Adventure Motorcycling Through Colorado, Utah and Wyoming: Overcoming Mud, Snow, and Rocky Trails

After establishing residency in South Dakota, we headed south, leaving the Black Hills largely unexplored, and dropped into Nebraska for some straight dirt. Our next major stop was Steamboat Springs, Colorado, to get the KTM 1290 serviced. But the passes were beginning to turn white, and South Dakota had taught us that we were unprepared for what was ahead in Wyoming.

As we entered Wyoming midway along the eastern border, we began pathfinding, meandering through wide-open fields, the first bits of sand and a few dead ends—dead, in as much as the unused tracks dwindled to nothing, with no indication whose land we were on, we respectfully turned around.

Fun, rocky sections were abundant.

The further south we rode, the harder it was to explore. What looked like roads on the map led to locked gates. In particular, the Cherokee State Wildlife Area was full of them. Our solitude was interrupted as we happened upon communities in the middle of nowhere, an increasing trend as the state sells off forest land to private owners.

The terrain became more difficult, with optional rocky trails, water crossings, and the occasional muddy stretch. We wound up camping near Buffalo Pass, a few miles outside of Steamboat Springs, Colorado. With the bike serviced, we hopped onto the COBDR northbound for a short while. Assessing terrain difficulty based on others’ ratings was difficult. Riders have different skillsets, some motorcycles are better-suited than others, and weather conditions play a major role. Eventually, we left Colorado from the north, descending from the mountains to the plains; as the challenges waned, we turned onto a route following the Continental Divide Trail called “The Hard Way.”

Victory at the top of a climb after coaxing the last bit of grip from a faltering clutch.

• Hard-Headed

The “Hard Way” is aptly named. Roots jutting from a muddy descent carved into the hillside snagged my panniers and downed me a few times before I got my single-track legs. Bermed switchbacks were a much-appreciated safety net for a 600+ lb. motorcycle along a downward journey. At the bottom, a serene stream with a well-built bridge belied the incline that followed: a switchback with rocks conveniently piled at the turn or, alternatively, a “shortcut” going straight up. We picked our respective routes, me choosing the shortcut.

This 200-meter section of The Hard Way was not hard.

A shortcut can mean many things. In my case, it was a shorter distance, but it didn’t save me any time. I gunned my engine and promptly stalled about 15 feet in. This 1290 is equipped with a quickshifter that allows gear changes without using the clutch. With this setup, a sensor detects the slightest tap on the shifter and interprets this as the rider’s intent to change gears. It then takes control of the throttle to adjust the RPM to a suitable range. As my toe touched the shifter, the RPM died, along with my hope of making it up in a single go. I made it to the top on a second try but slid back a few feet on soft ground, where we spent an exhausting 20 minutes getting it back up.

That shortcut was but a snapshot of our time along this route. A day’s worth of riding netted us a dozen or so miles, but they were rewarding and extremely fun, the kind I can’t imagine having more fun on another bike.

Mud, but the soft and pillowy kind.

In Wyoming, we picked up a BDR connector that took us to the northern end of the Utah BDR, where we rendezvoused with winter again. By early October, frost and snow replaced the winds of the Wyoming plains, and we almost forgot about our numb fingers as we viewed the relentlessly stunning vistas. Heated grips and leisurely speeds weren’t enough to cut the cold, so we broke off to Salt Lake City to visit friends and re-supply. 

• A Song of Ice and Mud

Equipped with a new 15°F sleeping bag that fit us both, we resumed the BDR, warmer but still anxious to reach the deserts farther south. During the afternoon of our second day out, we began a long, straight ascent of a ridge near Strawberry Peak, where we encountered Utah mud: the thick, clay-like stuff that allegedly gets its consistency from high levels of a mineral called “bentonite.” Progress waned as we pushed the bikes through this terrain. Clay encrusted the tires and entirely filled the void around the rear shocks. This forced frequent stops in order to scrape the goo off. As the night grew nearer, the weather began to turn.

