Takeaway: India’s Royal Enfield has joined the modern adventure bike ranks with a surprisingly capable, powerful, and comfortable new model in the Himalayan 450. The complaints against its predecessor, the 411 Himalayan, have been addressed and then some. A powerful new motor, real-world Showa off-road suspension, genuine off-road capability and excellent highway comfort at an almost laughably low price should put the competition on notice.

The big adventure riding question is this: Brands and egos aside, just how big, how fancy, how expensive, and ultimately how capable does an adventure motorcycle need to be to safely and comfortably get you to where you want to go, no matter where on Earth that place may be? It’s both a simple and complicated question, with an unlimited amount of debate, argument, and disagreement built in.

For many adventure motorcycle riders, and especially a motorcycle journalist like myself who is lucky enough to get seat time on a wide variety of motorbikes, there are those rare moments when you say or think to yourself while riding: “Oh wow, this is it. I could go anywhere on this thing.” On a recent North American press ride on the new Royal Enfield 450 Himalayan, I and several other riders had that kind of moment. I know this because we talked about it after nursing our wounds from the press ride – and there were actual wounds for some of us.

Tech and Design

The new Himalayan 450 is not mechanically related to its predecessor and stablemate, the 411 Himalayan. Introduced in 2016, the 411 “Himmie” is based on a dependable but underpowered (outside of India) air-cooled 411cc single that can barely do the legal speed limit when ridden flat out on many U.S. highways. The loveable 411 is nonetheless a popular choice for budget adventure riding due to its simplicity, ruggedness, and low price. It is a backroads pack mule, and it remains in the lineup – for now.

The new Himalayan 450 addresses pretty much every shortcoming of the venerable 411. It retails for $5,799 in base trim form, and there are three trim options built on the base platform. For all the variants, all specifications are identical except for weight due to accessories.

The bikes started out shiny and clean. They would not stay that way for long. Photo by William Roberson

Muddies, crashed but ready to ride. One tough bike. Photo by William Roberson

Photo by William Roberson

Photo courtesy of Royal Enfield

Photo courtesy of Royal Enfield

Photo courtesy of Royal Enfield

Photo courtesy of Royal Enfield

Photo courtesy of Royal Enfield

Photo courtesy of Royal Enfield

Royal Enfield, founded as a motorcycle maker in 1901 in the UK and now based in India, has only made air-cooled motors until this model. The Himalayan 450’s new “Sherpa” engine is a clean-sheet, 4-valve, 452cc liquid-cooled fuel-injected single that produces 40 horsepower at 8,000 rpm – up 12 horsepower on the 411. Redline is a lofty 9,000 rpm, compression a stout 11.5:1. Torque is 40Nm/30 lb-ft at lower rpms, up about six from the 411. The Sherpa spins a new six-speed gearbox and is controlled by a ride-by-wire throttle. For comparison, the Honda CRF450RL makes 38 horsepower at 7,500 rpm and 27.8 lb-ft of torque at 6,400 rpm. It also costs $10,099.

A Harris Performance-designed steel tube frame carries an adjustable rear Showa mono-shock and non-adjustable 43mm Showa USD forks, both with 7.9 inches of travel. Single Brembo “ByBre” disc brakes grace both wheels, and the dual-channel ABS can be switched off to the 17-inch rear wheel while ABS sensitivity is reduced to the 21-inch front hoop, but it cannot be turned off completely due to regulations in some markets. Ground clearance is 9 inches, and weight comes in at 432 pounds fueled for travel, about 10 pounds less than the 411, even with the bigger 4.5-gallon tank nearly topped up.

The 450’s modernization continues in the cockpit. A 4-inch circular color “Tripper Dash” TFT screen (above) can show detailed Google Maps when paired to a smartphone and the Royal Enfield app. It can also show phone ops, music information, and a simple analog/digital mix of tachometer and speedometer as shown. The current speed is always displayed across all modes. A small left bar pod joystick and buttons on the right pod control the Tripper’s display while stopped, with reduced functionality when in motion. It is not a touchscreen.

Riders can switch between Eco and Performance ride modes and toggle ABS, but only while stopped. Two trip meters, both real-time and average fuel economy, and a few other metrics can also be shown, including a range-to-empty estimate for the 4.5-gallon tank, which Royal Enfield says will provide well over 200 miles of range from the thrifty 450. There is a gas gauge in the center of the display. Stout metal crash bars on each side of the bulbous gas tank come standard and feature mounting points for gear. There’s LED lighting all around, and the turn signals function as brake lights. The 450 rolls on wire spoke wheels that require tubes, but wheels that allow tubeless tires are in the works for the near future.

Ride Time

The day spent riding the new Himalayan 450 on and off-road through high-elevation locations in Utah’s scenic BDR backcountry started off pretty much by the numbers, and then quickly became a challenging skills test for all involved. Many riders, self-included, ended up on the ground at some point, some more than once, and a few riders came away with minor injuries, thankfully none too serious. Everyone got very, very muddy and generally very sore. Adventure riding can be a solid workout.

Photo courtesy of Royal Enfield

Photo courtesy of Royal Enfield

Photo courtesy of Royal Enfield

Photo by Gabe Dilla

We began with an easy, scenic stretch of highway riding along Route 40 under mostly sunny skies, and initial impressions were favorable; the Himalayan 450 is very much at home on the open road, and most importantly, it’s plenty fast, with a top speed reportedly in excess of 100 mph and actual passing power on tap. I was able to easily dial up 90 mph and that was at close to 10,000 feet in altitude with a large, heavy rider (me) aboard. Quite an improvement over the old 411, which could barely manage 75 mph flat out at sea level. Blowing down the highway well above the legal limit, the 450 was calm, comfortable, and not hyperventilating like the 411 can at maximum effort. To me, it felt similar (but better) than my trusty Suzuki DR650SE. There’s a small bit of buzz in the pegs and bars at higher RPMs, and we had taken the rubber comfort pucks out of the pegs since off-road excursions were on tap.

Soon, we turned onto a graded dirt road that snaked along a river for some photo passes. Thunderheads began to rumble nearby, and it was at this point that many of the riders realized our presently shiny, clean Himalayan 450s were riding on stock-from-India CEAT Gripp Rad 80/20 tires with the barest of siping. They had decent grip on the short stretch of dry and flat-graded dirt road we were on, but as a thunderhead passed over and raindrops began pelting down, many of us began to wonder how the tires would cope with actual mud. We quickly found out.

After crossing a wide but not too deep stream as rain showered down, my front wheel caught the edge of a deep puddle, and with the clay-heavy Utah soil now slippery as ice, traction disappeared instantly. The front end washed out, and down I went (below). Unhurt except for a skinned elbow and my pride (thanks, Tour Master Mariner gear), I popped up immediately, righted the 450, and remounted. The brake pedal was bent sharply upward from the crash, but I simply stood on the mild steel lever, and it bent back into a usable position – for the most part. Later, when I asked how much a new one might cost, I was told $20. That’s quite reasonable and is a good example of Royal Enfield’s ethos of making certain parts that can be bent back into place while riding or replaced for minimal cost later on.

The bike features automatic engine kill in a crash, so I cycled the key, clicked into gear, and gassed the 450 to catch up with my group. On a dry, relatively straight, and flat Jeep/OHV road, I made good time, the surprisingly compliant and well-damped Showa suspension soaking up the bumps and returning a feeling of control and confidence. Miss a shift and it’s no problem, as a slipper clutch is standard.

Up ahead, I saw the rider ahead of me nearly get bucked off his 450 as he encountered a deep but hidden rut across the trail at speed. Still going in a straight line, I put trust in the ABS, grabbed a lot of front brake, added in some skidding non-ABS rear brake, and then released them as I neared the small gully to let the suspension have full travel.

The impact used up pretty much all of the Showa’s eight inches of front suspension travel, but I had slowed just enough, and the 450 remained in control despite the big hit. I dialed back the speed for safety’s sake and still made good time, enjoying the capable 450 on mostly open-range, dry dirt roads threading through beautiful canyons and mountain-top scenery. Then things got technical. And very, very muddy.

Our lunch stop was set for a campground well above 9,000 feet in elevation, and thunderstorms crossing the mountains had left behind numerous slick sections, often with deep mud puddles. Ascending the steep, rutted, technical passage to the rest stop, the 450 Himalayan capably navigated ruts, roots, rocks, and other obstacles while the tires fought for purchase, especially around the edges of deep, lane-spanning puddles. Some puddle ponds I could go around, others left no choice but to power through (above).

Riding alone on a downhill section close to the lunch stop, I crossed a large, muddy, puddle-strewn section that immediately clogged the CEAT’s meager tread, and while I stayed upright, the Himalayan 450 slid and shimmied while crossing the morass. The spot later claimed numerous riders, including one who suffered a ride-ending impact to her knee as she and others crashed en masse. Most of us ate our box lunches quietly, winded from the effort to navigate the demanding route at such high elevation – and mindful there was more to come. The bikes – and most riders – were completely coated in mud. Some riders poured brown water out of their boots or wrung out drenched riding gear. But still, there were a lot of tired (and muddy) smiles from the riding experience so far – for most of us.

Photo courtesy of Royal Enfield

Photo courtesy of Royal Enfield

Photo courtesy of Royal Enfield

Photo courtesy of Royal Enfield

Photo courtesy of Royal Enfield

After lunch, we picked our way through several more challenging slow-speed technical sections and mud bogs (above) that had more Himalayans and riders having close encounters with Mudder Earth. But on balance, the 450 was proving to be an unexpectedly capable adventure bike, with a friendly but powerful engine, well-sorted suspension, and a solid, confidence-inspiring controllability. A simple change in tires would have likely solved the traction deficit in the muddy bits.

Photo by William Roberson

Photo by William Roberson

Photo by William Roberson

Photo courtesy of Royal Enfield

Finally, we reconnected with pavement, cleaned our visors (and goggles, glasses, faces, and Tripper displays) as best we could, put the bikes into Performance mode with full ABS, and began strafing a long series of sweepers on a winding, traffic-free stretch of smooth, grippy pavement (above). The CEAT skins were now in their element, and the 450 Himalayan makes for a surprisingly agile – and rapid – road ripper, nearly touching 100mph on straight sections even with my none-too-small corpus working like a leaden sail against it. At or above the speed limit, the Himalayan 450 is relaxed, placid, and surprisingly roomy, the new engine ticking down the road in sixth gear and netting over 60mpg, according to the Tripper readout.

Conclusions

It’s easy to imagine loading the Himalayan 450 with different tires and enough gear for a long, long ride to some far-flung Point B (and C and D and so on). Of course, Royal Enfield has a deep ADV touring catalog of add-ons, including hard and soft panniers, crash bars, windscreens, seat options, and more to build out a 450 for such adventures. With the new Sherpa engine, they’ve brought the performance and velocity capabilities up to modern (and competitors’) standards as well. The new engine is also the centerpiece of a new road bike, the Guerilla, and we can expect more liquid-cooled power from Royal Enfield’s thoroughly modern R&D and manufacturing facilities as well. And like most every Royal Enfield motorbike, toughness, roadside repairability, and longevity is the priority over pure performance, so much so that the 450 comes with a three-year unlimited mileage warranty.

For the base price of much of the 450/500cc competition, riders can buy and outfit a Himalayan 450 with a wide range of adventure gear that will enable pointing the bike to any corner of the globe and setting off on a grand adventure – and it will most likely get them there with little fuss or complaining. With a different set of tires, epic adventures are suddenly within reach on a robust, comfortable machine that packs efficiency, useable tech, high-level off-road capability, and bend-don’t-break toughness in an affordable, attractive package.

It really goes back to Those Questions: How much adventure bike do you really need? If adventure riding is about being seen on a certain brand, displacement, or having the latest tech, the Himalayan 450 will probably fall short. But if your itch is to get out there and see the world, brand be damned, the $5,799 450 Himalayan offers a surprising – even borderline shocking – good value that ties together capability, affordability, and just all-around fun riding both on the road and well off of it. That is why I bought a Suzuki DR650 almost two decades ago: It’s tough, simple, and capable (and remains so today).

Riding the new Himalayan 450 was a very similar – but better – experience. Indeed, Royal Enfield principals, including bike designers who were on the ride with us, said they took inspiration from “simple” dual-sport machines like the DR, KLR, and Honda’s venerable XR650L. But the 450 is lighter, about as powerful, more comfortable, and much better handling, and includes just enough useful tech, especially the EFI, ABS, traction control, two ride modes, and Tripper display with mapping capability. And we really beat the crap out of them, yet every bike save one from an injured rider was ridden back to the base (hotel) camp, muddied, a bit dinged up, but ready to go again the next day with some minor repairs and a quick wash.

I feel you truly can go anywhere on this thing, and that’s why I’m replacing my aging DR650SE with the new Royal Enfield 450 Himalayan.

Post updated to say there is a gas gauge in the Tripper display. Watch for a longer-term ride review of the Royal Enfield Himalayan 450 after I take it around some local POIs here in the PNW.

What To Know:

2025 Royal Enfield Himalayan 450

• New liquid-cooled engine and tech suite signals Royal Enfield’s willingness to compete with major ADV players
• Clean-sheet, competitive 452cc ‘Sherpa’ motor makes 40hp, almost 30lb-ft of torque
• Showa suspension calibrated for aggressive off-road riding
• Excellent on-road comfort with passing power and triple-digit top speed
• Round ‘Tripper’ digital display is standard, can show Google Maps navigation via an app
• Eco and Performance riding modes, six speed gearbox
• ABS and traction control can be turned off for the rear wheel, front wheel ABS is reduced
• Weighs 432 lbs. fueled
• Crash bars around gas tank come standard, seat is height adjustable
• Several colors to choose from, some cost extra
• Price starts at $5,799, three trims available now, turn-key ADV trims expected soon
• Three year unlimited mileage warranty
• Available for order now

As the story goes, William Green Russell, a gold miner from Georgia discovered gold on the banks of Cherry Creek and started the Pikes Peak Gold Rush in 1859, heavily influencing the creation of the Colorado Territory. The “Fifty-Niners” (after 1859) mined the area for about a decade, producing 1.25-million-ounces of gold by 1865,

Russell Gulch Ghost Town

William Russell found gold in Russell Gulch Valley (named in his honor) in June of 1859. by September of the same year 891 people were mining gold in the gulch. The Town of Russell Gulch was built at the head of the gulch to serve the miners. At the height of the gold boom, the town featured houses, a schoolhouse, and IOOF Hall (seen above) the gold mine itself, mining buildings, a mule barn, and a cemetery.

The ghost town is now home to a disc golf course, which does bring some traffic to the area.

Getting To Russell Gulch:

Take I-70 west from Denver to Exit 240. Head north on 13th Avenue, two blocks, and turn right on Colorado Boulevard. Head east on Colorado Boulevard 1 1/4 mile. Continue straight on Placer St. when Colorado Blvd. swings right. Virginia Canyon Road is on the left, just ahead.

What To Know:

Time: 2+ hours, and time to explore

Distance: 13.6-miles

Fuel: Gas is available in Idaho Springs. Even if you fill up there, it’s advisable to bring supplementary fuel along just in case.

