V023

Ten Days and Back

Friendship and Hardship From Montana to Oregon

Words and photography by Max Marty

 

I never really knew my neighbors here in Kila, Montana, until recently, when I met Logan Vaughn. Logan and I went to the same high school, but we only officially met this year and have become fast friends ever since. Logan enjoys working with his hands, and he is currently building a log cabin and fixing up an old sailboat. I’m a photographer by trade, but I also enjoy building things, too, so together we took a job in Oregon outfitting out a custom Ford Transit van for a local company. It would be a fun job with my new friend, but we had no idea that our time spent out there would spark the idea for a return on two wheels, and an unforgettable adventure that would ensue from our homes in Montana to the Oregon coast and back. 

 

On that job in early April, Logan and I were driving one loamy dirt road after another. The roads angled up and away through misty forests of impossibly tall cedar trees. There were winding creeks with bordering hot springs and patches of ferns and moss so thick you just had to lie in them. It felt like a motorcycle adventurer’s paradise, but unfortunately, we were on a job with a tight schedule and confined to the cockpit of the Transit van. 

For two young, Montana-raised boys, it was humorous to be in such a beautiful new environment, surrounded by the inspiring wilderness and trapped behind a windshield like wild animals in a cage. It wasn’t right, and we wanted to make it so. We both turned 21 this year, and together we decided that we would celebrate by making a return on motorcycles, taking mostly dirt roads to get there. The following week we returned home, made our plans, prepped our DR650s and hit the road a few days later.

The first stretch of the trip was a brutal affair. My bike was slowly rattling apart, and as I replaced the countless nuts and bolts one by one, it began to feel like I might do a complete rebuild using Ace Hardware parts from various small towns. Then my 70-200 camera lens fell off my bike, over a cliff, and down 75 feet into the Koocanusa Reservoir in Montana. I was being taken to the cleaners. 

Much of the roads in Montana were still covered in ice and mud. Riding was slow and tedious, and this was starting to feel less like a celebration and more like some sort of punishment. We averaged 60 to 90 miles per day, and almost every dirt road we took led us through snow so deep you couldn’t see the wheels of the bikes. We were feeling worn and weary, and setting up and taking down camp was a brutal affair because the weather was poor most nights. We rarely had any idea of where or when we’d camp, and finding old wooden sheds or decommissioned fire lookouts became the norm. 

There was one night that stood out in particular, in Northern Washington, when we decided to ride up to a fire lookout that we saw off in the distance. Shortly after taking a ferry across the Columbia River, we started gaining elevation, and with every switchback the road began to disappear under a blanket of deeper and deeper snow. This time, though, it became so deep that the road was impassable on our bikes. Logan’s theory was to take a downed tree and lay the most flat and uniform section on the snow to ride over it, then repeat until we reached our shelter. Although bizarre, it made sense, and it worked. Lewis and Clark would have been proud.  Inch by inch we finally made it to shelter, crawled into bed and slept for two days.

Often during this trip, in the later hours of the day, our dwindling appreciation for these moments would spill out and paint a picture of excitement for life. A strange feeling of thankfulness for the long and tiring days on the road and the feeling of accomplishment after getting through it. It is so refreshing to escape the rat race and reset, if only for a moment. And to do it all with my new friend and neighbor, Logan.

We made it to the Oregon coast on day ten with the town of Seaside harboring our finish line. Logan and I sat quietly on a cliff, eating sandwiches and watching the sun set over the Pacific. We shared eagerness for the next day, and went so far as the next year. We slept underneath a picnic table that night as it rained, and I laid there reminiscing on what an unforgettable ride it had been, wishing it didn’t have to end. And that’s when it struck me. We still had to ride back to Montana. Another ten days.

Northern Dreaming

An Unforgettable Adventure to The Great White North

Words by Matty Chessor | Photography by Steve Shannon

 

The darkness of midwinter gloom and a failing relationship fueled the planning. But what started out as a distraction wound up becoming an unforgettable dream adventure north to the Yukon. My good friend and talented photographer Steve Shannon and I would be riding dual sports with hard seats, no fairings, and knobby tires. It wouldn’t be comfortable or glamorous, but it would no doubt be glorious. 

