Moki Dugway, San Juan County, UT

Moki Dugway (photo by Teresco.org)

The bike already weighed 890 pounds wet by itself, and then I had another 100 pounds of camping gear loaded on to it, and yet I was taking it down a 10% downgrade, descending 1,100 feet over three miles of switchbacks all on gravel road.

The truth is that I was excited to ride it, but also nervous. I mean, the bike was damn heavy.

I figured I could just go slow. That's always the safe thing, right? Except when you have other vehicles behind you, waiting to get around you, it somehow makes you want to go faster.

Seems you never know what you're made of until you push yourself to the limits.

The Moki Dugway is part of State Route 261 in south-eastern Utah. It one of those proverbial roads, "out in the middle of nowhere", and now seemingly exists more as a rite of passage for motorcyclists, seeking to test their skills. But at one time, it existed for trucks carrying uranium ore from Fry Creek to Mexican Hat.

You wonder why the State doesn't just pave this thing. But then again, why? It wouldn't be the Moki Dugway without it. Riders wouldn't go out of their way to ride it. And nearby Navajo villages like Mexican Hat would never bring in tourist dollars.

Some things are just better off leaving alone.


It was April of 2009 that I got my opportunity to ride it. I had just spent the night camping in Natural Bridges National Monument, and had awoke to find a layer of frost on my 2005 Harley-Davidson Ultra Classic Electra Glide (the second one after I totaled the first). From here, I would head south-west all day, hoping to reach the little known Grand Canyon Caverns along old Route 66.

But in my way stood Moki Dugway.

As it turned out, it wasn't the twisty, steep, gravel road that made it seem frightening. It was the amazing view.

Moki Dugway starts from atop a massive mesa nearly a quarter-mile up into the sky. You look over the edge and you can see a hundred miles into the horizon, almost like looking out the window of an airplane. When you consider how steep the decline, how narrow the road, and how slippery the gravel can be, it's a humbling experience.

I made my descent, taking it slowly.

But it seemed rather easy, so I increased my speed.

Then I got to the first switchback, applied the brake easily, and found my tires slipping a little. I rounded the turn, and opted to keep the bike in low gear just so that I wouldn't have to rely on the brakes.

 After a few switchbacks, it seemed rather easy.

And by the time I traversed enough elevation, it didn't seem as precarious anymore. I wondered to myself, "Is that it? Is that what other riders have been raving about?"

I guess what's to really rave about this road is the awesome view from the top. I could have watched it forever.  Imagine how amazing the sunrises from here!

Well, once I hit the bottom, and the asphalt returned, I rode into the tiny town of Mexican Hat, where I stopped at the Old Bridge Grill (inside San Juan Inn), where I had a roast beef sandwich on Indian fry bread. An old Navajo guy sat down with me and had some stories to tell. I hardly understood him, but I did a good job of pretending.

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Law of Attraction and Motorcycle Practice

2005 Harley Davidson Ultra Classic Electra Glide

Thoughts of crashing yet again haunted my mind, causing me to worry and overthink as I prepared to let out the clutch and give it some gas.

It was March of 2006, and I just had the pins removed from my right wrist after spending three months with a cast all the way up my arm. I couldn't wait to ride again.

I hadn't ridden my Yamaha Road Star for over three months. In fact, I hadn't ridden at all for over three months. I wondered if I had lost anything from the hiatus.

But it wasn't the Yamaha I crashed.  My first wife had fallen in love with a Harley-Davidson Electra Glide Ultra Classic because of how luxurious the passenger amenities were. The seat was comfy, the foot positioning was ideal, and the back padding provided great support. On top of that, there was a spacious Tour-Pak and hard bags for all of her stuff. So I decided to buy it.

That bike lasted only a week before I totaled it in January 2006. It was black cherry in color. I didn't even think to take a photograph of it, that's how new it was.

I had ridden it just outside of Pioneertown, CA, just near the intersection of Pioneertown Rd and Pipes Canyon Rd, when I came to a dip. There was about 6 inches of water flowing through it due to snow melt from the nearby San Bernardino Mountains. I didn't expect to find water. When I came upon the dip, I was startled by it, and applied the brakes too hard. I hit the water and lost control of my bike, and flew off high side.

My 2004 Yamaha Road Star

The nice thing about having two motorcycles is that when one of them gets totaled, you still have a backup to ride. So after the cast had finally come off of my arm, and the insurance company took the Harley away, there was still the Yamaha Road Star wagging its tail with its tongue sticking out, waiting to go for a ride.

But after having nursed a broken wrist for three months, and having replayed the motorcycle crash in my head a few dozen times, I wondered if I could still ride with confidence.

It didn't take long. Just a few of miles riding through town, and it seemed as if I hadn't lost a thing.

It was just my own doubts that had plagued me.

