The_D
passenger awd
O
Could not agree more, will enjoy reading with pint of cold IPA
The Spaceship of My Dreams
- Thread starter wanderingkiwi
- Start date
rafski
Well-known member
Some of the best whiskey I had came from Utah, I'm still out looking if I can find another bottle of Prisoner's Share.
canuckster
Active member
Didn't know you could get personalized plates on a motorcycle. Cool.
wanderingkiwi
2006 118” SHC
It's state dependent I think.
I also have a bike with the plate "MOTO"
Not surprisingly, the border crossing confusion escalated with that plate as "MOTO" is the internationally recognized noun for Motorcycle.
Consequently, my conversations at border crossings now parrot Abbott & Costello's "Who's On First" routine every single time.
"What is your plate number?"
MOTO
"No plate. number."
MOTO, it is MOTO.
"Yes, but what is your Placa? Plate?" The border guard reiterates as he outlines the shape of a rectangle with his forefingers.
MOTO, my motorcycle placa is MOTO
The official now suspects I was dropped on my head as a child and steps out of their cubicle to glance at the tail end of the bike.
Their reactions have been a fantastic icebreaker. The inherent tension of a crossing melts away and MOTO never fails to crack a smile, even from the iciest of bureaucrats. With such a unique vehicle registration they all assume I'm some kind of celebrity traveller, or at the very least, an amusing oddity. Little do they know that 10 bucks and a bit of luck was all it took back in the States.
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glasseye
Well-known member
Great image!
Farfrumwork
Well-known member
Love both plates! Though HAPTIC is especially fantastic.
It's like $65 in CO, and an additional $25 every year after but its worth it.
Triple entendre....Statistical, geological, and societal.
It's like $65 in CO, and an additional $25 every year after but its worth it.
Triple entendre....Statistical, geological, and societal.
wanderingkiwi
2006 118” SHC
Hyder, Alaska.
The end of the line.
This pint-sized mining town is a map glitch slumped against the Canadian border—not just remote, but sealed off from the rest of Alaska by the rugged wall of mountains called the Alaska Boundary Range.
Maybe a few dozen folks live in Hyder full-time, and they like it that way. No cops, no taxes, no rules— and an unspoken agreement to leave each other the hell alone. Guns are part of the dress code, and depending on who you ask, they’re either for the grizzlies or the government. Either way, don’t knock too loudly on anyone’s door.
As you cross into Hyder, a line of broken buildings greets you. Most have been closed since Carter, or maybe earlier. Everything feels slower, older, slightly askew. A crooked wooden sign spans the main street, welcoming you to “The Friendliest Ghost Town in Alaska”— a lie scrawled by someone who never left, and never will.
There’s no U.S. border control, no guards— just a weird shift in energy. The geography feels bigger, more intimidating. The vibe? Slightly off, but in a good way. Two roads lead out of town. One dead-ends deep in the mountains at an abandoned gold mine. The other retraces your tracks across the border to where you came from.
Hyder might be a libertarian mecca to some, but thanks to its isolation from U.S. officialdom, the town is completely dependent on Canada for everyday needs. It uses Canadian area codes, Canadian electricity, and sometimes Canadian money. Even the holidays blur together. The Fourth of July and Canada Day get mashed up into one long weekend party, where locals gather to knock back the bar’s specialty: a colorless shot so strong it’s banned in fourteen states. After a few hours, flags mix, fireworks go off, and nobody’s quite sure who’s celebrating what.
But I’m not here for the Everclear. I’m heading up the potholed Granduc Mining Road to visit a monster.
The road out of Hyder climbs fast, dirt and gravel giving way to sweeping views of valleys carved from solid rock. Waterfalls pour off the mountainsides. The trees thin out, clinging to rocky ledges, waiting for the inevitable. As the air turns colder with each switchback, the bears begin to appear. Lurking in the brush. Wandering the road like they own it. Because they do.
It’s almost salmon season, and everything out here smells like it’s about to get wild.
Then you round a corner— and boom— there it is: a massive, grinding river of ice, fractured with deep crevasses that glow cobalt blue.
Blackened deposits of rock debris, windblown dust, and wildfire soot coat the pristine white surface— natural fingerprints of a glacier chewing its way through the wilderness.
Eleven years ago, when I first rode to Salmon Glacier, it completely blew me away. Standing there in my motorcycle gear, overlooking the scene, I felt like an interstellar traveler dropped into the final reveal of a sci-fi movie. I knew then that one visit in a lifetime wouldn't be enough and I’m stoked to be back.
