As the saying goes, it’s the journey and not the destination that makes the trip. But how does one describe a destination that is as good as it gets and an even better ride? With autumn upon us, it was the best time – and maybe our last chance – for riding the Ozarks before winter.

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Instead of our usual big bikes, we rode our thumpers – Bill on his Kawasaki KLR650 and me on my adventure-kitted Husqvarna 701 Enduro.

Related:

• 2022 Kawasaki KLR650 | Video Review
• 2020 Husqvarna 701 Enduro LR Announced in North America

Big Singles are a great way to travel, especially if you’re not in a hurry. That made them perfect for our trip because the route I chose demands backing off the throttle to see the sights and make the corners. 

Our counterclockwise route began in Clarksville, Arkansas, riding northbound briefly on Highway 21 and then turning east on Highway 292 to connect with Highway 123, a great road that climbs into the mountains through the Ozark-St. Francis National Forest. Highway 123 follows Little Piney Creek and then Hew Creek, and there are scenic waterfalls along the way.

At Sand Gap, Highway 123 connects with Highways 7 and 16. We continued east on Highway 16, which is a pleasure to ride, with the kind of tarmac that offers confidence-inspiring traction in its many curves, even with our dual-sport tires.

At Clinton, we rode south on U.S. Route 65 and then followed Highways 92 and 16 around the south side of Greers Ferry Lake, turning north on Highway 5 near Heber Springs.

Our first day’s destination was Mountain View, a small town of 2,900 people that’s surrounded by the Ozark Mountains and close to the gorgeous White River. It’s also known as the “Folk Music Capital of the World.” During the summer months, folk and country music groups gather in the city park, providing family entertainment well into the night, especially on Saturdays. In the spring and fall, when the nights are too cool for the musicians’ fingers to pluck their stringed instruments, they play in the afternoons. It’s a popular attraction, so make your hotel reservation well in advance. As you might expect, there’s not much pickin’ and grinnin’ in the winter.

From Mountain View, we rode north on Highway 5, and just before the junction with Highways 9 and 14, we turned left on Swinging Bridge Road, named after the cable-suspended wooden bridge over the crystal-clear South Sylamore Creek. Just west of the bridge, mountainous Highway 14 took us to the Blanchard Springs Recreation Area with its springs, caverns, and cliffside hiking trails. Mirror Lake, popular for its rainbow trout, is fed by the cold water from Blanchard Springs. Near the lake, one can hike a wooden walkway and down stone steps to where the spring comes out of the caverns. Pretty cool. Below the Mirror Lake dam, another trail takes you to the remains of a corn mill built in the early 1900s and the bottom of Mirror Lake Falls.

On the map, Highway 87 looked like it would be fun, so we rode it back to Mountain View. It was a good choice!

From Mountain View, we again rode north on Highway 5 along the lovely White River and through charming places like Calico Rock, Old Joe, and Norfork. A short hop west on Highway 201 took us to the sweeping curves of Highway 341 (Push Mountain Road) into the Leatherwood Wilderness area.

At Highway 14, we turned west again and crossed Big Creek and the Buffalo River. If you ride through here during hot weather, the Buffalo is a great place to cool off, with parking and access at Dillard’s Ferry.

Just south of Yellville (if you cross Crooked Creek, you’ve gone too far), we turned west on Highway 235 and rode south until it ended at U.S. Route 65. We continued west, turning onto Highway 123 again near Western Grove and riding south. We crossed the Buffalo River again just before we got to Piercetown.

Rather than ride a short 10 miles west on Highway 74 to Jasper, we continued south on Highway 123 through what’s known as the Arkansas Grand Canyon, taking the long way to Jasper via Highway 7. After only a few miles on Highway 123, my Husky’s low-fuel light lit up, but we were still some 45 miles from “good” gas in Jasper. I asked myself, Should I stop at the one gas station on 123 and put low octane in my thumper or chance it and go for the good stuff? I chose the latter – and ran out of gas just 7 miles south of Jasper. Next time I’ll know: A gallon of cheap gas is better than none at all! Bill’s KLR had just enough fuel left to get him to Jasper, and after a short roadside nap, we were off again.

Jasper is a lovely little town, and just north of it, after crossing the Buffalo again, is Highway 74, an often overlooked but fantastic motorcycling route. We rode it west to Highway 43 – famous for elk sightings – and then west on Highway 21 and south on 74 again.

Highway 74 connected us to the famous Pig Trail Scenic Byway (Highway 23). Feeling bolder than I should have, I tried to use the Husky’s superior power to pull away from Bill’s KLR, but he stretched the KLR’s throttle cable and hung with me. As fast as we dared go, some guy on a multi-cylinder crotch rocket blew by us and out of sight. One good thing about riding a thumper is that you feel like you’re going fast when you really aren’t.

Highway 23 dropped us down out of the Ozarks onto Interstate 40 and then back home to Oklahoma.

Riding big Singles for 650 miles in two days wasn’t bad at all. In fact, in the mountains of Arkansas, it was big fun.

The seeds of this West Texas motorcycle ride were planted in December 2019 when my buddy Reed and I joined the EagleRider Club. Members pay monthly subscription fees for credits toward motorcycle rentals, which roll over month to month and offer significant discounts versus standalone rentals.

In addition to the discounts, being club members allows us to fly into a new area and rent motorcycles that are different from what we ride back home. We live in Connecticut, so flying into Dallas saved us a 3,200-mile roundtrip that would have taken several days on each end. Instead of grinding out miles just to get to Texas and back home, we spent that time leisurely exploring roads and sights.

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To beat the heat of the Texas summer, we planned our trip for mid-April. Reed and I are BMW riders, but for this trip we rented two late-model Harley-Davidsons: a Street Glide for me and a Heritage Softail Classic for him. There’s something special about riding the open road on a big American V-Twin. We’re older guys who were decked out in textile riding gear and modular helmets, so we’re hardly Easy Rider rebels. When we saw a BMW GS in a hotel parking lot with “Adventure Before Dementure” on one of its panniers, we could relate.

See all of Rider‘s Harley-Davidson coverage here.

We did a clockwise loop of roughly 2,300 miles over nine days. From Dallas, we headed south to Texas’ funky state capital, Austin. The Harleys were stable and comfortable, the torque was intoxicating, and the horns were good and loud, but the transmissions were a bit clunky. After visiting the Texas Capitol, we rode east to Round Top, a small tourist town known for antiques. We were disappointed to find the antique markets closed when we got there, but I managed to get a photo with a roadrunner as tall as I am – things really are bigger in Texas!

The riding improved west of Austin when we entered the legendary Texas Hill Country, an area well-known among motorcyclists. Endless hills turn the many rural FM (Farm-to-Market) and RM (Ranch-to-Market) roads into paved rollercoasters. We enjoyed nice twisties, light traffic, and pretty views along the shore of Lake Travis and through Inks Lake State Park. After riding through Llano, we dropped the sidestands and stretched our legs at Enchanted Rock State Natural Area. In Fredericksburg, a charming historic town surrounded by vineyards, we ate sausages and enjoyed live music during a courtyard dinner at a German restaurant. 

Less than an hour from Fredericksburg and west of Medina, we rode the renowned Twisted Sisters. The three RM roads (335, 336, and 337) are full of fun curves and whoop-de-doos and are worthy of their reputation. The Twisted Sisters are so popular among motorcyclists that there are two-wheeled tourist stops in the area, like the Lone Star Motorcycle Museum in Vanderpool and the Frio Canyon Motorcycle Stop and The Hog Pen in Leakey. We passed many ranches; two of my favorite names were Big Bucks Ranch and Middle Age Spread.

After a night in Del Rio, we followed U.S. Route 90 west along the southwestern border of the Texas Pecos Trail region and within a stone’s throw of the Rio Grande. Although our bikes had the same 107 engines, the Softail’s tank holds 5 gallons while the Street Glide’s holds 6 gallons. That 1-gallon difference became evident when we hit an 86-mile stretch with no services thinking we had enough gas. We were wrong.

Reducing speed and tucking in behind the windshield for the last 20 miles did the trick, but headwinds meant the Softail was running on fumes when we pulled into Sanderson. At the gas station, a lady with a ’50s-style bouffant told us that pickle juice is good for combating dehydration. We were intrigued, but we wondered if she was having fun at the expense of us Yankees.

See all of Rider‘s touring stories here.

At Marathon, we turned south toward our next destination: Big Bend National Park. Situated in a pocket of West Texas where the Rio Grande’s southeasterly course makes a sharp bend to the north, Big Bend is enormous, covering more than 801,163 acres (1,252 square miles), making it the seventh largest national park outside of Alaska. In 1976, Big Bend was designated a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve. It contains the largest intact portion of the Chihuahuan Desert, one of the most biologically rich and diverse desert ecosystems in the world.