Highest elevation: 9,150-feet

Water: Plan for one gallon of water per person per day. More if you visit during the summer months.

Permits: Permits are not required

If you have a few minutes, check out this video of a stock Subaru Crosstrek making the drive to Russell Gulch.

It shouldn’t have to be said, but please clean up after yourself when visiting the backcountry. Pack out what you pack in and leave your campsites cleaner than when you found them. Please treat the backcountry like you would your home.

Note: This editorial is for informational purposes only.  Trail conditions are variable and should be researched and confirmed by you prior to use.  Always obey property lines and use common sense to verify boundaries, roads, and trails.

When packing for our drive into Overland Expo Mountain West along the Alpine Loop in Colorado, organized by Kelly Varney of Adventure Built, I seemed to forget — as if I’d never encountered inclement weather — what 48 degrees and rain was like. Rather than many warm layers and rain gear, I packed t-shirts, shorts, and a light denim jacket. This from a man who is a Pacific Northwest native.

It’s August; how cold could it be?

Fast forward to our first night evening on the Loop. We’re well above 10,000 feet. The sky was dark gray, a fine mist was blowing sideways, and I was shivering in my shorts and t-shirt, desperately gripping the GMC’s heated steering wheel.

I am from Oregon and I camp year-round. How I forgot that — even in late August — weather at 13,000 feet is very different than at 100 feet above sea level is beyond me. What a dunce.

Chilliness wasn’t the only discomfort to befall me while summiting some of Colorado’s highest peaks. Roughly around the 11,000-foot mark, I began to get loopy, as if someone had spiked my diet Coke. At first, it was humorous — I had a real chuckle at my lightheadedness.

My mild altitude sickness became much less charming, though, as I piloted the AT4X down a large rock step beneath Imogene Pass; one bad tire placement and the truck, with me along with it, could tumble down a mountain face for a couple of miles.

We’re not there yet, though. Let’s step back a moment.

Telluride

I was the last one to join the group that cold Tuesday morning. I was tardy because I’d booked a hotel room in the next town over, Ouray, Colorado. From a quick glance at Google Maps, it appeared Ouray was just minutes away from our rendezvous point in Telluride.

I only discovered that, when firing the GMC that morning, Telluride was more than an hour away. Yes, the towns are close as the crow flies. But by road, it’s a much more circuitous route.

Rolling into the congregation point, I found all of the group’s attendees milling around, kicking the gravel, awaiting my arrival. Their breath lingered in front of them in the still but nearly freezing air.

The Alpine Loop gang was composed of a motley crew of overlanders — mostly influencers and brand ambassadors: team leader Kelly Varney @adventurebuilt and his brother Trevor Varney @overlandingnorthamerica, Matt Hardinge of DECKED @matthardinge, Jason Maynard @oxfoot, Randy and Millin Ream @openroad4two, Shelby Hall @shelbyhalloffroad, Shawn Ski Scivally @tredcred, and Ryan Thurston from REDARC @redarc_usa.

From our meeting point, we backtracked through downtown Telluride to get to the start of the trail. Telluride is a gorgeous town. I realized as we idled through town, that I knew virtually nothing about it. Aside from the KIA SUV that shares its name, I didn’t have any idea what Telluride was about.

I found it to be a charming and achingly gorgeous piece of earth. However, it was much smaller than I imagined it to be. I’ve been to Aspen, and I expected Telluride to be on that scale. By comparison, Telluride seemed like a speck. That said, I didn’t stop in town very long.

The longest I lingered was when I held up the entire convoy to snap a picture of a pristine first-gen Bronco street parked in front of a delightful little cottage. The scene looked like something out of a movie.

Just up the road from the Bronco spotting, the trail started. Not miles from town, not inside a national park — the Alpine Loops just starts at the end of a neighborhood street. Go figure.

Top of the Continent

Like I mentioned in the intro, I’m from Oregon, and I explore, hike, and camp regularly in the mountains. So, I didn’t expect Imogene Pass to have an emotional effect on me. But it did.

I sat in the AT4X at the lip of Imogene Pass and stared off into the distance. Everything below had a blue hue to it. I guess this was because we were effectively standing inside the sky. We were so high up that the view from Imogene almost seemed fake; it’s the kind of view you get from an airplane seat, not a driver’s seat.

Although I was awestruck by the view, I was becoming increasingly woozy from altitude sickness. Wanting to be tough, I had declined an offer for some altitude sickness patches.

I’ll be fine.

Photo by Nick Jaynes

Photo by Nick Jaynes

Photo by Nick Jaynes

Minutes later, when I put a rear tire in the air while descending from Imogene Pass, a truly hair-raising experience, I relented. I slapped the patch to my neck behind my right ear and felt nearly instantaneous relief.

Later, I learned that our leader, Kelly, had suffered acute altitude sickness while scouting this route a few weeks prior. At camp his first night, Kelly recounted, well above 11,000 feet, he was so sick that he was projectile vomiting from his tent. His nausea worsened as he lay there. Eventually, he determined he had to escape. Kelly packed up camp in the middle of the night and descended the mountain in the dark, eyes blurry, watering, and bloodshot from hours of illness.

I wish Kelly had warned me of such extreme effects before I declined the patches. Oh well.

I am more accustomed to overlanding with old friends. On this trip, however, I was surrounded by Overland Expo ambassadors and exhibitors — virtually all strangers to me. It took a bit of getting used to their driving styles and, more importantly, their penchant for radio chatter before I eased into the group.

At camp the first night is when the group really gelled. We had to Austin Powers all the trucks into the mud-soaked campsite in order to ensure every rig could fit — and not park in a huge puddle. This took some doing. But once we were set, we all busted out our respective camp kitchens, cracked some cold brews, and visited with one another, as we were in various stages of dinner cooking and consumption.

Since I was one of two that didn’t have a rooftop tent to sleep in, I was given priority parking. I wedged the GMC next to a tree, which created the only dry spot at camp. There I set up the 23 ZERO Outbreak 1550 Swag in the dry patch. Then I set up the Rhino Rack Sunseeker 2.0M awning over it, just in case the rain returned during the night.

Though I had under-packed for the trip, I did have the foresight to bring my 20-degree sleeping bag, which I wedged inside the 23 Zero bag, which comes with the Swag. Inside there, despite the chilly temperatures, I was quite warm.

Leaving early

Kelly planned a three-day route for the crew en route to Overland Expo Mountain West. However, a few of the brand representatives and I had to duck out early in order to get to the show for setup. So by the second half of day two, after scarfing a gas-station burger, I bid everyone ado and beelined it for Loveland.

Photo by Nick Jaynes

Photo by Nick Jaynes

Photo by Nick Jaynes

With more than four hours on the highway, I had time to reflect on the trip.

The scenery was incredible. And I was overjoyed to explore the Rockies — an area I’d not explored in many years. While the trails were otherworldly, it was the camaraderie, and the community that made the experience that much more special.

It was such a treat and an honor to spend trail time with some of Overland Expo’s social media ambassadors and a few exhibitors, too. It was equally enjoyable to get up close to their rigs and witness their driving styles. You can watch Instagram and YouTube videos of people’s rigs and adventures all day long. But nothing compares to traveling with them on the same trail — if only for two days.

I send out a heartfelt thanks to the whole crew, and a special thank you to Kelly Varney from Adventure Built for organizing and leading the trip.

The 40-mile drive over Aspen Ridge is an easy, if not a popular route into the high country between Buena Vista and Salida, Colorado, featuring a fairly easy road with open meadows, forests, and big views. If you time things right, you might be able to experience some amazing fall colors on this scenic route. In addition, this smooth drive into the higher elevation offers a chance to see the impressive Collegiate peaks, a row of Colorado’s Fourteeners.

Aspen Ridge Ultimate Moto Build

Aspen Ridge Ultimate Moto Build

Leaving the picturesque town of Salida, the drive begins on county gravel roads before getting slightly more challenging the further you go. At this point, you will be traveling on County Road 175 and 185. Along the way, you will pass the abandoned Marble Quarry Gulch that is partially filled with water. After passing through a 520-acre parcel of State Land Trust, expect the road to become more difficult with stretches of ruts and some short, steep rocky sections, although nothing too complicated for an adventure motorcycle or standard 4×4 vehicle. The high mountain meadows of Bald Mountain in the middle of the drive offer impressive views of Colorado’s row of Fourteeners to the west, in addition to the aspen groves that give this drive its name.

Because this is a popular route for adventure motorcyclists, 4×4 vehicles, and bicyclists, expect to see a few other vehicles on your journey into the high meadows. Aspen Ridge is part of Pike-San Isabel National Forest. The land status along the way is a combination of USFS, BLM, City/County, and Private Land. Dispersed camping is available at several points along the route, with some excellent spots in the high mountain meadows along the way. The best time of year to see the fall colors is in late September.

What to know:

Time: 2-4 Hours

Distance: 40 Miles

Fuel: Fuel is available at Salida and Buena Vista. 

Highest elevation: 10,339 feet

Water: Water is available at Salida and Buena Vista. Altitudes on this route exceed 10,000 feet, so drink plenty of water. You will be losing more than you realize. 

Other considerations: The roads will be impassible in the winter. Some years, the passes don’t open until summer, so check ahead before travel. Expect to see free-range cattle along this route.

For this Trips & Trails, David Hilgendorf rode Overland Expo’s 2021 Ultimate Overland Motorcycle, Honda Africa Twin DCT. The Africa Twin will be a part of other storytelling throughout the year. Follow the Africa Twin’s adventures on its official landing page.

By now, most overlanding motorcyclists are familiar with Backcountry Discovery Routes (BDR). The original, most popular, and well-traveled of these routes starts in the southwest corner of Colorado, near the Four Corners Monument, and traverses the entire state of Colorado north to the Wyoming border.

Colorado has the most drivable mountain passes over 10,000 feet of any state, and many are unpaved and quite challenging, an overlander’s dream. While BDR maps were developed and are maintained primarily for motorcyclists, all the routes follow public roads and truck trails that are passable by most road-legal, off-road vehicles with proper tires and clearance.

The Colorado BDR has six segments, totaling 682 miles (1,096 km), which take about a week to run end to end. However, segment four (CO4) is highly recommended for those who want a taste of BDR without the heavy time commitment. This segment runs from Buena Vista to Gypsum, Colorado (or vice versa), and includes a large variety of terrain, alternative route options for different driver skill levels and the easiest BDR accessibility from the metropolis of Denver.

There is much to do near or along this route for all outdoor enthusiasts, including camping, fishing, hiking, hunting, kayaking, and rock climbing. While adding side-trips and additional trails and mountain passes will extend the duration of this trip, the main trails of each BDR segment are designed to be completed in a single day.

It’s best to consider the BDR as a guideline for navigating passable routes across a given state, but it also makes a fantastic roadmap to start choosing your own adventure. This is especially true for those who are not entirely familiar with a particular region or prefer a basic level of directional guidance. We traversed this route north to south.

Gypsum Creek Road:

Starting in Gypsum, head due south out of town along Gypsum Creek Road, which passes straight through the sandy, (sometimes muddy) farmland in Hardscrabble Gulch before continuing to wind along the meandering forested valley created by the road’s namesake. A quick jaunt across the meadows of Hardscrabble Road connects you to Brush-Gypsum Road, which meanders through the pines over the mountain, through the remnants of the 2021 Sylvan fire burn.

The road terminates near Sylvan Lake State Park, a highly recommended location for basecamp when exploring the area for more than a day trip. There is nothing challenging in this segment of narrow logging and hunting roads through dense pine and aspen forest, unless the ground gets saturated, in which case it can become an impassable mud bog.

Crooked Creek Pass:

From Sylvan Lake, take Eagle-Thomasville Road south over Crooked Creek Pass, which gaps at just over 10,000 feet before dropping back out at the Crooked Creek Reservoir. Continue along Eagle-Thomasville until it reaches the pavement of Frying Pan Road, then turn left (south) and run the smooth pavement until it ends. This is an easy and scenic drive, don’t forget the photo stops.

Hagerman Pass:

After making a 180 at the end of Frying Pan, the pavement ends and the road merges with Ivanhoe Lake Road. Continue up the mountain until the roads split again, following Frying Pan up the steep rocky incline to the Top of Hagerman Pass, which offers stunning views of the rugged alpine tundra.

The next few miles are the toughest test of driver and machine encountered along the entire route. Take your time navigating the uneven, rutted, eroded rock sections, featuring baby heads, ledges, and steep grades. Keep an eye out for mud holes, sand washes and a water crossing that can be over two feet deep. This section is typically one vehicle wide, with passing opportunities.

Clearing the nearly 12,000-foot summit of Hagerman drops you out of the wilderness at Highway 24, near Turquoise Lake and the old mining town of Leadville, another great place to set up camp when overnighting, with food, lodging and fuel. For history buffs, Leadville was once in the running to become the Colorado state capital.

Weston Pass:

Head south on Highway 24 out of Leadville and jump on Weston Pass Road near the Mount Massive Lakes housing development, which takes you over another nearly 12,000-foot pass. While this section is not as technical overall, it features lots of loose gravel, shale and sand, which can make it more challenging on two wheels than four, especially when navigating this section on a heavy adventure bike.

BLM 375:

Weston pass exits on Highway 285, which can be taken straight into Buena Vista, but the BDR would have you dip back into the farmland and meander around some random sandy roads until you get to the BLM and OHV land just north of Buena Vista. You wouldn’t be missing much to skip this section, except for its termination point. BLM 375 is a well-maintained gravel road that also happens to pass the free developed campground at Turtle Rock, as well as ample primitive camping along the Arkansas River. This segment of public land overlooks the famed Collegiate Peaks, a group of 14,000-foot mountains named after colleges, and fabulous at both sunrise and sunset.

WHAT TO KNOW:

Time: 6 hours
Distance: 143 miles (230 km)
Fuel: There are several stations each in Gypsum at the north, Leadville in the middle, and in Buena Vista at the south end of the route, and never more than 50 miles from fuel.
Highest elevations: Hagerman Pass 11,925 feet, Weston Pass 11,921 feet, Crooked Creek Pass 10,010 feet
Water crossings: There is one water crossing on Hagerman Pass that can be up to waist deep. Flash floods are common during storms. Do not cross flooded washes; wait until water subsides. Use caution when encountering “Road Impassable When Wet” signage, as these clay roads become very slick, greasy mud that will stop any vehicle in its tracks.
Permits: Permits are not required. Most land is National Forest or BLM. But you should verify before dispersed camping.
Other considerations: Best traveled between July and September. The passes are closed in winter, so check weather and road conditions before heading out in spring or fall.

For this Trips & Trails, Graham Jackson of 7P Overland took Overland Expo’s 2021 Ultimate Overland Vehicle, Toyota 4Runner TRD Off-Road, on a portion of the Alpine Loop. The 4Runner will be a part of other storytelling throughout the year. Follow the 4Runner’s adventures on its official landing page.

As a loop of 63 miles of semi-technical four-wheel-drive trail, the Alpine Loop in Southwestern Colorado may not seem like an overland route, but it is the heart of an area that can provide days and days of exploration and adventure. The loop itself consists of two pass roads, Cinnamon Pass to the South and its more famous neighbor, Engineer Pass to the North. These passes connect the three Victorian mountain towns of Ouray, Silverton, and Lake City each of which is also a gateway to further trails in the area. 

