Tim Notier's Blog, page 14
October 10, 2017
USA - Utah & Nevada
By Marisa 
Shiprock in Monument Valley, Utah Utah
Years ago, upon entering Utah for the first time, I was blown away by its majesty, its picturesque mountain ranges, its red and gold canyons, and I remember Tim and I looked at each other, and almost said at the same time, “We should move here.” Because with its five National Parks and world-class ski resorts, Utah could be another breathtaking Colorado, screaming to the world, “Here I am, come visit me!” But it doesn’t want to. Utah revels in its own mystery. You can visit and snap your photos, but there is another side of Utah that is kept hidden.
On this visit, as we wind our way through one gorgeously-backdropped town to the next, I can’t help but notice the shining white Mormon temple on a hill, its spire is adorned with the golden statue of the Angel Moroni blowing his horn to the heavens. I think for a moment that it looks like a church, and I might like to see inside, imagining myself touring an Italian basilica full of art and sculptures, getting a glipse of the local beliefs and practices, until I learn that it’s not open to the public. None of the Mormon temples are.
The KTM in front of the Kolob Mountains, Zion National Park, Utah We go down a residential street, and I see a woman decked out from her wrists to her ankles in a fancy blue dress with puffy shoulders. Like she stepped out of a surreal version of the 1800’s, her blond hair is done up and poofed out, but that isn’t the strangest part. She’s also mowing the lawn with a huge push mower, shoving all her tiny weight to get it up the incline, the machine spewing exhaust at her billowy pleats. And I turn to the local who was showing us around and say, “Did you see--?” But before I can even get the words out, she responds, “There are polygamists all over this area.”
In Park City, the ski resort hipster capital of Salt Lake City, a place of trendy bookshops and farm-to-table cafés and the last place in all of Utah that I thought I would find anything Mormon, I see a storefront called The Family Tree Center. Once stepping inside, I am immediately bombarded by two high-school age girls in black skirts and Mary Janes, beckoning me to take a seat at a computer. Their nametags say they’re of the of Church of Latter-Day Saints, and they excitedly ask me to type in a dead relative’s name into Ancestry.com. I do so, realizing that I wasn’t going to get very far since I didn’t know my grandfather’s birthday or place of birth or anything else that might narrow the search down from 387 results, all the while feeling very awkward as the girls watch my every move from behind me. I begin to wonder why there needs to be a storefront for this at all when I could just do it from any computer, but then the girls hand me a pamphlet. And I realize that this is not just a ploy to get the information of my late Catholic grandfather so that he can be baptized Mormon, but it’s also a chance to get me interested in the religion too.
I leave the store while giving my thanks to the two girls who seemed overly-disappointed to see me go, but I’m thankful to be out of there. Everything here seems so amazing, but if you dig a little deeper, some strange oddities can be unearthed just below the surface of all the wonderful sights. And yet, I can understand why this place could be viewed as a holy land. The snow-capped peaks around Salt Lake City reaching to the skies, the mesas of Moab that look like the stilted red spindles of Monument Valley, the gushing Colorado River carving its way through the earth, the placid lakes sitting like perfect reflecting pools, the hidden hot springs, the multi-colored canyons of Arches with its strangely shaped stones that look like they could be the frozen silhouettes of an ancestral people, the forests of elk, the sweet-smelling grasslands of cattle, there are so many varied and incredible sights and experiences to be had in Utah. Not to mention the hospitality of its people, some of which has been unparalleled in our journey, which all makes us so thankful to have had a taste of this promised land. Southern Nevada
An hour away from the Nevada border, we start seeing billboards for the casinos, beckoning us to leave Utah’s piety behind and head straight into outright sin. And though Tim and I are not ones to gamble, the cheap hotel prices lure us into the first casino we find.
We are greeted by bells and ringing jackpots and swirling lights and beeps and synthesized video-game music, all overlapping the underlying stench of smoke that has seeped into the carpeted floors, the upholstery, and apparently, the people. A wrinkled old women in a pink muumuu is sucking off her cigarette like it will give her luck as she mindlessly taps at the glittering slot machine in front of her. Her glassy eyes are not blinking like she has become a part of a Clockwork Orange experiment. I find that this cacophony of non-stop, in-your-face, over-excitement to the point of becoming a mesmerizing mesh of dull is not my style, and we are almost thankful to find out that the billboard price of a room is only on weekdays and is now three times the price.
So we head off to camp at the what-had-been-shores of Lake Mead, but is now just a desert. But if you look hard enough in the distance you can see the blue line of the lake’s crystal water now more than one hundred feet below its previous shoreline.
Tim gazing out to Lake Mead. I find that Lake Mead is similar to the rest of southern Nevada. You can artificially make a gorgeous lake in the middle of the desert to ride your jet skis on and have your boathouses, you can hide behind the glitz and glam and a drunken drug-induced haze for so long, until one day you wake up and realize that the desert that has always been your life is back.
At the campground, I sit under what someone from this place might call a tree, and I see a beautifully-striped lizard scuttle across the sand. He looks at me, flicks his tongue around, and as we acknowledge each other for a moment, I think, “Actually, I like the desert for what it is.” I realize that I didn't come to Nevada to see Las Vegas and sit in an air-conditioned room. I came to do this, to enjoy the views of rugged hills under the shade of a palm, to watch the sun as it sets red over the landscape, and to befriend the people, and yes, even the lizards.
Shiprock in Monument Valley, Utah Utah
Years ago, upon entering Utah for the first time, I was blown away by its majesty, its picturesque mountain ranges, its red and gold canyons, and I remember Tim and I looked at each other, and almost said at the same time, “We should move here.” Because with its five National Parks and world-class ski resorts, Utah could be another breathtaking Colorado, screaming to the world, “Here I am, come visit me!” But it doesn’t want to. Utah revels in its own mystery. You can visit and snap your photos, but there is another side of Utah that is kept hidden.On this visit, as we wind our way through one gorgeously-backdropped town to the next, I can’t help but notice the shining white Mormon temple on a hill, its spire is adorned with the golden statue of the Angel Moroni blowing his horn to the heavens. I think for a moment that it looks like a church, and I might like to see inside, imagining myself touring an Italian basilica full of art and sculptures, getting a glipse of the local beliefs and practices, until I learn that it’s not open to the public. None of the Mormon temples are.
The KTM in front of the Kolob Mountains, Zion National Park, Utah We go down a residential street, and I see a woman decked out from her wrists to her ankles in a fancy blue dress with puffy shoulders. Like she stepped out of a surreal version of the 1800’s, her blond hair is done up and poofed out, but that isn’t the strangest part. She’s also mowing the lawn with a huge push mower, shoving all her tiny weight to get it up the incline, the machine spewing exhaust at her billowy pleats. And I turn to the local who was showing us around and say, “Did you see--?” But before I can even get the words out, she responds, “There are polygamists all over this area.”In Park City, the ski resort hipster capital of Salt Lake City, a place of trendy bookshops and farm-to-table cafés and the last place in all of Utah that I thought I would find anything Mormon, I see a storefront called The Family Tree Center. Once stepping inside, I am immediately bombarded by two high-school age girls in black skirts and Mary Janes, beckoning me to take a seat at a computer. Their nametags say they’re of the of Church of Latter-Day Saints, and they excitedly ask me to type in a dead relative’s name into Ancestry.com. I do so, realizing that I wasn’t going to get very far since I didn’t know my grandfather’s birthday or place of birth or anything else that might narrow the search down from 387 results, all the while feeling very awkward as the girls watch my every move from behind me. I begin to wonder why there needs to be a storefront for this at all when I could just do it from any computer, but then the girls hand me a pamphlet. And I realize that this is not just a ploy to get the information of my late Catholic grandfather so that he can be baptized Mormon, but it’s also a chance to get me interested in the religion too.
