredible noisy, dirty, dangerous area, an enormous robotic arm picks up the block and somewhat tenderly for a behemoth, taps the remaining sand out of it and puts it on a conveyor. On the remainder of its journey it will be cleaned, polished, filed, machined and turned into a gleaming, educated adolescent block, within days of becoming the heartbeat of a giant earthmover. Incredible

And the journey continues, to the assembly plant affectionally known as SS. Here sub-assemblies, engines, control panels, tracks, blades, hydraulics, blocks of iron weighing tons, arrive sequentially from all over the country, arriving just in time at the proper location along the assembly line. A D11 bulldozer is about to be created. A base frame, perhaps 5 tons of steel starts the process, formed and shaped elsewhere. The drive train is attached. Gears each weigh over five hundred pounds. Then insert the engine, half the size of your car. Tighten those bolts. And it goes on. And four hours later a D11 sits at the end of the line. Earlier filled with hundreds of gallons of oil, transmission fluid, water, diesel, a lucky operator climbs aboard, two stories up in the air, and drives it off the line. Lumbering with the classic grace of a bulldozer, it is a breathing adult, nearly ready to take on its first job and start earning a living.
This monster, one of the biggest bulldozers, weighs in at 124,000 pounds, sixty two tons. It retails for just over 1.5 million dollars. And they can’t build them fast enough. Ordres from all over the world. This is truly an experience. And this is one facility in a world of Caterpiller products that are even bigger. Cat builds to order over fifty major pieces of machinery for grading, building roads, fighting forest fires, logging, excavating, leveling trash dumps. Special bars on the trash haulers protect the treads on the back, so the errant refrigerator doesn’t climb the tread and jam under a fender. The list goes on. Cat yellow is all over the world in every place imaginable doing tasks of superhuman proportions.

Tomorrow we drive.

Friday, Oct 12
Another cold day with the sun pouring through the windows. Another breakfast; I want to get going. Will it be too cold to play with the toys? The drive to Edwards Training and Demonstration facility is short, but too long. The excitement is strong in the air. My first time. Do they give training? (I’m told no). Will I make a fool of myself?
The day starts with an orientation of the Caterpillar company. Fascinating statistics, a very large company, and you don’t realize how much you take Cat for granted. Drive down the road paying attention to any construction sites. You’ll see Cat yellow hard at work building highways, bridges, roads, homes, factories, hospitals. Millions of people at work all over the world pushing dirt around. Incredible.

Then we break for lunch. My God, the anticipation is killing me. And finally drifting to the arena. A glass enclosed pavillion and it’s totally black behind the glass. Glimmers of shadows indicate there is a big arena out there, but nothing is visibile. Then a pep talk and introduction by the facility manager, and slowly behind him a spotlight fades into life, spotlighting a sweet little loader. It’s dips it’s bucket, a curtsey, and the show begins. A ballet of goliaths, performed by artists in steel, virtuosos with heavy machinery. A demonstration of each type of equipment Caterpillar makes takes place over the next hour. One machine digs a giant hole and crawls through it, another fills it in. Two 1200 horsepower earth movers do a push-pull demonstration. The first starts a scooping run and the second pushes. Then without missing a beat the first surges ahead as the second latches onto the two bar, starts his run, pulled by the first. 2400 horsepower loading each monster mover. They just loaded 100 tons of dirt in less than 30 seconds. Time is money, big money, in the construction business. The machines must be working all the time.

The D11, largest bulldozer in the world, we saw them being built yesterday, thunders (quietly) onto center stage and without slowing, creates a giant dirt pile from a hole, and then climbs up and teeters on top. We’re looking at over three stories of equipment and dirt.
The operators are all trainers at this facility, demoing equipment to potential buyers, training their operators. They all must have at least ten years experience in the field. They travel all over the world solving customer problems and teaching. They are the most skilled heavy equipment operators I have ever seen. The equipment moves without stop, one machine follows another. They totally obliterate this covered football field of dirt, and when it’s over, it’s as smooth as your table top, as if nothing had ever happened.

