Day 4 – Magruder

Our run at Magruder Corridor was met with the worst weather yet. A short jaunt over the state line put us in Montana for the first time where helicopter logging kept us entertained over the pass. The bitter cold forced a stop at the summit of Chief Joseph Pass where the luggage was raided for every scrap of clothing, including rain gear – anything to help block the low-30s temperatures and biting wind. It was a quick break as Conner and the entry to Magruder Corridor were only miles away.

In layman’s terms, the Corridor connects Elk City, Idaho with Darby, Montana. The bulk of it consists of Forest Road (FR) 468 with stretches of rough pavement at either end. Originally our plan was to attack it from the west, our natural direction of travel, but ultimately our path was reversed after a call to the Nez Perce NF Supervisor’s Office informed us that the road was closed at Nez Perce Pass. The pass is only 30 miles from the eastern endpoint in Conner, which means if we were turned around there, our machines might not have the fuel to make it all the way back to Elk City. Hence, our winding route of the days prior.

The road into Nez Perce Pass was exactly what the BMW was engineered for - full of holes, dips, wood debris, fallen rocks, broken and uneven sections and serpentine as a Western Hog-Nosed snake. It was hardly any time before we reached the pass and our hopes soared as there wasn’t a single ounce of snow along the way. It seemed as though our sources were misinformed. Pavement immediately gave way to dirt and the two bikes enjoyed a road full of small potholes, but no worse than much of what we’d already encountered. We stopped at the Ranger Station, just a few buildings nestled in a small opening, to see if there was better information to be had. Nobody was around so we shrugged through the drizzle and began the real climb into a mountain shrouded in low, dreary clouds.

The passageway has existed in its current form since 1930 when it was constructed by the Civilian Conservation Corps. It’s been called many things over the years, but sourced its Magruder title from the grisly murder of Lloyd Magruder and four others. About 60 miles along, in the midst of a large beetle kill and burn area, there is a sign commemorating the event. We paused to read the wooden plaque but hopped back on the road, fully expecting to make it to Elk City. Unfortunately, after only another mile of soft soil with embedded rocks, we suddenly ran into another deposit of frozen precipitation. We also had to work our way around a downed tree, indicating that cleanup efforts had not progressed beyond the Magruder Massacre site. The snow itself wasn’t deep, but it was very soft, as was the muddy soil underneath. Chilly fought through another half-mile on the 690 before reporting back that conditions were the same for at least that distance, and likely more. We had wanted it to be a difficult crossing and that’s exactly what we got. There’s little doubt in our minds that we would have been able to bull through if equipped with a pair of 690s, but the laden 800 with mild tires just wasn’t cut out for it.

The way back to Conner marked our longest and most fruitless retreat. Fortunately, a brown bear and moose with calf made an appearance, so the 120-mile detour wasn’t entirely wasted. Besides, there was no way we were going to scrap it on account of bad weather after traveling all that way. Such poor visibility made it hard to appreciate that Magruder has the distinction of dividing the 1.2 million-acre Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness and 2.3-million-acre Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness. It’s been called the wildest road in America as a result. In a creative sense, perhaps yes, but when the rubber meets the dirt, “wild” is hardly an accurate description. Of the portion we covered, only one small washout would have been impassible in my stock 4WD Toyota Tacoma. The territory is rough, services nonexistent and scenery lonesome, but the actual condition of the road is very good, especially considering how early we attempted it and that maintenance crews had yet to make a full pass.

The wind was officially out of our sails and the crappy weather was doing little to help. We had left the next day open so that Chilly could help with final details for the Selkirks Rally in Sandpoint, ID, and I figured it would be a good chance to catch up on a little work. Hwy 200 was the only beacon of excitement to look forward to as it wound along the river through Thompson Falls and straight into our destination. But, knowing that we wouldn’t get any good photos in the ashen light and the dulled scenery, I opted to wait for the next day before sampling the sinuous strip and rode the extra distance up to Kalispell to stay with an old baseball buddy and his wife.

Day 5 – Glacier Water and Huckleberry Pie

Being that it was something of a day off, an extra hour of sleep and a relaxed morning to get caught up on emails and savor a pot of dark-brewed coffee was in order. My hosts were the proud owners of a Honda VTX 1300 cruiser, so new it was barely broken in, and we all decided to make a quick run to nearby Glacier National Park. The summit at Logan Pass was closed, so I steeled myself for another bout of backtracking. But, I figured “what the hell,” it isn’t like I’m going to be that close to the park anytime soon. It was an easy ride and the park was celebrating its centennial. Apparently the caretakers of the gorgeous region decided that 100 years was a good enough reason to repave, so the road was smooth, smelly and shorter even than we had anticipated – only about 10 miles worth.

After leaving I was determined to give my travel-weary soul a boost in the form of huckleberry pie with a dollop of vanilla ice cream from the Huck Jam Factory. Washed down with a cup of steamy huckleberry coffee, the sugary delight was just what I needed. Spurred by the extra calories, it was off to find dirt again with what looked like a shortcut across the Salish Mountains.
I found my way past Tally Lake and onto the dirt of FR 113. Here, the very purpose of a shortcut became null and void as I encountered scattered groups of free-ranging cattle. I would just reach third or fourth gear before downshifting again for another clump of bovine. It was a frustrating pace, but the up-close inspection of these beasts confirmed the impression that every animal I saw in Idaho and Montana were the healthiest mammals I’ve ever witnessed. Horses and cattle rippled with muscle and, despite the winter, were fat with lustrous hides.