I leave the store while giving my thanks to the two girls who seemed overly-disappointed to see me go, but I’m thankful to be out of there. Everything here seems so amazing, but if you dig a little deeper, some strange oddities can be unearthed just below the surface of all the wonderful sights. And yet, I can understand why this place could be viewed as a holy land. The snow-capped peaks around Salt Lake City reaching to the skies, the mesas of Moab that look like the stilted red spindles of Monument Valley, the gushing Colorado River carving its way through the earth, the placid lakes sitting like perfect reflecting pools, the hidden hot springs, the multi-colored canyons of Arches with its strangely shaped stones that look like they could be the frozen silhouettes of an ancestral people, the forests of elk, the sweet-smelling grasslands of cattle, there are so many varied and incredible sights and experiences to be had in Utah. Not to mention the hospitality of its people, some of which has been unparalleled in our journey, which all makes us so thankful to have had a taste of this promised land. Southern Nevada
An hour away from the Nevada border, we start seeing billboards for the casinos, beckoning us to leave Utah’s piety behind and head straight into outright sin. And though Tim and I are not ones to gamble, the cheap hotel prices lure us into the first casino we find.We are greeted by bells and ringing jackpots and swirling lights and beeps and synthesized video-game music, all overlapping the underlying stench of smoke that has seeped into the carpeted floors, the upholstery, and apparently, the people. A wrinkled old women in a pink muumuu is sucking off her cigarette like it will give her luck as she mindlessly taps at the glittering slot machine in front of her. Her glassy eyes are not blinking like she has become a part of a Clockwork Orange experiment. I find that this cacophony of non-stop, in-your-face, over-excitement to the point of becoming a mesmerizing mesh of dull is not my style, and we are almost thankful to find out that the billboard price of a room is only on weekdays and is now three times the price.
So we head off to camp at the what-had-been-shores of Lake Mead, but is now just a desert. But if you look hard enough in the distance you can see the blue line of the lake’s crystal water now more than one hundred feet below its previous shoreline.
Tim gazing out to Lake Mead. I find that Lake Mead is similar to the rest of southern Nevada. You can artificially make a gorgeous lake in the middle of the desert to ride your jet skis on and have your boathouses, you can hide behind the glitz and glam and a drunken drug-induced haze for so long, until one day you wake up and realize that the desert that has always been your life is back.At the campground, I sit under what someone from this place might call a tree, and I see a beautifully-striped lizard scuttle across the sand. He looks at me, flicks his tongue around, and as we acknowledge each other for a moment, I think, “Actually, I like the desert for what it is.” I realize that I didn't come to Nevada to see Las Vegas and sit in an air-conditioned room. I came to do this, to enjoy the views of rugged hills under the shade of a palm, to watch the sun as it sets red over the landscape, and to befriend the people, and yes, even the lizards.
USA - The Southwest
By Marisa Northern New Mexico Once crossing the state line, the pointed Rocky Mountains of the north immediately flatten into mesas, and the cattle pastures become delicate yellow scrubland. The tree leaves are no longer the green that I have known in more temperate climates, but have become faded silver in the relentless sun.
This place seems to slowly pulse to a distant drumbeat that is steady, thoughtful, patient, like the way the people listen to what I have to say, waiting until I come to a full stop before responding. Their tongues lag in their mouths, their stride equally paused and pensive. I think for a moment that maybe people don’t hear me, or they’re all on drugs, or their daydreams have taken over reality. Or maybe they are just listening to the drumbeat that I can’t hear, the rhythm still woven into the landscape from the Native Americans of old. It reminds me of the smell of freshly baked fry bread from the Taos Pueblos, and the men with long braids down their back standing at the reservation grocery store. It resonates in the symbol of the New Mexico flag, a sun with rays coming out in the four cardinal directions, an icon harkening to the first peoples, some of whom still call this place home.
But now a new culture has emerged. As I sit at a café, I notice the group of men at the next table all wearing spurs as they clink their way to their seats, then begin to rant about the government and how many heifers they have this season ready for breeding. How no politician can understand the moods and individualities of the cattle they call their livelihood.
Outside the Taos library, I see a ragged man playing guitar, and can’t tell whether he’s serenading the infrequent passer-by, busking for money, or simply lost in the melody of his own thoughts. To be honest, the look of the people in this town at first unnerved me: the dreaded guy walking into the library with his huge malamute of a dog only to be escorted out, the lost-looking woman with no teeth in the magazine isle not reading anything, the bag of pot shake just conspicuously lying next to the boy on the computer, the elderly woman walking by in what I thought to be a miniskirt, but then realized it must have just been her bathing suit bottom, or simply underwear. My mouth hangs ajar as she struts past me, though I’m pretty sure I’m the only one to notice or care.
“One thing’s for sure,” a man in Taos told me. “Here, you’re never the biggest weirdo in the room.” And as I look around at the strange mélange of people, my helmet in hand, my motorcycle pants making me walk like the abominable snowman, my hair matted to my head in sweat, and my shirt smelling like a goat, I realize that if weren’t for them, I would definitely be the biggest weirdo in the room. But nobody even looks my way. I could get used to this, I say to myself, realizing that though it may seem strange, whatever elixir these people are drinking, I want in.
Taos Pueblos, New Mexico Northern Arizona When we met a couple from Flagstaff, they were proud of their high altitude and mild summers. If we talked to someone from Phoenix, they were proud of their warm winters and continual sunshine. And it seemed that everyone from Arizona was proud of being different from everywhere else, either because of their screwy time zones or because of their unique saguaro cacti and gila monsters, their grandest-of-all canyons, their rattle snakes and hundreds of miles of shoreline around Lake Powell. Whatever it was, it was theirs and it was special.
They know that even the name Arizona holds a certain ring to it. Like what Paris is to romance, Arizona is to Westerns. We all have that image of cowboys riding through Monument Valley, but as we make our way along the road through the Navajo lands, I realize as I squint hard at the lowering sunlight just to see the road, that riding into the sunset is not as glamorous as the movies make it out to be. Either way, Arizona was and always will be the land of the wild west, and of the hot desert. So when I wake to the sound of frigid rain hitting our tent at the Grand Canyon’s north rim, with pine trees sagging in the moisture and ravens cawing to each other, I realize that I was not entirely right about my assumptions. The man at the general store says that this ecosystem is actually considered to be Canadian Alpine, the forecast is a high of 52, and there’s always a chance of rain considering that at this altitude and with all the peaks and drops, no weatherman could ever predict these cloud patterns.
So much for the Grand Canyon in the hot desert.
I zip up my down jacket and wish I had down pants and down gloves and down socks and down underwear, but as the hours pass and the clouds disperse, we’re greeted with a view of the Grand Canyon that I had always dreamed of. The hawks screech in the distance, the donkeys bray going down the canyon, and Wiley Coyote goes chasing the Road Runner off a cliff only to momentarily hang in midair before falling.
Tim and I at the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, Arizona
This place seems to slowly pulse to a distant drumbeat that is steady, thoughtful, patient, like the way the people listen to what I have to say, waiting until I come to a full stop before responding. Their tongues lag in their mouths, their stride equally paused and pensive. I think for a moment that maybe people don’t hear me, or they’re all on drugs, or their daydreams have taken over reality. Or maybe they are just listening to the drumbeat that I can’t hear, the rhythm still woven into the landscape from the Native Americans of old. It reminds me of the smell of freshly baked fry bread from the Taos Pueblos, and the men with long braids down their back standing at the reservation grocery store. It resonates in the symbol of the New Mexico flag, a sun with rays coming out in the four cardinal directions, an icon harkening to the first peoples, some of whom still call this place home.
But now a new culture has emerged. As I sit at a café, I notice the group of men at the next table all wearing spurs as they clink their way to their seats, then begin to rant about the government and how many heifers they have this season ready for breeding. How no politician can understand the moods and individualities of the cattle they call their livelihood.
