The light skies of this morning were already looking a little more menacing. We’d made good time and surprised to see the small plaque welcoming us into Clark. With last nights heavy rain we’d made an ‘executive decision’ to hold off joining the continental divide trail until we’d passed ‘Hahns Peak’. The thought of hours of mud was a crappy one. If we held off joining the trail at least the trail might have hardened a little.

The long smooth tar curve we were enjoying passed Hahns but then came to an abrupt end at a dirt fork in the road. We’d missed the sign for the 129, hidden as it was back in the shrubbery. Backing up our heavy bikes we clumsily turned and headed down the single lane dirt track. Sure the muddy surface was slippery but the idea of getting off the asphalt and into the country was one we’d been looking forward to since getting into the USA. The slick surface kept us on our toes as the track dove into the thick woods and forestation. The thick woods broke once in a while providing us the occasional glimpse of the huge ranches nestled back into the hills. WOW – what a place to live…Lisa kept saying that she wanted to come back to see it with all of its snow covering!! Not on bikes though!

The thick battleship grey mess of cloud and torrential rain to our left was catching up with us fast. “Shit, we’ve got to get a move on”, I yelled at Lisa over the Autocom. That was easier said than done. We were still finding our legs. It had been a while since we were laden and off road like this. Mind you the thought of a right royal soaking was giving us a kick up the ass. We weren't’t flying yet but we’d upped the speed.

We’d planned to stop at Slater for a bum break and a coffee…but with a population of only 25 it didn't’t seem likely that there would be anywhere…onwards and…. Heelloooooooo Wyoming!!!

As the dirt finished we’d made a hasty left towards Baggs. We were both buzzing. God we’ve missed this. The small Café Rio on the right looked like a good bet for quick lunch. Yeah, well it would also go someway to justifying the left we’d taken back at the junction…we should have gone right.

Our half hour pit stop had given our seats a chance to dry out at least. Out of Baggs we picked up our speed down the 70, we needed to keep our eyes peeled for the 801, the dirt track that would take us across the mountains plains and towards Rawlins.

The small dirty brown sign with it’s off cream text simply read…801. That’ll do. We thought we’d missed it. Things were about to get interesting! The firmish track was gone. Our speed had plummeted and we were weaving like granny smith on speed. “Lisa, they’ve bloody well graded the track”! Graders had recently been along and cleared and stripped the surface of what would have normally been firm but bouncy track. Yeah this is great for the 4X4’s and cars but bloody awful for us. 20 minutes later and we’d pulled over to the side. It was like riding on ice with our tyres still running road pressure in them. With a healthy dose of deflation we were back on track and carefully picking up speed and once again getting used to that light and squirmy feel you can only get from taking a 600-pound bike off road. The forest of the Sierra Madre was clearing as we rode higher. Cresting the summit, our view was treeless. The landscape biting wind and damp air suddenly transported us…we were back on the Ruta 40 sliding around in the deep wet gravel and mud. Well at least this time we weren't’t doing battle with 50 mph side wind and in truth the gravel was no way as bad and neither was the cold! Each bend or crest we rounded providing another seemingly endless view of our route into a blurry, bleak and wet horizon. The steeper uphill section had the back of the bikes sliding around. Just keep the throttle steady and look ahead we reminded ourselves, release the ‘death-grip’ on the bars and relax. You’d think that after all these years of riding off-road you’d take to it like a duck to water….but it still does take a few miles….we’ve been doing too much tar in the last 6 months!

By 5:20 we’d passed the reservoir outside Rawlins were we’d planned to camp. We’re wimping out. We’re filthy from mud spatter, cold and it was raining heavily. The thought of scrambling around getting even wetter and then bringing our wet gear into a wet tent was not appealing.

Ah hindsight, what a bitch! After scanning Rawlins for 40-minutes the cheapest motel we’ve found is $91, this is ridiculous.

At least we can warm up, recharge the laptop battery and get some diary done!

This actually worked out well as last night Lisa got quite ill and the thought of being in the tent with how she felt would have been a nightmare! Getting up at all hours needing to go outside whilst it poured heavily ….you could just imagine how miserable she would have been!

With the cost of the hotel we figured we get our monies worth. Check out was at noon, so we vacated at 1 minute to…seemed fair! With a quick fill up we were away. With the main road easily found we were heading north on the the US 287. We were looking for the CR 63 A tarred track leading out into the hills. We slowed and checked what we’d thought was our track but the sign read BLN 3202. 20 minutes later and we’d seen nothing else and we’d both started to get frustrated with one another. With a swift U-turn made we back tracked and took a right up the suspiciously named BLN 3202 and sure enough not 15 minutes later we passed a road marker CR 63. This was more like it. Wide open plains with low mountains off in the heat blurred horizon.

“Oh my head”, I blurted this morning stupidly to Lisa. “I’ve got no bloody sympathy, it’s your own fault”, she stated, matter of factly. We’ve been together for 15-years, you’d think I’d have learnt by now?