The loop itself is narrow in some places and rocky in most as you would expect from mountain trails, with spectacular views from the pass summits. The small ghost town on Animas Forks is a great stopping point. It is one of the highest mining camps in the U.S. and is managed by the Bureau of Land Management (BLM). There are various mines that can be visited up California Gulch and along the pass trails. In addition, the wild flowers can be epic and marmots and pikas can be seen throughout the area.

Most of the route is a moderate trail, but there are some sections of narrow shelf road that will get your attention, especially if you are not a fan of heights. Traffic can be an issue, especially the many four-wheelers and side-by-sides that get rented out of the various towns by tourists. Be aware of oncoming traffic and remember the uphill traffic usually has the right-of-way. 

Ouray, Silverton and Lake City each have their own charm and provide dining and sundries for travelers. Ouray also has hot springs that were used by the Ute tribe well before white settlers moved into the area looking for gold and silver. 

Photo by Graham Jackson

Lake Como on Poughkeepsie Gulch can offer a very refreshing swim

The legendary view down to Telluride from Black Bear Pass

The ghost town of Aminas Forks is open for exploration

Welcome to Colorado: stooging mountain views and miles of dirt

Lake Como on Poughkeepsie Gulch can offer a very refreshing swim

There are many trails coming off the Alpine Loop that provide further challenge and exploration. California Gulch out of Animas Fork has some very large mines that can be explored. Poughkeepsie gulch, between California Gulch and Engineer Pass, provides a challenge for those looking for a harder trail — sections will require lockers. To the west you can connect to Imogene, Ophir and Black Bear passes to get over to Telluride. Black Bear being a legendary trail and not one to be attempted by the inexperienced. It is a shelf road with the sort of massive drop offs that leave permanent creases in your seat covers. 

From Lake City it is possible to connect all the way to the San Luis Valley on dirt, with plenty of remote camping options. 

The Alpine Loop has so much to offer it would take a book to catch it all; it is an area well worth exploring. 

What to know:

Time: 4-7 Hours

Distance: 63 Miles

Fuel: Fuel is available at Ouray, Lake City, and Silverton. 

Highest elevation: 12,800 feet

Water: Water is available at Ouray, Lake City and Silverton. Altitudes on this route approach 13,000 feet, so drink plenty of water. You will be losing more than you realize. 

Altitude: Engineer Pass is at 12,800 feet. Cinnamon is at 12,640 ft. If you are coming from low altitude, give yourself time to acclimate and descend if you start to feel the effects of altitude.

Other considerations: The roads can be closed from November through May and sometimes see snow as early as August. On some years the passes don’t open until summer, so check ahead before travel. The old mines can be dangerous with a lot of mine debris and open shafts. Be cautious!

With the mercury rising across the country, it’s a great time to seek out adventures that might help you find some cooler weather. One of the best ways to beat the heat is to head for higher elevations, and the Medano Pass tops out at 10,000 feet, so you can wager that it will be a bit cooler at the top. 

The 22-mile long Medano Pass Primitive Road connects Colorado Highway 69 with Great Sand Dunes National Preserve and Great Sand Dunes National Park. As you climb to the 10,040 ft. peak, you’ll tackle rock gardens, nine water crossings, and of course, sandy sections. This route is only accessible by 4WD vehicles due to the possibility of deep water, ruts in the trail, and soft sand. When the route initially leaves Highway 69, the road is hard-packed and wide enough for two vehicles to pass. As it continues west, it becomes rougher and narrows. While it’s always a good idea to travel with another vehicle, the possibility of requiring recovery assistance on this route makes it an even better idea. 

Airing down is a must on this road. While most overlanders have their own air compressor, the park does have a free air station available at the south entrance during the summer months. 

The area offers plenty of opportunities to camp, with 21 marked primitive sites along the trail. These sites are first-come-first-serve and free of charge. Be extra cautious storing food, beverages, and other scented items. The park provides bear boxes at each campsite. 

This trail is best tackled in summer or fall. Snow can linger at higher elevations well into summer. Parts of the trail offer excellent fall foliage viewing. The park’s weather page provides information on creek levels and other special alerts, or the park’s visitor center is available for up-to-date trail information at 719-378-6395. A forest fire burned a portion of the route in 2010, but the beautiful aspens have grown back, and their brilliant foliage is a massive plus to visiting in the early fall. 

While there, visitors can check out the tallest dunes in North America, explore numerous hiking trails, keep an eye out for bighorn sheep, and enjoy the incredible stargazing afforded by the lack of light pollution. Given the variety of environments and the unique dunes, the photographic opportunities are bountiful. 

For the overlanders that enjoy fly fishing, Medano Creek is worth a pit stop. Cutthroat/Brooke trout hybrids are present in the creek. The Rio Grande Cutthroat trout only occupy a small portion of their original range due to competition with exotic fish species introduced into many watersheds. The Medano Creek watershed is a closed system and is under catch and release regulations. Anyone that chooses to wet a line needs to be sure to follow all Colorado fishing regulations. 

If you visit in the fall, you may be able to witness the sandhill crane migration that visits the valley. Over 20,000 cranes spend part of the spring and fall in the area. 

WHAT TO KNOW:

Time: 3 Hours

Distance: 22 Miles

Fuel: Fuel is available just outside of Great Sand Dunes National Preserve. 

Highest elevation: 3,882 feet

Water: Outside of availability at stores and gas stations, water is also available, with proper filtration, at the water crossings on the trail

Other considerations: Tents must be located within 40 feet of the bear box at each site. Fires are only allowed in the pre-existing fire rings. Pets must be leashed. Only highway-legal vehicles recognized by Colorado are permitted on the road. The road is typically closed from November through May.

Located just a few miles from our venue The Ranch, this 11.3 mile out and back / loop is perfect for a fun little excursion in Roosevelt National Forest. Check out the side roads, and enjoy some slightly challenging terrain. There is a fun little loop on the east side. Watch for gates and signs during hunting season to avoid hefty penalties. There is some camping available along the route. Open June 15 to November 30.

READ MORE: TRIPS & TRAILS: WHITE RIM ROAD

The trail is moderately technical with uneven rutted dirt, loose rocks, sand, erosion, and washes. Potential water crossings up to 18” deep, mud holes, and obstacles up to two feet, including ledges and short, steep grades are possible.

Getting There:

From Loveland, head west on Highway 34. Just after Drake, turn right on C.R. 43. Go 0.2 mile and turn right on Storm Mountain Drive and cross bridge. Climb the steep road for 2 miles, turn left at T, then continue following signs for Storm Mountain, F.S. 128. At 6.5 miles turn right on Pine Forest Way also labeled F.S. 128. Follow rough dirt road past a forest gate to the start of trail at F.S. 153 in Galuchie Meadow.

What To Know:

The San Juans is native home of the Ute Indian Tribe who famously soaked in the nearby natural hot springs. The region was descended upon by miners in the 19th century when gold and silver was discovered in the mountain range. It was these miners who, with their mule-drawn carts, blazed the roads that now compose the Alpine Loop.

The 63-mile Alpine Loop connect the three towns of Lake City, Ouray, and Silverton, Colorado. The Loop crosses two alpine passes: Engineer Pass on the north and Cinnamon Pass on the south. At its peak, the Loop ascends to 12,800 feet. Along the way, travelers will pass seven ghost towns — remnants of the region’s not-so-distant mining past.

The traditional Loop can be traversed in four to seven hours, if you want to tackle it in one fell swoop. However, with San Juans are zig-zagged with miles of additional designated roads with ample hiking and mountain biking trails along the way supported by great campsite options. So, if you wanted to extend your trip by a few additional days, there are plenty of opportunities to do so.

Like most overland routes, there is no cellular signal in along the Alpine Loop. So, over pack and over prepare.

WHAT TO KNOW:

Time: 4-7 hours

Distance: 63 miles

Fuel: There is fuel at the three towns connected by the loop: Lake City, Ouray, and Silverton. Although gasoline should not be hard to come by, fill up your tank before heading out onto the Loop — especially if you plan to use ancillary roads to extend the trip to more than a single day.

Water: Plan to bring more water than you anticipate requiring. Anticipate more than one gallon of water per person per day.

Permits: No permits are required.

Other considerations: Snowpack prohibits traversing the Alpine Loop outside the June through September window. Check with the BLM Gunnison Field Office for weather and conditions updates.

Header image credit: Zach Elseman ⎮ @okienomads

By: Bill Dragoo

“Here, try this.”

With one hand, my pregnant wife Skye leaned over and handed me the plastic top to our son’s car seat. Her other hand held our 14-month-old son, Jake, where he sat perched on her hip. His little brother, Ben, was just a bump in her belly, four months yet from emerging into a world of adventure. We were stuck in a snowdrift on the side of a switchback on Colorado’s Pearl Pass between the road to Independence Pass and Aspen. The sun had long since gone behind the mountain.

It wasn’t Jake’s first kerfuffle. Twelve months earlier, we had camped on Black Bear Pass in a blizzard at Ingram Lake above Telluride, just up from the dreaded switchbacks. We had climbed them backwards, against the flow of traffic and the law, following uncertain directions from a friend who had explained that the pass was one-way but couldn’t recall with any certainty which way that was.

Mercifully, that evening in October of 1980, there wasn’t any traffic. Apparently most would-be Jeepers had better sense than to tackle the perilous pass that time of year at that time of the evening.

The night before, we had slept in a ravine within view of the eternal torch at the refinery west of Borger, Texas, his very first camp-out at two months of age. I learned then that sleeping in a pup tent with a mom who is learning to nurse her first child can disrupt one’s rest unmercifully. The lesson was reinforced with vigor that night above Telluride as his mother tried to feed him in the cramped quarters of our little tent at sub-freezing temperatures. No wonder some animals squash their offspring in the den; it’s not an accident.

A year later, snowflakes fell in bulk as we left timberline and engaged the talus slopes of Pearl Pass. In our twenties and being from Oklahoma, driving in these rugged mountains was as fresh to us as the 11,000-foot air we breathed.

Our year-old, 1980 model Jeep CJ-7 seemed formidable, at least to our fledgling minds. It had a limited slip rear differential, 31×10.5×15 Goodyear Wrangler Radials and the secret weapon, a WARN 8274, 8000-pound winch bolted to the front bumper. This was our overlanding rig … although we had never heard the term, and we thought we were invincible. 

That was until the blizzard hit.

We extracted ourselves from the snowdrift using our baby-seat shovel and dodged the next one by attaching our winch cable to a Jeep-sized boulder on the road above and winching between switchbacks.

Junior-high science class and 20 years of playing with rocks had left me with the impression that the density of a medium sized boulder was greater than the density of a CJ-7.

“That oughta hold,” I announced to a trusting wife and a kid who was fascinated at the amusement-park feeling of lying back against the seat while being suspended almost in mid-air — like the WARN ad that now hangs in my garage. Skye stared at the sky, silent as though speaking would make us and our situation heavier.

We staked our lives on my assessment, ignoring the laws of physics that, had we paid attention, would have said it didn’t take all that much to dislodge a rock from a slope with a winch/Jeep pendulum. We were headed for Aspen by way of this trail and, by golly, we had every intention of making it come hell or high water.

We got lucky and the rock held its ground. Our dreams were soon dashed, however, when ever-deepening banks of snow, old and new, and slippery side slopes finally soaked into my testosterone-addled brain like the saucer-sized snowflakes melting on my neck.

We made one more rockslide crossing by digging a narrow trench for our downhill wheels to ride in so we wouldn’t go off the side of the road. It worked, but even my cat would have been running the numbers on remaining lives by the time we decided to turn around. I made the executive decision that we had risked enough that night. 

Winching down backwards wasn’t as hairy. Why worry about what you can’t see, right? We unhooked once we felt certain the Jeep wouldn’t drop beyond the narrow roadbed, squirmed the rig around to align with the road, and started back downhill. 

Darkness closed in completely as we crept along, dim, yellow headlights struggling to punch a hole in the hypnotizing shower of whiteness. It was like sticking your head inside one of those snow globes with mountains and a little gingerbread house and someone shaking it. 

I was spent. We were all hungry and climbing in and out of the Jeep so many times rendered the marginal heater even more marginal, plus the windshield was icing up around the edges, making vision a guess at best. We were cold and needed sleep. 

Sliding off the road meant not getting to choose where we slept and the Jeep was cramped enough, sitting on its wheels. Nothing about trying to make a bivouac on top of a roll bar was of the least interest to me or my trusting spouse and child, all of whose trust was waning. I picked what looked like a flat spot as soon, as we dropped back below timberline and set out to set up camp. 

We had borrowed a North Face tent from the same friend who had been unsure of which direction Black Bear Pass should be driven the year before. It was back during the experimental age of mountaineering tent-making and this particular geodesic dome-shaped tent had at least a dozen metal loops randomly sewn to various points on its surface. Several poles of different lengths were ostensibly designed to slip through the metal loops in a not-to-be-done-wrong order.

I stuffed a double-D cell flashlight in my mouth, so I could see to sort out the order of assembly while the wind tugged and yanked at the fabric like a poodle with a pillowcase. It’s hard to look cool when doing that. Finally, Skye plopped Jake back in his car seat, still wet from its parts being used as a shovel, and offered to hold the flashlight … in her hand.  

My fingers lost all feeling and my bare head was soaked and my jaws ached from holding the light. At least my hair was still warm enough to melt the snow but I was certain the ice threshold was near. It was like getting an ice cream headache without the fun of eating ice cream.

I jammed a stake in the ground to keep the tent-from-hell from blowing away. The poles were pretty much wedged in places where they most certainly didn’t belong. I prayed they weren’t kinked because I did not wish to pay for a tent I never wanted to see again.

Jake started crying, and so did Skye. I joined in, sitting in the Jeep, trying to warm my hands enough to work the steering wheel. This was before I’d heard of Raynaud’s Syndrome. I just thought I was a wuss and aching white fingers were normal under these circumstances.

I considered leaving the tent there by the trail, but decided it would be best not to. I climbed out of the Jeep and tried to withdraw the poles. They came apart before I had withdrawn them from the loops. The bungee cords prevented further retrieval so I wadded up the whole mess and crammed it in back on top of Jake who was already wet and cold. He cried louder.

Skye defied decorum, unbuckled him from the security of his car seat and held him in her lap on top of Ben, who was still in her belly and, miraculously, was not born there on the spot. We eased our way onward with visions of warmth and safety floating dreamlike through our minds. 

We had no idea where we would spend the night but as we emerged back onto State Highway 82, the dim glow of a vacancy sign pierced the blizzard. We pulled in and purchased the remainder of the night in a cabin from the kind woman who owned the place.

Years later, I was crossing Independence Pass with my third and youngest son, Tucker, on a pair of Harley Davidson Sportsters. Sleet fell as we made our way down towards Buena Vista and our hands were wet and cold. We found a cabin for the night near the entrance to Pearl Pass.

When we checked in, something felt familiar about the room. The woman seemed familiar, too. It hit me. She was the one … this was the place that had saved us from ourselves a quarter-century before when his two older brothers were almost rendered extinct by a dad hell bent on bouncing his babies through the snow, the hard way, to Aspen.  