NOW WE DRIVE. A spreadsheet passed around has assigned times and locations. There are two sets of four machines. Team A heads left, Team B heads right. I was so lucky to be number one on the Excavator. Oh Lord, here it comes. I climb in and seat belt down. The good news, a Cat operator climbs up beside me. The extensive training program in the cab takes perhaps thirty seconds. This lever lifts, this one curls, this turns left, etc, etc. Got it? Ummmmmmmm,. Great, have fun, and he climbs down and walks away. The yellow creation now belongs to me, alone. Or I belong to it. Push, pull, twist, grin, yank, test, slow down, smile some more. Dig a hole, make it bigger. Push the dirt sideways. Incredible. In a few minutes you start to get the hang of it, well to a degree. I can excavate, without hitting the house (a line in the sand for this exercise). The big machines are all designed with video game teens in mind. Today’s operators grew up on computers, playing games with joysticks loaded with push buttons. That’s what drives the heavy equipment today. Two joysticks, one for each hand, a bunch of buttons. Sound proofed, muffled engines make the operator work environment very pleasant. More comfort for the operator, more work done, more productivity. Time is money.

And the afternoon sails by all too fast. Taking turns driving a backhoe, an excavator, a skid steer (big brother to the bobcat – ah, I’m at home here having rented one), and a bulldozer. I drew the straw for the D5, a pretty darn big machine. I’ve always wanted to drive one….. here I am. And it was a blast. Oh how I want one for the back yard.
The day ends, people are happy. Everyone had a perfect time. Smiles all around. Off to the merchandise center, and yes, the dirty trick of playing with the stuff makes it a buying experience for sure. I have a great model of my D11 next to the computer. A perfect, memorable, incredible journey.

Many thanks to Bob and Grant Peterson for pulling off a great adventure. Many, many thanks to Caterpillar and all the folks thaplayed a role in making this such a memorable experience. Long live the big yellow Cat.

And if you’re not sufficiently bored at this point, go to http://www.ccmodels.com/ and follow the path to the 2006 trip. You’ll see many photos including a number from yours truly.

Three requests for more, like the raven of Poe. Who else out there checks now and then, wondering.... waiting.... hoping.

There is loneliness here too, for the open road, the freedom, the call of the wild. It was an incredible journey, and yet still too rushed. To live it over again, to make small changes, to see more people. Yes, it has to be. And meanwhile, this trip, an eiplog beckons, cries out in the night, demands.....

..... check back. Talk to me.

This trip began as a motorcycle adventure, it was said before. To feel the independence, to take-what-comes along the way. It quickly became more. Early on it became a journey, not a destination. It became family in Minnesota, fun and memories. It was always a reunion and that became much more, very dear and very wonderful friends. Four days went by so fast there still was more to remember. Hugs and dance and talk and laughter.

And birthplace Sault Ste. Marie, grandparents home. Detour sleepy village by the river, ancient memories of Caribou Lake. A re-uniting with long lost cousins, my new and dearest friends. We will stay together from this day. And classmates extend to a greatest stay in Milwaukee one could ever have. Alyce, Jerry, Noel, Judy. Harley, city, tours; such friends. Sturgis, a plan from day one, yet a coincidence, a part of life now fulfilled.

And Boulder, CO, Aunt Mary. history, heritage, dinners of Nepal, Etheopia. Fossils, to pave the way for a day to come. The Rockies. The march across this great land, so varied, so pristine in so many places, waiting for more to enjoy. Mike and Irene, more days gone by.

Of things,

Prairies, plains, deserts, rivers, mountains, waterfalls,
Dance, hugs, music
Antelope, coyotes, rabbits
Rain, heat, humidity, perfect days
Miles of endless skies and land and smiles
The back roads of America
Camaraderie of bikers along the way, parking lot and restaurant conversations
Firepit, cast iron cooking, GPS
Great ore carriers, the Soo locks
Rushmore, Rockies, Fossils, Craters of the Moon

This is a journey of a lifetime, I hope not the last. It has been adventure. It has revitalized old memories and made new ones for me. I am intensely grateful for how many people these writings touched, in different ways. An outpouring of thoughts from many through email and the blog. It made the trip way more than I had ever hoped a lasting memory. You told me of your own awakening, of roots discovered, of relationships re-borne. To dream, to dare to do. To have been an instrument in any of that is the greatest privilege one could know. I hope you all have found something you can hold. You can do anything that you want to do.

Treasure each day. You never know when it will be your last.
Treasure your friends; good friends are hard to find.
Know your family; we’re only here a short time together.
Live life and be thankful for every day..

I love you all.
And Lil' Joe says "Same for me".

Does that make you as sad as it does this pair?