Outside the Taos library, I see a ragged man playing guitar, and can’t tell whether he’s serenading the infrequent passer-by, busking for money, or simply lost in the melody of his own thoughts. To be honest, the look of the people in this town at first unnerved me: the dreaded guy walking into the library with his huge malamute of a dog only to be escorted out, the lost-looking woman with no teeth in the magazine isle not reading anything, the bag of pot shake just conspicuously lying next to the boy on the computer, the elderly woman walking by in what I thought to be a miniskirt, but then realized it must have just been her bathing suit bottom, or simply underwear. My mouth hangs ajar as she struts past me, though I’m pretty sure I’m the only one to notice or care.
“One thing’s for sure,” a man in Taos told me. “Here, you’re never the biggest weirdo in the room.” And as I look around at the strange mélange of people, my helmet in hand, my motorcycle pants making me walk like the abominable snowman, my hair matted to my head in sweat, and my shirt smelling like a goat, I realize that if weren’t for them, I would definitely be the biggest weirdo in the room. But nobody even looks my way. I could get used to this, I say to myself, realizing that though it may seem strange, whatever elixir these people are drinking, I want in.
Taos Pueblos, New Mexico Northern Arizona When we met a couple from Flagstaff, they were proud of their high altitude and mild summers. If we talked to someone from Phoenix, they were proud of their warm winters and continual sunshine. And it seemed that everyone from Arizona was proud of being different from everywhere else, either because of their screwy time zones or because of their unique saguaro cacti and gila monsters, their grandest-of-all canyons, their rattle snakes and hundreds of miles of shoreline around Lake Powell. Whatever it was, it was theirs and it was special.They know that even the name Arizona holds a certain ring to it. Like what Paris is to romance, Arizona is to Westerns. We all have that image of cowboys riding through Monument Valley, but as we make our way along the road through the Navajo lands, I realize as I squint hard at the lowering sunlight just to see the road, that riding into the sunset is not as glamorous as the movies make it out to be. Either way, Arizona was and always will be the land of the wild west, and of the hot desert. So when I wake to the sound of frigid rain hitting our tent at the Grand Canyon’s north rim, with pine trees sagging in the moisture and ravens cawing to each other, I realize that I was not entirely right about my assumptions. The man at the general store says that this ecosystem is actually considered to be Canadian Alpine, the forecast is a high of 52, and there’s always a chance of rain considering that at this altitude and with all the peaks and drops, no weatherman could ever predict these cloud patterns.
So much for the Grand Canyon in the hot desert.
I zip up my down jacket and wish I had down pants and down gloves and down socks and down underwear, but as the hours pass and the clouds disperse, we’re greeted with a view of the Grand Canyon that I had always dreamed of. The hawks screech in the distance, the donkeys bray going down the canyon, and Wiley Coyote goes chasing the Road Runner off a cliff only to momentarily hang in midair before falling.
Tim and I at the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, Arizona
September 21, 2017
Turnarounds
By Tim Notier As a guitarist, some of my favorite lines in 12 bar blues progressions are the turnarounds. Little personal licks of emotion, dirty and gritty as they can be, that lead back to the main rhythm and comforting progression of the song.
Marisa and I have recently experienced moments of our trip that seemed to have led to unknown, improvised directions of dirty, gritty, and truly blues filled trials that have eventually led back into the standard patterns of our trip that we are accustomed to.
Turnarounds, in my attitude, and the outlook of uncomfortable situations, have redirected me to the needed understanding of uncertainty. “Life is Chaos,” or more simply, “Chaos is . . .” I found myself repeating this to myself as if practicing Timism, a lesser known branch of Buddhism (please note this is not true at all). It's an understanding that the world is not out to get me, and that all things seem to settle back to normal if given enough time, attention, or realization that some things just will not change.
We had recently camped at Kolob Reservoir, and it was beautiful. We decided it would be a great place to set up camp and call home for four days.
On the third night we stayed at the reservoir it rained, then it hailed, and it did not stop for 15 straight hours. As we huddled in the tent, hail hammered the rainfly and the ground around us, splashes of water and mud ricocheting onto us from every direction. We were stuck, and filthy, and there was no way I was going to pack up the tent while God’s wrath hailed down on us. The next day the sky retreated its hostile onslaught momentarily, and we seized the opportunity to get the hell out of there. As we packed up our gear, everything was coated in a muddy stew that would dry and add an additional ten pounds to the bike's collective weight. Marisa and I rode out on the road that cut through a canyon just outside of Zion National Park and made it to a town named Hurricane.
We were wet, tired, and just overall miserable. And we needed to wash everything we had, twice. We pulled into a hotel, and at $150 a night we knew that was not an option. A few days prior, we had met a lady named Dana who had invited us into her house, and at the time offered us a hot shower, a hot meal, and a “glamper” to stay in. At the time we had already planned to camp at Kolob Reservoir, and we had yet to accept the hospitality of others as we were proving to be self-sufficient.
But at that moment, we were no longer self-sufficient. We were undeniably in need of assistance. I called Dana trying not to sound as desperate as we were, and as if we were old friends, she gave us an address to meet her at, and we spent the next three days with her and her husband Bill who took on the roll of an aunt and uncle who we had not seen in a couple years.
Dana dubbed her property “Red Hen Gardens", and it was a sanctuary for an open-minded traveler. Great food, conversation, and laughter filled the days as we slowly prepared to move on. I thought to myself: If it wasn't for one completely miserable day, we would have missed out on meeting the most kind, unique, and hospitable people we have met so far.
I find myself very grateful for the short-term misery that led to a lifelong friendship. Going from such a fowl mood, to such a blissful state, I can only hope to remember that the lows that seem to last forever are only small moments that will soon be overwhelmed by the highest highs while we explore the world.
Marisa and I have recently experienced moments of our trip that seemed to have led to unknown, improvised directions of dirty, gritty, and truly blues filled trials that have eventually led back into the standard patterns of our trip that we are accustomed to.
Turnarounds, in my attitude, and the outlook of uncomfortable situations, have redirected me to the needed understanding of uncertainty. “Life is Chaos,” or more simply, “Chaos is . . .” I found myself repeating this to myself as if practicing Timism, a lesser known branch of Buddhism (please note this is not true at all). It's an understanding that the world is not out to get me, and that all things seem to settle back to normal if given enough time, attention, or realization that some things just will not change.
We had recently camped at Kolob Reservoir, and it was beautiful. We decided it would be a great place to set up camp and call home for four days.
On the third night we stayed at the reservoir it rained, then it hailed, and it did not stop for 15 straight hours. As we huddled in the tent, hail hammered the rainfly and the ground around us, splashes of water and mud ricocheting onto us from every direction. We were stuck, and filthy, and there was no way I was going to pack up the tent while God’s wrath hailed down on us. The next day the sky retreated its hostile onslaught momentarily, and we seized the opportunity to get the hell out of there. As we packed up our gear, everything was coated in a muddy stew that would dry and add an additional ten pounds to the bike's collective weight. Marisa and I rode out on the road that cut through a canyon just outside of Zion National Park and made it to a town named Hurricane.
We were wet, tired, and just overall miserable. And we needed to wash everything we had, twice. We pulled into a hotel, and at $150 a night we knew that was not an option. A few days prior, we had met a lady named Dana who had invited us into her house, and at the time offered us a hot shower, a hot meal, and a “glamper” to stay in. At the time we had already planned to camp at Kolob Reservoir, and we had yet to accept the hospitality of others as we were proving to be self-sufficient.
But at that moment, we were no longer self-sufficient. We were undeniably in need of assistance. I called Dana trying not to sound as desperate as we were, and as if we were old friends, she gave us an address to meet her at, and we spent the next three days with her and her husband Bill who took on the roll of an aunt and uncle who we had not seen in a couple years.
Dana dubbed her property “Red Hen Gardens", and it was a sanctuary for an open-minded traveler. Great food, conversation, and laughter filled the days as we slowly prepared to move on. I thought to myself: If it wasn't for one completely miserable day, we would have missed out on meeting the most kind, unique, and hospitable people we have met so far.
