“Hold it right there, boys!”

The crafty codger had them dead to rights. The pair was all but trapped among the thicket. Tall pampas grass, cattails and cottonwood trees lined the river bed hindering any hope of a clean escape.

Extending outward from the rider’s nose was a Remington Model 870, 12 gauge pump. The friendly end was held by the rancher, presumably the fellow who owns the land upon which these two explorers were trespassing. George’s view looked like the end of a 28 inch blue steel pipe, with a vent-rib and knuckles. Poor Steve watched helplessly, wondering what would happen next.

“I think we’re lost,” George managed to articulate, trying to stay calm in the face of what was turning out to be an awkward moment. “If you could just direct us back to the county road….”

The sour-faced old man marched them towards his house at the point of his shotgun, ignoring their apologies and protests. Both men wondered if they would ever be heard from again.

This scenario sounds like something from a wild-west movie, but it actually happened to two of my good friends. They were eventually released, but not before a lesson had been burned deep into their memories.

Land owners can be testy and if their property has been treated with disrespect by hunters or ORV users, some may paint all unauthorized visitors with one broad stroke of the brush… even if we are just well intentioned adventure riders trying to connect the dots on a GPS route or Gazetteer. The fact we are on motorcycles doesn’t usually bode well because our presence may be evidence enough that we had to cut a fence or open a gate to get in. Some owners, like the gentleman my pals encountered on Oklahoma’s South Canadian River, are looking for vengeance, even if for someone else’s deed. If you meet one of these, Lord help you if you did snip your way in.

My two pals’ plight suddenly pops into my head as I see a four-wheeler carrying a man with a brown cowboy hat and a serious expression plowing its way towards us through the sand. My friend Eric Parrow and I are east of Tucson in the Arizona desert, trying to boonie-bust our way across wild country. Our path winds through stands of majestic saguaro and barrel cactus, towards Redington, some 20 miles distant as the crow flies. Desert access is easy here and it seems reasonable that we should be able to navigate across this expanse using our GPS and a little ingenuity. We come across gates from time to time, but most are to keep cattle contained within thousand-plus acre ranches and not really a problem. Few places are posted “No Trespassing.” Folks in these parts are used to the occasional traveler respectfully crossing their property. Unfortunately, the questionable “road” we had taken turned north while our desired route was east. A dry river bed seemed like a reasonable alternative and according to our GPS, it would take us nearer to our destination. Adventures, by nature, are full of surprises that can alter our plans… often for the better, but there are no guarantees. A fence was slung over the river bed, apparently barricading us from further progress. Going back would have been discouraging at best and it was unlikely we could have made it to the dirt road before dark. We had made our decision…

The going gets tougher until finally Eric’s BMW R1200GS is stuck in the soft sand, his Metzler Tourance tire not offering much in the way of forward progress. I struggle with my knobby-shod R1200GS Adventure, trying to find a way out that will connect with something like a road, driveway or even a decent goat trail… anything but this bottomless grit! The sun is about to set and although we had planned to bivouac somewhere on this magnificent landscape, this particular spot was not on our list of maybes. We aren’t exactly lost, but we are beginning to wonder how we will get back on a navigable track before dark.

Anyone who has explored on two wheels has come up against barriers, fences, rivers, dead-falls, locked gates and signs warning of dire consequences if they don’t turn back. These obstructions to our progress are no respecters of persons, no matter how far we’ve come or how hard we have worked to get there. They are all part of the adventure. If a land owner doesn’t want company, he will do all he can to keep you out, and chances are he is somewhere nearby to enforce his wishes.

Such is the case as the fellow on the four-wheeler wheels over to where I am and stops. I face him and smile as he approaches. “I hope you know your way around here better than I do,” I offer with all the humility and friendliness I can muster, as I take off my helmet to remove any physical barrier to communication.

“I should, I own this place,” he answers… sort of dead pan. At least he is neutral… it could have come out a lot worse. It seems he is still sizing us up as Eric leaves his mired machine and trudges over to add his own peace offering.

“How’d you boys get in here?”

“We came up the river,” I reply, hoping he won’t ask for more details.

“I mean how did you get HERE,” he says, clearly wanting the specifics. “There was a fence.”

“We came under it,” I add honestly. “We fixed it back.”

I offer my hand and my name as a gesture of friendship.

“Mike Logan,” he responds in kind. “Welcome to the Bedrock Ranch.”

