Go West Young Man!

32 Days and 5,536 Miles On My Vintage Motorcycle

In Cameron we hook right on highway 64 and move in towards Grand Canyon National Park. The familiar red and yellow hues stack up, showing the land's age like the rings of an ancient tree. Then it suddenly changes. It's subtle, the way a distant gun shot is subtle. Rising over a ridge we catch a bizarre glimpse to our right. There is a crack in the Earth.

It's a mirror image of the ragged mountains, as if this was the hole they had exited when moving up through the Earths crust. We diverge and lose sight of the abyss as we rise through Kaibab. I'm warned one last time to dispose of any firearms and finally reach the parks entrance.

Pulling into the parking lot we don't say much. It's totally escaped me now why, but we were both pissed at each other most of the afternoon. Something like that is impossible to commit to memory on a day like this. We follow the small crowds down a white concrete path, through oxygen and water starved shrubbery. In one truly awe inspiring instant your line of sight clears and the entire canyon reveals itself. We're still deadly quiet, only the cause has changed and I have fully commited it to my memory. For life.

In a poorly executed pass my camera is dropped and I'm pretty sure it's toast. The first picture is blurry. Really, at the Grand Canyon? It sorts itself out and I get my first ironic photo of the trip, complete with a huge fever blister. You have to love non-genital Herpes!

This was the end of the planned trip. Having fully abandonded Las Vegas we rode a hard line South with no clear destination. Our trusted atlas promised good riding in Prescott a hundred miles out from the park exit. Fond memories of Flagstaff left me enthusiastic about our prospects in this part of the country.

Williams, AZ. I have been here before. Jordan and I walk into a Denny's and some foggy area of my brain clears. I realize this is the very same Denny's I stopped at almost five years ago on my first solo California to Arkansas car trip. What a boost! Memories of my now deceased Bonzai tree named Andy, perched on top of my car, soaking up a Fall rain as I eat French toast, come rushing back.

As always the atlas joins us at the table. Prescott offers several campgrounds in addition to some of Americas best motorcycle riding. I take note of Wolf Creek campgrounds, the last outside of the city limits. We plan our route, a simple trek 16 miles West on the abysmal Interstate 40, then a short ride South on highway 89.

Prescott is such a cool town. Very similar to Hot Springs in Arkansas. Great bars, laid out like an old tourist destination. Hot Springs can thank the bath houses and major league baseball for it's notoriety. I'm not sure what Prescott's main attraction is. Maybe just good vibes. It's about 9 PM when we stop for gas on our way out of town. A great day of riding should always end with a great fire. We buy some wood and set out for Wolf Creek.