 

From our homes in the Kootenays, British Columbia, we trucked our bikes 700 miles northwest to the small town of Smithers. From there we would unload the bikes and leave the truck behind, beginning a mostly dirt route that would guide us from British Columbia through the Yukon, into the Northwest Territories and over to Southeast Alaska, returning down the Inside Passage on the state-of-the-art 1960s Alaska ferry fleet. Our plans were loose, our gear was tight, and we had three weeks to burn before our ferry date. This is the highlight reel.

Unfortunately, our first leg of the trip on the once-dirt Stewart-Cassiar Highway had now been sealed in asphalt, but the awe of the surrounding wilderness and amazing scenery remained, and the challenges that inevitably come with any motorcycle adventure would ensue regardless. We quickly encountered our first flat tire around Meziadin Junction. A small speed bump to start off with on day one, but the payoff would come from the next 40-plus miles riding west through the jagged mountains and glaciers into the small town of Stewart. 

Stewart is the southernmost access point into Alaska and is rich in exploration history — an outpost for early pioneers and modern two-wheeled explorers like us before leaving the pavement behind and venturing farther into the Great White North. Pack some provisions, fuel up the bikes, and spare your first-born here because it only gets tougher the farther north you go.

A few hours later we found ourselves riding above the spectacular Salmon Glacier, and the breathtaking views left me thinking I was back living on the West Coast of New Zealand. We were on an old mining road that was perched up 300 meters, with the powerful glacier slicing through the valley below. Life was good in these moments, and these were exactly the types of experiences we had desired all winter.

The following day we made it to the small village of Dease Lake, where we scooped up a few six-packs that balanced on the seats between our legs and some Chinese takeout that flapped around in plastic bags hanging from our handlebars. We found a nice campsite by the water and enjoyed a few cold ones and an everlasting sunset on a perfectly still night. The haunting call of loons echoed across the water, and the sunset was perfect. It was 11 p.m. In a fleeting moment, Steve thought he would miss the sunset shot and called out for another camera lens with haste. The quickest way there was the KTM, barking back at the loons to the water’s edge. From that moment on the old girl has been affectionately named The Loon.

Farther north we finally crossed the border into Yukon and onto the Canol Road. The Canol project was both an engineering masterpiece and a blunder by the U.S. army during World War II. Built to provide a secure oil supply to Alaska, the Canol project throttled crude oil through a 4-inch pipe over 600 miles, from the town of Norman Wells through Ross River and Johnson’s Crossing into the refinery in Whitehorse. It operated for only about 14 months before being abandoned, and the harsh environment has since eroded the unmaintained bridges across major rivers, making the route nearly impassable. What’s left is a beautiful, unpopulated land, tarnished only by the remnants of past oil and mining projects left to rust when the markets declined. Nature has slowly reclaimed the land, and the porcupines are delighted, left to chew on the tattered remains of abandoned shelters. 

The southern stretch of Canol Road is well maintained and made for some excellent riding surrounded by broad valleys, frigid lakes, expansive vistas, and copious old mining routes to explore. By this point of the journey, our spirits were high, but we realized our fuel was running low.  We had to turn the engines off and coast downhill, slowly lugging the bikes uphill, valley after valley trying to sip as little fuel as possible, eventually rolling into Ross River on fumes. 

The small, unincorporated community of Ross River sits on the banks of the Pelly River, with access to the North Canol across a cable-driven ferry. Unfortunately, we showed up five minutes late, and we learned the hard way that ferry service ends strictly at 5 p.m. So, we settled in for the evening with some warm hospitality from the locals and camped out on the banks of the Pelly River until we could cross in the morning.

The farther you go into the wilderness, away from civilization, the stranger the encounters with other humans seem to become. After 50 rough miles up the North Canol Road, we stumbled onto a scene that only Quentin Tarantino could conjure up: a man standing there in the road, next to his two-wheel-drive Rokon with a sidecar, German-style army helmet on, dressed in all black, pump-action shotgun in hand, glaring us down as we rode toward him. What do we do? After stopping for a chat, we ended up talking with him for a couple of hours. He said his name was Winter, a fitting name for a man living out here in the wild and frigid North. He lives a reclusive life out here and told us about the secluded camp he had built — his own version of paradise, hidden in what we affectionately deemed the “true middle of nowhere.”