I find myself very grateful for the short-term misery that led to a lifelong friendship. Going from such a fowl mood, to such a blissful state, I can only hope to remember that the lows that seem to last forever are only small moments that will soon be overwhelmed by the highest highs while we explore the world.
September 16, 2017
Middle USA - from plains to mountains
By Marisa This is the first part of our USA adventure, making our way from Illinois to Colorado via Missouri, Kansas, and we briefly skimmed Oklahoma and Texas as well.
Below are my personal impressions of a few of these states. Everyone's experience is different, so if you have been to any of these places and have your own thoughts about it, please comment below or through Facebook to further express the many outlooks we have collectively. Missouri
I’m not sure what I thought about Missouri going into it, but the little bit that I’ve seen has made me want to stay.
Cicadas buzz in deciduous forests surrounding trailers and cabins where hunters hang their stuffed prizes on their walls. Quaint homes with blossoming petunias decorate their porches which overlook the rolling green hills where cows roam and grasses whisper in the late summer breezes. Missouri is a hidden gem, but more like a piece of smoky Ozark quartz stuck in the mud, shrouded by the rain, surrounded by moss and insects that fly, crawl, and slither.
Sometimes the place is humming with the wild chorus of a jungle, and sometimes it’s quiet, like lazy summer fields and farms. Peaceful, inviting, its beauty can be found subtly sparkling for those who look for it, while others who just glance, only see the mud. Kansas
Flat and windy, the horizons of Kansas stretch out into the distance as I begin to wonder if the road will ever end, or if around the next hill it will turn into yellow bricks. Of course if it does, I probably won’t notice, having been sucked into a sunflower-studded daze by the monotony of the plains. And yet, there is a certain tranquility where fields of freshly-baled hay lie golden in the setting sun, and between the hills, cattle huddle under the trees for shade. It almost feels like a pastoral painting of a bygone time, maybe painted by Monet, maybe Beethoven is playing in the background, until my imaginings are swept away when we see another oil rig bobbing up and down, or a line of wind turbines crowning fields of soy and corn.
As we set up camp near yet another local high school football field, the local drunk reminisces about his bull-riding days, and glorifies his years working on oil rigs. He wears a blue plaid button-down shirt that may have once looked formal at best, but now is just as dusty and faded as everything else here. I thought because of his spitting that he was chewing tobacco, but then on closer inspection I realize that he’s just spitting, like he walked out of a Clint Eastwood movie.
He plants his hands in his jeans, and claims our motorcycle is just a modern version of his traveling cowboy days. And as we head off again under the cloud-speckled blue sky, our belongings strapped tight to our saddle bags, and the bike struggling to make headway against the incessant wind, I have to agree. Texas: northwest corner near Dalhart
I had never been to Texas, and always wanted to claim that I had, and my single night at a lonesome campground did not disappoint. The winds of the tail end of Hurricane Harvey whipped up the dust to fill the air with flying particles, and the views of the distant horizon became curtained off in a ferocious, yellowish haze. The clouds above shimmered with lightning, and then the gales tried to take away our tent, pick up the bike, and I was afraid for a moment we would be carried along with it all.
So I lay in the tent hoping to hold it down with my weight, but not sure that would work. I was silently praying for the storm to pass, wringing my hands over our phone, and impatiently waiting for the weather page with the doppler to load.
At last it did, and it turned out that we were in a narrow alley between two great arms of torrential fury. The storm passed, we survived the night, and I found that everything certainly is bigger in Texas. Colorado The Switzerland of the United States, Colorado dances to its own tune, always off-step with the rest of the country, or maybe two steps ahead of us, I’m not sure which.
The state has been trademarked and published, as if every road and street sign was carefully planned by a team of expert advertisers. Every little town has been marketed with slogans, logos, stickers, and t-shirts, as if each village is a destination in itself, its trophies are cleverly advertised in billboards and brochures.
And all this marketing must be working, because even in summer off-season, the shops of Telluride are bustling with the blond, rich, and wannabe rich (and wannabe blond) who have traded their down ski jackets for stretch yoga pants and tanning lotion. But these are the foreigners come for envying views and facebook photo-ops. The true people of Colorado are one-of-a-kind, down-to-earth, practical, rooted, and even with their high altitudes and legalized pot, I find their heads are not in the clouds. And though some may be a tad snobby about the glories of their state, maybe they have reason to be.
My relationship of Colorado has been shaped by years of venturing into its valleys and up its peaks, of meeting its unique people, some of whom have become wonderful friends of mine. Though I almost want to hate the state for their clean streets lined with four different types of recycling bins, their perfectly quaint fair-trade coffee shops, their heavenly ranches where grazing horses look just as wild and a part of the landscape as the mountains themselves.
But then we turn a corner and my breath catches in my throat, and I realize that if I lived here, I would be overly-proud, too. Maybe I have also been sucked into the great big commercial that Colorado is, because whatever it is they’re selling, I think I need one.
Below are my personal impressions of a few of these states. Everyone's experience is different, so if you have been to any of these places and have your own thoughts about it, please comment below or through Facebook to further express the many outlooks we have collectively. Missouri
I’m not sure what I thought about Missouri going into it, but the little bit that I’ve seen has made me want to stay.Cicadas buzz in deciduous forests surrounding trailers and cabins where hunters hang their stuffed prizes on their walls. Quaint homes with blossoming petunias decorate their porches which overlook the rolling green hills where cows roam and grasses whisper in the late summer breezes. Missouri is a hidden gem, but more like a piece of smoky Ozark quartz stuck in the mud, shrouded by the rain, surrounded by moss and insects that fly, crawl, and slither.
Sometimes the place is humming with the wild chorus of a jungle, and sometimes it’s quiet, like lazy summer fields and farms. Peaceful, inviting, its beauty can be found subtly sparkling for those who look for it, while others who just glance, only see the mud. Kansas
Flat and windy, the horizons of Kansas stretch out into the distance as I begin to wonder if the road will ever end, or if around the next hill it will turn into yellow bricks. Of course if it does, I probably won’t notice, having been sucked into a sunflower-studded daze by the monotony of the plains. And yet, there is a certain tranquility where fields of freshly-baled hay lie golden in the setting sun, and between the hills, cattle huddle under the trees for shade. It almost feels like a pastoral painting of a bygone time, maybe painted by Monet, maybe Beethoven is playing in the background, until my imaginings are swept away when we see another oil rig bobbing up and down, or a line of wind turbines crowning fields of soy and corn.As we set up camp near yet another local high school football field, the local drunk reminisces about his bull-riding days, and glorifies his years working on oil rigs. He wears a blue plaid button-down shirt that may have once looked formal at best, but now is just as dusty and faded as everything else here. I thought because of his spitting that he was chewing tobacco, but then on closer inspection I realize that he’s just spitting, like he walked out of a Clint Eastwood movie.
He plants his hands in his jeans, and claims our motorcycle is just a modern version of his traveling cowboy days. And as we head off again under the cloud-speckled blue sky, our belongings strapped tight to our saddle bags, and the bike struggling to make headway against the incessant wind, I have to agree. Texas: northwest corner near Dalhart
I had never been to Texas, and always wanted to claim that I had, and my single night at a lonesome campground did not disappoint. The winds of the tail end of Hurricane Harvey whipped up the dust to fill the air with flying particles, and the views of the distant horizon became curtained off in a ferocious, yellowish haze. The clouds above shimmered with lightning, and then the gales tried to take away our tent, pick up the bike, and I was afraid for a moment we would be carried along with it all.So I lay in the tent hoping to hold it down with my weight, but not sure that would work. I was silently praying for the storm to pass, wringing my hands over our phone, and impatiently waiting for the weather page with the doppler to load.
At last it did, and it turned out that we were in a narrow alley between two great arms of torrential fury. The storm passed, we survived the night, and I found that everything certainly is bigger in Texas. Colorado The Switzerland of the United States, Colorado dances to its own tune, always off-step with the rest of the country, or maybe two steps ahead of us, I’m not sure which.