Bill Dragoo is founder of D.A.R.T. (Dragoo Adventure Rider Training), an internationally certified BMW Motorrad off-road motorcycle instructor, certified flight instructor, commercial seaplane and sailplane pilot, skydiver, scuba diver, overlander and adventure journalist. Always game for a challenge, Bill has won numerous competitions in motocross, cross-country mountain biking and sailboat racing. In 2010 he represented Team USA in BMW’s GS Trophy competition in South Africa, Swaziland, and Mozambique. Bill and his wife Susan love to explore the American West and beyond by motorcycle and in their purpose-built Gen 5 Toyota 4Runner as they research historic trails and traditions. He is quick to tell anyone that the synergy between overlanding, riding and writing has opened doors he would never have imagined as a younger man.

By Alison DeLapp 

Rarely is there a specific event in your life that you can look back on and can say, “Yeah, that’s a moment that changed my life.” In 2009, discovering overlanding was one of those moments.

I was car camping in Joshua Tree National Park with my then-husband when a motorcyclist, heavily-packed and wearing weather-worn leather jacket and pants, circled the campsites. It was the second time he passed when I told my husband to invite him over. We had a fire going and cold beer, and I was sure he had stories to trade. He did.

The rider, whose name I’ve long forgotten, lived in Alaska. He painted houses during the summer and spent the winters traveling the lower 48. I was in awe of his chosen lifestyle. He had the freedom to decide each day where he wanted to go, which route to take, and how long to stay. He was traveling for the sake of the journey. By then, I had been motorcycling for six years and camping my entire life. When I realized I could combine the two, there was no going back. I wanted to experience that liberation for myself.

A year, a divorce, and a dual-sport motorcycle later, I set out on that journey. 

I chose a 2001 Kawasaki KLR650 because it was considered the swiss-army knife of bikes. Whether riding on- or off-road, it gets you where you’re going. It’s heavy, does everything, but it does nothing well. Eventually, KLR riders tend to go one of two ways: they buy a lighter more dirt-worthy motorcycle or buy a heavier more road-worthy motorcycle. For me, it was the perfect introduction to dual-sport riding. And, if (maybe I should say when) it breaks down along the way, it was easy enough for me to fix.

I joke that the best thing my ex-husband ever did was not let me do things the easy way. When I told him that I wanted to ride, he brought home a 1978 Honda CB400, cobwebs and all. Before I could ride that bike, however, I had to learn how to fix it. So, I spent all summer taking apart every piece of that bike, cleaning it, and putting it back together with the proper gaskets and lubricants, and replaced bolts that had rusted out. The process demystified the motorcycle as a machine and, in turn, made me a more confident rider.

At the time I set out to take my first solo motorcycle trip, I lived in Los Angeles and worked as a freelancer in the entertainment industry. Luckily, summer was my slow time.

I decided to take a couple of months off and travel around the Southwest. In early June, after learning to ride my KLR off-road all winter and spring with a local moto group, it was time for me to go. By then I had bolted on crash bars and a skid plate, upgraded the rear suspension for better handling on dirt roads, swapped the seat for a taller and cushier one, changed the handlebar ergonomics to suit my height and riding style, upgraded the doohickey, and cleaned the carburetor countless times.

The protective jacket and pants I would be living in day after day were already comfortably broken in so I added some rain gear that I could throw on since I was headed to the Southwest in the summer. I had gathered all the things I was going to pack and take with me. However, I had never tried packing it all until the day I had set out to leave. That was my first mistake.

The day passed quickly as I tried to fit and organize all the items I thought I needed into and onto my KLR. The two Pelican side-cases were full, an over-sized tank bag was full, and the seat behind me was full. The last item I strapped to my top case was my tent. The motorcycle was already sagging when I threw my leg over, needing to sandwich myself between the tank bag and waterproof hiking backpack I was using for clothes storage. I pressed the starter button. My second mistake that day was departing as late as I did.

Rush-hour traffic was already in effect, as I merged onto the I-10. I got as far as one exit, maybe two, before another car started merging into me. I grabbed a handful of brakes and swerved to the right in order to miss the side of the car. At this point, the tent that I thought was secure got sucked into my rear wheel and it momentarily locked-up. I limped my bike to the shoulder and, with my heart racing from a near collision, I pulled pieces of ripstop nylon from my brake calipers with shaky hands. It took me a moment — or three — to calm down enough to get on the bike again. Luckily, traffic had slowed to a crawl. Little by little, I navigated the shoulder and got off at the next exit to return home via side roads without any rear brakes. 

It was two weeks before I was willing to shake the fear, fix my brake calipers, and go for a ride. I grappled with feeling like I had failed. I was uncertain if I should try again.

One Saturday, I headed to the ocean. I took Pacific Coast Highway south as far as Sunset Beach. I sat on the sand in my moto gear, helmet next to me. I reflected on all that had transpired over the past few weeks and the past year, culminating with the ending of a difficult 10-year marriage.

I heard a motorcycle pull up, and the engine cut off. I looked around but didn’t see anyone, so I assumed they parked in the nearby garage. I hoped they didn’t mind that I was sitting on the beach in front of their house. 

A moment later I heard someone come up from behind me and ask if everything was OK. I paused before I answered him and asked him, “Do you know what it’s like to fail?” 

The man laughed in an acknowledging sort of way. “Yeah, I do. But what matters more is what you do after you fail.”

He left it at that and returned to his house. I stayed there a little longer and then made my way back home. It wasn’t until I was on the road that I realized who I had just asked what. I had just asked Jesse James, famed motorcycle builder, if he knew what failure was like. I had to laugh at myself, and all of my sullenness. Knowing failure was all the more reason I needed to take my planned trip; I needed to regain my confidence and independence.

The six weeks I spent recuperating, honing my on-road skills, and paring down my packing to the essentials were much-needed. I finally departed for my trip in mid-July, leaving before noon and riding until the sun went down. It felt good to be on the open road and it felt right to have finally left. I made it across state lines and into Arizona before finding a campsite for the night. 

Although my trip was shorter than originally intended, I still spent six weeks traveling around the Southwest and beyond.

In Arizona, I rode with white-knuckles on steeply-graded backroads with hairpin turns all the while trying to avoid lighting and the monsoons. Then in Utah I cherished the open spaces on the hunt for land art. It was on these sparsely-traveled sandy tracks that I found out was what it took to upright a loaded KLR all by myself—confidence boost, check. 

In Colorado, some days the aspens and cows were my only companions. Other days, I was thankful to have met up with other dual-sport riders who provided guidance down steep, rocky descents and shared stories over a camp-stove cooked meal.

I rode onward through the prairies in Wyoming, where I finally started to relax. In South Dakota, I traversed gnarled roads in the Black Hills that most Harleys wouldn’t go on. Then up to Montana to cross the Continental Divide and ride the Going-to-the-Sun Road, detouring in Alberta, Canada for ice cream.

I swung by Idaho to ride 99 miles of curves. I wasn’t ready to go home yet. After four weeks, there was still so much to see and I was finally getting into the rhythm of the days. I headed south to Nevada, into Utah again, and then to New Mexico to watch grains of white sand dance along the dunes. I touched my toe in Texas before I retreated back to California. 

On the long slog back to Los Angeles along the I-10, I stopped in Joshua Tree National Park for a last night with my bike and my tent. Gazing up through clear skies at millions of stars, I had a smile on my face. 

I understood how one could live this way endlessly. Traveling in this manner had stripped away all the worries of city life, leaving the necessities of daily survival: eat, sleep, fuel, and repeat. I got caught up in the simplicity and ease of being somewhere new each day, with no attachments to where I had been. Until this trip, I had spent so much time reflecting on the past I forgot what it was like to plan for the future, and more so, to be in the present moment. I took in each day as a new experience and savoring it for what it was: good, bad, and sometimes, indifferent as I throttled onward. 

Experiencing this chaos of emotions tapped into something I hadn’t felt in a long time. It made me feel alive again. 

As I laid in my tent for one last night looking at the boundless stars, I knew this was not the end of a trip, but the beginning of a craved lifestyle. A next trip would happen, but tomorrow, it was time to go home.

Alison DeLapp has ridden more than 100,000 miles from California to Alaska to Argentina and many places in between. She has published two books about her solo motorcycle travels, “Chaos in Harmony “and “How Far is North? “

Crooked River National Grasslands

Located just outside of Madras, OR, the Crooked River National Grassland (CRNG) encompasses 173,629 acres, with 111,379 acres that fall under National Forest Service Administration. The rest of the land is either privately-owned, or under the administration of the Bureau of Land Management (BLM), the State of Oregon, or Jefferson County. Because of ownership rights, there are multiple cattle gates along this trail and when you an encounter an unlocked gate, please always remember to close the gates behind you while you traverse the land.

Crooked River National Grasslands History

The area of CRNG was first homesteaded in the 1880s, and over 700 homesteads were established. Unfortunately, much of the native grassland was removed for farming purposes, but the National Forest Service believes the grasslands were covered with blue bunch wheatgrass, Idaho fescue, sagebrush, rabbitbrush, bitterbrush, and juniper. Homesteading was abandoned in 1930s though some small farms remain to this day.

The terrain you’ll encounter in CRNG is mostly rolling hills and buttes with elevations ranging from 2200 feet to over 5000 feet at the top of Gray Butte. The major drainages include the Deschutes and Crooked Rivers – bordered by steep canyons, as well as multiple small creeks. Haystack Reservoir sits adjacent to the CRNG and, at the time of this writing, is drained to work on the control gate. Repairs should be completed, and they will begin refilling the reservoir before Spring 2023. When operational, Haystack Reservoir has a small campground with firewood and ice for sale, boating, fishing, and swimming. A perfect spot to cool off during Central Oregon’s hot summer months.

This relatively easy out-and-back trail consists of a combination of graded, gravel roads and dirt two-track that culminates at a spur road that accesses Haystack Butte or further travel will get you to Gray Butte – both with spectacular views of Haystack Reservoir.

Getting There

From US–26, the SE Madras–Prineville Hwy, take S Adams Drive and turn right on Southwest Imbler Ln – right before it becomes SE Jasper Road (NF-1267). Take the next left on 9610140. Make a left on SE Springer Road. Slight left on NF-5740. From there, look for spur roads that will get you close to Gray Butte and make the hike up Gray Butte.

What to Know:

• Time: 2 hours
• Distance: 11 miles
• Fuel: Fuel is available in Madras, OR
• Highest elevation: 3,300 feet in vehicle (5100-feet at Gray Butte)
• Best Time: Spring, Summer, and Fall .The area is closed for winter grazing and range.
• Water: Available in Madras. During the summer months, temperatures can top 100 degrees, so bring more water than you plan to use.
• Permits: Oregon State ATV Permit is Required.
• Campfires: Campfires are permitted, but please keep them small and don’t leave them unattended. High winds and dry conditions can fuel a wildfire even at unlikely times of the year.
• Other considerations: Crooked River National Grassland is remote, and visitors should be equipped to be self-sufficient. Travelers should wear appropriate safety gear, carry a first aid kit, and never ride alone. Most Forest Service and BLM personnel have radios and can give assistance.

It shouldn’t have to be said, but please clean up after yourself when visiting our National Forests. Fully douse your fires and stay on the trails. Please treat the backcountry like you would your home.

Note: This editorial is for informational purposes only.  Trail conditions are variable and should be researched and confirmed by you prior to use.  Always obey property lines and use common sense to verify boundaries, roads, and trails.

“This is about as perfect as it gets,” I said as Bill Dragoo and I basked in the low, golden sunlight.

The long shadows of our motorcycles stretched across the scrub grass surrounding our tents. The sky was in full splendor, pulling out all the stops for our last night on the road, 2,000-some-odd miles into our adventure ride from Utah to Oregon.

“Perfect” is a lofty term when it comes to motorcycle rides, which are known for being unpredictable and inherently challenging. Some are fun, others are fantastic. Occasionally a ride is just downright rugged, but that’s a story for another day. 

Kicked back in camp that evening, I had spent the better part of two weeks riding from my home in Arizona to Oregon, and the whole trip was as close to ADV perfection as any I’ve ever taken. Sipping bourbon in the fading light, I felt like we had stumbled on the formula for the perfect ride.

Maybe it’s the Bike

Perhaps the formula was in the bike? I was riding a Yamaha Ténéré 700; our Ultimate Overland Motorcycle Build for 2022. Straight out of the box. the Ténéré is awesome, and in the months prior to my departure, I fitted the bike with long travel TracTive suspension, wrapped it in Outback Motortek crash bars, and loaded my gear into the Mosko Moto luggage. I added an Atlas Throttle Lock to make up for the lack of cruise control and dialed the ergonomics to fit my five-ten frame with Altrider’s bar risers, footpegs, and accessories. The upgrades list goes on and on, you can read more about it here, but there’s certainly more to this formula than just the bike.

Was it my riding buddy or the route we chose? My partner for the bulk of my miles was Bill Dragoo, off-road motorcycle trainer, owner of Dragoo Adventure Rider Training (that’s D.A.R.T., for those in the know), adventure journalist, and, as it turns out, one of the best people I’ve ever had the pleasure of traveling with. Though we’ve been industry friends for years, crossing paths at press events across the country and even overseas, BDR film screenings, and other venues that draw in ragtag groups of adventure folks, Bill and I hadn’t spent much time actually riding together. 

In fact, before we set out, Bill and I hadn’t spent much time actually planning our trip either. 

We both had the same destination: Oregon, for Overland Expo Pacific Northwest. Bill and his crew run the Motorcycle Expedition Skills Area for Overland Expo, and I have a variety of coordination tasks as part of the planning team. We knew where we would start and where we were headed, but everything in between was yet to be determined. 

Bill and I met up at 3 Step Hideaway, a motorcycle mecca in La Sal, Utah, with hot showers, cabins, camping, and fantastic hospitality for riders on the Trans America Trail and the Utah Backcountry Discovery Route. After a steak dinner that would stick to our ribs all the way to Nevada, we pulled out the maps and stared wide-eyed at the possibilities.

Chock-full

Utah is chock-full of great riding, as are Nevada, Idaho, and Oregon — all of the states in the crosshairs of our adventure. The infinite amount of Grade A gravel between where we were and where we were headed seemed overwhelming; we could spend six months getting to Oregon and still not have scratched the surface.

West and north would be the best way to go, we decided and folded up the maps without much of a plan. 

“West and north” would become a mantra for the trip, a running joke at junctions and turning points whenever we stopped to consider the next stretch of our journey. 

There are so many ways to go about taking a motorcycle trip. You can go alone or with a group. You can fly across the world and rent a bike or pull out of your driveway and try to remember if you turned off the coffee pot as your house disappears in the rearview mirror. You can follow Google’s exact directions with the “avoid highways” toggled on or spend hours pouring over trip reports and pinning waypoints on the map, plotting your every turn. 

Or you can make it up as you go along, which is exactly what we did, all the way to Oregon. 

When a trail junction presented itself, we’d lick a finger, hold it in the wind, “west and north,” we’d laugh. When a gas station conversation started up with a stranger who wanted to know where we were going, all covered in dust and knobby tires, “west” and, of course, “north,” we would answer — the only directions we seemed to need. 