Mike seems to take us at face value as I explain. A simple system of one strand of baling wire anchored the fence to a rock on the river bottom, drawing it down taut. The wire would let go in the event of a flash flood and allow debris to flow on past, then it could be re-secured once the storm was over. In our case, we were the debris. I had only to loosen the wire, lift the fence a little so we could squeeze under, then reattach the wire to the rock.

“I saw you fellows over on Mount Lemmon this morning,” he offers, easing the tension considerably. “I appreciate your not cutting my fence. Some folks don’t care and I have had to chase cattle because of them.”

“I understand. I’m glad we didn’t contribute to their offences.”

We all marvel at the unlikely accident that he had recognized us as the same two motorcyclists he had seen in the forest east of Tucson eating sandwiches some 50 miles from our present location. The serendipity of adventure riding is an amazing and inescapable facet of our sport. Fortunately for us, our new friend feels the same.

Eric wrestles his GS loose and we fall in behind Mike’s four-wheeler. He leads us up a wash, past his house and to a road a half mile away. We are lucky… this time.

Crossing into New Mexico mid-state, there aren’t many roads running west to east. Most run diagonal, predominately north-south, which is alright with us since we are on the hunt for an off-road route back to Oklahoma. Ranch roads, many little more than eroded two-track trails, cross the state everywhere, extending miles over high desert lands with magnificent vistas, old abandoned structures, windmills and corrals telling their stories to all who will pause and listen. We revel in the experience, thankful for the unwritten code out west that allows travelers to cross most lands as long as they close gates and don’t deface or remove artifacts.

More recently I met a man near Fisher Valley on a trail outside of Moab, Utah who clearly summed up the way many land owners see it. We had stopped at his oasis, the Taylor Ranch, which is one of very few places to get fresh water on the Kokopelli Trail. Four of us rode slowly up to his home, trying not to stir up dust. We stopped a ways back and took off our helmets. Shannon walked slowly up to the house and asked if we could fill our water containers. Mr. Taylor graciously obliged and told us stories about the five generations of his family that had lived there on this spring-fed creek. His great-grandfather had walked over with Brigham Young and established the ranch.

Mr. Taylor thanked us for stopping before we left and told us about a group of Jeepers who last summer had driven past his house and up into the box canyon, eventually having to turn around and drive back the way they had come. Mr. Taylor was waiting for them.

“I had to give them a lesson in etiquette,” he said. “When you pass a man’s property, do what you boys did, state your business and most times, you’ll be just fine.”

There is no guarantee that being courteous will yield the results we had in these two instances. But the fact is a little bad yeast ruins the whole batch. One disrespectful act on our part can lead to land closure. It is encouraging to meet men like Mike Logan or Mr. Taylor who appreciate our desire to go overlanding. Being good citizens ourselves is an important part of the equation. By setting out to be respectful of the lands on which we travel, we are ambassadors opening doors and clearing the way for our fellow adventure riders. Mending fences is a last resort. Let’s build good relationships instead.

We can do a lot as responsible adventure riders to keep our routes open. Some suggestions may seem like common sense, but even that can fly out the window in the heat of battle when we are blazing down some great country road, roosting it up, splashing through low water crossings and past the occasional lone settlement.

Here are some thoughts as to how we can be better citizens of the on/off road community:

• Run quiet exhausts. A thumper is a thumper, be it woofers in the trunk or a Big Gun exhaust blaring across the landscape. Nobody likes to hear it.

• Slow down when encountering locals on back roads. We may have to eat their dust, but it does nothing to help our cause when we blaze by and give them reason to talk badly about us. Throttle back, smile and wave. You will leave a lasting impression.

• Pull over and kill the engine when you see livestock being driven down the road in your path. If the drover waves you on, proceed with caution, quietly and predictably. Spook his herd and you have made an enemy of us all.

• Posted land is a crap shoot at best. Even without a closed gate, you court trouble by entering. It is always better to turn back than to be confronted by the owner. You will end up on the wrong end of the argument, regardless.

• Ask when practical. When in a remote area where it is evident that you are approaching someone’s home, announce your presence or turn back. Do not roll past the house without asking permission unless there is no doubt you are on a public road. Even then you could encounter an irate owner. This likelihood increases in the more heavily populated east or central regions of the U.S. If confronted, engage with an apology and remain respectful. I have seen these situations turn bad in a hurry. Remember, they have the home field advantage.

Regardless of where and with whom you ride, know that you are being watched. Not only by property owners, but by other riders who may be influenced by your behavior. Lands are being closed all around us and once locked, they are difficult or impossible to open again.