When we crossed the border into the Northwest Territories, the roads quickly degraded into rough tracks, and we were now well past the point of any maintained roads. It began to feel more and more desolate, and more and more dangerous. We pushed on until a moment of reckoning, when we eventually arrived at a snow-covered river crossing 170 miles from the nearest sign of civilization. We decided to spare our lives and call it, so we turned around and started heading back south, eventually stumbling on Winter’s hidden camp. We waited there for a few hours until our ears perked up to the sound of his Rokon bumbling up the trail at midnight. It was the summer solstice a few degrees south of the Arctic Circle, and we all watched the endless sunset dance across the peaks around us. We swapped stories around the campfire, and the sun melted into sunrise without ever dipping below the horizon. Low on sleep but high on life, we packed up and made our way west toward Alaska.

The Top of the World Highway west of Dawson City, Yukon, is a little over 65 miles of dirt road following scenic ridgelines that lead to the Alaskan border. After a thorough interrogation by the border patrol, we were reluctantly let into the US of A, and the beautiful smooth tarmac felt like one hell of a greeting. It was a short-lived 7 miles of relaxation before an abrupt change back to the potholed dirt roads we had become accustomed to. We continued down the winding road into the port town of Skagway, Alaska, where we would catch our scheduled boat back to the south.

Alaska ferries run like a broken Swiss watch, with aging vessels and a care for time not felt back home. Motorcycles below, a bag of wine on the sundeck, the next few days melted away with bliss. With over 3,200 miles of seat time already, this downtime was a welcome break. We stopped at several stations on the way down, and even got off to explore at some of them. 

Sitka and Juneau were both beautiful stops that granted us some limited but fun time for exploring. It was the Fourth of July in Juneau, Alaska’s capital, and it was an American cultural experience I was not expecting. We rode off the ferry in style, illuminated by a fireworks show that lasted a full 8 hours in the sky above. Then, at the seaside town of Sitka, we quickly explored the limited road network (all 14 miles of it) and took another small boat to neighboring Kruzof Island, home to Mount Edgecumbe, a dormant volcano. With our limited time, we blasted around some trails and rode up to the rim of the cinder cone. We then played around on a deserted beach before catching the return boat to Sitka.

Upon arrival at our final stop in Prince Rupert, British Columbia, just as the sun set, we quickly navigated one final border crossing before one last fleeting ride into the fading daylight. After three weeks of never-ending light, it was a surreal feeling to watch darkness enshroud the land. Or maybe that was just the dim joke of my 2006 KTM headlight. During one final night camping along the shores of the Skeena River, we listened to the crickets chirping as the river gurgled us into a short-lived sleep. 

No matter where life takes us from here, this was an adventure that Steve and I will never forget. It’s a time that will live on forever indie of us, to look back on with fondness and fuel more adventures to come. We both feel so lucky to be alive in this moment, and as we arrived back at the truck in the early morning, the abrupt end to the trip was a shock to my system. Just like that, it was all over, and on that long drive home I just kept wondering if it was all a dream.

Trail of Bones

A Two-Wheeled Journey Through Time

Words by Ben Giese | Photography by Jimmy Bowron

 

The story of life on Earth is almost as old as Earth itself, spanning across time horizons so vast the human brain can hardly fathom it. For the first billion or so years, the planet was a fiery hellscape of searing ash and molten rock. Lightning electrified the skies in thundering chaos as asteroids rained down from the heavens. Volcanic eruptions were frequent and violent, spewing gasses and water vapor from the mantle up into the atmosphere. Those gasses would help produce our oxygen-rich environment, and that water vapor would eventually cool and condense to form our oceans: a primordial soup rich in carbon-based chemicals that would give birth to the first forms of life over 3.6 billion years ago.

Following those dramatic beginnings, life on Earth was pretty simple. Bacteria and single-celled organisms ruled this tiny blue dot for billions of years, and it was only relatively recently that more complex creatures rose up from the sea and began to evolve on land on the supercontinent of Pangaea. The most famous of those creatures existed for 180 million years, from approximately 250 to 65 million years ago during a period we call the Mesozoic Era — otherwise known as the age of the dinosaurs. 