The state has been trademarked and published, as if every road and street sign was carefully planned by a team of expert advertisers. Every little town has been marketed with slogans, logos, stickers, and t-shirts, as if each village is a destination in itself, its trophies are cleverly advertised in billboards and brochures.
And all this marketing must be working, because even in summer off-season, the shops of Telluride are bustling with the blond, rich, and wannabe rich (and wannabe blond) who have traded their down ski jackets for stretch yoga pants and tanning lotion. But these are the foreigners come for envying views and facebook photo-ops. The true people of Colorado are one-of-a-kind, down-to-earth, practical, rooted, and even with their high altitudes and legalized pot, I find their heads are not in the clouds. And though some may be a tad snobby about the glories of their state, maybe they have reason to be.
My relationship of Colorado has been shaped by years of venturing into its valleys and up its peaks, of meeting its unique people, some of whom have become wonderful friends of mine. Though I almost want to hate the state for their clean streets lined with four different types of recycling bins, their perfectly quaint fair-trade coffee shops, their heavenly ranches where grazing horses look just as wild and a part of the landscape as the mountains themselves.
But then we turn a corner and my breath catches in my throat, and I realize that if I lived here, I would be overly-proud, too. Maybe I have also been sucked into the great big commercial that Colorado is, because whatever it is they’re selling, I think I need one.
September 6, 2017
Positives
By Tim Notier The last couple posts have illuminated the struggles we have had, but every problem has led to a better understanding on how to solve them as a team. We will be the only two members of this team for a very long time, and hopefully every so often be assisted by the generosity of others.
Problem: Started the trip without a driver’s license.
Resolution: Because the residents of the place I used as my mailing address were out of town, the neighbors watched the mail until it arrived, and mailed it directly to me. I am forever indebted to them, because starting a round-the-world trip on a motorcycle without a driver's license is not recommended.
P: My external hard drive crashed prior to leaving.
R: Bought a solid state external drive and was able to hack into the old one and transfer all my files.
P: The general inspection of my bike was taking a week longer than told, biting into our timeline.
R: Got the bike back with the limited amount of work that they were able to do and moved on (this did lead to other problems that I am currently trying to resolve).
There is a list of minor things that just weren’t going my way that seemed to add to the stress of the larger problems at hand. Luckily, most of the major problems/strings of bad luck have been solved prior to us leaving the States.
I hope no one thinks I am not appreciating this trip as the incredible gift it is. Yes, there are nightmare situations, but they are only brief moments in the dream we are participating in on a daily basis.
Highlights as of today:Seeing the solar eclipse in all of its glory on a clear day while spending time with my brother and his family.Watching Marisa read a book by a campfire while I lay in a hammock.Drinking coffee on the bank of the Rio Grande observing a family of otters play.Listening to Guns n Roses and Nine Inch Nails (which I haven’t done in 15 years) while driving through amazing scenery.Seeing the look in Marisa’s eyes when we visit sites like Mesa Verde, the Taos Pueblos, or spotting Bighorn Sheep within 20 feet as we hiked.Waking up every day knowing Marisa and I will experience magnificent things that will strengthen us as a team, and give us a new outlook of the places we visit.
Through our own teamwork, and with the assistance of strangers and friends, we have tackled every problem successfully we have come across. I hope this trend continues as more problems will inevitably arise.
Problem: Started the trip without a driver’s license.
Resolution: Because the residents of the place I used as my mailing address were out of town, the neighbors watched the mail until it arrived, and mailed it directly to me. I am forever indebted to them, because starting a round-the-world trip on a motorcycle without a driver's license is not recommended.
P: My external hard drive crashed prior to leaving.
R: Bought a solid state external drive and was able to hack into the old one and transfer all my files.
P: The general inspection of my bike was taking a week longer than told, biting into our timeline.
R: Got the bike back with the limited amount of work that they were able to do and moved on (this did lead to other problems that I am currently trying to resolve).
There is a list of minor things that just weren’t going my way that seemed to add to the stress of the larger problems at hand. Luckily, most of the major problems/strings of bad luck have been solved prior to us leaving the States.
I hope no one thinks I am not appreciating this trip as the incredible gift it is. Yes, there are nightmare situations, but they are only brief moments in the dream we are participating in on a daily basis.Highlights as of today:Seeing the solar eclipse in all of its glory on a clear day while spending time with my brother and his family.Watching Marisa read a book by a campfire while I lay in a hammock.Drinking coffee on the bank of the Rio Grande observing a family of otters play.Listening to Guns n Roses and Nine Inch Nails (which I haven’t done in 15 years) while driving through amazing scenery.Seeing the look in Marisa’s eyes when we visit sites like Mesa Verde, the Taos Pueblos, or spotting Bighorn Sheep within 20 feet as we hiked.Waking up every day knowing Marisa and I will experience magnificent things that will strengthen us as a team, and give us a new outlook of the places we visit.
Through our own teamwork, and with the assistance of strangers and friends, we have tackled every problem successfully we have come across. I hope this trend continues as more problems will inevitably arise.
August 29, 2017
Deal or No Dealer: 99 Problems Part 2
By Tim Notier Marisa and I have had a lovely time traveling through Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, Colorado, and New Mexico. In our short time on the road we have experienced near tornado-like conditions, rain and hail while riding down a mountain road that had more wet clay to it than gravel, and fire ants and roly-polies continuously getting into our helmets which meant Marisa freaking out... the stuff adventures are made of.
We worked as a team in all of the above scenarios, except for the roly-polies in Marisa's helmet, that was her battle. But on only the third day did we hit our first “oh-no" moment.
We were in Meade, Kansas on a Sunday afternoon for a lunch stop, and I was doing my standard walk around of the bike to be sure nothing was blatantly wrong. But something was blatantly wrong.
“We have a problem,” I told Marisa. She jumped off the phone and came running over.
I pointed to where the chain had been eating into the rear tire on the bike, leaving long sweeping gouges in the sidewall of the tire. I stared at it for half an hour as different friendly folk would walk up wondering what I was doing. The chain did not align with the guide from the sprocket, and kept wanting to pull right, into the tire.
One of the onlookers (Tracy, I am forever grateful for your assistance) stated he thought the sprocket was installed on the wrong side of the assembly.
That couldn't be it, I thought. It was just installed by a KTM dealership two weeks before. Maybe it was the lack of a spacer, or worn bearings... or the axle wasn't tightened all the way. I wasn't sure.
Luckily, I had downloaded the schematics/repair manual as a PDF on my computer prior to leaving. I looked at the breakdown of the sprocket assembly, and sure enough, the bastards installed it on the wrong side of the hub. A KTM dealer! A place of business that specifies in the functionality and repair of the very bike I own.
I am aware that mistakes happen, humans do stupid things, but the whole experience with this particular dealership was bad from the moment I said hello. They didn't stock anything, so it was a 3 week lead time to get the OEM chain and sprocket assembly. I bought one online instead, and it arrived in 3 days. Finally, the new chain guide, sprocket, and chain were all assembled by the dealership as new, and I rode away excited to be rid of their poor customer service or understanding of what I wished to be done to the bike. And I assumed the services they did provide were performed correctly.
Of course, I was wrong.
It turned out that they stock no goods, and the service was potentially life-threatening.
“Gross negligence, incompetence, and the endangerment of our lives," were the words I so elegantly told the mechanic over the phone. I didn't mean to overreact, but I am not sure what would have happened if the chain ate through the sidewall of the tire while riding 65mph fully loaded, and two up. In fact, I don't want to think about it.
I am currently in an email war with the dealership, pictures have been sent, details of how it was installed vs. how it should have been, a clear and cut case that should have immediately ended in an, “Oh my God, we are so sorry Mr. Notier” is now being stretched out with a lack of any ownership or resolution.
But overall, great trip so far. I am glad that Marisa and I have been able to get ourselves out of some pretty crappy situations. We fixed a broken chair, cleaned and reassembled our stove when it acted funny, and most importantly, had the tools and references to fix a potentially trip-ending mechanical error.
