Cody, Wyoming to Los Angeles: 4th Sept - 2nd October

I have been in Los Angeles, California for a little over two weeks now. Honda USA are working their magic on the bike and I would have left already, if we weren’t waiting for a part from England. But, I can think of worse places to be held up. There has been unbroken sunshine, days by the beach, beers by the pool and night-life into the early mornings. Everything, except updating my website. I apologise, but you can see that I have a fairly air-tight excuse. It’s been tough.

I left Cody, Wyoming on 4th September. I had been staying with my sister, Sabrina and nephew, Conrad, for two weeks and I was reluctant leave them. I eventually managed to pull away at a little after 2pm. I rode through the famous Yellowstone Park, with sulpherous geysers and herds of buffalo. I had ridden a snow-mobile through it last winter, so, needless to say, it looked totally different now that the snow had long gone. Beautiful as it is in summer, there is something rather spectacular about holes of bubbling, steaming water down in the deep, white snow. There is a huge geyser named Old Faithful. So called, because, it erupts, without fail, every hour, on the hour, shooting a 30 metre jet of steaming, boiling water into the air. The ride south of the park is no less spectacular. As I left Yellowstone the road eases along a flat valley floor that drops down in terraces of perfect symmetry to a river below, from where the jagged Teton Range shoots up high and steep into the sky. Quite beautiful. That first night I discovered that I had become too accustomed to the comfortable bed at Sabrina’s. My usually more than acceptable sleeping arrangement of skin-mattress, sheepskin and sleeping bag felt more like a bed of brazil-nuts and I hardly slept at all. I was glad to have the excuse of a TV interview in Salt Lake City to pull into a motel the following night. I had to get my beauty sleep. The Muscular Dystrophy Association, as the US based charity is called, has Jerry Lewis as its spokesman. He has headed the nation-wide telethon for the last 35 years. TV stations from every state in America are involved. It starts at 7am and is on the air until 7pm, hosted by Lewis from Hollywood and linking to the various state channels throughout the day. By the time I was called to be interviewed at 1pm, the nation-wide total raised was in the region of $50 million. I was interviewed for two minutes by Danger Boy, a local radio DJ, who had never done television before. Our scrambled effort was broadcast to the state of Utah alone, thank goodness.

I rode south through Mormon country. The towns are clean, empty and soulless. In fact, they gave me the willies. There is a feeling of something unsaid, or rather, uncommunicated. I kept up my speed until I was forced to drop it rather sharply with the wailing of sirens behind. Just like in the movies, a burly, surly cop in Raybans approached, with one hand on his belt, close to his gun. "You from England?" "Yes." "Oh, my Mum’s from Manchester." We enthused about Manchester for a while before he gave me a pat on the back and asked me to keep my speed down. Seems like Manchester isn’t all bad, after all. I was allowed to camp on the land of a guest ranch that night. I set up my tent a mile or so from the road, next to a stream, at the foot of a small range of magnificent red rocks. I lit a fire and watched the sun set. The peace and beauty filled me and I knew that if this was the only evening of its kind in the whole trip, it would be worth it.

The following day was one of the most spectacular of my entire life. I carried the high of the night before through some of the most incredible scenery I have ever seen. One cannot really say that one beautiful place is more so than another. They are all unique and carry a beauty attached solely to themselves, that to compare is futile. Even a small tumble couldn’t dent my elated spirits, even if it did slightly dent my aluminum pannier. I turned off the small paved road to take The Great Western Trail. It started as a perfectly acceptable dirt road that wound through the rocky hills of the Dixie National Forest, but ended up becoming a steep, boulder strewn river bed. I thought that perhaps this was where a river might have crossed and that it would improve. No such luck and I finally stalled on one of the bigger boulders and down I went. I had to unpack the bike to lift it upright and then turned it around with great difficulty to negotiate the ride back down. I didn’t mind at all and hummed as I carried all my gear back down to repack the bike.
I rode along the top of Bryce Canyon, an enormous gorge of standing rock formations eroded into pinnacles by the wind and rain. Ebeneza Bryce first settled the area with his wife, both of whom must have worked exceedingly hard to get a track through the shrub, let alone make a living from the land. "Not a good canyon to lose a cow in", as he once remarked, seems to me to be rather an understatement.

If I had been amazed by Bryce Canyon, nothing prepared me for Zion National Park. Unlike Bryce and the Grand Canyon, which I went onto visit, Zion is viewed from a road that snakes along the floor of the its valley. The contrast of the red rocks and the deep green vegetation coupled with the sheer magnitude and impressiveness of the rock formations, made Zion my favorite place that I have visited. I took a trek into the mountains to visit the emerald pools of water that seeps down from the peaks. I spent hours walking and sitting, staring and listening.  From Zion I headed to Page, Arizona, through Indian country; a huge desert with explosions of odd rock formations that make the empty ride far from dreary. There I took a raft trip down the Colorado river through the beautiful Glenn Canyon. The raft sets off at the base of the Glenn Dam, reached by driving two miles down through a totally dark tunnel cut through the red sandstone. Ashley, our excellent pilot and guide, spent the day taking us down-river fifteen miles, stopping to look at rock paintings, enjoy a fabulous picnic lunch and take a dip in the dangerously cold water. She even took advantage of a slow current to step up and read us some poetry about life on the river. A nice touch, I thought. Glen Dam has created Lake Powell which is 180 miles long and provides irrigation for 25% of the country and hydro-electric power to 4 states.