A great sendoff breakfast and some last minute sharing. Westward, sunrise behind, very cool mountain air. The ‘deserts’ of Idaho. Swearing to Lil Joe that we won’t rush, this is a two-day trip to Portland, 600 miles. A night in Pendleton, a last night party on the town. But the highways slid by those big black tires in the morning sun. Morning becomes noon and the great ribbon of asphalt, I84 to Boise. A gas stop, back to ride, a gas stop, candy bar and cooooold water. Wheels rolling…. westward.

And the lure of home became a challenge. Daily travels four weeks ago ended when 300 or so miles passed by. Later in the journey it was, see and enjoy and travel, ‘til five or so. The goal of today the same. Travel until five and see where wheels stand. 6000 miles of driving has brought great comfort in many motorcycle conditions. Joe kept egging us on “Hold on seventy old man”; the scenery is boring. And big blue rolled on at seventy, mile after mile, hour after hour. With no detours, no side trips, and yes, the lure of home, the magic hour put us one hundred miles from home. “A piece of cake”, says Joe. “Get us there and I’ll buy the Jack”.

And we three scrambled the final rocks to Timber Creek at 6:30pm. Ironically, the exact time forecast at Boise (IF destiny took us that far). Sadly, in the rush, a couple of good photo opportunities along the way were skipped. The deserts of Idaho and Eastern Oregon, the fields and cattle, the lofty pines of nearing the Columbia, tugs plying the river with cargoes bound east and west. The breathtaking Columbia River Gorge again, the Multonomah Falls, second highest year round waterfall in the nation. 611-feet, ironically the number of miles we drove today, the longest day.

The total journey, 6188 miles
100,000 memories.

Miles of Idaho desert. I was calling it the plains until Irene Healy corrected me later in the day.
Craters of moon, the devil’s playground, inferno of the past, many names to describe the tortured landscape, cooled now from a fiery past. Different from a volcano, the region was formed over many eruptions by a long rift in the earth. Magma flowed and cooled, and re-flowed. An awesome place, trying to imagine what it could have been like at the time.

And the route, highway 20, was so appropriate; five miles either side, another tortured landscape in the midst of repair. The good fortune was no work crews on Sunday, no delays, just the jostle and the loose gravel that two wheels love so well.

Midday promised another high school reunion in Hailey, just south of Sun Valley. And a wonderful one with classmate Mike Healy, still as dynamic and active as in high school. We talked and laughed and toured on foot the wonderful community of Hailey. Irene and Mike talked of travels by bicycle with five weeks soon to come in France. No wonder they are trim and fit. And the photo is a stream virtually in his back yard. And an ‘classic’ introduction back to civilization, a Beethoven concert in the park, up Sun Valley way. Third symphony, an hour long, wine and cheese and grass. A perfect evening.

In your Chevrolet, America’s the greatest land of all. Believe it or not that tune rattled through the cranium at different times today. And tonight in one of America’s fine chain motels, Pat Boone was singing it in an oldie. Coincidence….I think not. Today was travel and, corny or not, it felt the theme, except for perhaps a couple of inspiring moments when song gives way to contemplation.

But first…. And would you believe it…nature struck again! A leisure departure time today towards Idaho began with threatening thunder clouds to the west. NO problem, the road goes north out of Vernal. And the road wound in and out of the edges of this monster. What is this, that the instability which causes thunderstorms should exist in the stable, cool morning air? The work of demons…. or of angels? Large drops… worry…. more rain… finally the suit of yellow puts aside the question. And we ride in rain for a half hour. Joe baths, singing in the rain. And surging North, the rain abates, left behind for travelers yet to come.

Another day in nature’s great amphitheater, Flaming Gorge sweeps by, engulfing all in its path. Another work of art, a majesty, brilliant vermillion, sandstone, water, carved in stone, in awe for all to see. This overwhelming gorge, through the canyon, up the cliffs, atop the mesa, and on the other side a verdant valley, landscape transformed, the canyons gone, as if Houdini lives.