Because Big Bend is far from major cities and the 118 miles of the Rio Grande along its southern boundary serves as the border between the U.S. and Mexico, it receives relatively few visitors compared to other national parks. That makes it the perfect destination for those who love wide-open spaces and don’t care for crowds.

That afternoon we enjoyed Big Bend in all its glory. Mountain peaks topping 7,000 feet competed with colorful desert blooms for beautiful scenery. In Rio Grande Village, we learned of a tramway system that transported lead and silver from Mexico across the Rio Grande to eventually connect with the railroad in Marathon. For migrants, crossing the Rio Grande would have been a matter of simply wading the low waters, but passing the Border Patrol checkpoint some miles inland (in open desert) is another story.

Highlights of Big Bend National Park include the winding road up to Chisos Basin, the Rio Grande Overlook, and Ross Maxwell Scenic Drive, which passes through Tuff Canyon on its way to Santa Elena Canyon Overlook. Of the 304 miles of roads in the park, 123 miles are paved, 45 miles are unpaved but improved, and 136 miles are unpaved and primitive, so there are plenty of miles to explore regardless of your preferred surface – or bike. That said, at our hotel in Alpine, located about 80 miles north of the park via State Route 118, another guest recounted how two Honda Africa Twins struggled in Big Bend’s sandy unpaved tracks, going down so often they gave up and had their bikes towed out.

After spending the morning at Fort Davis, a national historic site north of Alpine with a well-preserved complex of buildings and visitor center, we embarked on our most challenging ride of the trip. We headed south on State Route 17 to Marfa and then took U.S. Route 67 to Presidio. From there, we rode east on FM 170, known as River Road. The 64 miles to Study Butte-Terlingua wind along the Rio Grande through Big Bend Ranch State Park. Except for the low water crossings, the road surface is generally good – and the views are fantastic – but riders need to stay frosty because there are sudden elevation changes, decreasing radius and off-camber blind curves, and sometimes wildlife on the road.

After getting our fill of mountains, canyons, rivers, and memorable Rio Grande scenery, we headed north through empty high desert to Fort Stockton, Odessa, Midland, and Lubbock, an area of Texas notable for the Permian Basin, an 86,000-square-mile area that’s home to some of the nation’s largest oil reserves. We rode for hours with oil wells scattered across the landscape in every direction. To our surprise, we also saw dozens of large wind turbines towering above some of the oil rigs, so some Texans are clearly hedging their bets. 

Just south of Amarillo, we visited Palo Duro Canyon State Park, where we took in expansive views of America’s second largest canyon, which is 120 miles long, an average of 6 miles wide, and up to 1,000 feet deep. The sprawling canyon was the subject of paintings by Georgia O’Keefe, who lived nearby, and the site of a battle between Texas Rangers and Chief Kicking Wolf in Larry McMurtry’s novel Comanche Moon.

Having completed much of our loop, we headed southeast toward Dallas. We took secondary roads through towns such as Turkey and Matador, the latter being the home of Bob’s Oil Well, a vestige of the days when bold roadside architecture attracted customers – in this case a wooden oil derrick towering above a gas station.

The skies darkened as we rode east, and in Crowell, a lady pulled over to tell us there were tornados touching down near our next waypoint in Vernon. When an EMT reiterated the warning, we stayed put until the coast was clear. When we finally hit the road again that evening, it was a wet ride, but there was so much lightning arcing across the clouds in the distance that we had plenty of light to guide us. When we checked into our hotel in Wichita Falls, we learned they’d had heavy rain, wind, and golf ball-sized hail – one guest had a broken windshield to prove it.

On our last day, we blasted along state highways to Dallas, and for long stretches, we enjoyed explosions of color from roadside wildflowers. Bluebonnet and Indian paintbrush were abundant, and mid-April was the perfect time to see them. We know better than to mess with Texas, but we sure do appreciate all the wonderful roads, sights, and beauty we experienced in the Lone Star State. And thanks, EagleRider, for renting us the Harleys – they were the perfect steeds for our journey.

If you’re planning a motorcycle tour in Eastern Oklahoma and you want to find the best roads and the most scenic and historic sites, take a ride with Oklahoma locals Bill and Susan Dragoo in this feature, “Riding the Territory,” from the pages of Rider magazine’s October issue. Scroll down for a route map and a link to the route on REVER.

Red skies silhouette the towering sandstone spires of Monument Valley. A six-horse team gallops across the movie screen in the foreground, pulling a stagecoach trailing a cloud of dust as the occupants desperately try to escape a band of mounted Plains Indians shooting arrows and sending up war whoops. It’s an exciting scene and an image that easily comes to mind when we try to picture life in the 1800s west of the Mississippi. The “Wild West,” in other words.

While that iconic scene may have occurred at some moment in time, a depiction of Western adventure somewhat closer to reality is the story of True Grit, in which aging U.S. Marshal Rooster Cogburn is recruited by a teenage girl to track down her father’s killer in the dangerous, outlaw-ridden Indian Territory during the days of “Hanging Judge” Isaac Parker.

The Indian Territory – what is now Eastern Oklahoma – truly had its share of outlaws in the days after the Civil War. Cattle rustlers, horse thieves, whiskey peddlers, and bandits sought refuge in the untamed territory. For many years, the only court with jurisdiction over white men in Indian Territory was the U.S. District Court for the Western District of Arkansas located in Fort Smith, where Judge Parker held the bench for 21 years and handed down 160 death sentences.

Those outlaw days left a colorful legacy still recognizable in places like Horsethief Springs, Robbers Cave State Park, and the Fort Smith National Historic Site. And thanks to its hilly topography, Eastern Oklahoma is not only full of historical riches but also rife with great motorcycle roads. The Ozark Plateau stretches over from Arkansas into northeastern Oklahoma, and farther south, the Ouachita Mountains provide an even craggier landscape. As a result, the roads – once foot trails, wagon roads, stagecoach routes, and military roads – are a playground for motorcyclists.

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Wonderful paved twisties and miles of dirt and gravel backroads pervade the hills and hollows, flowing through this sparsely populated countryside. The feeling is one of remoteness, even if you’re never very far from a stretch of highway that will get you to an outpost of civilization.

We’ve spent much of our lives exploring Oklahoma. And while we live in the prairies farther west, the deep green forests and remote byways of the state’s eastern region keep drawing us back, time after time.

For us, a perfect starting point for a multiday tour of Oklahoma’s “Green Country” is Tahlequah. Situated about 70 miles southeast of Tulsa, Tahlequah is the modern headquarters of the Cherokee Nation and the end point for the Cherokees’ forced removal from their homeland east of the Mississippi. This relocation took place during 1838 and 1839. Other eastern tribes affected by the forced-removal policy of the U.S. government that would later come to be known as the “Trail of Tears” included the Choctaws, Creeks (Muscogees), Seminoles, and Chickasaws. Along with the Cherokees, they were known as the “Five Civilized Tribes.”

For more information about Tahlequah and the surrounding area, visit TourTahlequah.com

Once re-settled in Indian Territory, they rebuilt their societies, governed themselves, and lived in relative peace and prosperity until the devastation of the Civil War, after which white settlers inundated the Territory. Oklahoma statehood in 1907 erased tribal sovereignty. In the 1970s, legislation restored the tribes’ ability to exercise powers of self-government, allowing entities such as the Cherokee Nation to thrive.

Tahlequah’s historic sites require a leisurely day or two to enjoy, so we recommend spending some time there seeing the Cherokee National History Museum, housed in the renovated Cherokee National Capitol. Also in downtown Tahlequah is the Cherokee National Supreme Court Museum, which was built in 1844 and housed the printing press of the Cherokee Advocate, the first newspaper in Oklahoma. This museum is the oldest government building in Oklahoma. Hunter’s Home in nearby Park Hill is the only remaining pre-Civil War plantation home in the state. 

When you’re ready to get on the road, cruise north from Tahlequah on State Highway 10 along the Illinois River, one of Oklahoma’s few state-designated scenic rivers and a popular site for floating, fishing, and camping. Stay on Highway 10 or veer off at Combs Bridge, crossing the Illinois River to explore an easy dirt road squeezed between the river and the bluff. It winds through farmland and across an area of cascading water called Bathtub Rocks.

At Combs Bridge, you can also pick up the Green Country Oklahoma Adventure Tour (GOAT), a route of about 500 miles almost entirely within the Cherokee Nation. The GOAT follows public roads with loose gravel, large rocks, mud, steep hills, and an abundance of water crossings, making for a lot of fun, especially after a good rain.