The wide dry gravel path made for easy going and gave us the chance to enjoy the glorious country side we had to ourselves. One of the aspects of the last few days we both enjoyed so much has been the simplicity of the thing. In the last few months we’d been with people continuously and to now be on our own, with just the bikes and the journey ahead has been wonderful. We’ve been incredibly lucky to have met some really wonderful friends over the last little while, but being out here brought home how much we’d missed the ‘traveling’.

As the elevation increased the wide track had become a little narrower and with a few rocky sections thrown in for good measure the ride saw us up on the pegs and concentrating more than we’d needed to before.

We were aiming to ride over Union Pass that would then drop us down the other side to the main highway and our lunch stop in Dubois. The well marked trail meant that looking at the GPS was just out of habit rather than necessity. We were tempted with a detour when we spotted the sign to ‘Kinky Creek’, but instead just chuckled to ourselves and kept our course. We had silly conversations about where we’d imagined Kinky Creek had got it’s name. Here’s the short version; a lonesome saddlesore cowboy in need of nourishment and water and stumbled on the creek, bent down to cup his hand and take his fill when he looked up to see 20 to 30 German and Swedish groupies running around wearing S & M gear, shouting “c’mon vip me viz ze birch, do yuuuu vant to tak a sauna”. Stunned by the scene he was witnessing he misses the plethora of sex objects that are floating past him and going down stream. Needless to say he doesn’t quench his thirst. But leaves in a hurry and describes later his encounter at…’Kinky Creek’! Yeah, yeah we know, too long on a bike.

We were still going higher and once again the trail had widened. To our dismay the trail had been graded and the soft freshly tilled surface was also covered in fresh gravel, great for the quads or 4X4’s but not for us! We needed to pick up the speed and get on the pegs as the bikes squirmed beneath us. We were passing through mountain gullies and vast open meadows that ‘Ingles Family’ would have been proud of. The 6 or so out of control weekend warriors on their rented quads caught us off guard as they took the long easy corner wide and almost ran straight into us. Idiots!

We were enjoying the last of the deep wooded section as we climbed the last section to the top of Union Pass, it had been a fantastic ride. On the other side we were following the continuous switch backs down, occasionally we’d get a glimpse of the Teton Mountain range through the trees. We were snatching glances whenever we could, taking our eyes off the trail for only the briefest moments at a time.

The US 26 halted our dirt progress and we headed East and a short 9 miles ride into the town of Dubois. We’d made great time and so finding our seats at one of the many small cafes enjoyed a burger for lunch.

I needed to get some jobs done. Suited and booted we headed back West, we needed to find an ATM and importantly a garage that would allow me drain my new final drive and stick in some new oil. I needed to drain the first oil, the stuff that I was now sure was carrying all the new filings from the new worn in gears, teeth and bearings. I’d planned to do this after 500 miles but hadn’t found the opportunity. I was now at 700 and leaving it any longer was just asking for problems later. Rolling around on the ground under my bike like a spastic in a space suit was amusing the car drivers filing up on the forecourt and a few funny conversations ensued. With the job done I could now look at Lisa’s gear shift leaver, which had worked its way loose. Fueled, oil, lubed and with a few dollars in hand we set out for Moran Junction where we’d take a right for YellowStone.

Pulled over on the side I’d stopped to take a few snaps of the stunning jagged toothed top of the range around us, Lisa had gone on. I’d waived to the rider of the shiny new V-strom and been surprised when he’d pulled in alongside me. With the normal intro’s made Mark asked “were you in Atlantic City a few nights ago”? I hadn’t a clue how he’d known that. A few moments later it was clear. The 3 dual sport riders we’d met in Atlantic City had mentioned that their party had started off as 6 and on the first day after only 30 miles of easy dirt one of the guys had had a hissy fit, thrown his toys out of the pram and said he couldn’t do it and wanted to go home. One of the group had had to escort him. Mark was the lucky guy. He’d dropped off his KLR picked up his V-strom and headed North in order to blow off some steam and try to recoup just some of his lost vacation time. With a few laughs exchanged over the fiasco we’d caught up with Lisa. She’d stopped by the roadside. The large female moose grazing in the algy laden waters below was for us…amazing. I’ve said it before I know but we’re English, our wildlife consists of sheep and pigeons. We had to get a few pictures as the traffic stopped. Mrs. Mose had decided that the grass really is greener on the other side and traffic or no she was crossing. Brilliant.

It was time we cracked on and started looking for a campsite. It was early in the day still but with the area awash with ‘nature-desperate’ tourists the sites were filling up fast.

At Moran Junction we took a right and half an hour later we’d checked in Coulter Bay, some 40 miles South of Yellowstone's South exit.

Mike and Brian on their Harley and Vulcan just across from our pitch had said hello and we’d stood and chatted about bikes and bullshit for 20 minutes before deciding it was around ‘beer thirty’ and a trip to the small store was in order. We had to laugh at Mark…a little, he’d arrived, pitched his tent and taken half his bike trousers off. They’re the Aerostich ones that zip up the complete length of both legs. The funny part was he’d unzipped one leg, partially unzipped the other and then seemingly got stuck, because he spent the next hour and a half that way. He just couldn’t seem to bring himself to finish the job.