Owyhee Uplands Backcountry Scenic Byway

The Bruneau One Stop in southern Idaho sells groceries, fishing lures, and home-cooked food. It is the kind of place you could pass without a second glance and never know the difference. But after a day in the dirt heading north out of Nevada with a granola bar lunch, dinnertime closing in, and no clear plan for camping that night, Bill and I stopped for some grub and a speck of cell service. 

As we scanned the maps, fired off a few texts to let folks know we were still alive, and ate our burgers, there was only one other customer at the One Stop that evening. “Where are you guys headed?” he asked.

Now “west and north” is a fine answer when you actually have a vague sense of where you’re going. But when the golden hour is drawing near, and you haven’t got a clue where you’re sleeping that night, the advice of locals is far more productive than slinging the same old adage. 

We were looking for a dirt road and wild camping that we could ride to before sunset put a damper on setting up our tents smoothly. 

This 20-something, rough-around-the-edges ranch kid was the perfect person to pitch our question to. “You might go down Mud Flat Road. It’ll take you all the way to Jordan Valley, and you can camp anywhere out there.”

The road he was referring to is also known as the Owyhee Uplands Backcountry Byway, a 104-mile gravel road that traverses Owyhee County in southwestern Idaho from Grand View to Jordan Valley, Oregon. And it was just what we needed to wash down those tasty burgers from the One Stop.

Backcountry Byways are managed by the BLM and range from buttery pavement to rougher than a rancher at a burger joint bait shop in rural Idaho. I’ve ridden several and always find them a treat, carefully selected to give vehicle access to pristine western landscapes. The BLM manages 54 designated National Back Country Byways totaling nearly 3,000 miles throughout the west. 

The Owyhee Uplands Backcountry Byway, known locally as the Mud Flat Road, was pure fast-gravel fun all the way to Jordan Valley. Following in the footsteps of the Shoshone, Bannock, and Paiute Tribes, whose ancestors occupied this Great Basin area for over 10,000 years before the arrival of Europeans, Bill and I made our way west across arid salt desert shrublands, ancient plateaus, and dramatic canyons. 

Bill put his instructor hat on and gave me a few tips to take the sweeping turns a little faster, and we cruised through juniper stands, past the North Fork Owyhee Wilderness, and across sagebrush-steppe landscapes. This Byway is the sort of road that you could spend months exploring, with countless side roads that caught my eye as we raced past them, spitting gravel full-throttle.

Infinite Decisions

Now, although it worked for us, I’m not sure I would recommend our fly-by-night trip planning technique to the control freak or faint of heart, especially when traveling with a new riding partner.  Despite all the bike prep, weather-checking, and packing that you do ahead of time, planning on the fly can get you lost, stranded, or in over your head in a heartbeat.

Proper adventure riding involves going the distance in mixed conditions over a period of days or longer and is as much about decision-making as it is about maneuvering your motorcycle through challenging terrain. The number of decisions you make while riding is infinite. Micro-decisions are made in the moment, like going over the rock or around, laying on the throttle, or backing off. These micro-decisions give you instant feedback about the choice you’ve made. 

Macro decisions, on the other hand, like planning around fuel range, choosing a route, or where to camp for the night, tend to have a longer span between decision and feedback return. That is to say, you tend to know immediately if you’ve picked the wrong line around an obstacle, but it could take hours or days to realize that you’ve chosen the wrong route altogether.

So, is that the secret to the perfect ride formula? Do we simply have to make every decision correctly, with no option for A/B testing and no knowledge of the potential outcome? This whole idea was starting to sound like Fermat’s Last Theorem, the math problem that remained unsolved for over 300 years. 

Somehow, by the good graces of the motorcycle gods or a combined measure of luck, Bill and I cracked the code our first time riding together. 

That’s not to say that bikes didn’t hit the ground a few times (mostly mine) or that we didn’t miss a few turns (usually Bill’s fault while hauling at warp speed down some arrow-straight gravel road). But whether cross-referencing my OnX Offroad with Bill’s Gaia GPS to choose the best track west and north, picking campsites that look like motorcycle magazine centerfolds, or unanimously opting for hotel rooms when a detour followed by a forest fire landed us in Elko after dark, we negotiated decisions with unprecedented ease. 

By the time we found ourselves on that last evening in Oregon, in addition to the Owyhee Backcountry Byway, Bill and I had cruised some of the most iconic pavement in Utah, picked our way through choice sections of the Nevada BDR, and peeled off on nameless two-track in Idaho. Our on-the-fly route was fantastic, the bikes ran strong, and the camaraderie was second to none. 

As evening stretched across the sky, I didn’t have an answer to the perfect ride equation. And I suspect that finding the formula will always remain a mystery. Despite all the planning and decision making, perhaps the best formula is to just keep on riding. Because you know, sometimes, you’ll wind up kicked back in camp, sipping a bourbon, with the sun setting over the mountains, and the ride will be about as perfect as it gets.

Known as a miniature Monument Valley, these sandstone monoliths were eroded by the winds of time over centuries. These monoliths provide an eerie, yet contemplative backdrop to your camping experience.

Valley of the Gods

Valley of the Gods is quintessential Desert Southwest and you’ve probably seen this backdrop in many western films (and even Doctor Who.) You can tour the area via a 17-mile (27 km) gravel road (San Juan County Road 242) that winds around the red sandstone formations and provides access to many dispersed camping spots peppered throughout the valley. The Bureau of Land Management (BLM) asks that you only use previously created primitive campsites. Staying in previously-created sites keeps vehicles off of the cryptobiotic soil – a literal living soil that retains water and helps desert plants grow. No campfires are allowed, so bring your propane fire pit instead.

The area is part of the Navajo Nation, but it doesn’t have the tribal restrictions of nearby Monument Valley. So you can explore to your heart’s content. That isn’t to say that Valley of the Gods isn’t an important area for the Navajo people, so as always look, but don’t touch – and leave any artifacts you might come across where they lie.

The road is rather steep and bumpy in parts but is passable by non-four-wheel drive vehicles in dry weather. The western end joins Utah State Route 261 shortly before its 1,200-foot (370 m) ascent up Cedar Mesa at Moki Dugway, while the eastern end starts nine miles (14 km) from the town of Mexican Hat along U.S. Route 163 and heads north, initially crossing flat, open land and following the course of Lime Creek, a seasonal wash, before turning west toward the buttes and pinnacles. In addition to the gravel road, the area is also crisscrossed by off-road dirt trails.

WHAT TO KNOW ABOUT VALLEY OF THE GODS:

Time: 1-3 hours, but plan to stay MUCH longer.

Distance: 17 miles

Fuel: There is fuel at Mexican Hat, UT. Just 9 miles away..

Water: Plan to bring more water than you anticipate requiring. Anticipate more than one gallon of water per person per day, especially in summer months.

Permits: No permits are required.

Other considerations: Rainy weather makes the roads incredibly slick and often impassable. Check with BLM Monticello Field Office for weather and conditions updates.

This trip was strange in a few ways. For starters, I had hoped to head up into the mountains for some early fall foliage, but the high winds caused several roads and camping areas to be closed due to downed trees. Second, I normally venture out with a friend or my wife, but this trip saw me riding solo as I worked my way through an alternate route tracing the valleys and rivers of the region and learning the features of the well equipped AT4X. Lastly, we moved to the area earlier in the year and I’m constantly looking for new campsites to run away to on a free weekend. I was hopeful to find some hidden gems so I could drop a few waypoints to revisit on future trips. 

Photo by Rick Stowe

Photo by Rick Stowe

Since my original plan wasn’t working out, I decided to seize the opportunity to explore a few sections of the region I had yet to see. With a hasty plan that linked together forest roads, rural gravel, dispersed camping, and a healthy dose of leeway for changes, I fueled up and headed into the mountains. 

While many think that the eastern half of the country is devoid of overlanding opportunities, 12 million acres of national forest land lie in the eastern portion of the country. Many of these areas are criss-crossed by miles of forest roads that range from graded gravel to muddy and narrow tracks through the woodlands. Of that expanse, 1.6 million acres lie inside of Virginia divided between the Washington and Jefferson National Forests. Most of this area is within an hour or so of Overland Expo East, and offers not only opportunities for overland adventures, but also hiking, fishing, mountain biking, and more.

Big Piney 

Photo by Rick Stowe

Photo by Rick Stowe

The first portion of my trip was intended to serve some selfish purposes. I had heard the Piney River held some promising trout waters, and some friends and I plan to test that theory in Spring. Since I was in the area I decided to take a trip up Big Piney Road. It parallels the main stream of the Piney and the western fork further upstream for most of its length. This was a mild forest road, but the stream provided plenty of distraction. I was tempted to burn a few hours on the water, but the recent rains had flows high so I only stopped to toss a fly in a few spots. 

While it wasn’t exactly trophy fishing, I did tempt a few rainbows to the net. I’m sure in the Spring, especially during a hatch, the fish would be a bit more cooperative. Nonetheless, it’s a beautiful drive that offers plenty of opportunities to try your hand at catching a few of the elusive trout that call these mountain streams home. 

Hog Camp

Photo by Rick Stowe

Photo by Rick Stowe

A little further up the mountain I picked up Hog Camp Road. Initially it was just as tame as Piney River, but as I made my way out the track it slowly transitioned to a two-track. Hurricane Ian’s rain wasn’t necessarily down pour, but as I progressed up the route I found the low spots had collected plenty of moisture. On one particular section, a rut had collected some water, but the real concern was silica-rich mud you often find in this part of Virginia. Standing in this mud can be a challenge if even the slightest slope is present. 

On this section of the trail, the downhill edge was composed of soft dirt before dropping into a gully below. Since I was traveling solo I decided to place some preemptive insurance against any unwanted sliding. With a the Go-Treads in place, I eased forward, and after the initial sink into the mud the truck pulled through with no problem. 

After a few more miles I pulled into a wide spot along the road to post up for the night. I hadn’t seen another vehicle in hours, so I wasn’t too worried about finding a secluded spot. I threw the swag out and pulled my fire pit from the Mitts storage area. Within a few minutes I was ready for dinner, and considering this was a solo trip I took the easy route of a quick sandwich before turning in. Throughout the night the occasional acorn would drop from oaks and bounce off the canvas of the swag. Otherwise it was an uneventful and restful night. 

Parker Gap

The next morning I got back on the road and visited one of my favorite routes on the north side of the Blue Ridge range. Parker Gap starts just off of the Blue Ridge Parkway and winds down the mountain passing Apple Orchard Falls trailhead. I parked the GMC and took off on foot to explore the area and stretch my legs. Even this far up the mountain the small streams were running high, and I immediately regretted leaving my fly rod in the truck.

Photo by Rick Stowe

Photo by Rick Stowe

After an hour of checking out the hollow around Parker Gap, I decided to make my way back up the mountain, and stopped at an overlook to check in at home and touch base with some friends. The WeBoost helped with the notoriously spotty service and I was able to make some plans for the rest of the trip.

Home Turf

Photo by Rick Stowe

That afternoon I headed further south towards Roanoke, Virginia. A buddy wanted to check out the truck, and another friend offered up his land for a camp spot for the night. His property happens to include a huge planted pine forest, and I was thankful for the chance to spend the last night of the trip in the literal middle of nowhere. 

On the way to camp I visited a local stream and tossed a few poppers and dry flies into an eddy. Insects of all kinds buzzed through the sun beams shining through the trees. Within a couple of casts one of the region’s beautiful sunfish was tempted out from its hiding spot. I released it back into the cool waters, and headed towards my final camp of the trip.

At my friend’s property my buddy brought out his drone and we spent an hour driving through the network of logging roads and checking out potential campsites for the night. Even though the roads were rutted and soft, the GMC just went where we wanted to go without issue. While we were setting up a few more shots I decided to touch base with some of the Overland Expo Staff to let them know my ETA and see how preparation for the event was coming along. The ZOLEO satellite communicator made it easy to drop a text and check in before I called it a day. 

Photo by Rick Stowe

Photo by Rick Stowe

Photo by Rick Stowe

Photo by Rick Stowe

That night I backed the truck into a spot amongst the trees and pulled the awning out to enjoy the warm sun still breaking through the rows of pines. Even though we were officially into October, it felt more like a warm summer evening. A few crows darted through the trees as the sun set, but otherwise it was another quiet night and an early bedtime for me. 

Traveling Solo

As a pulled into Oak Ridge Estates to drop the 2022 Ultimate Build off for the final Overland Expo of the year I reflected on my trip. The GMC AT4X is without a doubt one of the most comfortable trucks I’ve ever driven. It easily edges out several models that are geared towards luxury, but at the same time, it’s incredibly capable off-road. While I didn’t exactly push the off-road capability, the truck never even strained through loose dirt, mud, or over washboard gravel at moderate speeds. On road it performed well, and it was easy to forget I was driving a full-sized off-road build. 

While I appreciated the solitude, as an unapologetic extrovert, I missed having someone to share the experiences with. I was also reminded of how difficult it is handle photo duty when you’re solo. Overall, it was great to explore my now home region in the 2022 Ultimate Overland Rig after seeing it make its way across the country from one Overland Expo to the next. 

Who in their right mind thought it was a good idea to go camping in conditions like this?

Ultimately, I guess it was mine. Usually, I spend about 30 days camping in the Beehive State each year. Starting out exploring the southern red rock country in the spring, getting pushed up into the cool mountain air during the summer, and then out into the west deserts in the fall. But when someone offers you the keys to a brand spanking new truck and tells you to go take it out on one of the most iconic trails in the West, you say “Absolutely.”

The catch was the reservation for the White Rim Road was in early August. The absolute hottest time of year in southeastern Utah. But that’s fine, as long as you’ve got top notch A/C in your vehicle, which I can attest that the Sierra does in addition to air-conditioned seats.

Our journey began on Thursday morning as we slogged our way through traffic in the ever more crowded Salt Lake and Utah valleys before winding our way through scenic Spanish Fork Canyon and down along the edge of the Book Cliffs to Green River, Utah.

Green River’s heyday was 50 years ago when the U.S. Army operated a missile test launch site outside of town. For a solid ten years, residents watched Athena and Pershing missiles streak through the sky to White Sands Missile Base in New Mexico. The small farming community grew to support the base and its population. But when the missiles stopped firing in 1975, the town dwindled. All along the main drag there are the remnants of old hotels, banks, and restaurants. Sitting brightly amongst the faded glory is Ray’s Tavern, which is a respite for tired travelers looking for the finest burger in the West.

My two companions, Scott Curtis and Chris Nielsen (the only people brave enough to face the heat), and I found a quiet booth in the back of Rays and ordered a round of burgers. We were running a bit ahead of schedule and over lunch we opted to explore some of the area south of Green River that we hadn’t been to for probably a decade.

Refreshed from our meal, we loaded up into the AT4X, along with Scott’s Tundra, and headed south under I-70. Our first stop was the location of the base barracks, which today is just rows of concrete pads in remarkably great condition. Some of these had wooden buildings on them, but most were just tents. Standing there in 100-degree heat you can only imagine how miserable it must have been living in those heavy canvas tents.

