W.O.W. (Welshman Out West)

By Mike Rees (from Wales, obviously) Published in Off Road Review and Trail  magazines (U.K.)

Editor's warning: There's a few strong words ahead.

        Howdy there you rock shifting, dust raising, mud splashing, throttle happy, beer swilling motorcycle Assholes. Roughly translated into Queens English from the Northern Nevada dialect of American-eze that sentence means "Hello all you nice off-road motorcycle chaps." But please be careful how you use this word (when?) you visit Nevada. If the words A--h--e are preceded by the word Dam, then it means you have offended someone and you are likely to be used for six gun practice. You have to pick these things up quickly if you want to survive six days of trail riding and six nights of "socializing with the locals" courtesy of Matt Ernst of Nevada Motorcycle Adventures.

        By now you may have gathered that I have been on what I consider to be the trail riding adventure of a lifetime. I managed to avoid the rattlesnakes, mountain lions, grizzly bears, gun-toting cowboys, casinos, and enormous portions of food and so live to tell the tale. Now I am not the first to write about Nevada Motorcycle Adventures in this magazine, but in all honesty the earlier reports really did not do it justice. No doubt the earlier scribes were all better riders than writers. I, on the other hand, know my riding is crap!

        All great adventures have problems. Mine started when I arrived at San Francisco airport but my luggage (including riding gear) did not. The phrase Dam Ah soles comes immediately to mind. I arrived at Reno ready to start six days of trail riding through deserts and mountains splendidly equipped with crash hat, corded jeans, a pair of trainers and one small bag of underwear. I need not have worried. Matt Ernst phoned United Airlines on my behalf, got them to promise to deliver my luggage, and then, did what they would not, got me riding by producing some gear for me to use in the interim.

        From then on my fortunes changed and I had the motorcycle adventure of my life. Now this Matt Ernst is a real trail-riding enthusiast. As well as being a keen motorcyclist he clearly is a man whose soul is in sympathy with the land. He spent years exploring the old gold miners roads, stagecoach roads and trails in Northern Nevada before starting in business as a fully licensed (and fully equipped) motorcycle guide. He now has access to 20,000 miles of trails in an area the size of Wales. The inclusive package is bike, fuel, food, accommodation on a guided tour of some of the best trails in Nevada, and I seriously doubt if they come any better anywhere in the world!

        The groups' luggage was transported in a huge 4-wheel drive truck towing a six-bike trailer with a spare bike. Every night his mechanic would refuel and check over the bikes so all we riders had to do was press the magic button to fire up the motors. The bikes were Suzuki DR350's shod with knobbies, and fitted with long range plastic tanks. Each morning after breakfast Matt would spend 15 minutes or so on the phone to his numerous contacts around the state gathering the latest information on the state of the trails. If necessary, he even has friends prepared to jump in an airplane to check out the trails.

        Each day we would cover 100 miles of trails varying from deserts to mountains 10,000 feet high. His knowledge of the geology, geography and history of the area is as vast as the country itself. It seemed as if every other hour we would stop somewhere, be it at a ghost town, abandoned mine or mountaintop, and Matt would reel off some interesting anecdote about the place. We crossed the deserts where gophers burrowed, rode the plains where wild horses roamed, forded rivers where fish swam and climbed mountains where eagles soared. In the morning we could be up in the snow line and by the afternoon we were bathing in a "hot spring" in the middle of a desert supping ice cold beer (the back-up truck didn't just carry spare bikes and lunch! - them Americans also like the simple pleasures in life).        

        The scenery was as varied as it was stunning. The view from the mountain tops is something you have to experience to appreciate. The Americans tend to use the word "Awesome" almost as slang for something which is just one notch up from OK but to my mind the views from the mountain tops was absolutely awesome in the true meaning of the word. From day one I was absolutely gobsmacked by the sheer beauty of this vast wilderness. The mountains were as magnificent as any around Glen Coe but there were much, much more of them. The desert could be as lonely as Monks Trod at dusk when your bike has broken down. We mere mortals can only stand in awe when privileged to witness such scenery. Like Matt, I pray to God the rich spoiled Yahoos from neighboring California don't despoil this magnificent wilderness.