If you’re more into pavement, continue northeast on Highway 10 to U.S. Route 412 and detour to beautiful Natural Falls State Park, which offers a short hike to a 77-foot waterfall and dripping springs. Grab lunch in nearby Siloam Springs, Arkansas, and return west to Highway 10/U.S. Route 59 for a pavement ride north over Lake Eucha to State Highway 20, which takes you on a super-twisty route around Spavinaw Lake southwest to Salina, the oldest European-American settlement in Oklahoma. In 1796, Jean Pierre Chouteau encouraged several thousand Osage people to move from Missouri to what would become northeastern Oklahoma, establishing a trading post at present-day Salina. An old salt kettle in a city park along Highway 20 is all that remains of this rich history.

From Salina, State Highway 82 returns you to Tahlequah, but if you have time, veer west on State Highway 51 and catch State Highway 80 for a jaunt south on a twisty paved road along the eastern shore of Fort Gibson Lake and continue to the Fort Gibson Historic Site.

Built in 1824, this was the first military post established in Indian Territory and was intended to maintain peace between the Osages and Cherokees. It figured prominently in the forced relocations of the 1830s and served as a base for military expeditions exploring the West. It was abandoned in 1857 but reactivated during the Civil War. The army stayed for some years after the war, dealing with outlaws and keeping the peace. Visitors can see a 1930s reconstruction of the early log fort and the stockade, as well as original buildings dating back to the 1840s. 

From Fort Gibson, loop back to Highway 82 and ride along the eastern shore of Lake Tenkiller, where Tenkiller State Park offers another good spot for camping, as well as lodging in cabins. Continuing south, a short detour out of Sallisaw brings you to Sequoyah’s Cabin Museum. Sequoyah created a system of writing for the Cherokee people and built this log cabin in 1829. It is enclosed by a stone structure built in 1936.

Just north of Sequoyah’s Cabin is one of the more technical segments of the GOAT, the rough and rocky Old Stagecoach Road. Which stagecoach line used the road is unclear, but it is definitely old. The road shows up clear as day on a 1901 topographic map, following West Cedar Creek through a gap in the Brushy Mountains. With a moderate level of skill, an average rider can negotiate Old Stagecoach Road.

Continuing south takes you into the Choctaw Nation. At Red Oak, catch some twisty pavement over the mountains on Highway 82, ending up in Talihina. Or turn west at Red Oak on State Highway 270 and spend a day at Robbers Cave State Park just north of Wilburton, where Civil War deserters and outlaws – including the Youngers, the Dalton Gang, and Belle Starr – reportedly hid in the park’s namesake cave.

Legend has it that the remote location and rugged terrain made the cave a nearly impregnable fortress, with the criminals able to escape through a secret back exit. We’ve been in the cave, and that “back exit” looks like a tight squeeze and a dead end. The park also features camping, lodging in vintage cabins built in the 1930s by the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC), and some of the state’s best hiking.

Heading on toward Talihina, you enter the Ouachita National Forest and some of the most spectacular riding in Oklahoma, on or off pavement. The star of the show in this region is the Talimena Scenic Drive, which begins just northeast of Talihina. The serpentine 54-mile national scenic byway steeply ascends Winding Stair Mountains, staying on the crest as it crosses over into Arkansas. Across the state line atop Rich Mountain, Queen Wilhelmina State Park is a popular stop. At nearly 2,700 feet elevation, Rich Mountain is Arkansas’ second highest peak, and the spot offers breathtaking scenery when the clouds aren’t draped over the mountaintop.

The Talimena Scenic Drive also boasts multiple offshoots for unpaved riding, and hiking trails abound. One popular footpath is Horsethief Springs, which follows a route horse thieves used in the 1800s, making their camps and corrals near the top of the mountain near a perennial spring. A stone structure built by the CCC in the 1930s now surrounds the spring, which had run dry the last time we passed through.

For hardcore hikers, the 223-mile Ouachita National Recreation Trail runs along this same ridge. We’ve backpacked the trail from Talimena State Park to Little Rock, Arkansas, in a series of section hikes and can affirm that steep, difficult climbing does not require high elevations. Nearby you can also pick up the Oklahoma Adventure Trail for more off-road two-wheeled exploration. This approximately 1,500-mile mostly unpaved trail circumnavigates Oklahoma and offers a huge variety of terrain.

The Talimena Scenic Drive drops you off in Mena, Arkansas, and from there you can follow U.S. Highway 71 to Fort Smith. The Fort Smith National Historic Site and its surroundings offer a glimpse into a spot that was once the westernmost military post in the United States and later became best known for the justice meted out by Judge Parker. A reproduction of the gallows and Parker’s restored courtroom are among the exhibits. 

From Fort Smith, take a leisurely ride north on Arkansas Highway 59, a scenic paved road hugging the border between Oklahoma and Arkansas. Along the way, make a stop at Natural Dam Falls, a lovely waterfall just off the highway. Near Dutch Mills, Arkansas, take a short side trip to Cane Hill, where you’ll swear you just emerged from a time warp. Attracted by the area’s natural springs, Cane Hill’s first European settlers established a township there in 1829. A museum and walking trails help the visitor interpret and explore the community’s well-preserved historic sites.

Jog back to Highway 59 northbound to U.S. Highway 62, which crosses into Oklahoma at Westville, the easternmost point of the Trans-America Trail as it begins its Oklahoma segment across the state’s northern tier.

Back in Tahlequah, pick up where you left off with historical exploration, or take a break and float the Illinois. No matter what you choose, take a moment to contemplate the Western history you’ve just experienced. Then go watch True Grit again.

This article originally appeared in the October 2022 issue of Rider.

For motorcyclists, Arkansas Highway 16 is one of the top highways in the Ozarks that has the added virtue of being one of the least used highways in the state. It’s mostly known to local riders and some savvy visitors but is overlooked by most travelers because it doesn’t lead anywhere in particular.

Another reason it’s mostly unknown is that it doesn’t have a cool moniker like the “Pig Trail” section of Arkansas Highway 23. So I propose that the 160-mile stretch from Fayetteville to Clinton henceforth be known as the “Ozarks Scenic Highlands Skyway.”

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Arkansas Highway 16: ‘Your last route of choice’…by car at least

Highway 16 begins in the northwestern part of Arkansas at the Oklahoma border and runs southeasterly across about two-thirds of the width of the state. From Fayetteville to Greers Ferry, it winds from one little town to another through small communities with unique names like Swain, Nail, Deer, Lurton, Witts Springs, and my personal favorite, Ben Hur.

If you were traveling by car from Fayetteville to Greers Ferry, Highway 16 would be your last route of choice. That’s exactly what makes it fantastic for riders. From Fayetteville, the ride east on Highway 16 out of town is fairly pedestrian, but once you get past Elkins, the road parallels the upper portion of the 710-mile White River.

The highway becomes more serpentine as it climbs into the highlands of the Ozarks. At Brashears, Highway 16 intersects the Pig Trail Scenic Byway section of Highway 23 for about 4 miles until Hawkins Hollow and becomes very twisty.

A look at the Arkansas State Highway map reveals that the highway has more than enough squiggly lines to delight the sport rider. And it has more than enough drop-dead gorgeous scenery to delight the cruising rider.

Just shy of 10 miles later at Boston, Highway 16 breaks out on the ridge tops and stays up there. The highway then defines what I call the “Ozarks Divide.” Creeks and rivers on the south side of the highway flow into the Arkansas River while those on the north side flow into the White River. The result of being up on the ridges on Highway 16 is that you often have spectacular vistas and views on both sides of the road at the same time – thus my suggestion to call it the Ozarks Scenic Highlands Skyway.

Arkansas Highway 16: Watch for Deer…and Ben Hur?

The 161-mile ride from Fayetteville to Clinton takes up to four hours, depending on how many stops you make. But if you don’t stop along the way, you’ll miss out on interesting experiences with the locals in those unique places with unique names.

For example, there’s a tiny spot on Highway 16 called Fallsville. At the least, I like the town for the irony of its name as a stop on a top-tier motorcycling road, considering it contains a four-letter word for riders if there ever was one. Fallsville is located at the western junction of Highway 16 and Arkansas Highway 21, and despite the odd name, it’s a great spot for a break. Besides the wonderful roads, it’s places like Fallsville that make the Ozarks marvelous for riders who want to experience the local culture.

If you’re inclined to take a hike (not a good idea in July or August) you can go to Glory Hole Falls, 5.7 miles northeast of Fallsville on Highway 16/21. It’s beautiful, especially when the water is flowing fast. The hike is a mile each way, downhill to the falls and uphill on the way back.

Twenty miles east of Fallsville (and about 11 miles past where Highway 16 splits off Highway 21) is a veritable metropolis compared to Fallsville. The town of Deer has one convenience store and a public school whose mascot is cleverly named the Antlers. Only in the Ozarks!