The sunshine under which I left Page lasted about 5 minutes. That day I covered 442 miles, which is a little more than average, and it rained on me for 440 of them. I had decided to make a loop and check out an Indian reservation just south-east of Page. It was a fairly depressing day. Not so much for the rain, but for the standard of living that the Indians have to endure. I don’t know how many Indians were here originally, but now there are thousands and all crammed into a wasteland that is next to useless for cultivation of any kind. They have to put up with second-rate materials and services. There is an air of depression and resignation and I was glad to leave the reservation. I had wondered why there are so many ‘Don’t drink and drive’ signs in Arizona. It is now plain that this is mainly for the benefit of the Indians, who, thanks to our cousins, have been introduced to ‘fire water’ and have taken rather a shine to it.

I spent a day exploring the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. I wish I could have spent more time in the midst of this incredible natural phenomena, there is so much to see. It would have been excellent fun to raft the white water of this section of the Colorado River, with it’s famously difficult rapids. One needs to book at least a year in advance for this kind of activity and it doesn’t come cheap either.

On leaving the South Rim, I turned off the road and into the scrub to camp. I found a nice sheltered spot among some low trees and set up my tent. There is something very special about just picking some random spot to make yours for the night, far from anyone and anything. I read until the sun went down and settled into my tent for a quiet night’s rest. I woke about an hour later to the sound of distant drums. It wasn’t very clear and would come in patches as if carried on an unreliable wind. Sometimes I could hear faint chanting with the drums. I hadn’t noticed if I was on some Indian reservation, but it fairly freaked me out. I finally drifted back into a fitful sleep, only to be woken by a sound that I couldn't place. What I mean is that I couldn’t tell if it was animal or human as it came from quite far away. I told myself not to worry about it and tried to get back to sleep. No luck, as the sound got closer and closer and was joined by similar sounds from various different directions. It was a loud nasal whistling coughing sound, with what sounded rather like an evil smoker’s laugh at the end. The crunch came when this horrendous noise originated from just outside my tent door, accompanied by a loud stamping sound. I froze and waited for the Grim Reaper and his horse (for it was now obvious that this was who it was) to come charging through my frail tent, snatch me up and carry me off to Hades and a fiery eternity. He must have changed his mind, or was put off by my mosquito repellent, because I woke up in the morning to the cool, fresh dawn of the desert. I later described the noise to a fellow over breakfast, who assured me that it was an Elk, which makes this noise and paw the ground during mating season.

I took the legendary Route 66 (pictured left) to the Hoover Dam. This impressive example of 1930’s engineering has 40 miles of service tunnels, all paved with marble and with tiled ceilings and brass fittings. It took four years to build and sustains the largest man-made lake in the United States, Lake Mead. From here it was a short ride to Las Vegas, upon which I descended from the mountains at night. I was greeted by the most fantastic light show.

It is a truly impressive sight, and I spent a few hours riding around the strip, taking photos and marveling at all the weird and wonderful people. I popped into Caesar’s Palace (I couldn’t resist) and ended up winning $60. I left it at that, as I quickly saw how easy it could be to get addicted. The ride across the desert to Los Angeles was long and hot, very hot. I would stop frequently and literally tip ice down my T-shirt and over my head. I avoided coming through the centre of town and chose a scenic route north of the city. If you are ever here, then I recommend Highway 2, north of LA. It brings you down to Interstate 101 which I took West and dropped down Tapanga Highway to the coast. I couldn’t have chosen a more beautiful, if not round-about, way into town.

They say LA is a lonely, unfriendly city. It does seem to sprawl and there is certainly no centre to speak of. I put down a payment on a tiny apartment and found a nice cafe to have a bite to eat. It was over lunch that I met and started chatting to Martin. Martin was horrified that I would have to spend so much money waiting in LA while Honda serviced my motorcycle. He insisted that I use his guest house, behind his house, just outside the city. I got a refund on the apartment and headed out to Woodland Hills where Martin lives with his beautiful wife, Johana, and their adorable daughter, Chandler. Mike, a friend of the family, was happily installed in the guest house already, and had been for a while.  Martin moved him into the main house to make the space free for me.  Mike was more than happy. I certainly haven’t felt lonely while I have been here, and as for unfriendly, well, I think there is more then enough evidence to the contrary. That said, it is time to move on and I am looking forward to the uncertainties of Mexico and beyond. I have been joined by a friend, Luke, and we shall be riding together for a while. After hearing all the stories about the countries I am about to encounter, I think I will be grateful for the company.