Next we meandered for a bit on some two-track and descended into a small valley that had the remains of an observation tower and a storage paddock. We hopped out again and poked around a bit. We’d all been to the area many times over the years, but none of us could remember seeing this before. It always amazes me the strange things you can find hiding in the desert.

Finally, we made our way up to the old Pershing launch site. Pershing missiles were Medium-Range Ballistic Missiles deployed by the United States in the 1960s. As opposed to the Athena missiles also tested at Green River which fired from a permanent launch site, the Pershing’s were launched from mobile Transporter Erector Launchers (TEL). These tracked vehicles would move into position, raise the missile into its launch position, and fire. Their test launch location consists of two pads where the TEL and support vehicles would position themselves, and a bunker where personnel would hunker down during the launch in case there were any malfunctions (i.e. unplanned explosions).

All of this is still there, but to someone who didn’t know what it was, they’d probably just see strange mounds of dirt and an odd looking dugout. We poked around the site for a bit before finally heading back to the county gravel road and I-70. It was time to make our way to our first camp on the White Rim.

When I first attended the Moab Easter Jeep Safari with my dad in 1993 at the impressionable age of 10 I was in awe as we turned off I-70 onto US-191. The change of scenery from Price to Green River is spectacular. But as you head south on 191 towards Moab and the red rocks start to come into view – it’s magical. To this day it still brings a smile to my face, even though 191 has changed from a lonely road to a dusty old mining town into a busy thoroughfare for thrill seekers. We trundled along with all the other cars streaming to this mecca of outdoor adventuring until we got to the turnoff for Dead Horse Point. 

Dead Horse Point Road, or Highway 313, is another magnificent drive through beautiful country. It is also a dream road in a Miata. Not so much in the Sierra. While the AT4X handles well, and has gobs of power, it’s still a full-size truck. You can’t apex it quite like you can a sprightly little sports car, try as I might.

We finally hit dirt at about 6:00 p.m. high above the famed Shafer Switchbacks. We parked at an overlook and gazed down 1,500 feet to the bottom. You could see the road clinging to the side of the canyon all the way down. Originally a trail built by sheep herders in the area, the demands of uranium mining in the 1950s improved the road to what we know today, just like nearly all the major 4-wheel drive trails around Moab.

In all the years I’ve been coming down to this area, I’ve never actually driven down the switchbacks, always up. And always in a much smaller vehicle, like a Samurai or Trooper. Not this 80-inch-wide GMC. No matter though, I knew that what the White Rim had in store later in the weekend would make these switchbacks look like I-15. We let a few cars we saw coming up the road pass us and then we started our journey down. Aside from having to make a few three point turns at some of the hairpins, it was an uneventful journey. We stopped at the bottom and gazed up to the top again marveling at what it must have taken to build the road with pick ax, shovel, and brute strength.

Our first camp on the White Rim was appropriately named Shafer Campground just a few miles down the road from the switchbacks. It was a perfectly acceptable campground. Chris and I found good spots to deploy our ground tents while Scott leveled out his Tundra for his plush and luxurious rooftop tent. After our sleeping situation was sorted, we got to the most important part of camp: beer, food, and telling tales.

Descent into Hell & Spectacular Vistas

The next day we rose with the sun. So 5:30 a.m. Chris already had his signature French pressed coffee going and we sat around sipping it while I whipped up some oatmeal. I love that people go all-in for camp breakfast. I’ve always been of the mindset, though, that I want mine to be quick and simple, so I can hit the trail without having to bother with too much clean-up.

By about 7:00 a.m. we had camp packed and we were on our way. The first part of the eastern side of the White Rim Trail meanders high on a plateau above the Colorado River. We stopped at a few of the overlooks and enjoyed the smooth ride in the AT4X. Eventually we got to the turnoff for Lathorp Canyon. The National Park Service calls this an “extreme” trail, which is just the kind of action we were looking for.

As we eased off the White Rim Trail into Lathorp Canyon, this was the first time I really needed to put the Sierra into 4-Low. Nothing difficult, just rocky and steep where the lower gearing helps control the descent. We wound our way further down the canyon and found a couple tight spots that needed some spotting and eventually a nice little ledge climb that justified engaging the lockers for that little extra grip. Most of all though, I found the various cameras on the truck to be the most useful. My regular adventure vehicle is a Y62 Nissan Armada, which isn’t that much narrower than the Sierra. So, I’ve gotten fairly used to navigating a big vehicle on a tight trail. But the front and side cameras make it so much easier.

While the trail got more interesting, the thermostat kept climbing. As the mercury rose further and further above 100, we kept telling ourselves that at the end of the trail was the Colorado River which was sure to offer some respite with its cool waters and a nice breeze. But as we reached the bottom and the temperature ticked up to 109 we got out and walked down to the river bank to find no relief. No cool breeze, no shade. Just heat and bugs. We quickly scarfed down some lunch, waved at some stunned rafters on the river and headed back up the canyon to the White Rim.

Back on the main road we cruised along at a good pace, but the temperature outside remained stubbornly in the 105 range. It was too hot to enjoy much more than the view from the air conditioned seats of the Sierra. Since we weren’t stopping very often, we ended up making it to our camp at White Crack around 3:00 p.m. and the temperature outside was 110 degrees. We wandered around camp for a minute and found some great shade to sit under and as the afternoon eased into evening, the temperature finally started to fall into the much more enjoyable 90s. We found a hiking trail out to the actual White Crack, which was spectacular.

That night we fired up some chicken tikka masala and garlic naan on the Green Goat camp kitchen and watched the sun set over the stunning canyon below us. And as the night wore on we toasted our adventure with some appropriately named Rendezvous Rye. A perfect ending to a great day.

Pucker Factor

Saturday morning, we rolled out of camp a little later than Friday so we hopefully wouldn’t again reach camp so early. The road started to hug the rim a bit more than it had on Friday and as we wound ourselves along we came across the occasional section that required 4-Low and some careful tire placement, but mostly it was just a bumpy scenic drive. The views were again grade-A and the temperature so far was happily sitting in the 90s.

About mid-day we came around a corner and saw a steep dugway. As we got closer we could see it was quite narrow with loose rock and several nice ledges. There were a couple of hikers making their way up, so we stopped at the bottom for a few minutes to give them time to get to the top. Once they were out of sight I put the AT4X into 4-Low and engaged the front and rear e-lockers and began grinding my way up the hill.

About three quarters of the way up there was a very recent rock slide that probably narrowed the road to all of 90 inches wide. And standing right at the slide were the two hikers filming us. I was annoyed, I didn’t want to stop because when you lose momentum on a climb like this, it spells disaster. I was about to tell Chris to lean out the window and yell at them when I noticed that they were dressed in identical shirts and pants. They were Park Rangers. As I approached the slide and barely squeezed past, they flattened themselves against the wall. We reached the top and quickly got out to make sure Scott made it through the tight spot as well. 

Once we were both in clear, the Rangers came over and said they were out doing a road inspection and they got video of us to tell their superiors that the road was indeed still passable. Because apparently if a behemoth like the Sierra could make it past, then anyone else should have it easy. Which is all fine and dandy, but phew! I wasn’t expecting to serve as the National Park Service’s acid test. Let me tell you, that was about as tight of a squeeze as I can remember driving on the edge of a canyon.

But the fun wasn’t over, about a hundred yards from where be crested onto the top of the ridgeline, the road dropped back off into another canyon. And it was a dramatic drop on another very narrow bit of road that culminates in a series of tight corners and hairpins. It was another moment where the cameras on the truck were worth every penny.

From here on the road got generally more difficult. Not rock crawling by any means, just clearly less traveled and requiring a little more thought in your driving. After a couple more hours, we made it to our camp for the light, a place called Candlestick. Its eponymous butte to the northeast was impressive, but the campsite itself was barren and, you guessed it, hot. With several hours of sunlight left and not a tree in sight, we deployed our awnings and did our best to stay cool.

Morning Vistas & Cliffhangers

Compared to White Crack the night before, Candlestick was a disappointment. But we assumed that there was a reason that the Park Service had a campsite here. So in the morning Chris and I grabbed our cameras and hiked out to the edge of the canyon overlooking the Green River and waited for the sun to rise. And it did not disappoint. What had been a dull, desolate view lit up with the morning rays into a beautiful vistas full of reds, golds, and greens.

Being Sunday, we got underway fairly early. No matter how enjoyable a trip is, the last day I always look forward to getting home, seeing my family and having a nice shower. We made our way past the Potato Bottom campgrounds and to the climb into Hardscrabble Canyon. This was the only section of the road that the Park Service had said might be impassable due to recent rain. As we approached the switchbacks cut into the loose, white dirt. It certainly looked like it would be the most challenging.

Photo by Chris Nielsen

Photo by Chris Nielsen

Photo by Stephen Nielson

I dropped the AT4X into 4-Low again and engaged the rear locker to ensure I had good traction and began my assent. The ground was loose and I could feel the Firestone Destination M/T2 tires slipping, as they struggled to find traction. While we made our way to the top, there were a couple of tight blind corners that not even the vaunted cameras were much help with. The right rear fender flare tagged a rock. But, finally, we’re at the top — sort of. While the road flattened out, we were now driving on the edge of a mesa’s narrow escarpment before we finally descended into Hardscrabble Canyon.

We were now driving right on the banks of the Green River and not much further down the road, we exited the National Park and crossed into Grand County. Here the road also changed into a well maintained, graded road that was smooth and fast. We bombed along until we got to the imposing switchbacks at Mineral Canyon. Short and steep, these switchbacks are wide and well traveled, but if you keep an eye out you can see the remains of a few cars that didn’t make it.

And then we were back on top of the mesa. We cruised down the county road enjoying its width and speed until we reached Highway 313 again. Our trip had come full circle.

To be honest, I didn’t exactly wake up with the sunrise. Arlo did. Once a two-year-old Labrador is awake and bouncing around your tent, there’s no bedding him back down.

I slid on my dusty boots, unzipped the Gazelle Tent, and I shuffled out into the early morning light. From my periphery, in the dark gray light of the morning, I saw Arlo bound away from camp down the road to my left. Blurry-eyed, I looked around camp. My four friends and one journalist were camped around me at the McGrew Trail staging area, still sound asleep.

Rather than wake them at this ungodly hour, I leashed up Arlo and his bottomless energy, and we walked down the road. 100 yards or so away from camp, I let Arlo off leash. Delighted by freedom, he sprinted down the dusty track. I trudged along, staring down at the dirt road, which looked silver in the blue light of the morning.

As I walked, the road slowly climbed a hill, curving up and into the mountain to our right. Perhaps a mile down the road, I heard the telltale sounds of running water off to my left. I sauntered to the lip of the road and spied a shallow creek far below me. I wordlessly scanned the creek from left to right. It wound its way through the rounded rocky landscape below. Nothing stirred but the water, Arlo, and me.

Turning around, Arlo sighted me at the lip of the road. He excitedly took it as an invitation to dive into the ravine, to explore whatever I was studying. I watched my powerful pup rush down the rocky slope toward the water at breakneck speed. I followed him trepidatiously, step after careful step, fearing a misstep and a bad tumble.

Wasting no time at the water’s edge, Arlo splashed through the water overjoyed, jumping and bucking like a mule having a fit. He rejoiced in water like a creature that’d been lost in the desert for millennia. Less exuberant, I knelt down by the water’s edge. I scooped a handful of the clear mountain runoff and splashed it over my dusty hair. Cold water streaming down my face, I paused. A grin spread across my face as I watched Arlo play.

There was nothing else in the world but Arlo and me in that moment, enjoying what felt like our own private little oasis. During those tender minutes, the sun finally crested the hill ahead of us. It bathed us in its orange glow, accenting Arlo’s natural red coat.

I looked at my watch. To my surprise, it was already 6:30 a.m. — time for coffee. I slowly climbed the ravine back toward the road. Arlo followed. We strolled back to camp and had our breakfast.

I share this moment with you not because it has really much to do with McGrew Trail. I mean, it’s there, at the entrance to the track, and you can find this spot for yourself. Moreover, though, I share it because it’s the kind of moment that really sticks with me. It’s these fleeting points in time that haunt my memories, in good ways, and make me happy to be an overlander.

A wicked test

I first traversed the infamous McGrew Trail in southwest Oregon in the summer of 2021. And, as the legend suggests, McGrew proved to be a wicked test of endurance for my friends and me. Since I was shooting a video of the trail and dragging our friend Eric’s stock Jeep Cherokee XJ through the obstacles, McGrew took us one-and-a-half days to complete.

This time we had a better understanding of how best to tackle the 26-mile rocky track that winds east along the Oregon-California border and ends at the North Fork Smith River. Moreover, we didn’t have to shoot a video nor did we have a clapped-out 4×4 taking up the back of the pack. With heaps more knowledge, experience, and better-built trucks, we devised a good plan of attack.

If you’d like to know the details of McGrew Trail and how and when to run it yourself, you should check out our Trips & Trails write-up on McGrew Trail. There you will find what you need for your own adventure.

Last year I led the party over McGrew in a Jeep Gladiator Rubicon. This year, I took point-position from behind the wheel of my 2008 Toyota FJ Cruiser. I was followed by my buddy Robert in his two-door 1991 Mitsubishi Montero, Jason Schaub from Overland Cookery in his fifth-gen 4Runner riding on 35s, journalist Derek Powell in the 2022 GMC Sierra AT4X Ultimate Overland Vehicle, and Overland Expo exhibitor Josh Ashcroft from NOMADICA Outfitters in his 1986 Land Rover 110.

We cracked the gate of McGrew around 9 a.m. and immediately hit our first challenging rock step. McGrew Trail is sponsored by a 4Runner club. This became apparent by the ruts dug into the first obstacle. Vehicles with longer or shorter wheelbases found the traction needed to climb the rock.

Jason’s 4Runner, though, got hung up in the holes churned by his fellow 4Runner owners. Despite being triple locked, Jason couldn’t cut the mustard. No judgments, though. We knew it wasn’t for a lack of driving skill; Jason was hindered by so many other 4Runners ripping up the terrain before him.

Full of adrenaline from summiting the first obstacle, Josh roared off down the trail ahead of us, leaving us in the literal dust. It’s hard to blame him. Josh recently upgraded his 110’s stock 3.5-liter gasoline V8 to a more modern 4.6-liter Rover V8. He gets nine miles per gallon no matter how he drives it — like a madman or a nun. Sure, we’d rather ride with him. But we also enjoyed the sounds of his V8 in the distance echoing back down toward us.

Hot & dry

McGrew is not the toughest track I’ve ever driven. That trophy goes to an unnamed track in central Oregon — a literal 10-mile-long black diamond track on which I drove the Bronco Raptor. McGrew might not be as tough, but it’s longer. I’d say McGrew is a blue diamond; you can keep a good pace, but it’s incredibly rocky. If your rig has a loose bolt or nut, McGrew will find it and shake it loose.

It’s a beautiful piece of country. Until 20 years ago, McGrew cut through a thick forest. A wildfire came through and changed the landscape. Two decades on, most burned trees have faded away. Ground cover has returned. So, too, have the manzanita bushes. And a few new trees have grown, too. It’s nothing like what it used to be, though.