Hyder’s weird and wonderful like that. You don’t go there to be seen— you go to disappear into something way bigger than yourself.
If you ever wanna feel small, cold, and like your bike’s about to shake itself back into the parts catalog, go to Hyder. Ride to the glacier, and try not to get eaten by a bear or out-drunk by a local.
This isn’t just Alaska.
This is end-of-the-road, last-saloon, ride-into-the-wild Alaska.
And it’s bloody glorious.
The end of the line.
This pint-sized mining town is a map glitch slumped against the Canadian border—not just remote, but sealed off from the rest of Alaska by the rugged wall of mountains called the Alaska Boundary Range.
Maybe a few dozen folks live in Hyder full-time, and they like it that way. No cops, no taxes, no rules— and an unspoken agreement to leave each other the hell alone. Guns are part of the dress code, and depending on who you ask, they’re either for the grizzlies or the government. Either way, don’t knock too loudly on anyone’s door.
As you cross into Hyder, a line of broken buildings greets you. Most have been closed since Carter, or maybe earlier. Everything feels slower, older, slightly askew. A crooked wooden sign spans the main street, welcoming you to “The Friendliest Ghost Town in Alaska”— a lie scrawled by someone who never left, and never will.
There’s no U.S. border control, no guards— just a weird shift in energy. The geography feels bigger, more intimidating. The vibe? Slightly off, but in a good way. Two roads lead out of town. One dead-ends deep in the mountains at an abandoned gold mine. The other retraces your tracks across the border to where you came from.
Hyder might be a libertarian mecca to some, but thanks to its isolation from U.S. officialdom, the town is completely dependent on Canada for everyday needs. It uses Canadian area codes, Canadian electricity, and sometimes Canadian money. Even the holidays blur together. The Fourth of July and Canada Day get mashed up into one long weekend party, where locals gather to knock back the bar’s specialty: a colorless shot so strong it’s banned in fourteen states. After a few hours, flags mix, fireworks go off, and nobody’s quite sure who’s celebrating what.
But I’m not here for the Everclear. I’m heading up the potholed Granduc Mining Road to visit a monster.
The road out of Hyder climbs fast, dirt and gravel giving way to sweeping views of valleys carved from solid rock. Waterfalls pour off the mountainsides. The trees thin out, clinging to rocky ledges, waiting for the inevitable. As the air turns colder with each switchback, the bears begin to appear. Lurking in the brush. Wandering the road like they own it. Because they do.
It’s almost salmon season, and everything out here smells like it’s about to get wild.
Then you round a corner— and boom— there it is: a massive, grinding river of ice, fractured with deep crevasses that glow cobalt blue.
Blackened deposits of rock debris, windblown dust, and wildfire soot coat the pristine white surface— natural fingerprints of a glacier chewing its way through the wilderness.
Eleven years ago, when I first rode to Salmon Glacier, it completely blew me away. Standing there in my motorcycle gear, overlooking the scene, I felt like an interstellar traveler dropped into the final reveal of a sci-fi movie. I knew then that one visit in a lifetime wouldn't be enough and I’m stoked to be back.
Hyder’s weird and wonderful like that. You don’t go there to be seen— you go to disappear into something way bigger than yourself.
If you ever wanna feel small, cold, and like your bike’s about to shake itself back into the parts catalog, go to Hyder. Ride to the glacier, and try not to get eaten by a bear or out-drunk by a local.
This isn’t just Alaska.
This is end-of-the-road, last-saloon, ride-into-the-wild Alaska.
And it’s bloody glorious.
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Lagom
Panic in Detroit
Okay, NOW I’m jealous.
One of the most magical days of my life was exploring an ice cave underneath Yoho glacier. You could see clearly through the walls of the cave, suspended pebbles in the deep blue clear ice at least 10-20 feet back. Dangerous, though.
woodjoints
2024 standard roof AWD crew van
wanderingkiwi
2006 118” SHC
LT235/75R-15 KO2
wanderingkiwi
2006 118” SHC
The Avenue of the Giants is one of my favourite places on earth.
Drifting among trees that were saplings while Roman gladiators clashed in the Colosseum, their crowns now punching holes in the sky; time warps here.
There’s something deeply profound about touching a living entity that has witnessed the sweep of human history.
Some of these trees have watched Viking longships carve distant coasts, Genghis Khan’s empire surge across continents, Gothic cathedrals rise in France and the Aztec civilization flourish. They stood as the industrial revolution reshaped cities, cars and planes took flight, world wars raged, and humans landed on the moon.
