Day 8

I woke up on Powell Wyoming.

It was alarmingly sunny for being so early on. The sky was the deepest blue I’d seen since childhood. I went outside to check on the bike and get some photos. Steam was rising up everywhere from the dew wet ground and trees. It looked just like this picture from my room.

…and there “just a settin” by my bike was a real life cowboy!

He’d hand rolled a cigarette and the smoke billowed off to join the rising mist. Hat tipped down, gloves, chaps over levi jeans, tan boots, everything looking broken in and authentic. I said “good morning” but he didn’t speak or look up at me, not at all, not one bit.

I uncovered the bike and he just stared at it. Not a word. Steely eyed. Black eyes.

A hawk cried in the distance. Spooky.

Strange, as he was the first person on the trip to not comment on the bike.

Maybe he was mute, I doubt it, or maybe he just hated iron horses. I felt his eyes on me every time I turned and decided to let him be, just kept my mouth shut, even though I was tempted to say:

“You wanna git your picture took?”

….but I resisted. No need to cause a stir.

He remained cold as black ice, so I just went back inside, his steely eyeballs boring holes in my back. Was his hand on his pistol? So I imagined anyway. A high plains drifter he was, ready to paint everything red.

Shucks, never got to git that photo of the dawn and all that steam a risin neither.

Needless to say, this will go down as the best hotel of the entire trip so far.

Except for this masterpiece, some cowpoke’s nighmare.

Lots of critters on the walls.

Hand carved critters on furniture.

Six Shooters did most the talkin back in the day….maybe they still do…

Studs on the saddle…hey! Just like my Iron Horse.

A very pleasant staff. She was great.

I went into the parking lot and met another Cowboy that didn’t speak.

“Howdy!” I said

Nope, no subtitle for the cowboy. He just moseyed on by.

So…I reckoned I should just git in advance of high noon.

I rolled out of town and towards Big Horn National Forrest. I had no idea how cold it was about to get. Lucky for me, I had the Tour Master Synergy Heated Jacket. In the style of a New Englander, I had to let the cold seep in until I could no longer bare it. It’s hard to describe the feeling you get when the jacket heats up on your cold body, but I’ll try. It starts with a feeling of fantastic relief because it’s so immersive, the heat comes from everywhere at once. You want to just simmer like a baked potato…the trick is to be able to turn it off before it lulls you to sleep in a chromey lullaby while you float right off the edge of a cliff.

I got up to 9,430 feet. The bike didn’t backfire once, as a matter of fact it never backfired on the entire trip!! I chalk that one up to my expert mechanic Jonny Rocket, and his team. The programmer <name>, dialed in the race tuner just right. Modern Harley’s come with an oxygen sensor that recalibrates the mix from the program on the fly. When they stay in sync, you get the sound of music. I was fortunate enough to have that melody thousands of miles.

This video was shot through out the day but the first part is on the steep switchbacks of the assent into the high and cold country.

https://vimeo.com/139540441

The descent exposed the plains below. Looking back up at the summit and that blue sky through the thin air.

I passed a pickup with a familiar cargo at one point … pulled over to the side of the road. He was carrying a hang-glider. I used to fly when I was younger and every time I see one on a truck, or unfolded, or in the air I get taken back to a time when all’s I cared about was that form of flight. Motorcycle riding gives me that feeling now, but I still miss the floaty sky in a glider on days like today.

I came down around a final bend and rolled up on the landing area. Had to pull over and reminisce. I met up with miss Christoherson and her lovely bird.

….and her friends. From Horse back riders to hang-glider pilots, such a full day so far.

I came into this town just in time for lunch. Ate a huge burger, beef in this part of the country is, well, very beefy. Then I got sold on this pie. It was an easy sell, how could a cowboy resist such a great presentation.

They had this self published wild west book at the counter and the nice waitress let me take a look at it while I downed the desert. I felt like I was home somehow. It was a special feeling. Hank was the real deal. Finally a cowboy was talking to me.

I rolled on across the plains.

Sky…

…and more sky…

on and on..

Horse country…and great Iron Horse country.

Look closely, there’s a white horse yonder.

Just when I thought the day couldn’t get more interesting, I rolled up on this oasis in the sunset of highway 16. The wind was whipping across the fields dragging bits of hay with it for scent. I felt I’d been tossed back in time. After not seeing a soul or a soul’s station for hours I veered into this place like a tiny iron filing drawn to a magnet.

It is tiny town called Spotted Horse Wyoming. And get this …population 2, and I was about to meet the both of them.