 

It might have been the animated series The Land Before Time, released in 1988, that initially sparked my interest in dinosaurs as a young child, but after the original Jurassic Park came out in 1993, I was totally hooked. Imagining those fantastic beasts roaming the land was incredible to me, and for the next several years I became completely obsessed. I was convinced that one day when I grew up I would become a paleontologist, spending my career out in the desert meticulously uncovering the secrets of history in the fossilized remnants of giant prehistoric reptiles. 

I never did become a paleontologist, but my fascination with the dinosaurs is still alive and well, and it would become the inspiration for our next great motorcycle adventure. The destination: Dinosaur National Monument, a hidden gem tucked away at the northern border of Utah and Colorado. Initially preserved in 1915 to protect the 80 acres surrounding its world-famous dinosaur quarry, the monument was later expanded in 1938 to include and preserve the 210,844 acres of desert, canyons, rivers and wilderness that would guide us on a two-wheeled journey through time. 

Joining me on this ride would be my longtime friends Jimmy Bowron and Derek Mayberry. The three of us have shared many roads together over the last several years, and we’ve become great partners in adventure. We’ve logged countless miles with just as many stories to tell, and there’s countless more to come, I’m sure.

For this particular journey we assembled an eclectic group of bikes. Derek would saddle up on an ’80s model NX650 that he’s been fixing up. I would be riding the XR650L I recently built with technology born in the ’90s, and Jimmy would be on his sleek, modern Triumph T100. Different beasts from different eras, like the various dinosaurs of the Triassic, Jurassic and Cretaceous periods.

We hit the road in mid-July at the peak of summer. The days were long and hot, and we’d be facing triple-digit temperatures in the afternoons. The wind felt like riding straight into a furnace, and the heat coming up from our air-cooled machines only added to the steady stream of sweat beading down our backs. At one point in the middle of the Utah desert, I laughed in my helmet and thought to myself, “This must be how the dinosaurs felt when an asteroid came down and scorched them to a crisp.” 

To beat the heat, I plotted a route that would guide us along the Yampa River and the Green River so that we could plan our stops around various places to cool down. From watering hole to watering hole, life source to life source, our need for H2O on this trip became a vivid illustration of its incredible importance for life. It has been an essential element for all living things for the last 3.6 billion years, and humans need it for survival just as the dinosaurs once did. 

On night one we found the perfect spot to set up our tents in a soft, grassy patch under some trees at the edge of the Yampa River. After a quick dip in the water to clean up and cool off, Jimmy and Derek zipped up their tents and went to bed. The sun sets late this time of year west of the Rockies, and I stayed up for a few more minutes to watch the sky fade to a deep purple. I looked out on the horizon and imagined what it would be like to see some Brontosaurus grazing on the trees in the distance. I thought about how different the world might have looked back then, and how strange it is that we can gaze up and see the same stars as those incredible creatures that lived here millions of years ago.

Morning came quick and I brewed some coffee for the boys as we packed up the bikes and watched the sun rise over the Yampa. We hit the road early and made our way deeper into the desert. It felt like we were cowboys riding through the Old West on our steel ponies down a dusty trail of bones, drifting farther and farther into the desert abyss. Through sand and cacti and past the occasional animal carcass, the landscape was transforming into a barren nothingness, until eventually we arrived at one of the most unusual geologic formations in the world. 

This 10-acre site was originally discovered by an early explorer and paleontologist named Earl Douglas, who published the first photographs of the area in 1909. He called it “The Devils Playground,” but these days the Bureau of Land Management has named it “Fantasy Canyon.”  It’s a great name because as you explore, your mind can’t help but wander into fantasy. I thought the walls looked like a pile of dinosaur bones, and I told the boys that it felt like we were walking around on Tatooine. But Derek had a more accurate description, saying that it felt to him like this place used to be an underwater oasis. It turns out he was right: This canyon was formed on the east bank of a massive 120-mile-wide lake called Lake Uinta. Formed around 50 million years ago, shortly after the dinosaurs went extinct, Fantasy Canyon is filled with widely scattered bones from various mammals and turtles dating back to the Eocene Epoch. 

As we climbed up to the top of the canyon, Jimmy looked out on the horizon and spotted a group of wild horses walking atop a ridge in the distance. It was a picture-perfect moment to witness these majestic animals and just appreciate their natural power and beauty. But if we had happened to be standing here 80 million years ago, that could have easily been a group of velociraptors, and this moment would suddenly have felt much more terrifying.