A couple of miles past Deer, Highway 16 joins Arkansas Highway 7 heading south, where the roads occupy the same right-of-way and eventually join Arkansas Highway 123. This trifecta of outstanding Arkansas highways – 7, 16, and 123 – are all dynamite roads. Highway 7 is revered as “Scenic 7.” Highway 123, like 16, is a lesser-known road that should be on every rider’s bucket list.

The roads go their separate ways at Sand Gap – formerly Grand Gap and Pelsor – where you’ll find the old-time Hankins Country Store. During peak riding season, hang around a while and you’re bound to meet riders from all over the country.

As much as I like Deer, my favorite place name along the way has got to be the dot on the map called Ben Hur, which has no store or businesses. It’s just a tiny community with a great name. According to an article in the Arkansas Times, the town was named in honor of actor Charlton Heston, presumably a nod to his 1959 movie of the same name. In Heston’s twilight years, he reportedly asked the town fathers to consider renaming it “Cold Dead Hand” but to no avail.

There are dirt roads winding off across the area on either side of Highway 16. One of my favorite routes is the Hurricane Wilderness Ramble, which begins in Deer. These are wonderful roads for ADV riders. But regardless of what you ride, you will enjoy traipsing across this twisty Ozarks Scenic Highlands Skyway.

I love the Ozarks. I really should have been born in them. Instead, after riding in the Ozarks 15 years ago, I fell so much in love that I moved here. To this day I ride through northwest Arkansas on roads carved rudely through the landscape. Table rocks, great sheets of stone laying one atop the other for hundreds of miles,
circulate ground water in subterranean rivers and rivulets cascade over and out of the dynamite-exposed roadside cliffs to become known as “Roche a Cri” — Rocks that Cry. In winter’s depth the fluid turns to ice, making faerie castles out of ordinary highway construction just for our enjoyment.

If Walt Disney had made a theme park for motorcyclists he’d have called it Arkansas. The state is six separate chunks of paradise: the Northwest, North Central, Upper Delta, Southwest, Central and Lower Delta. Each has its own magic. We chose to make our home near the Northwest, with the most fabled motorcycle roads and, now, an array of attractions that bring international visitors to what remains otherwise a largely uncluttered, rural thrill ride for us brothers and sisters of the wind.

As fall began coloring the woods and the air turned crisp as apple cider, my good wife Max and I decided to fly our new Can-Am Spyder F3 Limited on a circle tour of just the northwest quarter.

The big thrill to riding the Ozarks is that roads here are rollercoasters. The lines go ’round and ’round across mountain ridges and valleys called “hollers.” On two wheels you lean and lean. On three, you hear shouts and squeals of laughter from the back seat.

We started from home on Missouri Route 13 south, running in loop-dee-loops around Table Rock Lake through green hills spotted with small towns, and across the lake on Route 86 into Arkansas, down Arkansas Highway 221 and the fairytale village of Berryville. Charged up on sunshine, cerulean skies and twists and turns we rumbled into the town square, the kind you remember from old movies and stories told at Thanksgiving, if you listened.

We never eat at franchise burger joints. On the square in the Norman Rockwell painting called Berryville, we found a café on the corner right out of idyllic Main Street. Lunch was more than tasty, it was fun. “Arkies” are the friendliest folks around, and always helpful and interested in motorcyclists. Summer Newberry, owner of the Hometown Scoop, made us welcome with a panini, hot berry cobbler and coffee. And she straightened us out on the best way to our destination for the night, over the mountain pass on twisty two-lane U.S. Route 62 to the first of our international hotspots, the enchanted village of Eureka Springs. On the ride over, while grinning at sweepers and a twisty or two, we waved at bison herds and riders coming the other way.

Eureka Springs drops you back in time, as the Victorian houses, hotels, restaurants and dozens of quaint shops appear just as they did in the 1890s, when the healing waters of the 60 springs drew the wealthy in for relief from the debauchery of their rich diets and drinking. Streets go up, down and around the rocky hillsides into which they are chiseled. Half the fun is just trying to figure out in which direction the sun will set, along with finding a place to park your ride.

Stay in one of the old world hotels here, rich in flavor as a steaming mug of early morning coffee…with a slug of brandy. We chose the New Orleans Hotel with a Creole-feeling suite on the ground floor that dropped off in the back three stories from the rear terrace to the parking lot. Be careful where you walk! The Crescent Hotel, way up on the top tier of the village, dates from 1886. Known as “America’s Most Haunted Hotel,” it’s worth your time to take the nightly Ghost Tour.

Morning light incarnadines the forest spanning both sides of U.S. 62, curling with delight along the ridge, swooping with more laughs from the backseat down and around happy twisties across our old friend Table Rock Lake, up to Pea Ridge National Military Park, the Trail of Tears National Historic Trail, through Little Flock (not to be confused with Rock) and into the next international draw, Bentonville.

You’re in Walmart land! On the perfect town square you might see Jimmy Stewart dashing home in Frank Capra’s “It’s A Wonderful Life.” Here is the original five-and-dime store started by Sam Walton in May 1950. Twelve years later Walmart opened in nearby Rogers, and the revolution in commerce was on. The biggest retailer in the world began right here. A million or so visitors each year find out more at the Walmart Museum next door, and Walton’s daughter Alice left for us an amazing gift in Bentonville, the Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art. It is a magnet for art lovers, and it’s free.

Heading south we passed neighboring Fayetteville, famed for its annual weekend fall festival, Bikes, Blues & BBQ. If you’re into crowds this is the South’s Sturgis. Last year more than 315,000 revelers rode into this self-described “family friendly” rally.

Four-lane Interstate 49 runs down to our next destination for the night, Fort Smith. Take that if you must, but we chose the rural two lanes. Highway 265 winds past Hogeye and Strickler (don’t blink) through pristine trees with so little traffic it feels like they paved it just for us. Join Highway 170 into a unique, unfettered virgin forest and Devil’s Den State Park. Arbor tunnels of green and gold have those yellow diamond shaped signs with curved arrows reading 15 mph. If you’re on a café racer or have done the Isle of Man — be wary. Anything else…go slow! “Arkie” highway engineers follow old Indian paths and hard rock ridges. One switchback warned, “10 mph.” A downhill giant paperclip twist, it made me stop dead in the middle and laugh!

Devil’s Den, like all state parks, is a refuge from the grind of city life. Deep in the forest, campgrounds and rental cabins are clean and close to the park store where rangers are friendly and eager to help. A river runs through and there is swimming and fishing. We plan to return here for a week in the spring.

Take Highway 220 out of the park and enjoy the dipsy-doodle ride in the Ozark-St. Francis National Forest past hamlets called Lee Creek, Cedarville and Figure Five, and then merge onto Highway 59 through Van Buren across the Arkansas River to rest for the night in Fort Smith. You’ll need a good night’s sleep.

Our last “international interest” spot for the northwest, Fort Smith is history buff candy. The National Park Service maintains the site of the fort where the Poteau River joins the Arkansas. It traces three episodes of our expansion, the details of which are all on display at no cost in the barracks visitor center, the commissary, gallows, Trail of Tears overlook and more. Check out #fortsmitharkansas and prepare to spend a day where the “New South meets the Old West.”

Eastward on Highway 22, the bottom line of our circle traces the course of the Arkansas River across flatter land for farms and livestock ranches. From Highway 22 we took Highway 109 at Midway straight north across the big river again to Clarksville and the start of the best ride of our lives. Scenic Highway 7 gets a lot of press for thrill-seeking riders.

This time we chose Highway 21 through the national forest. This is a heart-starter through Johnson and Newton counties, rivaling curve for curve its Carolina cousin, the Tail of the Dragon. I mentioned rollercoasters — this is the longest one I’ve seen!

Cross the headwaters of the Buffalo River and stop at Boxley. The 16-mile-long grassy valley is home to the protected herd of elk found lolling about in tall grass and a river so clean you want to drink it. The Elk Education Center up the road in Ponca will surprise you with animal tales and directions to viewing areas. There’s a café for needed refreshments, too.

We picked a new place to spend our last night on the road, following the buffalo along Highway 74 to Jasper. “Wowser” is the word for the first couple of miles of heavy forest and sidewinder switchbacks and twisties. Sport riders will drag knees here and make scraping noises and sparks. Max and I enjoyed the view on three wheels at a slower, yet fun clip. In Jasper we found scenic Highway 7 again and turned briefly five miles south and uphill all the way, sensing something wonderful off to the left. 