Once free of the livestock it was rally-raid time. I bonzai’d the 800 down single-lane paved roads, rowing gears and flexing my right forearm until it hurt. A quick gas stop in Libby and then I resumed the rapid pace down Hwy 56. No more than a dozen cars went by on the tighter roads and the high-speed wallop did as much for my sense of adventure as the huckleberry overload. I finally made it to Hwy 200 for the final stretch into Sandpoint, and though the weather was beautiful, the late hour put the sun underneath the protection of my visor. The glare was murder. Blowing into my destination just north of Sandpoint on 95/N, I ran into thin, ghostly clouds in the last 15 miles that were like walking into a freezer. It felt good to get off the bike that night.

Day 6/7 – Selkirks Rally

The Selkirks Rally was hosted by Black Dog Cycle Works and Chilly had helped organize the two-day event which featured separate courses for dirt bikes and adventure bikes. Being on our larger machines, we tagged along with the latter. The first day was a long loop to the south which circled the lake before heading into the Idaho Panhandle National Forest and then wrapping back around. It was not a difficult ride and the scenery was definitely the highlight. Our crew met up at the Black Dog CW headquarters where many had pitched tents on the lawn. A bonfire, benefit auction and excellent food were on the schedule and we feasted on a smoked hog purchased from a local farm and slow-roasted for nearly 24 hours. I lodged a few miles away as a guest at Chilly’s family cabin where I discovered that my laptop had succumbed to vibration at some point over the past day or two – a traveling journalist’s worst fear.

A rousing breakfast of scrambled eggs, veggies and meat jump-started our second outing. This time we embarked on a northern circuit that crossed the Montana border and back around the Cabinet Mountains of the Kootenai National Forest. This time we had more technical riding, and I spent considerable more time on the 690 which led to some serious fun. One of my companions, a Canadian on a KTM 990 Adventure R with full knobbies, engaged in a dice that lasted on-and-off for over an hour. I would never have guessed the huge machine could be ridden like that, but in the hands of my 6’4,” 300-pound friend, there were times I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, attempt a pass. He wrung the throttle and manhandled the big Austrian in the same manner I wrestled the 690, and I paid the price for following too closely with an ungodly shower of roost. Unfortunately, I had to leave the action behind at the halfway point where Chilly and I elected to bail out down the highway. I needed to cut things short if I wanted to make it to Washington’s Tri-Cities that night and back to Oregon on schedule.

I was reluctant to leave the beauty of the panhandle, but after a week on the road and the sobering combination of looming magazine deadlines and a demolished computer hard drive from the first day of Selkirks, I was anxious to get back to Medford. I stayed as long as possible at my hosts’ cabin and was in for another stare-down with the sun as I hit Hwy 95/S and then I-90/W to Spokane.

Once I hit the state line and crossed into Washington there’s little to write about, save the wind. Jesus… the wind! I cursed the small visor on my Icon helmet, the BMW windscreen and Mother Nature herself, though the buffeting slammed me with complete disregard for aerodynamics, nor my impressive four-letter vocabulary. Passing motorists must have assumed I was slathering drunk, weaving jerkily from the center line to the shoulder. The toll extracted by something as inoffensive as moving air is cumulative and sneaky, manifesting as heavy eyelids and cloudy thoughts. Finding fuel and a hotel, off an interstate no less, turned into mental mega-struggle as I rolled late into Pasco. I finally secured a room at the Red Lion and then hit the only available food source – the Taco Bell drive thru, my plastic sack of burritos flapping from a handlebar on the way back to the hotel.

Day 8 – The Final Four… Hundred

The GS was on its third cup of coffee by the time I rolled out to join it. Again I faced the wind as I hooked in along the Columbia River, stopping only for a photo at Roosevelt Dam and fuel in Biggs. Happy to leave the blustery nightmare behind, I bailed south on one of Oregon’s major shipping routes, Hwy 97. My eyeballs were buzzing by the time I reached Bend. It had nothing to do with the Beemer’s ultra-smooth Twin, just the cumulative effects of a week-long expedition and the intoxicating nearness of home. Oregon’s central city is a great location to stop and visit at any time. I beelined it for the eccentric McMenamins Old St. Francis School in the heart of downtown where sweet potato fries and a cold, Hammerhead microbrew were waiting. I balanced the carbs with a plate of seared ahi tuna garnished in cucumber-pickled ginger and wasabi. Despite my homeward rush, I lunched in the courtyard for longer than necessary, soaking in a sunny breeze and eavesdropping on nearby conversations. It was so pleasantly relaxing that I was half tempted to order another round and inquire about vacancy, perhaps stay for an evening of tequila tasting followed by a dip in the soaking pool. But, eventually the jacket was donned and iPod plugged in for the final push to the Rogue Valley.

As it had been for the previous 15 hours in the saddle, the last leg was uneventful as I cruised past the spire of Mt. Theilsen and skirted the north and western sides of iconic Crater Lake. My digestive tract had worked hard enough by the time I reached Prospect that I ought’ve rewarded it with a slice of homemade pie from Beckie’s. But, the café was closed, so I purred down the hallway of evergreens, mindful of the elk population, before dropping into the heat of the valley floor that signaled I was home.

Among the editorial tasks, I’d set out with the goal of proving myself capable of “real” adventure touring, not the journo fluff we’re often pigeonholed into. I could have laughed at the windy return from the comfort of a van, but would never have met the Nevada rancher who spared four gallons of fuel at twilight, nor any of the other countless, ephemeral details for which this story hasn’t space. The resulting blur was a mixture of bikes, terrain and personalities; eight days, five states and almost exactly 3000 miles - in my estimation, a true adventure. The only things missing were the bad parts like mechanical woes, crashes and broken bikes and bodies – surely nothing to be missed. Somewhere between the droning highway and the seesawing off-road traverse; between the volcanic slag and majestic glaciers, I learned a few things about touring. Not the least of which is that there are multiple ways of going about it – and that progress can be made with a step backward, or sometimes even two.