West 2009
  
 

Day 06

September 1

 
 
 
  Laziness has overcome me, so I don't get up early and walk this morning. It's a nice, brisk 37 degrees out so I plan on using my heated gear. We get packed up early and I do my 'paranoid, schizophrenic' room check to make sure I haven't left anything behind.  
 
 
  I am relieved that this morning Frost is still upright and not taking a nap on her side like yesterday. Soon we are packed and rolling out into the damp, cold morning air.  
 
 
 

Much to my frustration, my heated gear has blown a fuse again - another equipment failure in what will become an ever increasing long list on this ride. I radio to Dave -

"Heated gear ain't working. I'm gonna have to pull over and put some more clothes on."

So the first decent pull off, I'm over and dismount quickly. One thing you figure out in riding long distances is to be prepared for the unexpected. I have brought extra layers just in case the heated gear failed and this morning I am very glad that I did. Finally ensconced in my numerous layers and feeling like the Michelin Man, we're off again.

  
 
 
  The fog is thick and I'm awful glad I took my Idaho state line sign yesterday when it was clear. When we pass the sign, you can hardly see it at all.  
 
 
  The fog teases us this morning, enveloping for a while, then disappearing. Up ahead, it stretches out across the road like a lazy cat on the back of the couch, waiting for something to pounce on.  
 
 
  One of my favorite routes out of West Yellowstone is out highway 20 then up highway 87. Highway 87 runs through a lovely valley past the beautiful Henrys Lake, a shallow Alpine lake backed by the mountains. As the sun comes up, it paints layers of golden hues along the opposing shore.  
 
 
  And there is seldom any traffic coming this way so we have the road all to ourselves. It is a peaceful, quiet valley - just the sort of place a feller might want to retire to if that was an option.  
 
 
  Along our way there is also a lovely river that accompanies us like a shadow. I'm sure for travelers of the past it provided a much needed source of refreshment and encouragement on a long weary journey of many days. It is easy to forget just how hard and how dangerous the journey was across our vast continent not that long ago.  
 
 
  As we move along through areas I have traversed many times, I am still amazed at the constantly changing landscape around us. The mountains are ever present, like an old reliable friend, but the plains can move quickly from an inviting river full of life to dry scrub land in a few short miles.  
 
 
  We move from the scrub plains up into the foothills, with the mountains again keeping an ever watchful eye on us from a distance.  
 
 
  As we pass through Virginia City, I wonder if it is the 'home' of the old Bonanza series. It certainly looks the part but as it turns out, it's the Virginia City of Nevada fame not this one of Montana fame. At least on that TV show, the men were men and the ladies were proud of it. The good guys wore the white hats, the bad guys wore the black hats, and it was pretty safe for the kids to watch.  
 
 
  The closer we get to Dillon, the more farming we encounter. I guess hay is a big staple for the livestock, since it would mighty tough for them to graze in the snow they get around here.  
 
 
 

When we make our first fuel stop of the day, Dave starts the "Standard Dave Refueling Procedure" -

1. Insert your Credit Card into Reader.

2. Enter your Zip Code (He doesn't have one and his postal code from the UK does not work).

3. Give up, and walk into the store so you can get the pump working.

4. Explain you are on a motorcycle, not just wearing this funny looking suit to get special attention.

5. Explain that you do not know how much gas it will take.

6. Walk back out to the bike and gas up.

7. Walk back into the store to settle up.

8. Grumble about the whole experience.

9. Repeat at the next fuel stop. And the next fuel stop. And ....

  
 
 
 

Breakfast is calling my name, so I look around the pumps to see if I see anybody local that looks like they've eaten good breakfasts on a regular basis. Sure enough, there's an older guy and I can just tell he's on good terms with pig meat and hen fruit.

"Hey neighbor, any good place to get some plain grub for breakfast round here?"

"Sure thing, right down the road on the left. The place is called Grandmas" he tells me.

"Sounds like my kind of place. I like a good, old fashioned breakfast."

"Yeah, I can connect with that" he tells me and judging by his size, he has more than once.

I thank him and we're off on the hunt. I miss it in the first pass because the sign is only visible on the connecting road. After a U-turn, I head for what I thought was it and it is.

  
 
 
  And what a treat it is! When I order hot chocolate, not only do they bring it to me with whipped cream, but they add fudge on top!  
 