After a quick pit stop to cool down in the Green River, we rode north another 40 miles to the world-famous wall of bones, located in the Quarry Exhibit Hall at Dinosaur National Monument. The rock wall contains over 1,500 exposed, fossilized dinosaur bones, including those of Allosaurus, Apatosaurus, Camarasaurus, Diplodocus, Stegosaurus and several others. This incredible wall of bones was also discovered by Earl Douglas in 1909 — the same paleontologist and explorer who discovered Fantasy Canyon in that same year. 

Once upon a time, there was a river running through here where those dinosaurs would gather to drink water. But as the shrinking river slowly dried up, the animals died, and when the next monsoon came it washed their bones to this particular spot and preserved them in the mud. This wall of bones holds a map of Earth’s history, and a glimpse into another world long before human life, millions of years of history sealed in the bedrock. We are extremely lucky to be able to observe this history, and it makes me wonder how many incredible creatures were never preserved in the mud, and what kind of fantastical beasts once lived on Earth that we will never know about?

These were some fun ideas to contemplate on our ride out to the next camp spot. Winding dirt roads guided us through a spectacular canyon lined with rock formations jutting up from the surface, with sharp and jagged features resembling the jaws of a Tyrannosaurus. I really enjoy these remote destinations because they give you the time and space to ponder deeper questions about life, who we are, what came before us and what might come after. 

Then, a mile before reaching our final destination, we stumbled on a more recent artifact of history, only this time it came from humans. It was a beautiful wall of petroglyphs featuring ancient Native American artwork from over 12,000 years ago. The history of life on our planet is a mysterious puzzle, and the more artifacts we continue to discover, the more puzzle pieces we will have to paint a picture of the past.

Day two ended with another sunset swim in the river as the three of us laughed and howled, sending echoes for miles down the canyon. I’m thankful to be here with these boys, and I feel lucky that we get to exist together in the same tiny moment of history. The following morning would rise to a blood-red sun, and we would begin the long ride back to reality. But for now we can live here, in this moment.

If there’s anything we can learn from the dinosaurs, it’s that it can all end in an instant. Death comes like a freight train. Accidents, illness, natural disaster, self-destruction. The end comes for all things. But that’s what makes our time so valuable. And as long as our wheels keep turning and we stay in motion doing the things that make us happy, we’ll be alive and living, making the most of our brief time under the sun.

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Hometown

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Castle Rock’s Forgotten History of Speed

Words by Ben Giese | Photography by John Ryan Hebert

Archive images courtesy Castle Rock Historical Society

Cinematography by Jason Leeper & Kasen Schamaun | Soundtrack composed by John Ryan Hebert

 

It’s a hot summer evening in late July, and I’m riding my new bike down the main street that runs through my hometown. It all feels strangely familiar, but it resembles nothing from what I remember. The population is now seven times larger than it was when I was a kid in the ’90s and ’00s. And what used to be a sleepy little suburbia full of cowboys and small-town folk has become a bustling hub of traffic, chain restaurants and department stores. It feels like a parallel universe as I ride through somewhat unfamiliar surroundings, but I can still feel the sense of history and nostalgia that remind me exactly where I am and where I came from.

 

They say that home is where the heart is, and for a lot of us that place is the town in which you grew up. A place of countless childhood memories, and stories of the good and bad experiences that shaped you. It’s where you spent your formative years and found the influences that would carry you through the rest of your life. It’s where you became you. A place that no matter where you go or where you end up, coming back always feels like coming home. I guess that’s why you call it your hometown. And while that town might not seem special to others, it’ll always be special to you.

For me, that place is Castle Rock, Colorado, given its name from the giant rock formation in the middle of town. It’s a beacon that sits somewhere between Denver and Colorado Springs. Before this little town became a not-so-little town, most people would just stop for gas and keep moving, never looking back and never realizing the magic to be found just off the highway. Like the legendary pancakes at the B&B Cafe, where you can still see bullet holes in the ceiling from a shootout in 1946. Or the Castle Cafe across the street, famous for its pan-fried chicken and rough-and-tumble history of nightly brawls and drunken cowboys riding their horses through the bar. 

