Bicycle touring in the sunny desert has its perks. Always hot and dry, you forget where the rain jacket is in the chaos of your panniers, or even pretend you left it at home. Adios, soggy mornings and wet tent.
These were the thoughts on our minds this past September, touring in Central Utah. The beehive state presented itself as a fine choice for two amateur tourers like my boyfriend Mark and I. We both liked mountains but didn’t want to climb too much on our loaded bikes. We wanted to drive to our trip location, and since we were already in southern B.C. for the summer, staying in the western part of North America was ideal. And we both fancied arid climates. Utah it was.
Between low desertic plains and renowned mountain peaks, Utah is a land of extremes—but like Goldilock picking her porridge, sticking to the middle is always an option and we did just that. In the same vein, being both averse to touristic areas (ditto on the crowded cities front), there would be no Bryce Canyon, Moab or Salt Lake City on the itinerary. Instead, we cycled through a mix of small towns, farmlands and low mountain passes.
I had planned a route in a figure 8: two loops, upper and lower, with a connecting location in the middle (of Salina, Utah), which we would pass through twice. Our car was left parked at the top of the upper loop in the small town of Mona.
From Mona, we cycled south on rural roads, going away from the busy Highway 15. We camped a night at the beautiful Yuba State Park, which we had to ourselves (given the time of the year). Next, cycling to the town of Scipio, at the valley bottom; and later, to its high-altitude reservoir. Poor in water but rich in farm lands, Utah and many more western states have large bodies of water (often man-made) for irrigation purposes. These lakes, called reservoirs, are vital for the farming industry. They look natural, for the most part, but oftentimes are polluted with algae bloom and cow dung. Despite those rather offensive qualities, we camped at reservoirs more than once. For frugal travellers like us, the U.S. government maintains free or cheap campgrounds on their shores.
After Scipio reservoir, a last climbing effort brought us to the top of the pass, where a long descent to Salina followed. We had cycled the first half of the upper loop.
Traffic converging from Highway 89 and Highway 70 made Salina a restless place despite its small size. It didn’t help that our campground had its tenting area right beside a bustling boulevard. We dug out the earplugs at night time. But not everything was lost in the noise. We were visiting the USA, afterall, so we treated ourselves to burgers and fries from a local American diner off Main Street in Salina.
Past Salina, we were met with quieter roads and kept cycling south into remote areas on the lower loop.
Seeing rural Utah and its people was intriguing … enriching, to us. More than one local scratched their heads at us for mispronouncing Bible-derived town names, exposing our status as outsiders and non-believers, as Utah is the “Grand Central” of Mormon faith in the U.S. We also got used to speeding motorcycles on highways—its operators bareheaded, as no law in Utah forced anyone to wear a helmet.
Ranchlands were omnipresent around us, as well as farmlands. Cactuses sided corn fields, cattle grazed at the foot of steep slopes where one or two escapee cows roamed around. These 1,400-pound Houdinis would come straight at us, with intense curiosity, from nearby fields, so much so that we didn’t always know how to handle the situation. “Don’t look it in the eyes.” “Try speaking ‘Cow,’” we advised each other, passing them as carefully as possible.At the bottom of the lower loop was the most scenic stretch: Kingston Canyon Road. This quiet road connecting two valleys sat at the bottom of impressive red canyon walls. Hoodoos and large caves dotted its contour. Past the canyon road, we cycled back north and upwards in the Koosharem Valley, reaching Salina, once again, a few days later. This time, we skipped the noisy campground and stayed in a cheap motel for the night, watching a rerun of Dirty Dancing on cable TV. After we were well-rested, the last half of the upper loop was completed in four days. Then, back to the car after about two-and-a-half weeks on the saddle, we looked at our nicely tanned shins and finally recovered the rain jackets—right at the bottom of our packs.