And I give many thanks to the kindness of strangers: Tracy, who let us use his driveway for repairs, in much needed shade, while his wife offered us ice water and good conversation. Tracy got his hands just as greasy and grimy as mine while helping me correct the issue at hand.
It has only been around a week's worth of travel, but it has proved we can pass certain tests, as small as most of them have been, and it proves we will be an unbeatable team when life throws a wrench (or a sprocket) at us.
We worked as a team in all of the above scenarios, except for the roly-polies in Marisa's helmet, that was her battle. But on only the third day did we hit our first “oh-no" moment.
We were in Meade, Kansas on a Sunday afternoon for a lunch stop, and I was doing my standard walk around of the bike to be sure nothing was blatantly wrong. But something was blatantly wrong.
“We have a problem,” I told Marisa. She jumped off the phone and came running over.
I pointed to where the chain had been eating into the rear tire on the bike, leaving long sweeping gouges in the sidewall of the tire. I stared at it for half an hour as different friendly folk would walk up wondering what I was doing. The chain did not align with the guide from the sprocket, and kept wanting to pull right, into the tire.
One of the onlookers (Tracy, I am forever grateful for your assistance) stated he thought the sprocket was installed on the wrong side of the assembly.That couldn't be it, I thought. It was just installed by a KTM dealership two weeks before. Maybe it was the lack of a spacer, or worn bearings... or the axle wasn't tightened all the way. I wasn't sure.
Luckily, I had downloaded the schematics/repair manual as a PDF on my computer prior to leaving. I looked at the breakdown of the sprocket assembly, and sure enough, the bastards installed it on the wrong side of the hub. A KTM dealer! A place of business that specifies in the functionality and repair of the very bike I own.
I am aware that mistakes happen, humans do stupid things, but the whole experience with this particular dealership was bad from the moment I said hello. They didn't stock anything, so it was a 3 week lead time to get the OEM chain and sprocket assembly. I bought one online instead, and it arrived in 3 days. Finally, the new chain guide, sprocket, and chain were all assembled by the dealership as new, and I rode away excited to be rid of their poor customer service or understanding of what I wished to be done to the bike. And I assumed the services they did provide were performed correctly.
Of course, I was wrong.
It turned out that they stock no goods, and the service was potentially life-threatening.
“Gross negligence, incompetence, and the endangerment of our lives," were the words I so elegantly told the mechanic over the phone. I didn't mean to overreact, but I am not sure what would have happened if the chain ate through the sidewall of the tire while riding 65mph fully loaded, and two up. In fact, I don't want to think about it.
I am currently in an email war with the dealership, pictures have been sent, details of how it was installed vs. how it should have been, a clear and cut case that should have immediately ended in an, “Oh my God, we are so sorry Mr. Notier” is now being stretched out with a lack of any ownership or resolution.
But overall, great trip so far. I am glad that Marisa and I have been able to get ourselves out of some pretty crappy situations. We fixed a broken chair, cleaned and reassembled our stove when it acted funny, and most importantly, had the tools and references to fix a potentially trip-ending mechanical error.
And I give many thanks to the kindness of strangers: Tracy, who let us use his driveway for repairs, in much needed shade, while his wife offered us ice water and good conversation. Tracy got his hands just as greasy and grimy as mine while helping me correct the issue at hand.
It has only been around a week's worth of travel, but it has proved we can pass certain tests, as small as most of them have been, and it proves we will be an unbeatable team when life throws a wrench (or a sprocket) at us.
August 22, 2017
99 Problems and My Bike is One
By Tim Notier Hit me. Our grand adventure is about to begin. In preparation, I gave us five weeks to get the final arrangements in order. We needed to accomplish a small list before we could hit the open road.Marisa and I needed to transfer the title of our bike from Arkansas and get licenses and state IDs to reflect Illinois as our “legal residence” even though we were technically homeless. I needed to take my bike to the dealership. There were 25k miles on its current chain and sprockets, and something weird was happening around 4500rpm in third, forth, and fifth gear. The bike seemed to choke up and struggle to accelerate, not very awesome when merging from an on-ramp into fast moving traffic. I also noticed what seemed to be oil gathering around a gasket on the engine.We had to transfer our money to debit accounts that would be accepted world-wide.
Then the flood gates of problems opened.
I had to use the house we rented to Marisa's parents as our residence, as it was the only address that had my name attached to it in Illinois. The documents were old, but with a little photoshop, I made all the dates current. The people at the DMV told me my IDs and title would be sent there in two to three weeks. Plenty of time, right?
With one task in motion, I called the local KTM dealership and explained my wish list for a bike check-up. They stated they couldn't get me in for two weeks. Nothing I could do about that, so I had them put me in the books.
In the following two weeks, we set up our new bank accounts that would best fit our travels, put a sum of money into CDs that would mature in a year, and I changed the fuel filter in the fuel pump, hoping that might have been a factor in the engine struggling to fly through the gears like I was used to. Most importantly, we were able to spend some quality time with family and friends.
Finally it was the day to bring my motorcycle into KTM, and they informed me the OEM chain was on backorder for three more weeks. I was frustrated, I had waited two weeks to find out I had to wait three additional weeks with no notification. I told them to run down the rest of the list, and I ordered my own OEM chain online so that it would arrive in under a week.
Now I started to get nervous about my driver's license, IDs, and bike title coming in the mail because it had been three weeks. Marisa had already received her identification, but she was listed as a male on her driver’s license. Awesome…
The Secretary of State’s website confirmed that an attempted delivery had been made, but then returned to sender. I didn’t understand why because I had updated my permanent address on USPS.com to reflect our house. A quick call to the local post office stated I failed to inform them on a local level, and that they still had on file to forward and return mail to the sender from when I moved to Arkansas two years ago. Apparently, I did not directly inform Bob, the neighborhood carrier.
So that meant my drivers license, state ID, the title to the bike, and my bank cards were all returned to sender.
The issue was corrected, and the same documents would be mailed out between two and three weeks. That timeframe was cutting into our departure date. The total solar eclipse that marked our journey’s official start date on August 21st was a week and a half away. Now I realized it was time to start worrying.
I received the OEM chain and sprocket set, so I headed back to KTM. I dropped the parts off only to find out they had not ordered the chain guide as of yet, and it would be another week until they received it in. They had also not looked at the bike for her “bill of health”.
This was particularly disconcerting because at that moment I did not have a license nor a motorcycle, and we were just around a week away from our scheduled riding around the world on a motorcycle departure date. We were running out of time.
It had been an entire month of daily frustration, disappointments, and false promises that ate away at me while neglecting to reflect on the big picture. I was pissy and stubborn to Marisa, I acted like a child who did not get what he wanted that very second. The whole month I was surrounded by love and support, friendships and family, but chose to focus only on the seemingly never-ending relentless attacks against me and my personal goals.
Marisa not only dealt with me, but was the guiding light to get me back on track to the reality of what we were about to do and how lucky we truly were. I would complain that nothing was going as it should as she calmly explained that we would have to adapt and figure out problems on-the-fly.
“You’re going to do great, love,” she said with a smile. “My mom just texted me, still no mail for you.”
“Big picture, Tim,” I said to myself aloud.
. . . To Be Continued . . .
Then the flood gates of problems opened.
I had to use the house we rented to Marisa's parents as our residence, as it was the only address that had my name attached to it in Illinois. The documents were old, but with a little photoshop, I made all the dates current. The people at the DMV told me my IDs and title would be sent there in two to three weeks. Plenty of time, right?With one task in motion, I called the local KTM dealership and explained my wish list for a bike check-up. They stated they couldn't get me in for two weeks. Nothing I could do about that, so I had them put me in the books.
In the following two weeks, we set up our new bank accounts that would best fit our travels, put a sum of money into CDs that would mature in a year, and I changed the fuel filter in the fuel pump, hoping that might have been a factor in the engine struggling to fly through the gears like I was used to. Most importantly, we were able to spend some quality time with family and friends.