Our second day on the UTBDR, which, in retrospect, would be a modest amount of snow.

All this on its own was still manageable, but the failure of Odessa’s 790 clutch brought us to a halt. The mud-heavy wheels, high RPM, and slipping ’n sliding finally took its toll, and the clutch could handle no more. As the snow began to fall, we decided that the warmth of a sleeping bag, hydration, and food were what we needed, before planning our next move.

The longing look toward a fluffy bed after a long day of riding.

We were only a mile from the top of the ridge, with mostly downhill travel after that. From there, only 10 miles lay between us and pavement. Behind us was 22 miles to pavement and all that clay we’d spent the day tearing up. When we awoke the next morning, four inches of snow lay on the ground, but despite the direness of the scene, the temperature rapidly rose from the sunny skies.

We began the arduous process of moving the 790 uphill. It was a stop-and-go ballet of pushing, with help from the throttle, then stopping to scrape the mud from the tires while letting the clutch cool. A few hours later, we made it to the last stretch—a bend and then less than a quarter-mile to the crest. But we didn’t make it. That bend had both a sharper incline and the worst mud of the stretch. The day’s warmth had melted the snow, which made the mud even more sticky. Many attempts later, we slid the 790 into the ditch on the side of the trail and walked to the top of the ridge so Odessa could set up camp while I rode 10 miles down to a nearby gas station on the 1290 for extra food and water.

Scaping mud from the jammed-up front sprocket.

And… I didn’t make it, either! I rode for maybe two miles before encountering even worse mud, clogging the trail in sticky layers. The surface appeared to be somewhat dry, but it was soft and soggy when I stepped or rode over it. I abandoned my attempt just shy of getting stuck and returned to camp. At least the ridge had cell coverage, and we could call for help. Odessa, through BDR on Facebook, managed to find a kindred soul who offered to bail us out: Cody McCallister, a BDR ambassador. Though he offered to leave immediately, we cautioned the following morning would likely be better.

• The Rescue

Around noon the following day, Cody arrived with a truck and trailer. The coffee he had generously bought at that gas station was cold when he arrived; it had taken the entire morning to climb those muddy 10 miles. And getting the truck down the last quarter-mile was tricky, as the only possible turnaround was even farther downhill. With a few straps tied together and lashed to the bike, he reversed the entire way back up the hill with the bike crawling and sliding along.

After loading both motorcycles into the trailer, the exfiltration began. The road followed up and down along the ridge for a while, with plenty of spots for water to super-saturate the mud even more. Cody had brought shovels, and we needed them to keep the truck and trailer tires clear. Even then, the descent was perilous. In some places, the rig jackknifed before sliding off the road and down into a draw, but Cody coaxed it along expertly.

On the final stretch of mud, we rounded a corner and came head-to-head with a massive RV. Both vehicles slid to a halt in the steep gutter next to the road. While we got the trailer unstuck quickly, we waited another hour or so for the RV to get moving again so it could continue on.

We finally made it down, kissed the pavement, checked the motorcycles, and immediately sought out a burger joint. Cody dropped us off at a friend’s house; fortunately, they were only minutes away from the Rocky Mountain ATV/MC warehouse.

Who here doesn’t know this feeling?

• And We’re Off

False starts, hard stops, and big circles—these became recurring themes for us, and Utah saw the convergence of all three, partly as we had no specific destination in mind after leaving Steamboat Springs, and because of everything else that transpired, we finally felt like we were doing something different. But time—the most valuable asset we have—was not on our side as we returned through Utah on our way to the rally in SoCal. As Odessa got her 790 into shape, I sat down to figure out the next segment of our adventure.

Scott Canto upgraded from a bicycle to a motorcycle in 2004 and an adventure motorcycle in 2011 and never looked back. In 2021, Scott left with his partner Odessa, and their dog Surak, to ride around the world. He continues to not look back—his mirror is broken anyway. See more of their adventures at ADVGoats.com.