And now, with smartphones, space telescopes, and AI, I stand beneath these giants, staring up at life that is still growing, still reaching, and older than everything I’ve ever known, or ever will.
Drifting among trees that were saplings while Roman gladiators clashed in the Colosseum, their crowns now punching holes in the sky; time warps here.
There’s something deeply profound about touching a living entity that has witnessed the sweep of human history.
Some of these trees have watched Viking longships carve distant coasts, Genghis Khan’s empire surge across continents, Gothic cathedrals rise in France and the Aztec civilization flourish. They stood as the industrial revolution reshaped cities, cars and planes took flight, world wars raged, and humans landed on the moon.
And now, with smartphones, space telescopes, and AI, I stand beneath these giants, staring up at life that is still growing, still reaching, and older than everything I’ve ever known, or ever will.
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Green Maned Lion
Der Unverbesserliche.
woodjoints
2024 standard roof AWD crew van
We were just there. We camped at Prarie Creek and Jedidiah Smith. At Jedidiah we went on a hike to the “Boy Scout Tree.” It was sizable.
rafski
Well-known member
Even more impressive is doing the run when they close the road to traffic:
https://redwoodsmarathon.com/
See you there in October!
https://redwoodsmarathon.com/
See you there in October!
Lagom
Panic in Detroit
199 from Grants Pass to Crescent City is a great drive.
wanderingkiwi
2006 118” SHC
With a fridge full of Pacifico and some questionable meat products, the van drifts towards the badlands with the charm only a gloriously obsolete German machine can deliver: bus driver ergos, impotent AC, and a diesel-fueled roar that syncs perfectly with the passing landscape.
Part rolling confessional booth, part bear fortress, der Sprinter has become way more than simple transportation. Sure, you can pick up sheetrock or grab snacks from the corner bodega with it, but more importantly, it's a space capsule that briefly soft lands you into the lives of others. I love listening to people's stories, and it's only through the rando connections one makes along the way that I can glimpse the glow—proof we aren’t completely lost in this bat-shit crazy age.
TONY
“Ynot” kicked arse in WWII, he rounded up 15 Nazis and held them captive until they were shipped off to a containment camp.
Tony’s bowling handle, “Ynot,” perfectly captures his sharp, delightful sense of humor. No idea why I was so Siri-level slow to recognize the gaming anadrome—I’m blaming the hours spent in the sun-scorched Utah desert for that one.
Eighty years on, strike after strike, Tony swooped in once again to swiftly dispatch my pitiful bid for bowling glory.
It’s easy to miss the town of Helper as you cruise over it on 191—but I caught a flash of the main drag from above, and yeah, it had that vibe. You just know there’s something rad going on down there. Helper is a wonderfully preserved mining town, full of original buildings and crusty neon signs. It was once the central hub for the coal camps of Carbon County. (Sorry about the runaway alliteration.)
Every Friday, the town seniors gather at the AC oasis of Gateway Lanes to sip fountain Coke and snack on chips and Cheez Whiz.
The rental shoe leatherette may be peeling, and the lanes likely haven’t been touched since the ’80s—but honestly, that’s half the charm.
Once again, I’m really glad I followed my gut and stopped by.
Thanks for the game, Ynot!
BROOKE
Somewhere out there right now, between abandoned ’80s gas stations and the heat-warped expanse of the Midwest, Brooke is pushing her longboard across the spine of America. With each foot thrust, she displays a micro act of defiance— a middle finger to the harsh landscape that encapsulates her.
While I’m sipping an iced latte and fumbling for the van’s AC, she’s slugging through a journey most would hesitate to drive, let alone skate. Part madness, part pilgrimage, armed with a hydration pack and pink sport dress, Brooke is proving the toughest adventures can happen just inches above the asphalt.
I was very lucky to cross paths with this remarkable woman in the Oklahoma desert and ended up having a wonderful roadside chat about her life and journey:
"I started skating at 13 after buying a longboard from a neighborhood kid for $20. Last year, I lost my stepdad, Rodger, to a spinal cord injury and now I’m skating 3200 miles across the country in his honour. I'm aiming to raise $50,000 for spinal cord research along the way. I’m doing it to show women how far you can go when you trust your body and your mission. Not just to set a world record, but to become the first woman to do it.
Movement is a privilege. So get out there and GROOVE!"
Her closing words have become my new life mantra. Thanks for the inspiration, Brooke.
KEVIN
Kevin Collier Jr. has a stressful gig.