Again across the prairie, then trees, then sage, then rolling hills. Wyoming an infinite number of faces. Rolling in sun for hours, another storm looms near. A detour to Fossil National Monument, escape the storm or in its midst? Six miles off the path, perhaps to return to its wrath. And thanks to Mary, fossils her strength, for the beginnings of an education, a stop at Fossil Beds was so much more worthwhile. Easy to pass by, boring to the uninitiated, but fascinating when you can see. A crocodile fifteen feet or more. It is inconceivable how many fossils exist in this region, how much life was here before humans came to the scene. 4000 million years ago when life began, 400 million when our scale of evolution began. This monument has one of the best fossil collections I have ever seen. You must go.

Today ends in Idaho Falls. A planned 250 mile day ended in 410 miles, side trips and adventures. A meal on camping stove in the room. It says no smoking, bnt not no cooking.

Time is moving on. Today, sleeveless and hatless for some last sun in the remaining days. …. and tonight, no thirst, no burn. I remember day one and two and three. The days were hot and the sun was hotter. Today it feels good. And as the sun sinks slowly in the west. we sit, Joe and I, and listen to Benny Goodman, cooking dinner, blogging, and remembering…. yet another perfect day.

Early out of Boulder with just the right breakfast sendoff from dear Aunt Mary. Such a wonderful stay in Boulder. Lil’ Joe talked about it all day.

Up, up the long delirious burning blue, I topped the windswept height with easy grace. Well a line from High Flight but it felt like that climbing the Rockies. A fuel stop in Estes Park and yes, I had to stop and let the local cattle cross the highway. The Elk run this mountain town, grazing in the medians and wandering the streets of town.

A solid overcast threatened the journey, but at distant edges, blue burned bright. Just out of Estes Park at seven thousand feet, the sun took charge of the scene. A very cool mountain air made the ride invigorating. Steep cliffs at highways edge made the ride intimidating. Thin mountain air and a foolish dart up a hill for a photo made the ride ……. gasp ….wheeze….. puff. Even old blue, fuel injection aside, was more anemic than expected, but made the summit. Twelve thousand feet, you could hear the angels. And the air so clear you could see forever. Those mountains majesty are incomparable.

Descend the western slopes, the verdant valleys, the lush forests, so rich this land. Onward, westward, foothills melt to prairie once again. Western Colorado is incredibly varied. Cliffs, barren land, rolling hills, tall forests, short forests. So beautiful to the traveler in no hurry to leave it all behind. We love to stop the bike along the byway, make the engine still, and listen….. to the wind, the silence most of all. On these vast lands it seems there is no life. There is no sound. One feels to small and yet so much a part of it all. I love these great open spaces, this unspoiled, undeveloped land.

An awesome sight to not believe, the mighty Colorado, the river of Grand Canyon fame, is still a child in these foothills of the great mountains. A mere stream, impossible to imagine what it will become as it grows into adulthood.

Sadly Dinosaur National Monument was closed. Forewarned by Mary the building at the wall has become unstable, not supporting human traffice. A surprise in the dry climate, seen years ago it was concrete and steel. What could have happened.

Afternoon brought Vernal, northeast Utah, big and bussling. The campgrounds of the Green River beckoned. The heat and the lassitude of age diverted this place of rest to a cool motel and ice machines. Camping has given way more often to the luxuries of a cool room, not the best time of year for a monkey that likes JD on ice and a cold shower.

It was a good day.

The morning starts with showers, will it every be dry again? Then off to Harley. A soft front brake and Rocky Mountains to descend, discretion puts on a new set of brake pads. And back to visit, to listen, to learn and to remember.

Uncle Wally and Aunt Mary, a fascinating pair, a geologist and a paleontologist. Together they scoured the earth and have done many things to bring the past to life for the rest of the world. Mary, the educator turned archeologist to spend many hours exploring Mesa Verde, cataloging ruins, specimens, lives of ancient past, the Anasazi. Dropped by helicopter in late 70’s, alone for the day in remote Mesa Verde, to explore, to discover, to record. And Wally, traveling to all corners of the world, geology studies for the US Government. Many, many stories, some too much for timid travelers, and all full of adventure.

World travelers most of their lives, adventures I only read about. This is my family; from whence must come my own spirit of adventure. We reviewed so many photos. Mary told so many stories, countless stories, generations gone before. Would that we humans could do a better job of capturing our past, to pass on to the future. I will never remember a fraction of what I learned. But I learned, that dad was a prankster, a side I never saw. That Scottish ancestery which I have craved for reasons I do not know (bagpipes perhaps) was fleeting in days past but through Mary is now rooted deeply in Andrew Oswald, my dad’s grandfather, born in Scotland. And a photo – proof now irrefutable.