Our stopover is a grandiose but cozy B&B called the Overlook. The “over” which it looks, is the stunning Arkansas Grand Canyon. Somebody said, “The Ozark Mountains are not so high but the valleys are so deep.” Here you can experience the full impact of that. Magnificent vistas from the deck of our room warm hearts and soften souls. On our way to dinner that evening we met two couples on Harleys — they too were “overlooking” the canyon. They’d ridden in snow from home in Minnesota and came down to ride just a little longer this year.

Next morning our odyssey ride took us back up Highway 7 with a final jolt of adrenaline and joy into Harrison and up U.S. Route 65 through Branson and Springfield to our own Ozark home. These hills and hollers with well-paved inspiring blacktop roads can only be dreamt about in the big city. The Ozarks are a wondrous mystery to be lived. 

If the title of “Great River Road National Scenic Byway Along the Mississippi River” evokes images of riding next to one of the mightiest waterways in America, well, it should. But at least in Missouri, it’s a bit of a misnomer. Great River Valley Road might be more accurate, and the highways there rank among the best I’ve ridden.

I crossed the Mississippi River at Keokuk, Iowa, and turned south onto U.S. Route 61, designated a Great River Road on signs and maps by lines radiating from a green circle. Soon, I was rumbling along gently rolling pavement among farm fields and pastureland that bore evidence of recent flooding. And while I mostly avoided rain, high water was a constant companion on this ride.

At Hannibal, Missouri Route 79 was my choice. And what a great run: twisty and tight with brief glimpses of the river all the way to the town of Louisiana. The route swings west at Clarksville while retaining the River Road label, but I wouldn’t see the Mississippi again until I rode into Saint Louis. Turning east on Interstate 70, I was soon downtown. Wanting an unobstructed view of the Gateway Arch, I crossed the river on the Eads Bridge onto Illinois Route 3 and turned down a rough side road to the Mississippi River Overlook Park. The park has a 40-foot observation deck and is touted as the best spot to see the arch and city skyline.

When it was time to chase the river roads again, I took Interstate 55 south and exited on U.S. 61 at Pevely. From there the two routes play tag all the way to the Arkansas border, occasionally sharing the same tarmac. At one point the superslab was the only option due to flooding. Ste. Genevieve offered the promise of seeing a genuine Mississippi River ferry crossing. But not on that day, as its dock was underwater. I did pick up one souvenir: a drywall screw in my Suzuki V-Strom’s rear tire. My repair kit saved the day and after lunch at the Anvil Restaurant & Saloon I was on my way.

New Madrid is the home of the famous fault that seismologists say will one day spur the Midwest’s very own Big One. By this point all the dams are upstream and the Mississippi widens to massive proportions. After watching towboats organize barges, I headed south and didn’t detour until I exited onto U.S. Route 412. The map indicated the lowest point in Missouri was a few miles off the highway. While I have no doubt this was accurate, I didn’t bother checking for a marker, as much of the area was also underwater.

After a few days in Arkansas, I took U.S. Route 67 back into Missouri. Rumored road closures inspired me to alter my route west from U.S. Route 160 to U.S. Route 60. Not a bad swap, as the lightly-traveled rolling four-lane cuts through the heart of the Ozarks and offers spectacular scenery.

At Mountain Grove, I turned north on Missouri Route 95 and cut across some excellent county roads to Missouri Route 5. Like many secondary routes, these were posted 55 mph. It may sound weird, but I often felt this was too fast. I like brisk riding as much as the next guy, but when steep climbs and descents often include blind 90-degree turns it’s easy to get in over your head. Still, at one point, enthusiasm overruled caution as I tried to hang with a local Ducati rider. Yeah, right. Armed with a lighter bike, superior ability and road familiarity, he left me in the dust.

Missouri Route 5 intersects with Missouri Route 7 at Camdenton. Just outside of Warsaw I checked out the Harry S. Truman Dam and Reservoir, which is operated by the Army Corps of Engineers. The visitor’s center is perched high on Kaysinger Bluff and is a sight to behold. An historical society leases property on the grounds and hosts Warsaw Pioneer Heritage Days each October in a replica 1850s village, a good excuse for a fall ride through the Ozarks.

West of Warsaw, the road levels and straightens. Kansas City is a favorite of mine, but on this ride, I bypassed it and headed east on U.S. Route 24 to follow the state’s other big waterway, the Missouri River. More so than the Mississippi, it fulfilled my vision of what river road riding should be.

A voluntary detour at Napoleon put me on Missouri Route 224, which runs very close to the water; silt from recent flooding was evident in many places. I watched the Big Muddy roll by for a while at a riverside park maintained by the Army Corps of Engineers and then headed for Lexington, which hosted a major Civil War battle in 1861. The Lafayette County Courthouse retains a memento: a cannonball lodged in one of its columns.

East of Lexington, U.S. 24 reappeared. I took it as far as Waverly, hometown of Confederate General J.O. Shelby. From there, U.S. Route 65 was my choice to Marshall. Then I stumbled onto the Steve McQueen Memorial Highway, a stretch of Missouri Route 240. It passes through the farming town of Slater, where the megastar spent much of his childhood. The town planned to honor McQueen with a bike and car show later in the summer. I think he would have appreciated that.

Next stop was Glasgow, site of an 1864 Civil War battle and home of the “World’s First Multiple-Span All-Steel Bridge” east of the confluence of the Missouri and Chariton rivers. Another draw is the Rolling Pin, where I brunched with a trio of friendly local ladies. One, in her 80s, remarked how much fun a motorcycle ride would be. Maybe I should start carrying an extra helmet.

I left Glasgow on Missouri Route 87, another rider’s road that is rolling, tight and twisty with an excellent surface. Missouri Route 179 was almost as entertaining with the bonus of hugging the river in many places. A friend recommended Missouri Route 94 for the run from Jefferson City to Saint Louis, another great one, with rolling sweepers—fifth- and sixth-gear stuff on the Strom liberally sprinkled with stretches of second- and third-gear twisties. A section of the Katy Trail State Park, the longest rails-to-trails project in America, runs along the highway. One day I’ll tackle it on my pedal bike and watch the motorcycles fly by for a change.

Kansas City to Saint Louis is normally four hours on I-70. Running the back roads more than tripled that, but it was time well spent. My last stop was the Mississippi-Missouri confluence at the Columbia Bottom Conservation Area, north of Saint Louis. It too had been underwater a few days before. The gate was open, so I rode three miles of graded gravel to the spot where the two mighty rivers converge, a magnificent sight and a fine finish to my Show-Me State ride.

Motorcycling St. Louis

Saint Louis is a fine stopover for riders, with numerous motorcycle museums and shops, each with a unique personality. The Moto Museum complex, for example, includes a Ducati-KTM-Triumph dealership and the Triumph Café. The museum features dozens of expertly restored machines in professionally constructed exhibits. European marques predominate. The café offers reasonably priced dishes and lots of memorabilia. Moto is just the place to spend a couple hours checking out cool machines and grabbing a bite to eat.

On the southwest side, the Mungenast Classic Automobile and Motorcycle Museum pays tribute to automobile and motorcycle dealer Dave Mungenast. Dave competed in nine International Six Day Trials and performed stunts in Burt Reynolds’ “Hooper” and “Cannonball Run” movies. The collection includes more than 350 bikes, some rare, others common. Among the former is an Excelsior-Henderson once owned by Steve McQueen. As for the latter, there was an example of my first new motorcycle, a 1972 Suzuki 90. The motocross collection likewise includes dozens of exotic European machines. But what caught my eye was a 1974 Suzuki TM125—much like the one I broke my leg on.

The guys at Mungenast told me to check out Classic Motorcycle Company, a rebuilding and export operation run by a jovial Australian named Mike Kiernan. The shop doesn’t have a storefront, per se. Instead, work on an eclectic variety of bikes is performed in two packed buildings, one doubling as a display area. A coffee bar was also attempted, but it didn’t work out. Nevertheless, visitors are still offered a stiff cup of joe.

Mike directed me to Flying Tigers in nearby Maplewood, which was originally a multi-brand repair shop that worked on almost anything, a 1961 Sportster acquired in several baskets being one example. Flying Tigers still offers that service, but is also a franchised Moto Guzzi, Royal Enfield, Zero and Genuine Scooter agency. Owner Eric Bess also creates customs favoring the minimalist approach, such as his stripped-down Kawasaki ZRX1200 café brat. In August, he’ll ride the Kawasaki from Spokane, Washington, to Sturgis as an entry in the Rebel Yell Bourbon bike build-off. Eric showed me a new Moto Guzzi V9 Bobber that was also getting the Flying Tigers treatment for another Rebel Yell promotion.

Eric recommended a ride to Donelson Cycles. The northside shop was established in 1962 and sells Hondas, Yamahas, Triumphs and Ducatis and offers parts for vintage BSAs, Triumphs and Nortons. The in-house Carl Donelson Museum centers on dirt-track racing. Along with historic machines once piloted by top riders, the collection showcases leathers, posters and other memorabilia.

