Aah, Montana - yet another change in scenery. Along the road, short, scrubby sage rushed past in a mottled green blur. I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly. The mid-morning sun was scorching last night's precipitation, filling the air with the tangy and spicy scent of eucalyptus. I opened my eyes, taking in the landscape. Highway 2 snakes its way through land than can only be described as a vegetated moonscape. Soft, undulating hills abruptly drop off to impossible, unnatural angles, rear up sharply, and then arc away gracefully. Mounds exist where there should be none, crevices are carved out where they should not be, and in the distance are sharp mountains, in impossible contrast to the surrounding flat ground. This part of Montana almost looks alien, like natural forces not of this earth formed it. Like I said, yet another change in scenery.
I shift my weight on the motorcycle, but at this point in the trip I am no longer uncomfortable. We have clocked so many miles, that the bike and I are no longer separate entities; each of us is an extension of the other. Directly ahead, forging the path and setting the group speed at 80 mph, is Stewbert. I check my mirror. Sure enough, two headlights indicate Dave and Dad are following suit. I look ahead, and am suddenly startled - here comes another bird.
Life must be particularly drab for the birds of Montana. They seem to relish this interesting game of "chicken." Quite literally, a sparrow-sized bird will swoop out to the middle of the road, turn suddenly, and then speed back to the safety of the ditch, barely avoiding a deadly collision with oncoming traffic. This suicidal ritual occurs over and over, as though the birds have nothing better to do than taunt death. I wonder what a bird/motorcycle collision would look like?
No sooner has the thought been processed than it happens. I see it, in slow motion. The bird swoops out, makes his hairpin turn, but misjudges Stewbert's speed. A cloud of feathers mushrooms from the front fairing of Stewbert's bike. A tiny, limp carcass rolls into the ditch. I punch through the cloud of feathers like an air fighter through a debris field. Definitely the most memorable image of the trip - too bad we are on our home stretch.
Before I get too wrapped up in the conclusion, perhaps we should start at the beginning. Every summer, Stewbert and I take a cross-country motorcycle trip. Three years ago it was Vancouver. Two years ago it was the Gulf of Mexico. Last summer we went to New York City. This year, to spice things up, we decided on Alaska. After all, going to Alaska means we will have visited all four major bodies of water that border the United States in as many years. To further spice things up, we invited some others.
One afternoon I was eating lunch when I joked to my father, "Hey, you want to buy a motorcycle and drive to Alaska with me and Stewbert?"
He enthusiastically replied that he would, and I laughed, thinking it was a joke. Only he wasn't joking, he was serious. Now we're up to three.
My brother had been itching to go on a motorcycle trip for years, but his Navy career could never allow the scheduling to work. It's hard to take three weeks off when you're in the middle of the Persian Gulf. This year was different. Dave was set to graduate from the Naval War College in June 2010. His next assignment would probably not be until mid-August. Perhaps July would work? It did - now we're up to four.
Having nailed down everyone's schedule, everything at home had to fall into place. You typically do not hear about dairy farmers taking three weeks off from their farm, and there is a reason for that. In order to make this trip feasible, I had to know nine months in advance, to coordinate breeding schedules with the cows. We had to have the second cutting of alfalfa made by the end of June, which means we had to have first crop cut at a timely fashion, which means all spring planting and field work had to be done on time. Finally, I had to recruit three relief workers, who would be willing to accept running the farm for three weeks, regardless of weather conditions and any managerial challenges that could come up.
Without boring you with the details, everything (I mean, EVERYTHING) fell into place. I even had two backup employees, in case someone had a personal emergency. In the early morning hours of Friday, July 2, Stewbert, Dad, Dave, and I all met up for Day 1 of the trip (my wife even made us breakfast). Our rough itinerary was to travel northwest into North Dakota, cross into Canada, and then head west via Highway 16 to Edmonton.
Then, our plan was to follow Highway 43 to Highway 34, picking up the fabled Alaska Highway at Dawson Creek. The "Top of the World Highway" would take us into Alaska, and at Fairbanks we head north, all the way to Prudhoe Bay, the ultimate destination.
