As a boy I would often accompany my mother on her weekly trip to the grocery store. While she snaked up and down the aisles selecting produce, dropping items into the cart, I would head toward the shelves of periodicals, my nose deep inside Backpacker magazine or other publications like National Geographic; the pages of photographs and bold adventure stories set my heart afire with desire and longing.
The White Rim Road was featured in one such publication and I promised myself that I would one day complete the nearly 100 mile track across Canyonlands National Park’s desolate backcountry. For nearly 25 years, I pondered and pined for the journey, but it lay on the back burner, always coming second to something more logistically feasible or more interesting to my friends. Who would join me for a four night mountain bike trip amidst the broken stone of decaying mesas or ride shotgun while I edged a Jeep down a sandstone monocline? Nobody came to mind, but the dream did not fade.
I never considered using a motorcycle to traverse the twisting, dusty trail that followed the namesake white rim along the canyons as I had never even ridden a motorcycle. But my sister was dating a gentleman, Bjorn Bredeson, who was an avid rider, and seemed keen to accompany me on the desert passage. I signed up for a class and learned the bare basics, earning my motorcycle license in one short weekend. The dream was becoming a reality.
A month later I was in Moab, Utah equipped with a special jacket and pants with protective gear built-in, riding boots, a helmet and a Husquavarna 501 dual-sport motorcycle. The sun was brightly shining as my sister’s now fiancé and I raced westward towards Canyonlands National Park. I was thrilled to be on a highway as my training course never allowed me to go higher than second gear; everything I was experiencing was brand-new to me. We picked up speed and elevation, as well as a little confidence.
My emotions swung like a pendulum from excited to nervous and back to excited. The White Rim Road was almost upon me; Would I be able to make it? Did I have the experience? Could I handle the exposure? Time was about to tell. Our voyage on pavement came to an abrupt end at the Schaefer Trail, a historic and scenic road that descends 1,500 feet through a sandstone cliff in Canyonlands National Park. As I led down the multiple switchbacks with dizzying drops repeating over and over my nerves settled and I was smiling from ear to ear. I felt in control and commander of my own destiny.
Bjorn greeted me at the bottom of the hairpin turns and we marveled at what we had just accomplished. Whatever triumph I had just gained, was neutralized by the loss in elevation. We were now in the lowlands of the route. Monuments of redstone stood guard as we raced past shrubby desert plants and occasional cactus. My spirits high, I started testing my limits by pushing my speed when I felt safe to do so. A few last-minute dodges of basketball sized boulders and momentary losses of control (split seconds that felt longer) tamed me a bit and I tried to concentrate on the task at hand. I wanted to finish the famous track after all!
Before long, the straight and open stretch of backcountry road morphed into a craggy, more treacherous version of a 4x4 jeep trail. Moving slower now, I found myself both delighting and disappointing myself every 10 seconds. Sometimes gaining elevation for minutes at a time and then down another ridge, dominated by rocky outcroppings and millennia of fallen rock, we weaved and awed at the surrounding beauty. On one such incline, my weight too far back on the machine, I lost balance and the bike whiskey throttled to the left and came to a rest beside me, where I was shaken, not stirred. I gave Bjorn a thumbs up alerting him I was unhurt, and after a quick lesson on riding upwards we set off again. Through trial and error, I learned how delicate this whole process has to be. Lucky for me, it was without injury or complications from a damaged motorcycle.
After my “lesson” we set a more relaxed and purposeful pace for a few hours. We traversed ridge lines, mirrored the white rim of the Colorado and Green River and felt minuscule next to the looming red cliffs cheering me on. We stopped for lunch on a bare rock ledge overlooking the Green River, cottonwoods shining a golden hue right back at the source of the enchanting light all around, the sun. I felt giddy, grateful, and a peaceful glow as Bjorn rattled off tips and feedback to my questions. We exchanged stories of adventures past and I knew, for me, this one was up there with the best.
The sun was now lowering in the sky and we made for home. The trail that made me nervous at the beginning was now a happy road that brought a calming sensation. I rode confidently through the dusty backcountry, flowing alongside the river with fearless ease and a harmonious freedom I had been seeking my entire life.
As the end of the trail neared, I was overwhelmed with mixed emotions—eager to finally conquer my 25-year-old dragon but reluctant to see the day come to a close. And when it did, I celebrated with pure joy and satisfaction. I had done it—my first motorcycle adventure. Now, the question remains: where will my dreamers desire and newly acquired skills take me next?
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