 
 

When I'm out on the road, I prefer to eat where the locals eat unless I'm in a time squeeze and just need a safe, predictable meal. Usually somebody at gas station or convenience store can help you if you ask nicely. Or just look for a place with some work trucks parked in the lot around eating time.

The lady waiting us on treats us like old friends and the grub is great and the prices are reasonable. We do justice to the bounty laid out before us then waddle on out to the bikes to continue on our way.

  
 
 
  This little run through Dillon is one of the few areas where the route is not too clear. I am trying to stay off the slab, but I end up missing a 'hidden' turn. I pull over, scratch my head, consult with Al's GPS thingy, and decide discretion is the better part of valor. We jump on the slab for one exit, then we're back to a nice two lane through some impressive hay country. Looks like a lot of irrigation wheels are used here to get the land to produce.  
 
 
  Without the aid of irrigation, the land just goes back to scrub grass pretty quickly. The snow covered peaks seem to stand off in the distance, selfishly holding back the moisture that the land needs to blossom.  
 
 
  We pass through one small farming town after another, and I wonder how they make ends meet and can keep the little stores open. I know these days farming is a tough business for the average working man - it's a tough business even when the economy is doing well.  
 
 
 

I see this encouraging sign as we make our way up highway 278 -

"Wisdom 18"

I don't know that I've ever been that close to Wisdom and these days I sure could use some. And I'm wondering if we couldn't ship a bunch of those meddling Washington politicians out here to see if it could help them make some wise decisions - but I won't hold my breath.

  
 
 
  This hay field just seems to stretch all the way to the mountains, with the bales standing as silent sentinels to a winter that is coming too soon.  
 
 
  When we finally arrive in Wisdom, I am disappointed that I all of a sudden don't become a lot smarter. I was hoping for a least a small rise in my thinking apparatus function. But then I remember that Wisdom is gained from Experience and there doesn't seem to be a town by that name anywhere that we can pass through.  
 
 
 

As we gain altitude, we pass these terribly annoying signs -

"Sharp Curves ...."

Somehow, the group manages to bear up under the stress of having to negotiate sharp curves on bikes made for such a task on a beautiful day. It is a tough job, but this is the crew that can handle the pressure and never crack ...

  
 
 
  And not only do we have deal with that stress, but we have to face the assault of the beautiful scenery that engulfs us as we try to focus the road. Some days life is just downright difficult when you're on the road, but it just comes with the territory!  
 
 
  At the turn in Lolo to highway 12, we stop for a fuel and hydraulic break and a chance to readjust our laundry. The temps have moved up radically from the low this morning, so we all look for a shady place to park. Seems as if the store sign is about the only thing around that provides shade so we go for it.  
 
 
  With fuel tanks full, other tanks emptied, we head out on highway 12, one of my all time favorite roads to ride on an ST. It starts out a little mundane, but once you get a little bit out of Lolo, that all changes.  
 
 
  As the sign points out, there's at least 60 miles of curves ahead - great sweepers, little traffic and good pavement. It's a motorcyclist's dream if you like clipping along at a good pace and doing bends.  
 
 
  The lead alternates between us as we stop for certain shots along the way. But none of us are letting any moss grow under our tires on this sweet patch of road.  
 
 
  Deb and Al see me coming up and graciously let me run back in front. It's a real blessing to have them along, since they ride the area frequently and know it well. Besides, they are just mighty fine folks to hang around with.  
 
 
  Lolo Pass itself is only a little over 5,000 feet, but the scenery on both sides is pleasant. On the western side, a river caresses the sides of the road, shadowed by tall conifers backed up by green mountain sides.  
 
 
  And then there are the curves .... Highway 12 is not a road that makes you work on an ST. With lazy sweepers and long views, riding it a real joy. And riding it with good friends makes it even better.  
 
 
 

But as with all good things, the end comes much too soon as we hit the first of many traffic jams. Since we'll be stopped for a while, we put the kickstands down and take a little break. Dave comes over with a big grin on his face that may be permanent and gives me a big hug -

'I've never ridden such a road in my entire life where you could just keep blasting along mile after mile."

"Yep, this is one of my all time favorite places to ride" I tell him.

  
 
 
  Finally the pilot car shows up and we can get moving again. The surface is a little iffy, so no more playing for now.  
 
