“I learn by going where I have to go.” —Theodore Roethke
This is the tale of a small, scrappy crew of dirt bike riders who came together in April 2023 for a week-long odyssey in the untamed wilds of Moab, Utah—a place where trails bear names like Fins and Things, Chicken Wings, Five Miles of Hell, Onion Creek, and Tower Arches, each a promise of adventure and a test of grit.
What started as a trio has morphed into a full posse by day three, and I’m still catching my breath from the chaos and beauty of it all. Someone captured the vibe today on a chalkboard in our condo: peace, love, and desert dust. That’s Moab—a gritty paradise that seeps into your bones.
Orienting the Uninitiated
If Moab’s a mystery to you, picture Disneyland stripped of its polish. Swap out the manicured lawns for a sprawling maze of rugged trails, populated by sun-weathered riders in vibrant, dust-streaked gear.
Toss in a cacophony of 4×4 Jeeps bouncing over boulders, side-by-sides roaring through sand, mountain bikes weaving tight lines, and motorcycles growling like beasts unleashed. Now, erase Sleeping Beauty’s Castle—no fairy tales here, just raw, unfiltered wilderness.
Welcome to Moab, Utah, a mecca for off-highway vehicle (OHV) enthusiasts, where an OHV means anything built to conquer the wild: ATVs, four-wheelers, three-wheelers, dirt bikes, trail bikes, even snowmobiles in winter. Hotel rooms, even the one- and two-star joints, fetch upwards of $250 a night in peak season—a small price for this kind of playground.
The Mission
Let’s be clear from the jump: I’m not here to pen a polished daily ride log. My focus is riding hard and surviving—tackling severe ground undulations that jolt your core, sand hill traps that swallow tires, steep climbs that dare you to falter, downhill runs that flirt with doom, and drop-offs that make your stomach lurch. Oh, and the late-night revelry that follows? That’s just the cherry on top.
I’m astride my new 2023 Husky 350FE, a machine begging to be pushed to its limits, and my skills are rusty enough to need the workout. Day one, I had three reasons to ride: breaking in the bike, chasing that gut-churning thrill I haven’t felt in too long, and a third reason I couldn’t yet name. By day three, it’s starting to take shape.
Geological and Historical Wonders
Moab sits where the Colorado and Green Rivers carve through 300 million years of geology—red rock cliffs, canyon walls, and desert expanses that leave you speechless. It’s no wonder OHV riders flock here from across the country, though mercifully not all at once. Long before engines roared, this land belonged to native peoples—the Shoshone, Goshutes, Paiutes, Utes, White Mesa, Southern Utes, and Navajos—whose stories whisper through the valleys.
The first Europeans arrived in 1776: Spanish padres Francisco Atanasio Domínguez and Silvestre Vélez de Escalante, seeking souls to save and hands to labor for the church.
History sped up fast—20 years after Cortés crushed the Aztecs, less than 50 after Columbus hit the New World, the Spanish reached this frontier, even pinpointing the Colorado River’s mouth.
But it took a one-armed Civil War vet, Major John Wesley Powell (1834–1902), to tame it. In 1869, he ran the river’s length, emerging 99 days later from the Grand Canyon.
Three of his crew bailed early and never made it out alive. Tyedye Keith, gazing at a sepia photo of Powell’s boat dwarfed by canyon walls, could only mutter, “Awe.” It’s the right word for this place—humbling, vast, incomprehensible.
Day Three: The Amigos Expand
Fast forward to April 23, 2023, day three of our Moab saga. I’m still processing day two—the magical scenery, the relentless trails, maybe that last margarita.
This morning, after Bruce whipped up sausage omelets that filled the condo with savory warmth, it took some mock cajoling to pry the crew from their coffee and cozy chairs.
Truth is, the bikes were calling, and we couldn’t resist. Our original trio—me (Ralph), Bruce, and Tyedye Keith—has grown. We’re now five amigos with the arrival of Father Kevin and his son-in-law Fallon, who drove up from Colorado, bikes in tow.
Tyedye met Kevin last year on our Wyoming BDR ride, somewhere in a pine-scented forest, preaching the gospel of gpskevin adventures. Kevin not only remembered our Moab plans but showed up, proving the pull of Keith’s enthusiasm.
By dusk, we hit seven. Joe and Christy, a husband-and-wife duo, rolled in just as I fired up the grill. Christy rides her own bike with a fierceness that commands respect—no passenger seat for her.
As I basted chicken thighs, Keith asked, “Got food for two more?” I nearly choked—No way—but then recalled the Costco monster Bruce hauled in: a Baby Huey chicken with thighs so massive you could spank them (don’t worry, I didn’t).
I’d hacked the breast into three slabs to cook it through. Seven of us devoured it, and a lone drumstick—or was it a turkey leg?—still stood. Blame the margarita haze.
Fueling the Quest
Day two was all about fuel. We’d planned a long haul, and dirt biking deep into Moab demands extra gas. After a comical hunt—two, maybe three stops, scrounging for Tupperware-like containers—we hit Gearheads, Moab’s outdoor gear nirvana. It’s REI on steroids.
An employee ushered us to a wall of aluminum fuel bottles: half-liter, full-liter, and the 1.5-liter gem Tyedye snatched up. Before we could blink, he was regaling the guy with tales of gpskevin rides and Garmin wizardry. “We’ve got those too—wanna see?” Bruce and I yanked him back. There’d be fresh ears to bend out on the Potash Trail, our day-three target.
Trailside Revelations
I called it. At a dusty crossroads, mid-photoshoot, a woman in a weathered Toyota RAV rolled up. Tyedye chatted her up—she’d driven from Boulder to camp solo in the Voodoo Windcaves, her rig defying the odds on that terrain. “How’d she get here in that?” I marveled. Keith just grinned. “Some people are badass.” She wasn’t alone in humbling us.
Two women on mountain bikes conquered trails brutal with elevation and rock; two guys on electric unicycles—one swerving like a gleeful madman—zipped by; hikers trekked 30 miles into this merciless land. Just when you think you’re king of the hill, Moab throws a curveball.
The Crew
The characters deserve their spotlight. Bruce, our photographer savant, rode with me today—his lens capturing dust clouds and canyon glow, his humor cutting through the roar. Tyedye Keith, the restless maestro, thrives on plans and tracks.
Tonight, he’s huddled with Joe and Kevin, plotting tomorrow: “We hit Poison Spider, then…”—the rest blurs into trail names. There’s Super Dave, Mike the Hulk, Fallon, Christy—each a story waiting to unfold.
Cinematic Ground
Moab’s trails are Hollywood’s darlings: Thelma and Louise, Comanche, Ten Who Dared, Wagon Master, Rio Grande, City Slickers, Vanishing Point, Mission Impossible—all filmed here. Picture Whitehall boats rowing through canyons, the Lone Ranger galloping across the horizon. It’s a living set, and we’re the latest cast.
Why We Come
Moab’s pull is primal—ride or not, a side-by-side OHV should be in your future. It’s the thrill, the views, the defiance of nature’s odds. My third reason’s clearer now: it’s the people, this crew, this shared madness. Tyedye sparked it all, and my thanks go to him. Enjoy the pics—they say what words can’t.
End
Trawlercat
April 23, 2023
Trawlercat Chronicles 