        Matt can take up to a dozen riders in a party but prefers a few less so he can give more personal attention. Our group comprised six friendly Yanks from various parts of the East Coast and one Welshman - me. The others were from various locations on the East Coast and our preconceptions of Nevada as a "Death Valley" were quickly dispelled. Gary, Ben, Alex, Deke, Todd and Brandi were all experienced Hare Scramblers (Hare and Hound this side of the pond). Todd was the quickest, and in the States he races in the A class. Brandi is a lass destined to give many lads an inferiority complex. She combines brains and beauty and can ride like the devil. She won the award for the best "Endo" of the week. I still can't make up my mind to congratulate or commiserate with a gal who can get her legs that far apart whilst upside-down and hanging on to the handlebar of a wayward Suzuki DR350. To brains and beauty you can add guts. Within minutes she was back on the bike drifting the back end round every corner.

        I went at my own pace preferring to see the scenery rather than the inside of an American hospital. But they were a great bunch and one would always wait at each crossroad junction to show the way. They loved big steep hills and would charge up them in typical scrambler style - I just rode up in the trials style - standing up, tongue on the front mudguard using the throttle to find grip. I got everywhere they could only just a little (well, sometimes a lot) later. Although they were much quicker, they were happy for me to go a speed I was comfortable with. We all had plenty of time to rest and take photos whenever we needed. Occasionally Matt would send the "hares" up some dead-end climb just to burn off steam while the "tortoises" took time out to soak up the scenery.

        The trails varied considerably. There were flat, dirt roads that crossed deserts, and "two-track" trails that wound up and along the hilltops, narrow rocky paths carved into the sides of the mountains by the old gold miners, dried up river beds and old stagecoach roads meandering through majestic canyons.

        Amongst his many other talents Matt was also a weather expert. Often when we would pause on the top of a mountain to admire the view he would be looking across the plains below to the distant horizon to predict with accuracy just where and how fast any storm clouds were going. With 20,000 miles to choose from we just went somewhere else. Only once did we get caught in a rainstorm. Heading across a valley bottom dirt road to our lunch stop the temperature suddenly dropped to just above freezing and the heavens opened up with a vengeance. Being a seasoned Welch trail rider I never go far from home without my leggings, so having brought them 6,000 miles I thought it was time to use them. The rest of the group were not so prepared and pushed on hoping to outrun the rain. I was the only dry, cheerful rider with the sense to expect rain.

        With the bad weather now clearly in for the day most opted to trailer their bikes to the motel and ride in the support truck. Todd, Gary and myself did the manly thing and rode out bikes back. Yes folks, take it from me, America is a BIG place. It was one of those rare motorcycling experiences which we three can look back on with pride and wonder why we were daft enough to volunteer in the first place.

        But this trip was not all biking. At the end of every day we would park up the bikes and stroll into a saloon, muddy boots and all. Only later would we bother to change into casuals and return for our evening meal and yet more "social interchange." The saloons always had at least one character. One night we sat drinking with a cowboy wearing a ten-gallon hat and a loaded six gun. Believe me, he was not a one off. They claim the guns are for rattlers but judging by the amount of guns I saw, rattlesnakes will soon be an endangered species. Another saloon was crammed full of bric-a-brac dating back to the early twenties. The newest thing there was last years' dust! The place was run more as a vocation than an occupation by a 70 year old former sailor named Dick. He was great. He could sum up the character of any new customer within 15 seconds. If he liked you, you could drink till dawn. If he did not, he would more than likely throw you out after the first drink. He kept a shotgun behind the bar to persuade those reluctant to depart.

        There is much more I could say about this trip to Nevada but I won't. If you have even a drop of Castrol R in your blood, then get out there and experience it for yourself. Me, I'm going back just as soon as I've got enough brownie points with the wife.   MIKE REES - WALES