And the German lineage on my grandmothers side, the Farmer family and farther back.
Delightful, memorable, sad for it to end. I loved this visit and what dear Mary has done to help bring heritage to life. And my dad’s father who plied the St Mary’s as a dentist, an error, he was a physician and his brother James was the dentist. And together they served the frontier in a mobile fashion.

And today, cousin Caroline, a veterinarian from Cornell, out of Loveland practices in a mobile clinic, calling on the frontier folks of Colorado. Walking the footsteps of the past. She stopped by on a journey to Canada. This cousin of mine is the primary vet to the famed Iditarod, the great dog sled race of the North. A fascinating lady in her profession. And Jonathon, Julie, Dan and James we met yesterday. And talk made photos forgotten. Memory fails me too.

It was a wonderful and memorable day.

Wyoming, so many miles of open prairie. And the miles rolled by, Cheyene, then Denver. A few showers along the way. The old airplane saying, if you can see through it you can fly/drive through it. Just enough rain to cool a hot biker. Breakfast in tiny Lingel, WY became swapping stories with a new friend Paul from Denmark. He rented a bike in Phoenix for a two week tour of the American West parks, with a detour through Sturgis, his first. It’s a rush trip but he’s having fun. Trading email addresses, we hope to meet again.

And freeways south, the maddening rush of traffic, all in a hurry to go … where? Boulder slides into view and 14th street is as memory served, but it has been only four years since last I came.

And the memories began. Talk and dinner and talk. Let me gather my thoughts.

What - - a - - day.

Breakfast tales of golf ball size hail yesterday. Inch and a half of rain. Tall tales. But the black and foreboding sky westward was a portent of things to come. On the road, concern for ugly skies ahead, a freeway overpass beckoned… don the space suit. Lil’ Joe dived for cover. A silent prayer and westward bound. And that prayer in only minutes became the miracle of sunshine, clouds evaporating. Miles flew by in the cool morning air, the rain a mere zephyr, fading for the day. The bike flew across the miles, suspended in air as if a magic carpet, unmoving, eerie. The Earth rolled by underneath, miles dissolving, the air perfect.

And in no time the Badlands exit loomed. What a place. A crescendo of pillars, canyons, colors and shapes. The Wall! What untold treasures lay hidden within. Mile after mile, 240 wends through the canyons. Just when the last one fades behind, yet another takes its place. It is an enchanted place, inspiring reverernce in its majesty. The winding road, the canyon floor, the monoliths towering overhead and all about. Each minute a new angle of the sun catches yet a new facet. This is truly beautiful. Seen many years ago, it has grown to even greater beautify. You must go there.

Traffic is a river, flowing ever to the sea. From Badlands to the mecca, the thunder grows. Occasional bikes become many and many become overwhelming. Like rivers flowing to the sea, the closer to Sturgis, the more intense it becomes. Gas pumps, five wide and three deep nurse the bikes stacked double, still miles from Sturgis. And the highway is half bikes, then three quarters, then ninety percent. How can it be? Rolling off the ramp into this tiny western town is a solid ribbon of steel on two wheels. This could have been intimidating, overwhelming but prior experience was a godsend.

And it was Sturgis – a constant thunder of motorcycles, a crush of traffic. Park and play or get out of town. Joe found a “T” that’s cool to him, a taco and off we go. "Where’s the babes" I hear him say. Joe, this is a family show. Sturgis is a place you have to go to…. once if never again. Largest rally in the world, but you have to want to hang around. Give me the wide open spaces, don’t fence me in.

Rushmore bound, the exodus in sound is all around. A missed turn takes us beyond Rushmore, darn, and 20 miles south. Too early to stop and camp, the bike swings north, up old 16 to Rushmore. And what a ride. Down US79, hardly a soul to be seen. Up this winding twisting road, eighteen miles and THREE THOUSAND motorcycles. Every inch of the way, two narrow lanes, twisting, turning up and down the slopes. Fifty feet apart, non-stop, thousands. Don’t fence me in. A fascinating ride through pines and donkeys and cattle. Hairpin turns by the score, cascading down the mountain side. Many hours of training served me well. Look over your shoulder, the bike follows. Rushmore approaches, an overlook, five hundred bikes on the turnout. A looming thunderstorm, first of the day sheds tears, quarter size. Splot here, splat there, in no time soaked to the skin. Pulling off the highway onto the overlook is a mistake. Wall to wall traffic won’t let you back on. Don’t fence me in. And the storm looms larger, threatens and I succumb. No further will I go into this madness, the maelstrom of flesh and steel. A quick photo, proof, and back we go. Dart across the highway and spin a U…. out… and wet. We grab some gas, we done the gear, we head out forty and it pours. I will abandon the campground this night for drier skies. Twenty miles to camp, twenty miles backtrack to the monumment, twenty miles back again.