Finally it was the day to bring my motorcycle into KTM, and they informed me the OEM chain was on backorder for three more weeks. I was frustrated, I had waited two weeks to find out I had to wait three additional weeks with no notification. I told them to run down the rest of the list, and I ordered my own OEM chain online so that it would arrive in under a week.
Now I started to get nervous about my driver's license, IDs, and bike title coming in the mail because it had been three weeks. Marisa had already received her identification, but she was listed as a male on her driver’s license. Awesome…
The Secretary of State’s website confirmed that an attempted delivery had been made, but then returned to sender. I didn’t understand why because I had updated my permanent address on USPS.com to reflect our house. A quick call to the local post office stated I failed to inform them on a local level, and that they still had on file to forward and return mail to the sender from when I moved to Arkansas two years ago. Apparently, I did not directly inform Bob, the neighborhood carrier.
So that meant my drivers license, state ID, the title to the bike, and my bank cards were all returned to sender.
The issue was corrected, and the same documents would be mailed out between two and three weeks. That timeframe was cutting into our departure date. The total solar eclipse that marked our journey’s official start date on August 21st was a week and a half away. Now I realized it was time to start worrying.
I received the OEM chain and sprocket set, so I headed back to KTM. I dropped the parts off only to find out they had not ordered the chain guide as of yet, and it would be another week until they received it in. They had also not looked at the bike for her “bill of health”.
This was particularly disconcerting because at that moment I did not have a license nor a motorcycle, and we were just around a week away from our scheduled riding around the world on a motorcycle departure date. We were running out of time.
It had been an entire month of daily frustration, disappointments, and false promises that ate away at me while neglecting to reflect on the big picture. I was pissy and stubborn to Marisa, I acted like a child who did not get what he wanted that very second. The whole month I was surrounded by love and support, friendships and family, but chose to focus only on the seemingly never-ending relentless attacks against me and my personal goals.
Marisa not only dealt with me, but was the guiding light to get me back on track to the reality of what we were about to do and how lucky we truly were. I would complain that nothing was going as it should as she calmly explained that we would have to adapt and figure out problems on-the-fly.
“You’re going to do great, love,” she said with a smile. “My mom just texted me, still no mail for you.”
“Big picture, Tim,” I said to myself aloud.
. . . To Be Continued . . .
July 24, 2017
Test-Run Around Lake Michigan
By Tim Notier It only took two weeks on the bike around Lake Michigan to figure out that we need to lose a lot of gear. It's one thing to go through your belongings and think about what you'll need on a three-year trip around the world, and it's another thing to actually pack it all on and ride around. The bike becomes heavy and unmanageable, especially on rough roads, and the gas mileage drastically worsens. But that was why we took this test-run trip, to figure out what we need to add or lose (more like lose) for our real journey. The trip was incredible, and full of swimming, camping, and fires on the beach with friends. We had a wonderful time, and learned a valuable lesson, and will now be heading off into the unknown a little smarter than we were before. Our main problem was we were top heavy. All of our gear had a perfect place to fit, accessibility was based on its priority to us. Our Pelican case was weather resistant and lockable to store our electronics, but it elevated our main bag 8". It was hard to say we needed to get rid it of because of the security from both the weather and would-be thieves, but, it elevated the weight of our other gear and seemed to double the weight of our main bag because of its height.
Gear will now need to be reduced and relocated to new permanent homes, but the standard picture that comes to mind of Adv bikes having a rear bag, two panniers, and two dry bags on top of each pannier will be the set-up we will try next. It seems the reason we saw so many pictures of adventure motorcycles set up in this way is because it makes the best balance between storage and weight distribution.
We will be making the proper adjustments and hope that our adjustments will be just right for the real trip. We better get it right now, because this is our last chance. We will be setting off in three weeks!
Gear will now need to be reduced and relocated to new permanent homes, but the standard picture that comes to mind of Adv bikes having a rear bag, two panniers, and two dry bags on top of each pannier will be the set-up we will try next. It seems the reason we saw so many pictures of adventure motorcycles set up in this way is because it makes the best balance between storage and weight distribution.
We will be making the proper adjustments and hope that our adjustments will be just right for the real trip. We better get it right now, because this is our last chance. We will be setting off in three weeks!
June 13, 2017
5 Rules for Rough Camping Successfully
By Marisa 
Tim and I went camping in the Ouachita National Forest to put our new gear to the test. We had a newly purchased Nemo tent, air pad mattresses, and a water purifier pump to get down and dirty with. We also wanted to test Tim's never-ending improvements to the way he packs everything onto the bike.
So we headed out with just the gear on the bike, and found the most amazing spot in the mountains complete with a cave and a nearby stream.
I have rough camped in all sorts of places, but each and every time is a new experience. So I wanted to be sure we would have the proper equipment to do this in, and to start building the expertise to be confident we would survive the elements once we are out in the true wilds of the world, not just an hour from home.
While testing our gear, I came up with a short check list that Tim and I should go through while on the road. 1) Do Your Research (when available) What I mean by this is first, figure out the laws concerning camping in the area you wish to go to, and make sure it's legal before you get out there. We never want to wake up to police writing us a citation, or a farmer with a shotgun yelling, Y'all best be moving along down the road now, ya hear?
Second, check the weather. This may seem obvious, but mother nature can either make or break sections of the trip, and you don't want to assume anything.
The first time I'd ever camped without a tent was in the sand dunes of Wadi Araba in Jordan. I remember wrapping myself in my blanket (it was actually a donkey saddle pad with a nice odor to it), looking up at the stars thinking, Ah, it's so nice there's no rain in the desert. But of course it rained on me that night, not terribly hard, but enough to make me think twice about my assumptions of weather. So never think you know, and look up the weather before you go. Delaying the next leg of the trip by a day or two may lead to a much more enjoyable continuation to the journey.
And finally, check and double check your GPS and maps on where you're going. You don't want to turn your camping weekend into a camping month when you can't find your way out of there.
2) Worry about Water Before you go, purchase a water purifying pump, and then if at all possible, try to set up camp with a stream or spring nearby so that you'll have a constant supply of drinking water. And keep in mind that water is necessary not just for drinking, but also cooking, washing your hands, doing dishes, brushing your teeth... the cleaner you can stay while camping, the better you'll feel when there.
If you're going to be in a place with no surface water, then you'll have to haul in your own. They say to bring at least eight liters of water per person per day, and from my own experience, this is no joke nor an exaggeration. Because in the right climate, such as a dry hot desert, I've gone through that in less than a day and felt I would die of thirst without more. And a lack of water is statistically the quickest way to die in the wilderness.
Extra Tips: Drinking all your water at once will actually sustain you longer than taking little sips. Most lost hikers who die from thirst are found with a little water left in their canteens. To conserve water, travel at night, not day, and cover up when in the sun. 3) Plan Your Meals
Unless you're a world champ fisherman, you may want to pack some food for your trip. And even if you are Garth the Gatherer, packing emergency reserves is wise, since I've heard horror stories about people who thought they'd catch what they needed, and then just ended up starving for two weeks in the woods. Very unwise.
Dehydrated foods and MRE's are great and pack light. Rice, pasta, beans, and other dried foods can also be good, but just take into account the amount of water and fuel needed to cook them. Everyone loves a good hotdog roasted over the fire, but meats are only good for so long without refrigeration. I like to buy frozen foods in the morning, and usually they'll be thawed and perfect for cooking by dinner, but that's only good for day one.
Other thoughts about food: pots and pans are huge, but a roll of tin foil and a few potatoes can go a long way. Any food and other smelly items (such as toothpaste, deodorant, soap) should be tied up in a tree at night to keep safe from raccoons and bears. So don't forget your twine or rope, and make sure the tree is far from your tent so you're not in a predator's way. 4) Think About Fuel for Fire
No camping trip would be complete without a campfire. The majority of the time when in the wild, purchasing firewood will not be an option, so you'll be scrounging from the landscape. And if you're not in the right environment, your firewood foraging could add to the destruction of the nature that you're there for.