My childhood in Castle Rock was like a scene out of Stranger Things. My brother and I would spend the summers riding our BMX bikes and building jumps with our neighborhood friends. We would catch frogs and snakes and find dirt piles to climb up and jump off. We would have dirt clod wars and throw rocks at each other until someone got hit in the face and started crying. We would climb the rafters of unfinished construction sites and hang out on the rooftops after dark. We’d scrape our knees and elbows and get stiches and break bones and come home covered in grass stains and dirt and blood. We’d stay up late playing Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater and listen to Green Day’s Dookie and sleep in the back yard under the stars. As we grew older, our bicycles and skateboards were replaced with motorcycles, but that spirit of fun and freedom has always stayed with us. 

I feel lucky to be the last generation to have had an old-fashioned childhood, and to have grown up without cell phones and social media. And I feel lucky to have grown up in a charming little town like Castle Rock. But the history of this town goes far beyond my 33 years – and as I continue my nostalgic ride past all the historic buildings on Wilcox Street, I ponder what happened here before my story began. So I dug a little deeper to learn what shaped the town that shaped me, and to discover where the town I came from, came from.

Castle Rock was founded during the Gold Rush, but those early prospectors never found gold. Instead, the land was rich with rhyolite stone, which provided a valuable economic resource and the building blocks for a new community. Many of the oldest structures in town are made from that original rhyolite stone, and as I continue riding down Wilcox Street I can’t help but imagine the days before this road was paved and horses and buggies were parked out front of these old buildings.

I continue my ride toward the outskirts of town, and my mind is shifting between memories of childhood and visions of an unknown history. Old brick buildings fade into the wide-open landscape as I arrive at a particularly special property just south of town. I think back to the days when my brother, my friends and I would park in a secret location and ride our dirt bikes out here – one of the many illegal riding spots we had scattered around town. Occasionally, we had to run from the cops and hide from local ranchers, but mostly I remember the long summer evenings riding with our friends. I laugh when I think about the jump that sent me so high in the air that the frame on my YZF450 snapped upon landing. We had some great times riding out there, but somehow we had no idea what had happened there before, and how sacred that hillside really was. 

It turns out that the property was once home to a legendary motorsports facility called Continental Divide Raceways. First announced with a groundbreaking ceremony in 1956, the facility never fully materialized, and by 1957 the original company had gone under. In 1958, the unfinished racetrack caught the attention of Denver millionaire Sid Langsam, who would finally bring Continental Divide Raceways to life. CDR became a nationally renowned motorsports mecca in the ’60s, hosting some of the greatest legends in motorsports history. At the height of its success, it was the finest facility of its kind in mid-America and, quite possibly, the entire USA. The facility was designed to host all types of car and motorcycle events, including a 2.8-mile road course, a half-mile oval, a 4,200-foot drag strip and a motocross track.

While the racetrack’s history is relatively unknown to locals today, whispers of Continental Divide Raceways still float in the air, with racers like Mario Andretti claiming CDR to be one of their favorite tracks. Carroll Shelby was another famous personality to race at CDR. Supposedly, it was the location of his final race, and that victory inspired the creation of his iconic Shelby Cobra. The circuit brought a lot of excitement to the small town of Castle Rock; oftentimes you would see celebrities boozing it up at the Castle Café after an event at CDR, like Evel Knievel after he had successfully jumped 11 cars on his Harley-Davidson. There are also stories of legendary battles between motocross heroes like Donnie Hansen, Ricky Johnson and Broc Glover at the pro motocross season finale during the racetrack’s brief resurgence in the early ’80s. The trio would race hard all the way to the finish, marking one of the closest and most exciting finales ever. Hansen won the championship by just 3 points over Johnson, with Glover trailing just another 3 points behind in third.

The circuit was in its prime throughout the late 1960s, until a series of tragic events eventually brought an end to CDR. A crash at the 1969 Denver Post Grand Prix sent a driver spinning out of control at 155 mph, colliding with a row of 55-gallon oil drums. The oil drums went flying in all directions, killing the driver and a nearby mechanic, and injuring several others. The tragic incident weighed heavily on the track owner, Sid Langsam, and soon after he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Langsam died in 1973, with many attributing his illness to a broken heart over the 1969 crash. The writing was on the wall for Continental Divide Raceways.