And miles south, forty odd, to look astern, like Lot of old, disaster looms. Such blackness, such fury I have seldom seen. Lightening strikes, streamers pour and towering tops to thirty thousand, more. The thunderstorm engulfs the region all, the camp, the park, the city, the largest I have ever seen. Like an atomic blast, forty miles away this view is good.

Twice today the helmet road in back, the free breezes and the hot sun, tan yet cool. A great feeling, freedom. More road warriors northward bound to Sturgis, and I have been, and I am homeward bound.

And freedom, I have longed for this ride across Wyoming for two years, and it is here. Don’t fence me in. And to dream and to know what freedoms we enjoy. An expensive motorcycle, a month from town, no barriers as each border is crossed. No where else in the world is such freedom alive. Pause for thought, and thanks.

The Missouri, four hundred miles behind, confirms that we are in the West. The day is hot but the air is dry, it makes all the difference. I’m glad to be home again, out West, with even miles to go. And hours and hours, cruising in the sun. The roads last forever but the land is here and now. Enjoy it as you pass and the miles pass quicly by. The prairie runs west, undulating into infinity, and wraps around the earth, and sneaks up behind you. The prairie is limitless. Stop along the highway. You are alone. As far as you can see in any direction, alone. And it’s good, this South Dakota, this Wyoming.
Tonight we sleep, dry, in Lusk, Wyoming.

It was quite a day

Chapter III, family and friends closed yesterday. Chapter IV begins; a journey through the natural resources of the American West.

O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain!
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
And crown thy good
with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

Traveling through America’s heartland inspires in its own unique way. If told to me I would not believe it, but it’s there. Like traveling through any part of this great land there are songs, stories, traditions… and people. Lil’ Joe led off with the Pledge of Alligence. Rolling westward we sang…. and sang… America the Beautiful, God Bless America and every patriotic song that came to mind. This Iowa country does it to you… it did to us. Iowa was remembered as a boring rush across the Midwest years ago; a different journey… a trip, Perhaps years in Oregon farm country have softened memories. Perhaps age brings patience and wisdom. Iowa is a beautiful state. A verdant palette upon which nature has bestowed its own majesty. Miles… thoughts… prayers.

In a search for the right words, I found this link. http://www.llerrah.com/america.htm If you click this link, take five minutes to just let it play. Like this motorcycle, don’t be in a hurry. Travel with me. Slowdown and open your mind. This is waiting for you. Lands seen, vistas yet to unfold.

Iowa is a lush green in the eastern part. Corn for miles, so much corn, that it has a fragrance of its own. Beautiful farms, gleaming silos like rockets poised. A faintly sweet, fresh green smell that lasts for miles. And this is heartland… interspersed every so often, faint and pleasant cattle smells, another mile. This is America.

The east slowly yields to dry as South Dakota encroaches on its western border. Corn still, but small patches; prairie grass and cattle ranches. South Dakota takes control. Straight across US Highway 18, just a half dozen higher than US12 that brought us east. A stop sign at a crossroad every 15 miles.

A detour.. north to I90. A hurried pace but too many detours and chopped up roads. And distance became important…

High speeds, tractor-trailers, and motorcycles everywhere. Fifty percent of the traffic is on two wheels, traveling at high speed. Everyones headed for Sturgis. They’re all in a hurry… we rushed. Joe, the bridle in his teeth, pushing onward, westward, faster…. A south wind tilts the bike hard to the left… another hundred miles. And finally, strength fading and ready for a rest, the bike rolls off the interstate at Murdo, another Super 8.


And I thank the Lord that as tonight' memories flow across the page, the words of America sprang to mind. Slow down; enjoy; see this country. A quick trip through the Badlands has just become the meander that was originally planned. Oh, how quickly our harried pace can take its toll.

And a good down home dinner - crispy fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy.

It was a good day.