At least, this was the plan. Having nailed everything down at home, I had nothing ahead but open road, and three weeks. Starting next week, I will document the trip as we cross 10 states and territories, run through everything from searing heat to freezing rain, and clock up 9,170 miles before rolling back into Green County.
As always, you are more than welcome to join us on the road ahead.
- Dan Wegmueller can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
I shift my weight on the motorcycle, but at this point in the trip I am no longer uncomfortable. We have clocked so many miles, that the bike and I are no longer separate entities; each of us is an extension of the other. Directly ahead, forging the path and setting the group speed at 80 mph, is Stewbert. I check my mirror. Sure enough, two headlights indicate Dave and Dad are following suit. I look ahead, and am suddenly startled - here comes another bird.
Life must be particularly drab for the birds of Montana. They seem to relish this interesting game of "chicken." Quite literally, a sparrow-sized bird will swoop out to the middle of the road, turn suddenly, and then speed back to the safety of the ditch, barely avoiding a deadly collision with oncoming traffic. This suicidal ritual occurs over and over, as though the birds have nothing better to do than taunt death. I wonder what a bird/motorcycle collision would look like?
No sooner has the thought been processed than it happens. I see it, in slow motion. The bird swoops out, makes his hairpin turn, but misjudges Stewbert's speed. A cloud of feathers mushrooms from the front fairing of Stewbert's bike. A tiny, limp carcass rolls into the ditch. I punch through the cloud of feathers like an air fighter through a debris field. Definitely the most memorable image of the trip - too bad we are on our home stretch.
Before I get too wrapped up in the conclusion, perhaps we should start at the beginning. Every summer, Stewbert and I take a cross-country motorcycle trip. Three years ago it was Vancouver. Two years ago it was the Gulf of Mexico. Last summer we went to New York City. This year, to spice things up, we decided on Alaska. After all, going to Alaska means we will have visited all four major bodies of water that border the United States in as many years. To further spice things up, we invited some others.
One afternoon I was eating lunch when I joked to my father, "Hey, you want to buy a motorcycle and drive to Alaska with me and Stewbert?"
He enthusiastically replied that he would, and I laughed, thinking it was a joke. Only he wasn't joking, he was serious. Now we're up to three.
My brother had been itching to go on a motorcycle trip for years, but his Navy career could never allow the scheduling to work. It's hard to take three weeks off when you're in the middle of the Persian Gulf. This year was different. Dave was set to graduate from the Naval War College in June 2010. His next assignment would probably not be until mid-August. Perhaps July would work? It did - now we're up to four.
Having nailed down everyone's schedule, everything at home had to fall into place. You typically do not hear about dairy farmers taking three weeks off from their farm, and there is a reason for that. In order to make this trip feasible, I had to know nine months in advance, to coordinate breeding schedules with the cows. We had to have the second cutting of alfalfa made by the end of June, which means we had to have first crop cut at a timely fashion, which means all spring planting and field work had to be done on time. Finally, I had to recruit three relief workers, who would be willing to accept running the farm for three weeks, regardless of weather conditions and any managerial challenges that could come up.
Without boring you with the details, everything (I mean, EVERYTHING) fell into place. I even had two backup employees, in case someone had a personal emergency. In the early morning hours of Friday, July 2, Stewbert, Dad, Dave, and I all met up for Day 1 of the trip (my wife even made us breakfast). Our rough itinerary was to travel northwest into North Dakota, cross into Canada, and then head west via Highway 16 to Edmonton.
Then, our plan was to follow Highway 43 to Highway 34, picking up the fabled Alaska Highway at Dawson Creek. The "Top of the World Highway" would take us into Alaska, and at Fairbanks we head north, all the way to Prudhoe Bay, the ultimate destination.
At least, this was the plan. Having nailed everything down at home, I had nothing ahead but open road, and three weeks. Starting next week, I will document the trip as we cross 10 states and territories, run through everything from searing heat to freezing rain, and clock up 9,170 miles before rolling back into Green County.
As always, you are more than welcome to join us on the road ahead.
- Dan Wegmueller can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