What's worse, if it's too dry out, campfires can cause wilderness fires which are dangerous and may completely destroy vast sections of forest. You don't want to be the person on the nightly news who burnt down the park. Plus, you can be fined or even arrested for breaking a burn ban. So check those burn warnings before heading out, and bring what you need while keeping your fires cozy and small. 5) Learn How to Poop in the Woods Tim's biggest fear: pooping in the woods, and sorry, I don't really have a picture to show for this one. There is this myth and fear that Westerners who are used to toilets cannot poop while squatting. I had been told this before my first sojourn into the woods, and on the first night on the Appalachian Trail (which actually has some outhouses, but I didn't know at the time), I found a log, sat over it, and made a big mess of everything. Then I learned how to squat and the world was right once more.
If you've never squatted in the woods before, practice at home by squatting with your feet flat (not baseball catcher style on your toes). But unless you have some squat toilet in your house or hole in the backyard you'd like to try out, the real deal is very hard to practice. But if you can muster the courage to squat while out in the wilderness, bring some toilet paper, and bring water and soap if you'd like, and you may find it's not so bad after all. Not nearly as bad as some bathrooms you've been in, I'm sure.
Shovels are useful because nothing's worse than the smell of human feces. Plus, burying it feels a bit like flushing. Also if you can, try to burn your toilet paper, because as I found in the outback of Australia, every night dingoes would dig up our excrement-covered toilet paper and drag it all around camp, I have no idea why. And don't forget that you may pee at the same time as doing number two, so be prepared for that.
I successfully potty trained Tim while in the woods, using the same encouraging words you would to a three year old. "Good job!" and "Did you remember to burry it?" and "I am so proud of you!" There are few things on this earth more stubborn than Tim, so if he can do it, the rest of you are a sure bet.
Those were my 5 most important tips for successfully rough camping. Please leave your comments below, tell us your mistakes, successes, and horror stories, and let me know if you have any more words of advice.
Happy camping! Check out our short video highlighting the water and nature of our latest camping trip: roughing it in the Ouachita Mountains of Arkansas.
Tim and I went camping in the Ouachita National Forest to put our new gear to the test. We had a newly purchased Nemo tent, air pad mattresses, and a water purifier pump to get down and dirty with. We also wanted to test Tim's never-ending improvements to the way he packs everything onto the bike.So we headed out with just the gear on the bike, and found the most amazing spot in the mountains complete with a cave and a nearby stream.
I have rough camped in all sorts of places, but each and every time is a new experience. So I wanted to be sure we would have the proper equipment to do this in, and to start building the expertise to be confident we would survive the elements once we are out in the true wilds of the world, not just an hour from home.
While testing our gear, I came up with a short check list that Tim and I should go through while on the road. 1) Do Your Research (when available) What I mean by this is first, figure out the laws concerning camping in the area you wish to go to, and make sure it's legal before you get out there. We never want to wake up to police writing us a citation, or a farmer with a shotgun yelling, Y'all best be moving along down the road now, ya hear?
Second, check the weather. This may seem obvious, but mother nature can either make or break sections of the trip, and you don't want to assume anything.
The first time I'd ever camped without a tent was in the sand dunes of Wadi Araba in Jordan. I remember wrapping myself in my blanket (it was actually a donkey saddle pad with a nice odor to it), looking up at the stars thinking, Ah, it's so nice there's no rain in the desert. But of course it rained on me that night, not terribly hard, but enough to make me think twice about my assumptions of weather. So never think you know, and look up the weather before you go. Delaying the next leg of the trip by a day or two may lead to a much more enjoyable continuation to the journey.
And finally, check and double check your GPS and maps on where you're going. You don't want to turn your camping weekend into a camping month when you can't find your way out of there.
2) Worry about Water Before you go, purchase a water purifying pump, and then if at all possible, try to set up camp with a stream or spring nearby so that you'll have a constant supply of drinking water. And keep in mind that water is necessary not just for drinking, but also cooking, washing your hands, doing dishes, brushing your teeth... the cleaner you can stay while camping, the better you'll feel when there.If you're going to be in a place with no surface water, then you'll have to haul in your own. They say to bring at least eight liters of water per person per day, and from my own experience, this is no joke nor an exaggeration. Because in the right climate, such as a dry hot desert, I've gone through that in less than a day and felt I would die of thirst without more. And a lack of water is statistically the quickest way to die in the wilderness.
Extra Tips: Drinking all your water at once will actually sustain you longer than taking little sips. Most lost hikers who die from thirst are found with a little water left in their canteens. To conserve water, travel at night, not day, and cover up when in the sun. 3) Plan Your Meals
Unless you're a world champ fisherman, you may want to pack some food for your trip. And even if you are Garth the Gatherer, packing emergency reserves is wise, since I've heard horror stories about people who thought they'd catch what they needed, and then just ended up starving for two weeks in the woods. Very unwise.Dehydrated foods and MRE's are great and pack light. Rice, pasta, beans, and other dried foods can also be good, but just take into account the amount of water and fuel needed to cook them. Everyone loves a good hotdog roasted over the fire, but meats are only good for so long without refrigeration. I like to buy frozen foods in the morning, and usually they'll be thawed and perfect for cooking by dinner, but that's only good for day one.
Other thoughts about food: pots and pans are huge, but a roll of tin foil and a few potatoes can go a long way. Any food and other smelly items (such as toothpaste, deodorant, soap) should be tied up in a tree at night to keep safe from raccoons and bears. So don't forget your twine or rope, and make sure the tree is far from your tent so you're not in a predator's way. 4) Think About Fuel for Fire
No camping trip would be complete without a campfire. The majority of the time when in the wild, purchasing firewood will not be an option, so you'll be scrounging from the landscape. And if you're not in the right environment, your firewood foraging could add to the destruction of the nature that you're there for. What's worse, if it's too dry out, campfires can cause wilderness fires which are dangerous and may completely destroy vast sections of forest. You don't want to be the person on the nightly news who burnt down the park. Plus, you can be fined or even arrested for breaking a burn ban. So check those burn warnings before heading out, and bring what you need while keeping your fires cozy and small. 5) Learn How to Poop in the Woods Tim's biggest fear: pooping in the woods, and sorry, I don't really have a picture to show for this one. There is this myth and fear that Westerners who are used to toilets cannot poop while squatting. I had been told this before my first sojourn into the woods, and on the first night on the Appalachian Trail (which actually has some outhouses, but I didn't know at the time), I found a log, sat over it, and made a big mess of everything. Then I learned how to squat and the world was right once more.
If you've never squatted in the woods before, practice at home by squatting with your feet flat (not baseball catcher style on your toes). But unless you have some squat toilet in your house or hole in the backyard you'd like to try out, the real deal is very hard to practice. But if you can muster the courage to squat while out in the wilderness, bring some toilet paper, and bring water and soap if you'd like, and you may find it's not so bad after all. Not nearly as bad as some bathrooms you've been in, I'm sure.
Shovels are useful because nothing's worse than the smell of human feces. Plus, burying it feels a bit like flushing. Also if you can, try to burn your toilet paper, because as I found in the outback of Australia, every night dingoes would dig up our excrement-covered toilet paper and drag it all around camp, I have no idea why. And don't forget that you may pee at the same time as doing number two, so be prepared for that.
I successfully potty trained Tim while in the woods, using the same encouraging words you would to a three year old. "Good job!" and "Did you remember to burry it?" and "I am so proud of you!" There are few things on this earth more stubborn than Tim, so if he can do it, the rest of you are a sure bet.
Those were my 5 most important tips for successfully rough camping. Please leave your comments below, tell us your mistakes, successes, and horror stories, and let me know if you have any more words of advice.Happy camping! Check out our short video highlighting the water and nature of our latest camping trip: roughing it in the Ouachita Mountains of Arkansas.
