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Anthony Bourdain once shared some timeless wisdom that’s stuck with me: go somewhere you’ve never been, listen to people you might not have a single thing in common with, and every now and then, take a moment to check in on your friends and family. Well, consider this my way of checking in with you—my dear friends and family—because it’s been a wild ride lately, and I’ve got stories to share.
We came, we saw, we conquered Moab—or at least we gave it our best shot. The crew rolled into town, tearing up the trails on two wheels, soaking in the rugged beauty of the desert. Today, while the rest of the gang kept riding the dusty paths of Moab, two of us—Bruce and I—peeled off for a little side adventure. It turned out to be one of those days that only happens when you’re with someone like Bruce, a guy who lives life at his own pace, stopping to smell the roses while I’d probably just barrel past them if left to my own devices. On this next-to-last day in Moab, we stumbled into experiences that most people will never get the chance to have, and I’m still buzzing from it all.
Our first stop was a hidden gem called the 3 Step Hideaway, run by a cool couple named Scott and Julie. This place is perched on an old homestead that dates back to the 1890s, a rugged slice of history turned into an off-grid paradise for dual-sport motorcycle enthusiasts. It’s the kind of spot that feels like a secret handshake—you don’t just stumble across it unless you’re in the know. Sitting about 2,400 feet higher than Moab, it’s a base camp for riders year-round, though Scott warned us that June, July, and August might be brutal with the heat. Today, though? It was chilly, the kind of crisp air that makes you zip your jacket a little higher. But looking around at the sprawling landscape—red rock cliffs in the distance, scrubby pines dotting the hills—you could tell this place could turn into a furnace come summer. If you’re curious, check out their site at 3stephideaway.com—it’s worth a peek.
I wandered off to explore their organic greenhouse gardens, marveling at how they’ve coaxed life out of this rocky terrain. Rows of greens and herbs thrived under the clear panels, a little oasis of self-sufficiency. Then I poked around the rest of the property, snapping pics of the facilities and a teepee that looked straight out of a cowboy movie. Meanwhile, Bruce did what Bruce does best—he parked himself with Scott and Julie, chatting up a storm. First, he listened to their stories—how they built this place from the ground up—then he launched into his own tales, probably embellishing a bit because that’s just his style. Before long, he had his camera out, clicking away like a pro. I The greenhouse was a highlight for me—something about seeing fresh produce in the middle of nowhere felt like a small miracle.
Scott’s got a full-on motorcycle shop on-site too, complete with a lift and a stash of spare parts and tires. Need something specific? He can order it, and FedEx will haul it out to this remote corner of the world. The location’s a rider’s dream—Telluride, Colorado, is just 70 miles away as the crow flies, and trails like the Rim Rocker, the Trans-American Trail, and the Utah Backcountry Discovery Route are all within striking distance. It’s a playground for anyone with a bike and a sense of adventure.
Now, let me tell you about Bruce. There’s no one who can spin a yarn quite like him—he’s the king of bullshit, in the best possible way. While he’s holding court, charming everyone within earshot, I’m off doing my thing, wandering around with my phone, snapping shots of the scenery, the bikes, the teepee—anything that catches my eye. We’re a good pair that way; he talks, I document.
Next up was Newspaper Rock, a stop that turned into its own little saga. On the way, we pulled over to photograph some vibrant purple wildflowers blooming along the roadside—little bursts of color against the dusty brown landscape. That’s when we nearly got ourselves into trouble. A bull, grazing nearby, took offense to our presence and started eyeing us like we were the main course. We hightailed it back to the truck, laughing too hard to be scared. Lesson learned: admire nature, but don’t piss it off.
Newspaper Rock itself is mind-blowing. For thousands of years, the people who lived here carved petroglyphs into the sandstone—images of hunters, animals, and symbols that look like they’d fit perfectly on a modern-day t-shirt. And speaking of t-shirts, our tour guide, Bren, was rocking a tie-dye number that could’ve been a twin to Bruce’s. She grinned and said, “I made mine myself—pretty proud of it, too.” I told her, “Tie-Dye Keith made ours, and he’d love to swap trade secrets with you.” Bren’s from Nebraska originally—sweet girl, could’ve been a mail-order bride in another life. Now she’s hitched to a Mormon guy whose family owns this wild rock house nearby. It’s a 5,000-square-foot mansion carved right into the cliffside, built decades ago by his relatives. Today, it’s a tourist stop, and trust me, it’s worth the detour for a tour. The place is equal parts quirky and awe-inspiring, like something out of a sci-fi western.
By the end of the day, Bruce and I were beat but happy. We capped off our “retired work day” with a couple of kombuchas—fizzy, tangy, and weirdly refreshing. If you’ve never tried it, picture a fermented tea that’s equal parts hippy potion and gut punch. I’m sending you some kombucha vibes right now—hope you feel the buzz. Want to make your own? It’s easy enough—hit up YouTube or Google for a how-to. All you need is some tea, sugar, and a SCOBY (that’s the funky little culture that makes the magic happen). Give it a whirl and let me know how it goes.
So that’s the update from the road—hope it finds you well. Miss you all, and I’ll catch you on the next adventure.
Trawlercat Chronicles 