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Years ago my father’s fingers traced the route of a ride on a map of southwestern Colorado, over towns named Cortez, Dolores, Telluride, Montrose and Lake City. Colorado already has a name for part of our route, the San Juan Skyway Scenic Byway. A few years later, my dad and I embarked on that trail. I was riding his Triumph Sprint GT and he was riding his Gold Wing.

Day one, we gassed up in Dolores, home to a replica of the Rio Grande Southern Railroad’s Dolores Station. Gold discoveries in the late 1800s created a boom time for railroads in the San Juan Mountains. Times have changed and left in the wake are the discarded railroad ties, piled high in some places and half-consumed with weeds.

The 73 miles of State Highway 145 from Dolores to Placerville are sheer joy. The ride is all high country and sweeping curves, with morning and evening shade from the San Juan Mountains and remarkable scenery that just gets better as you ascend. Towns like Rico (“rich” in English) tell a story that echoes throughout these mountains. Trappers worked the valley in the 1830s and discovered what could only have been prior mining operations by the Spanish. Striking the Enterprise Lode in 1887 made David Swickheimer a millionaire, and four years later the railroad arrived. By 1892, Rico was home to 5,000 people, 23 saloons, three blocks of red light district and two churches. Eight years later only 811 people remained.

Farther up State Highway 145 is Telluride, another mining boomtown of the late 1800s. It sits in a canyon and is favored with a great view of Ingram Falls. My dad didn’t allocate any time for Telluride, so we cruised through the main drag at the enforced 15 mph, made a U-turn in a parking lot and circled back.

Telluride to Placerville is 16 miles of blacktop that flanks the San Miguel River, shades itself in a gorge and surrounds itself with high mountain trees. Placerville to Montrose is more high country riding with plenty of mountain views and light traffic. We pulled into the Red Barn Restaurant & Lounge in Montrose. You can’t miss it—a large cow prominently adorned atop the sign out front will be your beacon. After lunch, it was on to Lake City via U.S. Route 50 and State Highway 149. The last stretch on Highway 149 is idyllic, with the road once again flanking a stream and embraced between mountain walls.

Lake City is a gem and a perfect end-point for day two. It boomed in the late 1800s and some of the downtown area looks like it hasn’t changed since. We stopped in at the History Hut and struck up a conversation with the proprietor, a retired Baltimore police officer. He traced a high quality, reproduction map drawn in 1803 by Nicholas King with his finger and explained why Lewis and Clark had edited certain areas.

Morning on the third day we ascended to riding bliss on Highway 149 south. Up and over Slumgullion Pass at 11,530 feet and for roughly 50 miles to Creede we owned the road. We stopped to take some photos and discovered the headwaters of the Rio Grande off to our right. After marveling at natural beauty in its infancy, we rolled on the throttle and followed the Rio Grande as it descended.

Remnants of the Denver and Rio Grande Railway, which had been extended to Creede in the 1880s, still exist and parallel Highway 149 and the Rio Grande. All three trace their way down the mountain to South Fork, where the tracks end and a late breakfast at The Old Firehouse—eggs, toast, sausage and potatoes—was served on what could easily double as a mining pan. We turned right on U.S. Route 160 toward Wolf Creek Pass where, as a neophyte rider, my pucker reading was off the scale down the roughly 5,000-foot descent through the Rio Grande National Forest. At the bottom there’s a nice pullout for photos. After the serene bliss of the morning and afternoon, continuing into Durango was an unwelcome scene of traffic and traffic lights.

Our final day’s route would have taken us on the Million Dollar Highway (U.S. Route 550) from Silverton to Ouray. With dark clouds forming to the south, we stopped to eat an early lunch in Silverton and see what the weather would do. Sure enough, a brief downpour followed by a light drizzle ensued. We ducked into Smedley’s Ice Cream Parlor for coffee, our plan of making it all the way to Ouray scrapped. Eventually, we donned rain gear and retraced our route back to Durango. We had struck the mother lode with this ride, and at the hotel, our fingers traced a different route for a future one.

My thoughts exactly. So whenever a friend in Colorado Springs asked me to visit him from my home near Niagara Falls, Canada, I always found an excuse not to go. I mean, I had endured those flat, stolid stretches before, with little to do but ponder the meaning of life. What recently struck me out of the blue, however, was this incredibly obvious fact: the miles were monotonous because I had been in a cage on the Interstate, simply focused on getting from A to B. Was I a victim of prejudice that might well be cured by back roads and a deliberate exploration of the heartland? I decided to find out.

On my new-to-me 2006 Suzuki V-Strom, I set out riding through the countryside of Ontario and Michigan, an experience in rural revelry complete with brilliant sun and the smell of first-cut hay. I found the DL650 handled very smoothly, with more torque than I expected when fully loaded. The seat was particularly comfortable and the stock windscreen created a quiet “bubble” in which to ride. In Illinois, I rode into Dixon, where, on an unassuming street, I happened upon a white wood-frame house that turned out to be the boyhood home of Ronald Reagan. After a brief tour, I followed the sounds of music to the downtown core. On this particular weekend, Dixon was celebrating its 51st Annual Petunia Festival, complete with street vendors, a bluegrass band and a carnival. After enjoying an onion-covered hotdog near the stage, I followed the Rock River 10 miles north to Grand Detour, where a blacksmith named John Deere opened shop in 1837. A guide led me on a tour of the house, shop and grounds, explaining it was here that Deere took an old sawmill blade and forged the first ploughshare to cut cleanly through the thick Midwestern sod. This was arguably the invention that facilitated America’s settlement of the Great Plains.

Well-paved roads led over hill and dale to West Branch, Iowa. I arrived with just enough evening light to make my way down an unmaintained, single-lane road where I found a secluded spot in a cornfield. The silence was rich, the sky a royal blue and the fireflies like magic. I slept in my bivy sack on top of my new Therm-a-Rest LuxuryLite mesh cot. The cot is very quick to set up and keeps you about 3 inches off the ground on a tight sling, eliminating those painful spots where your hips and shoulders grind against hard earth. It even makes it possible to sleep comfortably in a Walmart parking lot, if necessary—don’t ask me how I know. I slept so soundly that when a racoon scrabbled across my chest at 5 a.m., he was gone before I was awake enough to be alarmed. And I was just drifting back to sleep, relishing the acapella chorus of early morning birds, when a wild turkey squawked and ruffled its monstrous feathers right by my head. When a mate called, he flew off, and I got up to a warm sunrise and dewy corn. Riding out the “B class” road, I stalled the bike at the top of a knoll where I needed to corner south—and south I went, heels over helmet! Picking up the heavy bike, I (mostly) avoided profanity and went off for coffee and assessment of the damage: a cracked turn signal and a maladjusted highway peg, easily corrected, and I was on my way. But not before visiting the Herbert Hoover National Historic Site in West Branch. Among several period buildings, the centerpiece was the tiny two-room house where the 31st U.S. president was raised.

It was the Fourth of July, and following Iowa State Highways 22 and 92, then U.S. Route 34, over gently rolling hills, I passed farmhouse after farmhouse surrounded by parked cars and trucks, where friends and family were gathered for barbecues and to celebrate the best of America. As I crossed the Missouri River and arrived in Beatrice, Nebraska, night was falling and the horizon all around me was bejewelled in glittering fireworks.

In the morning, I stopped at Homestead National Monument just outside Beatrice, where Daniel Freeman filed claim on the first day of the Homestead Act, January 1, 1863. From here I followed U.S. Route 136, the Heritage Highway, through Gilead and Fairbury. A road sign lured me into Hebron to see “The World’s Largest Porch Swing,” said to be capable of seating 24 adults. Then the bike and I continued past impossible expanses of corn, leaning into a continuous and powerful wind that made vivid the stories of the Great Plains and the 1930s Dust Bowl. It was just such stories that fed the imagination of Willa Cather, one of the greatest American novelists of the 20th century. The eldest of seven children, Cather was raised in Red Cloud, Nebraska—my next stop.

As I wandered about Red Cloud with my camera over my shoulder, following a walking tour of Cather’s life, a couple emerged from the local newspaper office. The gentleman introduced himself as Ron and his wife as Carol. Glancing up the street, he asked me if the parked bike was mine. When I said it was, he unleashed a hundred questions, mixing in stories of his own. Carol left to get a few groceries, and we were still talking when she returned. He turned to her, pointing a thumb toward me, and said, “He has to be home by August 23rd because his daughter is getting married!” “Then, Ron,” she replied, “you’d better stop talking to him, so he’s not late!” To my surprise he wanted to take my picture, which is how my bike, my bio and my trip all ended up in the weekly edition of The Red Cloud Chief. As I pulled out of town, I thought, that would never have happened on the Interstate.