 
  We are finally left to our own devices as the pilot car turns around so I make haste as quickly as I can so I can get some distance between me and the gaggle of cars behind us.  
 
 
  The temps are working their way toward 100 degrees, but the scenery and riding is still great. Not a lot out here in Idaho, but that's fine with me until Frost starts to stutter. It's the same problem I had on a run down in Mississippi. I was hoping that changing out the fuel filter solved the problem since that was 10,000 miles ago. Soon the stutter changes to a die and I'm coasting to a slow stop. I make another dreaded check on the 'equipment failure' list as I look for a safe place to pull over.  
 
 
 

The rest of the gang catch up to me, so we decide to push the bike to the nearest driveway - which ain't so near and slightly up hill. Al lets me know -

"We're only 14 miles from Kamiah and the motel."

That's somewhat good news, but still an awful long way to push.

"I'll let her set a minute like last time. If she starts, I'll run like a mad banshee as far as I can get."

Dave helpfully volunteers - "The ST1300 temperature says its 113 degrees right now."

  
 
 
 

Sure enough, Frost finally sputters back to life and I'm off like my britches are on fire. I figure every mile I get down the road is goodness and I cover as many as I can as quickly as I can. But about 10 miles further, I'm coasting again looking for a another safe harbor. At least this time there's a nice gravel pull off alongside the river. I start removing the river bag and the seat determined to get to the bottom of it as the rest of the group catch back up. When I yank off the fuel line and bump over the engine, the fuel pump is putting out zero, nada, no fumes, no fuel, no nothing. At least I know what the problem is now - the fuel pump is getting weak when there's enough heat built up in the tank. Of course getting a replacement fuel pump for an ST1100 on the road is something akin to finding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Somebody finds a container to get some water from the river, so I give the tank a nice, cool bath. I figure if I can at least get to the motel - a tantalizing 4 miles away - we can check out our options and figure something out from there. Once again Frost fires back to life and I'm outta of there like I robbed a bank. This time I make it all the way to the motel - a very welcome place to finally be in this heat.

Once I get into the room and cool off a bit, Andy and I start talking about what my options are. We've still got a long way to go to get to Don's and I don't know if that fuel pump is going to make the tour. Then it hits me -

"Andy, what do you think about getting an 12 volt fuel pump and seeing if I can rig it up? That would at least keep me from being stranded on the side of the road."

"Makes good sense to me" he replies.

So I head back outside to see if Al is still around - and he is.

"Al, do you know if there's an auto parts store in town?" I ask.

"Yes, I believe there is a NAPA at the top of the hill."

I explain what I have in mind, and he insists that I take his bike on the run. Dave decides to go along for comic relief, so we sort things out and make a mad dash up the hill.

  
 
 
 

It's almost quitting time, so they are not too excited about our 'quest'. But I methodically sort through my mental list as to what I will need, knowing I will only get this one shot. Let's see -

Fuel pump, fuel hose, clamps, wire, terminals, fitting adapters - looks like I've got it all down. I pay my $100 admission ticket to the fuel pump derby and Dave and I head back down the hill. After a bit of tinkering, we deem the experience a great success when I can pump significant gasoline into a coke bottle. At least know I have a back up plan if the original pump fails altogether that can get me to Don's house and home if need be. I put Frost back together, and go back into the room to chill a little bit before super.

  
 
 
 

One of the nice things, besides the great company of Al and Deb, is their local knowledge. They take us up a short walk up the hill to the local Mexican restaurant which they have enjoyed coming through here before. The food is excellent and so is the service. We talk about a bit of strategy tomorrow over our food, and decide that if my fuel pump starts to fail, Al and I will take a direct route to the next motel, and Miss Deb will lead Andy and Dave through the original route to Hell's Canyon. I tell them -

"I'll let Lewiston be the decision point. If the bike behaves itself all the way to Lewiston, then I'll go for it."

  
 
 
  With that decision filed away, I focus on doing my best to clean my plate like my momma taught me. The bill comes and we settle up on the way out, and then I waddle behind the group back down the hill. And I sure am glad that the motel is down the hill and not up the hill after that meal! Between the heat, the ride, and the events of the day, I am spent. My head scarcely hits the pillow and I'm down for the count ...