Trying my best to take in the countless stories and incredible history of this place, I start up my bike and continue my nostalgic ride around town. I look down at my gas tank and think to myself how funny it is that my newest bike is also my oldest bike: A 1964 Triumph TR6 desert sled built by my friend Hayden Roberts out of Santa Paula, California. This bike was manufactured back in the days when Evel Knievel jumped the fountain at Caesars Palace on his Triumph, and Steve McQueen was still racing Triumphs like this in the California desert. Riding this motorcycle feels like a connection to that time, a relic from a golden era of motorsport, when Continental Divide Raceways was in its prime. I can only imagine what it was like to live in Castle Rock during that time. The population was just under 1,500, yet it hosted one of the premiere racing facilities in the country. I’m sure there was a real sense of pride amongst the local residents to have had such an iconic location in their little town. And I’m sure the races held at CDR must have been great for the town’s economy.

It’s sad that this incredible facility existed only for a brief moment in time. I wonder what it would have been like as a kid to go watch your favorite racers compete at Continental Divide Raceways. The track is now long gone and mostly forgotten, but Castle Rock’s heritage of speed still lives on through people like my brother and I, who grew up chasing thrills and unknowingly embodying this town’s high-octane history. I’ve always loved my town, but learning about this racetrack gives me a newfound perspective on where I come from. It’s easy to take for granted the little things that make your hometown special, but small towns across America have incredible stories to tell – if you’re willing to dig little deeper. 

The Great Escape

An Ode to the Wild West

Words by Ryan Hitzel | Photography by Dylan Gordon & Drew Smith

In partnership with Roark

 

It’s hard to imagine the American experience without the West. It doesn’t come without complications, but it remains something we still chase. We’ve been after it since the 1800s. Independence, romanticism, hardship, opportunity, and solitude all point West and come and go with the sun. Many of the inhabitants  who still reside in the rugged, wide open spaces of the West bear the same wear and tear as the Tetons—stout, proven, majestic, and dare I say, weathered. An adventure here is almost the same as it was just over a hundred years ago, only we have replaced horses with motorcycles. Regardless of the steed you ride, it offers the same rewards and punishments as it did for generations before us.

 

With a global pandemic raging and international travel limited, the past year and a half has been one of a rekindled romance with America’s backyard. This inspired the crew from Roark to retrace a section of the Continental Divide through Yellowstone National Park up to a ranch in Montana’s Lewis & Clark National Forest on a ragtag pack of dual-sport bikes. Our ailing carburetors were the only thing attempting to keep us on the rails as we faced the onslaught of winter, COVID and the allure of the West pulling us forward. Our crew was made up of professional skateboarder Jamie Thomas; photographers and adventurers Jeff Johnson, Drew Smith, Jacob Gerhard and Dylan Gordon; motorcycle rider Austin Dixon; and myself, the person who wrangled this whole mess together. We’re a tight-knit group of guys who have traveled the world together many times, riding in various locales like India, Vietnam, Jamaica and Scotland.

You might be wondering why we’d plan a trip that began at Grant Visitor Center at the South entrance of Yellowstone? Or, why the federally mandated maximum speed limit of 45 mph and the no off-road riding law, or the generally motorcycle-unfriendly hawkish memorandum was enticing? Well, because we had to get from Jackson to Helena, and the Yellowstone stretch should be on your bucket list, as long as you tour by motorcycle in the fall. By this time of year, the tourists have cleared out and the lodges have all closed. Our mission for this stretch was to fly by Old Faithful, find some bison (not buffalo; those are in Southeast Asia), and not get into any trouble with the rangers along the way. Smooth tarmac roads and beautiful scenery guided us through the mostly empty park. This stretch was easygoing, but I had a feeling we’d pay the piper later on. 

Shortly after reaching the Continental Divide, we arrived at Lamar Valley and found the bison we had been seeking. As we dismounted our bikes I could feel my body shaking from the dropping temperatures that were now dipping into the 40s. I had a feeling the challenges of this adventure would surface eventually, and it was only going to get colder from here. So, with our tails between our legs, we continued north toward Helena, Montana.