Crouched behind the windscreen, I raced a thunderstorm to Kearney (surprisingly pronounced CAR-nie, just as Beatrice is pronounced Be-AT-rice; I’m convinced it’s a ploy to quickly identify outsiders), and spent a night in the rain. All the next day, the incessant wind felt like a hand pushing hard on my helmet. But there is always an upside: to dry out my camping gear, I wrapped the bivy around my top case and bungeed it like Houdini, allowing the high winds to be of some use. After an hour, I switched it out for the sleeping bag, and voilà, dry bedding!

I was very aware when I crossed the 100th meridian, which traditionally marks the beginning of the arid plains. Vegetation became sparser and the only crops grew in great round fields (seen as perfect disks from the air) due to center-pivot irrigation. When the map of Colorado found its way into my tank bag, I began to reminisce about my friend in “The Springs.” And when I finally arrived, it was a great few days of catching up and seeing local sights. The time to return came all too soon, however, and I bade him farewell.

Still determined not miss out on the promise of back roads adventure, I took a new return route farther south, leading into Kansas and Missouri. At Great Bend, Kansas, I turned northeast toward Abilene, where I found another spot to camp amid some stunted corn. Apparently they needed rain. And apparently in the Bible Belt it rains in biblical proportions. Most of the night, it came in torrents far greater than the capacity of my bivy to repel. The only saving grace was the high ambient temperature that kept away any chill. In the morning, I laid out my wet gear while I toured the Dwight D. Eisenhower Presidential Library, Museum and Boyhood Home in Abilene.

In the afternoon, another road sign to the OZ Museum, appropriately located in small-town Wamego, Kansas, drew me in. Complete with life-sized displays of Dorothy and her friends looking for a heart, a brain and courage, the museum also displayed the entire “Wizard of Oz” book series, of which there are 40 volumes in all—something I never knew.

Nearing Kansas City, I crossed the Missouri River and followed it north to St. Joseph, Missouri, which in 1860 was the western terminus for the railroad—and the beginning of the Pony Express. After touring the restored stables, I was about to move on when I also came across the home of Jesse James and a sign that invited me to “see the bullet hole” in the wall where he was shot. I was definitely in the Wild West.

Gliding across the open plains, I stopped briefly in Marceline, the childhood home of Walt Disney, before arriving in the town of Hannibal on the banks of the Mississippi River. Near a modest clapboard house one block from the river, I dropped the kickstand and went inside. This had been the home of Samuel Clemens, who lived here most of his young life before becoming a steamboat pilot, silver miner, journalist and the quintessential American author Mark Twain (1835-1910). I also toured—and camped near—the caves of Clemens’ youth, discovered in 1819 and featured in both “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer” and “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.”

In the morning, under a brilliant sun, I noticed how the humidity had increased as I moved farther east. I was grateful for every single vent in my black helmet and jacket. The Great River Road led me along the flat floodplain between the Mississippi River on my left and the abruptly steep, tree-covered hills on my right. Arriving in St. Louis, I visited the Ulysses S. Grant National Historic Site. However, I needed to press on to make it home in time for a wedding—I had a commitment to my daughter (and a reporter in Red Cloud!).

As I set my sights on the Canadian border, I began to reflect on my journey. On the less traveled back roads, I had discovered beauty and inspiration where I’d thought there was none. At the many historic (and even touristy) sites, I witnessed the highs and lows of human endeavour and of human nature. And I came away with a genuine appreciation for the American Midwest’s landscape and the people it has engendered.

I have lived in southern Louisiana my whole life, and for this sport-touring rider, the weather from late October through April is pretty hard to beat. Frontal systems are usually at least five days apart, and in between, the weather is predictably dry and very comfortable. Such was the case on this Saturday in mid-February. I chose a familiar 275-mile loop ride that took me in and around the swamps of Cajun Country. I discovered agriculture and topography, some southern history and culture, and even topped it off with a little hot sauce. Here the people are warm, genuine and oh boy, do they know how to cook!

Leaving fairly early in the morning from home in Lafayette, Louisiana, the temperature is about 50 degrees and the sun is rising into a cloudless sky. My Yamaha FJR1300 is running smooth as silk and my mind is running fast with the excitement of the upcoming adventure. Like many riders, I would prefer to avoid the Interstate, but today’s ride only calls for a short 30-mile stint on Interstate 10. Heading east, I will ride the 18-mile bridge over the largest wetland in the United States, the Atchafalaya Basin. The elevated slab is a wonderful place to see the Louisiana swamp. On the other side of the basin, I exit the big concrete and run a quick detour north to Maringouin on State Highway 3000. Here, 250-year-old live oaks flank me. With their massive branches and twisted trunks, these majestic giants have taught me important lessons about learning to bend, in order to avoid breaking.

In Maringouin, I turn south on State Highway 77, cross I-10 and continue along Bayou Gross Tete. In my neck of the woods, when in doubt, a rider needs only find a road that parallels a bayou. It will be a curvy and largely desolate experience. This morning is no different, as I lean the FJR back and forth, countersteering effortlessly while I look through each curve. In Plaquemine, I skip over toward the Mississippi River and ride River Road south for a while. Protected from Old Man River by a huge earthen levee, I have the whole land to myself and the visibility seems endless. I am in the midst of sugar country, and the aroma coming through my Shoei lid is wonderful—just a touch of molasses, and I am thinking about a warm biscuit drenched in delicious cane syrup.

Just a short while later, I take a break at Nottoway, a magnificent 1850s plantation home. It has been fully restored in all of its glory, including bed and breakfast rooms and guided tours for visitors that give you a sense of what life was like on a 19th-century sugar plantation.

Now mid-morning, I turn south on State Highway 69 and the steel horse takes me deep into the swamps. The marsh grasses are blowing in the wind along with the Spanish moss from the cypress and willow trees. The music in my MP3 player is playing my favorite songs and the weather is perfect. I am completely immersed in the ride.

Turning still farther south on State Highway 70, I roll past Grand Bayou and note a few fishermen landing their boat after a morning on the water. Heading into the village of Pierre Part, my stomach tells me it is lunchtime. I am in the land of the “Swamp People” from the popular television series, and if one has to be anywhere at lunchtime, then Landry’s Seafood Restaurant is a great place indeed. They have been cooking traditional Cajun cuisine since 1972. For $10, I’ve got shrimp stew served over rice, potato salad, garlic toast and a trip to the salad bar. Despite my very best efforts, I have to leave the last three bites of rice on the plate.

Just outside of Pierre Part, I detour only a few miles to Shell Beach on the shore of Lake Verret. I sit down a minute to reflect and be thankful for my blessings. A bald eagle carrying a twig in its talons flies above me. I reckon it is time to spruce up the nest, as spring comes early in these parts.

Back on the bike, it’s a short run to Morgan City. I then turn west on U.S. Route 90 toward Patterson, where I stop at the Wedell-Williams Aviation and Cypress Sawmill Museum. The Frank B. Williams family ran a huge cypress sawmill in the early 1900s. Harry P. Williams partnered with his longtime friend Jimmie Wedell, and they were famous air racers during the Golden Age of Aviation. For the low price of free, I tour both sides of the museum. On one side, I learn about the swamp logging industry and marvel at the crudeness of this early machinery. Over on the other side of the museum, many planes are on display and there is an interactive video that showcases an aerial race. I highly recommend it for anyone in the area.

Now mid-afternoon, I gear up and take State Highway 83 toward the Gulf Coast. Again, sugar cane fields flank me on either side. I stop at Cypremort Point State Park and ride down to the beach at Vermillion Bay. The tide is out and I walk a while and do some beachcombing. The salt marsh is distinctly different than the fresh water swamp I witnessed just a couple of hours ago. There are fewer trees and the ones present are much smaller, and shore birds and migratory waterfowl are everywhere. I feel fortunate that they have allowed me to play in their sandbox today.

With one more stop in mind, I turn south on State Highway 329 to Avery Island. This place is home to one of the largest salt domes in the country. Mines thousands of feet deep line the coast here, where workers extract salt for everything from road de-icing to the salt shaker on your dining room table. Avery Island is also known as the home of famous Tabasco hot sauce, that magical elixir that turns ordinary calories into something delicious. There is a quarter-mile driveway of hard-packed gravel to negotiate, but there is plenty of parking as they have recently updated the facilities. For $5.50, I take a self-guided tour of the plant, witnessing everything from pepper plants in a greenhouse to the barrel storage warehouse and the factory where the pepper sauce is made, aged and bottled. There is even a store where you can sample snacks made with Tabasco (the ice cream was “unusual” to say the least).