You never lose your ability to ride, you only lose your confidence. The fear clouds your thinking and causes you to overreact. You find yourself fumbling over a mental checklist of things to do, trying so hard to not forget something. All the while, you could have believed in your abilities, believed in success, and allow that belief to guide you.

Memory of that day I took my first ride following the accident was with me yesterday when I watched Sash ride her Kawasaki Ninja 500R through a parking lot in downtown by Petco Park. She was practicing still. She actually has her motorcycle endorsement, and is already legally allowed to ride on public roads. However, after crashing my Yamaha Road Star, and taking a 6-month hiatus from riding, she was concerned about still being able to ride.

And she dropped her Ninja twice the first time she tried riding it, injuring her knee. So, imagine how tense and worried she was practicing at the parking lot.

Sash practicing on her Kawasaki Ninja 500r

She did awesome! She spent quite some time just idling along while feeding the clutch and finding the friction zone. Then I had her ride the bike in first gear for a few loops, and practice stopping smoothly.

Sash was still tense, of course.

But it was she who taught me that if you believe in success, success will come.

And that's the Law of Attraction. If you believe it, the Universe will make it happen. If you want it badly enough, you'll seize the opportunities.

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Going-to-the-Sun Road, Glacier National Park, MT

Going to the Sun Road, Glacier National Park, MT

Cold and icy were never words I associated with Heaven. I mean when I was a kid, I figured the higher up into the sky you went, the closer you got to the Sun.

Now as an adult, I realize as the elevation as increases, the atmosphere becomes more thin, dropping the temperature and improving our vision.  So if there was ever a way to ride a motorcycle to Heaven, "Going-to-the-Sun Road" might be the path.

At 6,646 feet, cresting over Logan Pass, it's still far from being the highest pavement in the world. But yet somehow, the pristine waters of Lake McDonald, the fresh mountain air, the deep blue skies, and the majesty of Heavens Peak, makes me question if the hand of God doesn't in fact touch you here.

It was July 2010 that I rode through Glacier National Park, Montana, where Going-to-the-Sun Road serves as the primary thoroughfare. It's 53 miles of two-lane twisties, but a very narrow two-lane road at that. As you make your way up to Logan Pass, the roads gets tore up, wet with melting snow pack (in the middle of Summer), and fauna crossing your path.


Passing "The Loop", a hairpin switchback that winds its way up towards Haystack Butte, I found a turnout where I could get a panoramic view of half-pipe valleys carved into the Continental Divide by ancient glaciers. I could almost hear the "hum" of the Universe, ringing off the metamorphic rock, channeling down into my thoughts.

I've never believed in Heaven, at least not the Heaven that Christians perpetuate. But with the way the sun shines so brightly through the clean air, reflected by the snow covered mountains, it's almost like finding that brilliant white light that people describe seeing in near-death experiences. How mountain goats and rocky mountain sheep step down to the road to greet travelers, I wonder if here they recognize us as brothers in Nature, as opposed to Human Beings?

Having a spiritual moment just as this is not often common during my travels, for the most part I'm really doing the opposite, thinking and philosophizing. If anything, Glacier National Park makes me feel closer to the Universe, as if I've returned from humanity back into one its children.

Going-to-the-Sun Road was named for nearby Going-to-the-Sun Mountain, which according to Blackfeet Indians, had once been a spirit from the Sun that had come down to teach them to hunt. Before "going back to the sun", he cast his image on the mountain to remind them.

I could only think of how ancient people had once traveled up here, to touch the mountain and draw a piece of that old spirit into their souls. I can understand how they, having never been exposed to organized religion, church bureaucracies, and theocratic governments, could obtain their own sense of spirituality by climbing up the mountain, and allowing the majesty of the land to claim them.

Somehow, there's something pristine and unadulterated about a belief in God, whatever you perceive God to be, if it wells up into you on its own, from the very piece of land you stand on. That's a spiritual connection to something tangible. The Sun, the Air, the Water, the Mountains, all coalescing into a single organism, and then drawing me inside to make me its own, gives me that sense of arrival.

As I crested over Logan Pass, and descended down the other side, it felt like Going-to-the-Sun Road was now sending me away. I would now return to humanity, to my own intellect, feeling the asphalt, and feeling my motorcycle. Views of the trees, lakes, and mountains just didn't seem to interest me anymore. My mind had shifted to exiting out of the Park, and finding a place to sleep the night.

There were no rooms available in the nearby town of Browning, MT. However, a bed & breakfast owner did offer me a camp spot by a small beaver pond out back. I pitched my tent, watched the sun set, and listened to the splash of the beaver's tail.  I began scribbling out a journal entry (which you can read here).

I suppose not being religious in the classical sense, yet still very willing to believe, I've managed to develop a sense of spirituality from my motorcycle travels. If I can just remove all ideas of Church, Scripture, and Righteousness from my head, and immerse myself into the grandeur of the land, I feel so much more connected to my creator.

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