We made a few detours into small towns like Wilsall, Montana, where we stopped for a quick beer at The Bank, and stumbled onto a local country band covering Nirvana and crushing High Lifes. Jamie identified a handful of skate spots, too, which inevitably landed us in Livingston for a few days, tied down by weather and great people. These pitstops became mandatory—just to connect with the locals and a bit of serendipity, if it was afforded to us.

Our final destination was the 100-square-mile ranch that Drew Smith grew up on. His father was the foreman in the late ’90s, and the owners had graciously invited us back to lend a helping hand and rip around a bit. The ranch is 45 miles or so outside of Cascade, Montana—a town with a population of 712. It’s a diverse landscape that transitions from sprawling fields to rugged mountains, buttes, fish-filled lakes, and rolling hills. A little of everything. It hosts cattle and sheep, all reared with modern ranching and grazing techniques that limit environmental impact and boost organically raised credentials.

Each day began with some work. Drew, Dylan and Jacob all grew up on ranches, so naturally, they put in the time sorting sheep, dumping feed, and even rounding up cattle on horseback. They worked alongside the ranch hands and Drew’s childhood friend who now runs that ranch for the family full-time. No hard work ended without a reward: Local cider, suds, target practice, and an epic gluttony of ranch-raised steaks with the crew topped the list, aside from a few wide-open rides on our metal steeds.

The seasons transitioned from fall to winter in the blink of an eye with no regard for our agenda. On the third day we awoke to snowfall and with no work to do on the ranch after 2 p.m., we packed up some guns and headed out to a remote hunting shed 12 miles from our cabin. If you’ve ridden in snow with standard knobbies, it’s somewhere between sand and mud, but everything happens a lot faster. Controlled chaos ensued as we skated across the frozen landscape. But as luck would have it, we found the shed, and 15 minutes later, our tracks were fully erased. We were left alone with a pistol and a revolver, and I brought some cider and errant beers to shoot up. It’s amazing what a little freedom burns off a foggy mind. 

The haul back was predictably sketchy as the gray light faded to black. The falling snow and sound of the bikes was a fitting sonnet to end our journey. The pandemic had certainly confined us all, and in some cases, pitted us against each other over our beliefs. Our trip along the Continental Divide highlighted the commonality we share in the search for freedom and concern for the good of our neighbors—a common creed in the Wild West. And, one that spoke to us in every small town, at every bar, and on every lonely ranch.

Wild and Free

Volume Twenty-Three | Fall 2021

Words by Ben Giese

Photo by Dylan Gordan

 

“All good things are wild and free” —Henry David Thoreau

The word freedom is one of the most commonly used clichés in the world of motorcycling. Just ask someone why they ride, and I guarantee you’ll hear all about it in the answer. It’s a tired subject, and we’ve troped about it far too often in this magazine. But we do it for good reason: because it’s something we value, and it will always be relevant and important. Not just for riders, but for humans in general. For humanity, and for our sanity.

The funny thing about freedom is that when you have it, you don’t really think about it. It’s only once that freedom begins to fade that it becomes so alluring. This is something I’ve noticed in particular during the last 18 months. We’ve been locked down and masked up. Confined and claustrophobic. Isolated and dehumanized. And as the pages of this issue began to unfold, I noticed a recurring theme: We need an escape. A release. 

We need freedom.

 
Cover photo by Lindsay Donovan

Cover photo by Lindsay Donovan

We need a way to outrun the perils of modern life, the mass hysteria and mental breakdown of society. The never-ending hamster wheel of work and deadlines and bills and bad news. The mistrust in government and the media, and in each other. The constant fear and division, and the culture of self-obsession that’s pulling us further into toxic digital worlds. There’s got to be a way out, and I think motorcycles can help.

The genuine enjoyment people get from riding is great for our mental health. It’s something we as riders can relate to, and it’s something that unites us. It gives us purpose, identity and community. Motorcycles bring people together in a world that’s pulling people apart. They help us to see each other for the things we have in common rather than for our differences. They create lifelong friendships and unforgettable experiences. They take us to extraordinary places, and they give us a tool to escape all this madness, even if only for a moment. 

It’s getting harder to feel optimism for the future of humanity, but at least we can find comfort knowing we have our bikes, and we have each other. We can still do the things that make us happy, and we can still choose to live wild and free.

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