Photo by Nick Jaynes

You can still find glimpses into the past as you drive; the fire wasn’t uniform. Especially near the end of the track, you dip down into remnants of the old forest. You won’t hit the old forest, however, until evening. If you stop for lunch midway through the track, you’ll want to find shade. That is, if you drive it during the heat of the summer, as I have. That’s because there won’t be any natural shade. So, be sure your rig has an awning. Otherwise, you risk a mighty burn in the high-elevation summer sun.

On this second run of McGrew, we had our lunch at a rare flat spot probably a third of the way down the track. The front half of McGrew is much more technical and slower going than the back half. That means you’ll stop well before the halfway mark. You may wonder, like my friends did, if you’ll make it to the end camp by nightfall. You will, don’t worry. It just doesn’t seem that way at first.

The AT4X

McGrew wasn’t the first trail our Ultimate Overland Vehicle GMC Sierra AT4X tackled since its debut at Overland Expo West 2022, but it was the hardest to-date. We left the rig at stock ride height and didn’t lift it. That’s because the Multimatic shocks that come on the AT4X from the factory are so good, you — like us — would be hard-pressed to find a more competent replacement. What’s more, the truck was so new that the aftermarket didn’t have lift springs for it yet.

With front and rear electronic locking differentials and careful placement of the 33-inch Firestone Destination M/T2 tires, we knew the truck should get through unscathed. Watching the 420-horsepower full-size truck trundle its way along the rough track in my rearview mirror was a bit nerve-rackng. Nevertheless, it handled everything — every boulder or mud pit or off-camber sandy slope — without skipping a beat. It’s incredible what a stock full-size luxury truck is capable of these days.

Even though the A/C is strong in my FJ Cruiser, I was still envious of Derek in the AT4X. That’s because, in addition to General Motors’ prodigious A/C system, he also enjoyed cooled and massaging seats. The only massage I got in my Toyota was from the trail. As the rocks baked in the hot Oregon summer sun, you might say I got a hot stone massage — #dadjokes!

Photo by Nick Jaynes

Photo by Nick Jaynes

Photo by Nick Jaynes

Because my FJ Cruiser is set up for four-wheeling and not overlanding, Derek and I relied on the GMC’s gear to support the non-driving parts of the McGrew adventure. The 110-liter Dometic CRX-110 standup fridge in the passenger compartment of the MITS Alloy metery (Australian nickname for ‘meter’) canopy supplied food and beverages for us both — with room to spare.

Pinstripe payoff

Honestly, I can’t tell you that the AT4X came through McGrew completely unscathed. That painted metery door, like all other painted surfaces on the truck, left the trip with bountiful pinstriping. The back half of the McGrew Trail is lined by manzanita bushes, which are hard and unforgiving things. To make matters worse, their branches encroach on the trail, choking it down to a path just barely wide enough for a side-by-side to slip through.

One driver in our convoy described the heavily wooded section of the trail as “a carwash from hell.”

Even the narrowest truck, Robert’s Montero, suffered some trail pinstriping. The wide full-size GMC fared the worst. It left permanent and deep scratches all down the side of the AT4X. I didn’t bat an eye when I inspected the truck at the end of the trail, however. We built the AT4X to tackle every trail. And we had no intentions of babying it or backing off.

The payoff to the merciless pinstriping is the Sourdough Camp at the end of McGrew Trail. At the northwest corner of the camp are the North Fork Smith River and a lovely little watering hole, which you can see in the Instagram video I embedded above. In this little pocket of the river, where two forks meet, the water dips down to perhaps 11 feet deep, and there are large boulders to hang out on.

We reached camp later in the evening, so the sun was already behind the hills a bit, shading the area. Temperatures had already dropped enough that hanging by the riverside was a bit chilly. If we had arrived earlier or had time to hang for another day, we could have really made the most of that oasis — soaking up the heat of the sun and then cooling ourselves in the river.

As dusk fell, Jason wowed us with some of his incredible culinary skills. When Jason from Overland Cookery is the chef, you’ll enjoy some of the best meals of your life. I don’t just mean great camp meals, but great meals full stop.

Jason heaped our plates with herb-y panzanella salad, perfectly cooked hanger steak, and watermelon and feta salad with lime-cured onions. Jason is truly a master. If you have a chance to sample some of his cooking on the trips he caters, do not hesitate.

We spent the rest of the evening digesting our huge and sumptuous meal around a propane fire pit (no wood-burning fires are permitted in that part of the world during the dry summer months).

Getting out

Although not gated off like the McGrew is, the track out from Sourdough camp back to civilization is nearly as tough. Don’t think that because McGrew is in the rearview mirror that you can set cruise control and head home in ease.

Photo by Nick Jaynes

Photo by Nick Jaynes

That’s part of the fun. You’ll spend a day or two getting to the trail. A day on the track. Then you’ll spend a day or more getting back out from it. To that end, bring extra fuel. If your rig is as thirsty as Josh’s 110, you’ll need it.

In case you don’t read the Trips & Trails story on the McGrew, let me reiterate here that you need a permit for McGrew. Permitting is open from September to late December, the year prior to the permit period. And your permit, should it be approved, won’t be issued until later in the spring of the permit year.

This is to say: Plan ahead and be patient.

Is McGrew the toughest, most beautiful trail? Naw. But does its limited access make it a bit more special? You bet. If you live in Northern California, Nevada, Oregon, Idaho, or Washington, it’s worth the visit. Bring some friends, take your time, and plan to explore the Rogue River-Siskiyou National Forest while you’re out there.

Ed. Note: This area is currently closed due to flash flooding in the Cameron Peak Fire burn area. Please check with Canyon Lakes Ranger District before accessing this area.

Moody Hill Road: Getting Prepared

Moody Hill Road starts and ends with somewhat technical climbs and has several rocky, steep sections that will require high-clearance 4x4s and/ or vehicles with locking differentials. ATVs, UTVs, motorcycles, and full-size Vehicles can make it through this trail easily. The road to Crystal Mountain traverses private lands, and as such, it is extremely important to remain on the given route to avoid conflicts with landowners and possible closure.

There are plenty of dispersed campsites along the route that provide options for folks wanting to spend some time in the area. Good campsites are available on a first-come, first-served basis. Look near the intersection of FSR #132 and FSR #513 for the most scenic campsites. Many folks use this area as a base camp to explore Crystal Mountain, Ballard Road, West White Pine, and Storm Mountain.

Roosevelt National Forest History

Theodore Roosevelt set aside the 815,000 acres of Medicine Bow Forest Reserve on May 22, 1902. The area was renamed the Colorado National Forest in 1910 and renamed again in 1932 to honor the former president. There are six designated wilderness areas within Roosevelt National Forest, including Cache La Poudre, Comanche Peak, Indian Peaks, James Peak, Neota, and Rawah Wildernesses. The entire area is managed by the US Forest Service.

If you’d like to get a good overview of the climbs on Moody Road, check out this video from YouTuber, Justin King.

Getting There

From Loveland: Take Hwy. 34 west and turn right on Hwy. 27 following signs to Masonville. Turn left at the “T” intersection in Masonville and continue another 10.7 miles to Buckhorn Road 44H on the left. Go west 1.5 miles to F.S. 513 on the left across from the parking area.

What to Know:

• Time: 5-6 hours
• Distance: 5.9 miles
• Fuel: Fuel is available in Fort Collins
• Highest elevation: 8,600 feet
• Best Time: July- September
• Water: Available in Fort Collins. During the summer months, temperatures can top 100 degrees, so bring more water than you plan to use.
• Permits: 
• Campfires: Campfires are permitted, but please keep them small and don’t leave them unattended. High winds and dry conditions can fuel a wildfire even at unlikely times of the year.
• Other considerations: Roosevelt National Forest is remote, and visitors should be equipped to be self-sufficient. Travelers should wear appropriate safety gear, carry a first aid kit, and never ride alone. Most Forest Service and BLM personnel have radios and can give assistance.

It shouldn’t have to be said, but please clean up after yourself when visiting Roosevelt National Forest. Fully douse your fires and stay on the trails. Please treat the backcountry like you would your home.

Note: This editorial is for informational purposes only.  Trail conditions are variable and should be researched and confirmed by you prior to use.  Always obey property lines and use common sense to verify boundaries, roads, and trails.

After some recommendations and referrals from colleagues, friends, and fellow overlanders, I decided to take the truck on a portion of the Oregon Back Country Discovery Route 5, Section 2. After downloading the route on my phone, and completing my pre-trip checklist of the AT4X and personal belongings, I set out early to get to the trailhead that’s three hours away from my Boise home. 

Solo Traveling

I entered the Back Country route at Gap Ranch-Wagontire Rd, which had an old windmill and a nice spot for those needing a place to set up camp for the evening. After setting tire pressure with the Viar Expedition High Pressure OBA, it was time to hit the trail. Starting out, I could tell right away that this was a less-traveled route. The roads were tight with sagebrush, and after passing by the cattle early on the trail, the tire tracks from previous travelers diminished.

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

What better way to overland than to overland with no other vehicles on trail? This allowed me to really slow down and enjoy my time doing some real-world testing of the GMC. 

My experience with the Ultimate Overland Vehicle on the early portion of the section was fantastic. The truck easily took me through the dirt two-track surrounded by a healthy sagebrush community that seemed to get more dense as I continued on the trail. This portion of the trail, though easy on the truck’s mechanical side, the Cayenne Red Tintcoat paint received its first bit of trail rash. Oh well, I’m sure it won’t be its last.

Overland Responsibly

20 miles into the trip, consistently hopping in and out of the truck for the cattle gates, the sagebrush abruptly stopped, turning into an open grassland. There was what appeared to be a border in the landscape. It was quite the sight to behold. Out in the distance, I spotted a mule deer skipping away from my direction. Scanning the horizon, I spotted a few more doing the same in different directions. Seeing so many of them was a nice reminder that I was truly off the beaten path and in their home environment. 

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

I had entered the area that was victim to a human-produced wildfire, the Cinder Butte Fire that took place in 2017 that burned over 52,000 acres. The land showed great signs of recovery, but slowly.  It was quite an amazing stretch of the trail, encapsulating the vastness of the landscape I found myself in. I had to take the opportunity to snap some photos of the AT4X here, just before golden hour. This part of the trip was my reminder to #OverlandResponsibly and to take moments like this story to spread awareness.

Getting Technical

Half way through the trail the road turned rough, peppered with sharp volcanic rock that jutted out of the two tire-wide dirt paths ahead of me. This mixed with the rocky outcrops consisting of ancient western junipers turned the relaxing trip into one requiring some technical thought. I was alone with zero cell service and I had to be careful. Thankfully I had the ZOLEO Satellite Communicator, which gave me peace of mind  with a satellite communication device but I had zero desire to be in the position to use it.

These rocky inclines forced me to face the hard pill to swallow with this truck, the low clearance front bumper. GMC has since announced the AT4X AEV Edition at Overland Expo PNW with a sweet, functional front bumper for off-road use. Even with the luxury of the 15 camera views, I found myself getting out to check my lines to ensure I didn’t drag the bumper. Aside from this bit of caution towards these clearance issues, the Multimatic DSSV spool-valve suspension dampers handled this rough, unevenness portion of the trail effortlessly. And it looked picturesque in the process.

Lost Forest

The final leg of this 66-mile portion of the Oregon Back Country Route put us in Lost Forest, a research site of an ancient, self-sustaining ponderosa pine forest. Nestled up against Christmas Valley Sand Dunes, the 9,000-acre stand of pines has no water source. I marveled at the ancient trees and tried to picture what it looked like thousands of years ago as the AT4X meandered easily around the old growth. The road was sandy and smooth through the old forest, so I decided to let the 6.2-liter V8 stretch its legs a bit. The tone of the Magnaflow exhaust never fails to put a smile on my face.

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

I popped out into the dunes’ recreation area parking with less than 20 minutes until sunset and a little over 30 minutes away from the campsite I saved on my phone prior to walking out my door. I worked quickly to air the tires back up for the stretch of pavement and hit the road.

The In-Between

I believe it’s all about the time spent between planned stops that truly make the trip memorable. The backcountry asphalt to my destination was surrounded by a green oasis of alfalfa fields. I took this time to reflect on the 5-hour trail I had just experienced in a vehicle outfitted with some of the best gear and equipment on the market, which greatly differs from my budget-friendly Toyota FJ Cruiser. 

To be honest, I spent a lot of my time with the Ultimate Build doing my best to learn about the products that set this truck apart from the factory. In my personal overland build, I use a lithium battery as an alternative power source, while this truck is decked with the REDARC RedVision Manager30 that’s managing a solar panel on top of the MITS canopy. This setup allowed me to enjoy the constant external power for all my things and storing my cold food and beverages in the Dometic CRX110 fridge. I appreciated the convenience of being able to quickly check the battery status of the setup.

I got to camp just as blue hour began, giving me just enough time to set-up the 23 Zero Outbreak 1550 ground tent. It was a nice spot near a dirt road, surrounded by trees, and host to a fantastic view. The best part? It was still quiet with no other vehicle or neighbors camping nearby.

Camp Kitchen with Green Goat Outdoors

It doesn’t take too many overland adventures to gain an appreciation for good meals. After a long day on the trail, I was eager for a warm dinner before bed. The Ultimate Build was supplied with the Green Goat Outdoors’ Camp Kitchen concept. Designed to be compact with the limited storage our rigs allow in mind, the layout of the kitchen was easy to set up and keep organized while I cooked my meal. Green Goat did a fantastic job supplying it with the necessary utensils and cookware for camping without overdoing it with needless kitchenware. 

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

Photo by Andrew Jackson

I wish I could have continued on the Oregon Back Country Route, but I had an Overland Expo to get to. After a quick cup of coffee over the kitchen paired with the early morning sunrise, it was time to hit the road to Redmond. Here I bid adieu to the GMC and handed the keys over to the Overland Expo team for another lucky individual to experience what it’s like to overland in an Ultimate Build.

The Less-Traveled Experience

The less-traveled road with the truck allowed me to experience the Oregon high desert landscape, consisting of tight roads overwhelmed with vigorous sagebrush communities, open fields with the occasional fire-killed western juniper, rocky outcrops, and an ancient forest. It was a luxury for me, a fairly novice overlander, to savor the capabilities of the 2022 Ultimate Overland Vehicle.

Though I did not have to utilize every feature the GMC had to offer, I got a good sense of its ability to be a full-fledged overland build, capable of going to remote locations and sustaining itself for extended periods of time.

The entire length of the Owyhee Uplands Back Country Byway can be traveled during good weather by most passenger cars, though rain and snow make the road notoriously slick. Also known as Mud Flat Road, the Byway crosses the Owyhee Plateau and Canyonlands. 

The ride begins in Jordan Valley, which was originally a supply depot for the Owyhee gold mines. As mining waned, ranching took hold, and the Byway was formed as a wagon route to access the remote ranchlands.

After gassing up in Jordan Valley, you’ll head east along the sagebrush-covered hills along Jordan Creek. South Mountain rises 7,800 feet above the valley to the south. Just past the 22-mile mark, you’ll reach Three Forks Junction, where you can take a 25-mile, out-and-back detour to overlook the confluence of the North Fork, Middle Fork, and Main Owyhee Rivers. With over 100 miles between gas stations on this route, just make sure you’ve got sufficient range for this side trip.