From Avery Island, I jumped back on U.S. Route 90 for the short 15-mile ride home to Lafayette. I pulled into my driveway rested and refreshed. My personal battery was as charged as the motorcycle battery. I could not wait to tell my wife about my great day!

Having just retired from a wildfire management position with the Forest Service the previous year, and thus off the hook for working fire pre-suppression all summer long, I took the opportunity to ride up into the high Rockies in June, following the great rivers—the Colorado and its tributaries—all the way to their origin. Departing from Albuquerque, New Mexico, I rode west over the Continental Divide near Cuba and headed toward Colorado. The first river I crossed was the San Juan. Emerging from Navajo Lake, the San Juan surged, swollen and powerful, as it flowed through Bloomfield, New Mexico. It would gather a lot more momentum and volume before I saw it again a few days later.

Near Bayfield, Colorado, I rode a few miles up County Road 501 to reach Vallecito Lake, a reservoir on the Los Pinos River. The backdrop for the high-altitude lake was a hillside of charred snags, evidence of the 70,000-acre Missionary Ridge Fire of 2002. It caused the evacuations of several subdivisions in the lakeside community of Vallecito, and 83 structures burned. Sadly, a falling tree killed a contract sawyer working on the fire, which led to stronger safety guidelines for all federal contractors.

County Road 240 curves under the tall, cool pines to reach Durango. Beneath the bridge on U.S. Route 550, the Animas River thundered past, waves standing up and whitewater boiling. Just downstream, kayakers were lined up to run the wild river. Its Class V rapids only last a couple weeks each year before it returns to a placid, clear, cold stream draining the San Juan Mountains.

One of the Top 10 rides on anyone’s list of superlative routes, U.S. 550, a.k.a the “Million Dollar Highway,” north of Durango, includes three high-altitude passes, one topping out at more than 11,000 feet. Under a severe, clear sky in chilly temperatures, I rode past snow patches piled in the shade. Still, a hundred motorcycles of all types shared the roadway with me.

I camped for the night at Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park, an off-the-beaten-path destination preserving the deep gash that is the Gunnison River Canyon. At the campfire talk that evening, the ranger told a small crowd that the 8,200-foot-high rim of the canyon boasts some of the highest altitude piñon pine and juniper trees in the world, along with a menagerie of forest animals including bobcats, mountain lions, porcupines, mule deer, chipmunks, owls and hawks. Intimidated by the thin air at this high elevation, I rode down to the bottom of the canyon to complete my morning run at a “mere” 6,500 feet. My jog up to the dam and back was scenic and delightful along the banks of the Gunnison River, on its rushing way to meet the Colorado.

Detouring away from the Gunnison for the time being, next I headed toward the Grand Mesa Scenic and Historic Byway along State Highway 65. The top of the mesa, at more than 10,000 feet, affords a spectacular view of the Book Cliffs across the valley to the north. The long, winding road descending from the north side of the mesa passes the Powderhorn Mountain Ski Resort before picking up Plateau Creek. Ten miles of delightfully deserted curves lead down to Interstate 70.

One of the few Interstates actually marked as a Scenic Route on maps, I-70 follows the Colorado River as it cuts directly across the middle of the state. I turned east, passing desert cliffs that gradually turned into green-cloaked mountains as I gained elevation. When I reached Glenwood, I found a campground located beneath Storm King Mountain. I shivered with trepidation, as the significance of this destination was etched on my consciousness.

I was working as a helicopter “helitack” crewmember in Alaska when an incident occurred on Storm King Mountain in July 1994 that rocked the wildland fire community. Some 80 firefighters had converged to fight a lightning-caused fire on the mountaintop. Without warning, a cold front passed over them in the afternoon and whipped the brush fire into a firestorm. The firefighters working the west flank of the fire were caught by the blow-up and ran for their lives. Fourteen didn’t make it.

In the wake of the disaster, the Forest Service conducted exhaustive investigations, which resulted in many safety and leadership issues being addressed for the first time. The Storm King tragedy changed a lot of things about the way we fight fire, including clearer identification of who’s in charge, redefinition of escape routes and better weather information dissemination.

Twenty-one years later, the mountaintop was still spiked with blackened snags. I rode down to Two Rivers Park in downtown Glenwood Springs, a peaceful place where the Roaring Fork River splashes down from Aspen to empty into the Colorado. With a lump in my throat, I walked around the memorial created for the “Storm King 14,” and said a prayer for them.

Fifty miles east of Glenwood, I rode onto another scenic byway that leads up toward the headwaters of the Colorado River. State Highway 131 runs alongside the water for a while until State Highway 134 cuts off to the east toward Gore Pass. On the other side, it meets a smaller but still overfull Colorado, through the high plains-like little town of Kremmling. Beyond there the river tears through a steep canyon. The road runs next to it into Hot Sulphur Springs, then beyond that a few miles to Grand Lake. The highest natural mountain lake in Colorado, Grand Lake hosts a small town at the western entrance to Rocky Mountain National Park. Just beyond the lake, an area of the park known as the Never Summer Wilderness was designated the official headwaters of the mighty Colorado River.

Already feeling the “never summer” chill of rain, thunderstorms and hail, I stopped at Hot Sulphur Springs for a motel break. Hanging my tent and riding gear all around the Canyon Motel room to dry, I walked over to the springs and spent an afternoon soaking in several of the 19 hot pools. The waters, infused with sulphur, chloride, magnesium, potassium, calcium and fluoride, are said to heal mind, body and spirit. My body relaxed in 108-degree water while the Ute Cave waterfall massaged shoulders sore from four days of hard riding.

When more rainstorms threatened, I turned around and headed back the way I had come, following the Colorado River down the mountain to the Interstate. Here I enjoyed a scenic trip through Glenwood Canyon, where the freeway becomes an elegant double-decker platform over the river. The hot chocolate-colored water roiled and churned.

An hour later, the Interstate took me through Grand Junction, where the Gunnison River empties into the Colorado. As I rode west along the wildly raging river, I recalled the description given to it by the Mormon pioneers in Utah: “Too thin to plow, too thick to drink.”

Just over the Utah state line, I veered off the Interstate to follow yet another backcountry byway. Utah State Route 128 consists of 44 miles of delightfully curvy asphalt, which follows the Colorado River where it emerges from remote Westwater Canyon and begins its descent into the red desert.

Around every curve, the road revealed more impossibly tall red cliffs and towers. The water level was so high that many tamarisk trees and beaches were underwater. Emerging from the scenic highway, I was immediately assaulted by the zoo called Moab. A far cry from the sleepy town described in Edward Abbey’s classic book Desert Solitaire, the Moab of today is packed with recreational users. Adventure travelers can choose from a dizzying assortment of options, from mountain biking to zip lining, hot air ballooning and skydiving. Almost nobody, it seemed, wanted to take the original Edward Abbey route, and just walk the red canyons in solitude.

A short dirt road detour took me to an overlook of the Green River coursing through red rock in Canyonlands National Park. South of Moab, the Colorado River merges with the Green and disappears into Cataract Canyon. Meanwhile, U.S. Route 191 carried me to yet another scenic road. A turnoff at Bluff led beside the churning waters of the San Juan River. From where I had left it in Bloomfield, New Mexico, the river had picked up tons of silt and mud winding through the empty badlands of Four Corners, and now was rushing toward its rendezvous with the Colorado.

Years before, I had floated this section of the San Juan with a motley bunch of desert rat friends in kayaks and a paddleboat. It was a stunningly scenic journey past the textbook geologic wonders of synclines and anticlines and twisted red rock slot canyons. I paused on the bridge that spans the San Juan at the town of Mexican Hat to recall that long-ago wild ride on this desert river.

The San Juan and Colorado rivers join forces just west of Mexican Hat at Lake Powell. There the waters become a bathtub, which drowned Glen Canyon the same year I was born. Once released from the confines of Glen Canyon Dam, the giant Colorado River (now made up of waters from the San Juan, Animas, Los Pinos, Gunnison, Roaring Fork, Green and at least 20 other major rivers) had one more trick up its sleeve. As thunderstorm clouds gathered, I passed into Arizona and through iconic Monument Valley, the location of many cowboy movies. Then it was a quick jaunt through the Navajo reservation and up to the Desert View East Rim entrance to the Grand Canyon.

Looking down from 7,000 feet, I could see far below to the ribbon of reddish water called the Colorado. Its power had, over many eons, carved a mile-deep gorge in the plateau. I parked my bike and spent an hour sitting on the South Rim, staring out at the view. Dwarfed by the grandeur, I sat in the shade and listened to a canyon wren whistle down the sunset. This final triumph, the Grand Canyon, was a fitting conclusion to a ride along the principal watershed of the southern Rockies.