Every day, he’s threading giant, flexing wind turbine blades longer than a jumbo jet through twisty mountain roads and city streets that weren’t built for something this huge.
He’s on the radio with the lead driver the whole time, hands working the rear steering controls like he’s piloting a ship instead of a truck. A single lapse in focus could irreparably damage millions of dollars’ worth of cargo.
Kevin measures success not in miles, but in inches of clearance from signposts, guardrails and slow drivers like me.
ANDREW
Andrew takes a quick break from hammering red-hot iron using methods unchanged from the 1800s.
Blacksmiths were often quite strong because of the work they performed and occasionally acted as “peacekeepers” in the gold rush mining towns of British Columbia.
Part rolling confessional booth, part bear fortress, der Sprinter has become way more than simple transportation. Sure, you can pick up sheetrock or grab snacks from the corner bodega with it, but more importantly, it's a space capsule that briefly soft lands you into the lives of others. I love listening to people's stories, and it's only through the rando connections one makes along the way that I can glimpse the glow—proof we aren’t completely lost in this bat-shit crazy age.
TONY
“Ynot” kicked arse in WWII, he rounded up 15 Nazis and held them captive until they were shipped off to a containment camp.
Tony’s bowling handle, “Ynot,” perfectly captures his sharp, delightful sense of humor. No idea why I was so Siri-level slow to recognize the gaming anadrome—I’m blaming the hours spent in the sun-scorched Utah desert for that one.
Eighty years on, strike after strike, Tony swooped in once again to swiftly dispatch my pitiful bid for bowling glory.
It’s easy to miss the town of Helper as you cruise over it on 191—but I caught a flash of the main drag from above, and yeah, it had that vibe. You just know there’s something rad going on down there. Helper is a wonderfully preserved mining town, full of original buildings and crusty neon signs. It was once the central hub for the coal camps of Carbon County. (Sorry about the runaway alliteration.)
Every Friday, the town seniors gather at the AC oasis of Gateway Lanes to sip fountain Coke and snack on chips and Cheez Whiz.
The rental shoe leatherette may be peeling, and the lanes likely haven’t been touched since the ’80s—but honestly, that’s half the charm.
Once again, I’m really glad I followed my gut and stopped by.
Thanks for the game, Ynot!
BROOKE
Somewhere out there right now, between abandoned ’80s gas stations and the heat-warped expanse of the Midwest, Brooke is pushing her longboard across the spine of America. With each foot thrust, she displays a micro act of defiance— a middle finger to the harsh landscape that encapsulates her.
While I’m sipping an iced latte and fumbling for the van’s AC, she’s slugging through a journey most would hesitate to drive, let alone skate. Part madness, part pilgrimage, armed with a hydration pack and pink sport dress, Brooke is proving the toughest adventures can happen just inches above the asphalt.
I was very lucky to cross paths with this remarkable woman in the Oklahoma desert and ended up having a wonderful roadside chat about her life and journey:
"I started skating at 13 after buying a longboard from a neighborhood kid for $20. Last year, I lost my stepdad, Rodger, to a spinal cord injury and now I’m skating 3200 miles across the country in his honour. I'm aiming to raise $50,000 for spinal cord research along the way. I’m doing it to show women how far you can go when you trust your body and your mission. Not just to set a world record, but to become the first woman to do it.
Movement is a privilege. So get out there and GROOVE!"
Her closing words have become my new life mantra. Thanks for the inspiration, Brooke.
KEVIN
Kevin Collier Jr. has a stressful gig.
Every day, he’s threading giant, flexing wind turbine blades longer than a jumbo jet through twisty mountain roads and city streets that weren’t built for something this huge.
He’s on the radio with the lead driver the whole time, hands working the rear steering controls like he’s piloting a ship instead of a truck. A single lapse in focus could irreparably damage millions of dollars’ worth of cargo.
Kevin measures success not in miles, but in inches of clearance from signposts, guardrails and slow drivers like me.
ANDREW
Andrew takes a quick break from hammering red-hot iron using methods unchanged from the 1800s.
Blacksmiths were often quite strong because of the work they performed and occasionally acted as “peacekeepers” in the gold rush mining towns of British Columbia.
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jcmadeintheshade@gmail.com
Well-known member
Wanderingkiwi, please keep 'em coming.
America, Americans, could use the distraction.
We can be one again. I can dream. I believe you do also.
America, Americans, could use the distraction.
We can be one again. I can dream. I believe you do also.
wanderingkiwi
2006 118” SHC
Just a reminder, I really enjoy creating these posts, but if we piss on this thread again I’m not going to add any more.
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