Thirty miles into the ride, you’ll begin dropping into the North Fork Owyhee River Canyon. Looking westward, you’ll see the meandering gorges of the Owyhee River system cutting through the plateau. About one-fifth of the world population of native California bighorn sheep live in and around these canyons. At the 31-mile marker, the North Fork Recreation Site has picnic tables, fire rings, and vault toilets.

As your journey continues, old-growth juniper stands line the road, framed by the sagebrush-steppe ecosystem and ancient volcanic geologic formations. In addition to being the home to the ancestors of the Shoshone, Bannock, and Northern Paiute Indian tribes, the Owyhee also drew European explorers, homesteaders, and miners.

The rugged southwestern corner of Idaho, known as the Owyhee Canyonlands, contains roughly 500,000 acres of Wilderness Study Areas (WSA), some of which border the Byway. Off-highway motor vehicle travel is prohibited in these BLM-managed public lands, so please mind land use designations when traveling and camping along the Owyhee Uplands Back Country Byway.

What to Know:

• Time: 4-6 hours
• Distance: 104 miles
• Fuel: Gas is available at either end of the Owyhee Uplands Back Country Byway in Jordan Valley, Oregon, and Grand View, Idaho. 
• Highest elevation: Elevation along this route ranges from 2500 to 6300 feet. Be prepared for the arid high desert climate.
• Water: There are natural water sources along this route that require purification. Or fill your bottles when you’re getting gas in Jordan Valley or Grand View. 
• Camping: Ample dispersed camping is available on BLM land along this entire route, but mind the Wilderness Areas and private lands that are in the area. Please pack out anything that you bring in with you.
• Other considerations: You’ll be able to navigate this route in any capable vehicle in good weather, but it is typically impassable from late November through March due to snow. Cell service is virtually nonexistent, and you’ll be very remote for much of the journey, so plan on being self-sufficient for the duration of the drive.

This area encompasses 85,000 acres in the South Mountain region, where you can cycle, mountain bike, hike, paddle, and more. The Michaux State Forest also includes opportunities for camping with free permits. Be sure to check the DCNR website for more information on the permitting process.

Michaux State Forest also holds some interesting history. During WWII, it was the site of the Pine Grove Furnace Prisoner of War Interrogation Camp. From 1943 until 1945, the now abandoned farm was operated by military intelligence officers in an effort to gather information about Axis war efforts. During the time this secret prison was active, it housed thousands of German and Japanese POWs.

Michaux Ridge Road serves as one of the best ways to explore a large portion of the state forest. It runs for just over ten miles and traces the summits of one of the area ridges. Along the route, you can enjoy views of the South and Pinnacle Mountains in the distance. It’s mostly gravel, so any vehicle should be able to travel it in all but the most inclement weather.

What to Know:

• Time: 1 hour
• Distance: 10 miles
• Fuel: Gas is available in Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. 
• Highest elevation: 2,062 feet
• Water: Water is available at natural sources with proper filtration or at some campsites and sources inside state forest.
• Camping: Camping is available at numerous types of sites inside Michaux State Forest. Please practice Leave No Trace Ethics and check for required permits and fees. 

Workers employed by the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) first blazed the road in the 1930s. However, the corridor was not officially established until 1980. The namesake of the corridor reaches much further back than its official establishment.

Magruder Road Corridor is named for Lloyd Magruder who, along with four others, was murdered in 1863 at mile 44.2. Marguder’s murderers were eventually caught and hanged — the first legal hanging in the territory.

Don’t let the grizzly history dissuade you. You’ll find pristine nature and expansive mountain views on the road — nothing nefarious.

The best time to travel the 101-mile Magruder is between July and October. However, given the elevation, snow storms are possible at any time. Pack accordingly. You can traverse the entire road in six to eight hours, if you blow straight through at 12-15 miles per hour.

It’s recommended you take your time and camp at one of the many dispersed or primitive camping sites along the way. There are more than twenty hiking trails along the Magruder and a fishing hole, too. So, you might as well take your time and enjoy the splendor Magruder has to offer.

When camping along Magruder, the Forest Service asks that you camp more than 200 feet from trails or water. For campfires, it’s specified you use existing fire grates or fire rings. And, as with any overlanding journey, it’s expected that you pack out all trash with you, leaving no trace of your stay.

As for vehicle requirements, most of the trail can be easily handled by 4x4s and adventure motos alike. The Forest Service warns that low-clearance vehicles and those towing trailers ought not attempt to traverse the road, as it is primitive, rough, steep, and winding. YouTube videos of Maguder depict much less intimidating road conditions, though.

What to know:

• Time: 6-8 hours (nonstop) or 2 days (with camping overnight)
• Distance: 101 miles
• Fuel: Fuel stations can be found in towns on either side of the corridor. Plan to fill up before the Magruder Road Corridor. Also bring extra fuel just in case.
• Water: Water is available from natural sources along the route. Plan to treat the water (boiling for more than five minutes or using a water filter) before consuming it. Regardless, bring more water than you anticipate needing.
• Permits: Permits are not required to drive the Magruder Road Corridor.
• Other considerations: July through October is the ideal time of year to consider traversing the Magruder Road Corridor. However, snow storms can be possible year round. So pack and plan accordingly.

Somewhere in the Bighorn National Forest in northern Wyoming, I pulled my F-150 to the side of the trail and I sobbed. I don’t mean I got misty-eyed, teared up, and wept. No, I heaved and drooled and my nose ran; I sobbed.

I was four weeks into an open-ended solo overlanding trip — my very first — and I hit the emotional wall. I sat on the gray cloth bench seat and cried until my cheeks burned.

Eventually, I cried myself out. Still whimpering, I lifted my chin off my chest. I wiped the tears from my bloodshot eyes, and looked out the windshield at the land in front of me and wondered out loud, “Where am I going?”

Backstory

It was the fall of 2006. I had taken a term off of school and bought a 1998 F-150 — a burgundy super cab with a standard 6.5-foot bed 4×4 model. It had the 5.4-liter Triton V8 under the hood backed by a five-speed manual transmission. Aside from the bed capper that the original owner had installed, it was totally stock.

With little more than a stove and cooler in the back seat and a mattress in the bed, I hit the road for an indeterminate amount of time.

The idea was that I’d encounter life-changing adventures, thereby finding myself on the trip. At 21 years old, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with my life. I was feeling rudderless. 

Without a better idea and having read a handful of road-trip books (John Steinbecks’ Travels with Charley and William Least Heat-Moon’s Blue Highways to name a few), I figured I’d try to find my inspiration alone, on the road, and in nature.

The fact that I took an overlanding trip, though I didn’t know to call it that at the time, still surprises me to this day.

I grew up in Oregon, but my family wasn’t particularly outdoorsy. We had only hiked or camped a handful of times while I was a child. We certainly didn’t do any off-roading — my parents were yuppies to their core.

Looking back now, 16 years later, I am taken aback by my brazenness. Adventuring alone into the backcountry was incredibly risky, given how little I knew.

I guess I wasn’t completely clueless; I had watched some off-roading shows on cable as a teen. In theory, I knew how winches worked. Though, after much deliberation, I opted not to get one for my F-150. I also knew a bit about the traction benefits mud tires offered when traveling off road (I skipped those, too). But that was it. I knew nothing about self-recovery, safe off-road driving techniques, or the basics of remote survival.

Nevertheless, I loaded my truck with everything I thought I’d need for a multi-month backcountry excursion. This included multiple paper maps and atlases of the western U.S., a propane stove, cheap cooler, and the biggest Maglite I could find (my only form of personal protection). And I was off. 

Most northerly

Starting in early September from my mother’s house in Portland, Oregon, where I had dumped most of my belongings, I headed northeast into Idaho. I blazed right through central and eastern Oregon, the regions that would later dominate my overlanding experiences, en route for the Gem State.

My first stop outside Oregon was at the Trolley House restaurant in Boise. With my maps, now dotted with maple syrup spots, spread across my table, I hatched a plan over breakfast. With colder temperatures on the horizon, I decided I’d continue north. I figured I’d get the most from Montana’s northwest that I could before colder temperatures descended on the region. Then I’d head south, hopefully outrunning the cold.

My most northerly destination was Glacier National Park. From there, I’d weave my way south. 

Over the next several weeks, I just drove. I’d pick a direction, pick a road on the map (or as I was driving), and I’d just go. My days were made up of listening to local radio stations, driving, and writing.

A high school teacher/mentor had recommended that we, his students, listen to local radio wherever we traveled. That way, we’d get the best sense of the region’s culture. It’s a habit I practice to this day. Though, as the media landscape becomes increasingly homogenized, I am not sure it’s as useful a tool as it was a couple of decades ago.

When I got tired, I found a place to pull over — be it in the middle of the forest or in a remote gas station parking lot. The fact that I slept in gas station parking lots still freaks me out to this day. After dark, I’d cook up a modest meal on my little stove and crawl into the back of my truck. Lying in my sleeping bag, I’d write for a few hours before falling asleep.

It was incredibly freeing to live in the moment — every moment — like that.

I was in the moment, but I was also very much not. Having fired up the creative-writing part of my brain, and without any real entertainment to speak of, I daydreamed a lot. Building on Steinbeck and Least Heat-Moon’s stories, I imagined my own. I began to creatively conjure the adventures I might have on the road. It was incredibly entertaining to weave these fantastical yarns in my mind’s eye.

One night in remote Montana, miles from the nearest human, while dozing in the back of my truck, I heard a large animal approach my campsite and begin sniffing around my rig. I grabbed my Maglight, held it against my chest, frozen in terror. I lay there, heart nearly leaping out of my chest, eyes wide open, motionless, as I listened to the seemingly gargantuan creature poke around my pickup.

To my relief, the thing eventually wandered off. But the images of it smashing in my bed capper and mauling me replayed in my mind the rest of the night. I didn’t sleep a wink.

Beyond that blood-pressure-raising event, Montana was surprisingly uneventful. I chatted up locals in towns when I got the chance and dined in greasy-spoon diners when the mood struck. I played the role of chatty but aloof outdoorsman and solo traveler — the furthest thing from my actual persona.

Wyoming

I rolled into Wyoming by late October. By then, most of the novelty of being alone had worn off. Despite the brave face I put on for the Montanans I met, I was not a chipper DIYer. I was, in fact, a liberal urbanite without a North Star. I thrived being around people, relying on people. And, day in and day out, there was no one but me.

Eventually, that realization washed over and overwhelmed me. And I broke down.

I’ve thought hard about this scene for the last 16 years, playing it over and over in my mind. I can see my jeans, the dashboard, and the view through the windshield that afternoon in the Bighorn National Forest. I remember the burning feeling in my chest as I bawled. But I don’t remember the catalyst. I don’t know what sparked my mini-breakdown.

After I dried my eyes, I steeled my nerves. I had a conversation with myself, out loud, alone, in the cab of my truck.

I talked about being alone, scared, and running from my reality. I determined I wasn’t going to find many more answers alone on the trail. My daydreams weren’t helping either. I opened my maps and found my way to Boulder, Colorado, to the home of my godparents — and my mother’s best friends — Nelson and Dee.

A light in the dark

I arrived at their ranch home outside Boulder well after dark. The lights from Nelson and Dee’s living room just barely shone enough light across the dirt road to illuminate the way to their front door. They didn’t know I was coming when I sheepishly knocked on their door. But they readily opened their hearts and home to me.

After a quick and stumbling introduction, I was greeted by a couple I barely knew — at least not as an adult. Nevertheless, they literally embraced me with the warmth of a close family member.

Over the next three days, I lounged in Nelson and Dee’s home. I sat on their porch with their golden retriever by my side and wrote, journaling my travels and charting my emotions. Nelson and Dee gave me both love and space but also an emotional foundation on which to begin rebuilding myself — at least enough to get back on the road without feeling completely shattered.

It was there, overlooking the high-altitude prairie stretching out in front of me that I realized I wanted to more seriously invest in my writing. I decided there to apply for journalism school at the University of Oregon when I returned home.

It was in the energetic calm of that loving home that I set out on the path that has led me to where I am today.

Getting back

After a few days, I was back on the road. Nelson woke up at 4 a.m. to make sure he could cook me breakfast before I left — a gesture that meant so much to me that it has stuck with me to this day.

I didn’t beeline straight back to Portland. I was keen to explore more, so I dipped down into southern Utah and Nevada before heading north again. Along the way, I spent the many silent hours behind the wheel of my F-150 thinking.

Before my respite in Boulder, I spent time in a proverbial fantasy land in my head. I conjured visions of wild adventures I might have on my trip, the strange but inspiring people I might meet.

Now I pictured myself back on the campus of the University of Oregon as a journalism student. It was the most grounded I’d felt in a long time. I was no longer burning daylight hours living in an unlikely, albeit happier, future. Instead, I was now plotting a real, achievable path. It felt good.

When I got home, I put the Ford up for sale. I took a bath on it. I replaced it with a Volvo 240 wagon, which got me through the remainder of college. Although that truck and that trip are just far-off memories, the impact that trip had on me has been long-lasting.

This should come as no surprise, but overlanding remained a chief hobby of mine. And writing, too, has dominated my life since.

It’s funny to think that in the fall of 2006 I set off on an overlanding trip, hoping to find bigger-than-life adventures. I found my own life instead.

Three Creeks Lake Road, Bend, Oregon

Three Creeks Lake Road is a fantastic detour between Bend and Sisters, Oregon in the late-spring and summer months (snow can persist into early-spring, depending on the weather conditions) and is an easy, graded dirt road – mostly two-wide with pullouts for the narrower sections.

What Three Creeks Lake Road lacks in difficulty, it more than makes up for in beauty. From the road, you can see views of the Three Sisters peaks, you can access Tumalo Falls, a 97-foot (30 m) waterfall on Tumalo Creek, you can fish at Three Creek Lake (and other surrounding lakes), and check out an abandoned fire lookout tower on Trout Creek Butte at an elevation of 5,546 feet.

What to Know:

• Time: Give yourself at least two days for this drive, but consider spending more time exploring the area.
• Distance: 45.6 miles
• Fuel: Fuel is available in Bend and Sisters, Oregon.
• Highest elevation: 6,778-feet
• Water: Available in Bend and Sisters, Oregon. During the summer months, temperatures can top 100 degrees, so bring more water than you plan to use.
• Permits: Oregon State ATV Permit Required.
• Campfires: Campfires are permitted, but please keep them small, and don’t leave them unattended. High winds and dry conditions can fuel a wildfire even at unlikely times of the year.
• Other considerations: Deschutes National Forest is remote, and visitors should be equipped to be self-sufficient. Riders should wear appropriate safety gear, carry a first aid kit, and never ride alone. Most Forest Service and BLM personnel have radios and can give assistance. There is a cellular phone repeater on Grizzly Mountain, and coverage is fair for most of the area.

It shouldn’t have to be said, but please clean up after yourself when visiting Deschutes National Forest. Pack out what you pack in and leave your campsites cleaner than when you found them. Please treat the backcountry like you would your home.

Note: This editorial is for informational purposes only.  Trail conditions are variable and should be researched and confirmed by you prior to use.  Always obey property lines and use common sense to verify boundaries, roads, and trails.