Jarbidge, Nevada – I Don’t Know How Or Why…But Yet…
Motorcycle Vapors . Mutterings And Murmurs . Social Studies . The Chronicles
After six years and roughly 94,000 kilometers of accident-free, mostly liberating, healing, and blissful cancer-riddled motorcycle riding, I am convinced that heightened situational awareness, resilience, myopic vision quests, haphazard planning and action, as well as the healing vapors of motorcycle exhaust, are only some of the things that are proving the prognoses of experts and allopatic medicine Satanists wrong…or rendering the experts clueless.
Carbon footprint, D.E.W. events, D.A.R.P.A. skies, U.N. agenda arson terror, and boiling climate emergency be-damned!
I’ve learned a lot about moderate, fearless resilience and determination during this road time on two wheels and have learned many valuable lessons, like never try to wave with your right hand. Most recently I’ve learned to never entirely trust wireless technology or any technology for that matter, in particular GPS (Global Positioning System). GPS is a radio wave reliant system used to provide coordinates that give the exact position of an element in a certain space. The radio waves are rumored to be emitted by a constellation of orbiting satellites, which function as a reference system for GPS. In reality GPS is based on technology that is capable of reaching very high levels of precision, even to less than a millimeter, if certain aspects of the technology are exploited and if the period of observation can be maintained for a sufficient amount of time. The most relevant aspect of GPS to today’s information society is the ability to provide the geographical coordinates of any object on the earth’s surface and to increase our knowledge of the object’s characteristics with geographical data, collected in real time and directly from the field, at very low cost. Sounds good in an overview but the reality is that the system is only as good as the information gathered by sattelites and the seemingly subjective directions and suggestions provided by the GPS receiver. Lack of knowledge on the part of the GPS user is also a factor. And then of course there is the potential of the user being too absorbed by visual stimulation and the distraction of human adventure to understand that machines are not infallible, although certain Suzuki and Honda products do near perfection.
GPS is a satellite-based, radio-navigation system developed and operated by the U.S. Department of Defense. GPS is based on signals from 24 operational satellites in 6 circular orbits 20,200 km (≈12,600 miles) above the earth, spaced in orbit so that at any time a minimum of 6 satellites are in view to users anywhere in the world.
The U.S. department of defense?
The open border, UFO infested, U.N., Democrat controlled U.S.?
What could go wrong?
According to Shoshone legend, a giant cannibal named Tsawhawbitts (pronounced tuh-SAW-haw-bits) roamed a certain canyon in the far reaches of northern Nevada, hunting for unsuspecting men to toss into a large basket and carry back to camp for ‘dinner’. In 1909, prospectors following news of a gold strike, made their way into the canyon and named it after its mythical resident, mispronouncing the Shoshone word as “Jarbidge” (JAR-bidj). More discoveries were made the following year, and Jarbidge quickly became an official settlement with several hundred residents. As it happened, the finds would lead to the last major gold rush in Western United States history, as well as—how appropriately—the last stagecoach robbery, too!
This latter-day Wild West history remains front and center in “downtown” Jarbidge, thanks to a handful of built-back-then cabins and even a few publicly accessible buildings, including the 1911-built jail.
Jarbidge is one of the most remote and isolated municipalities in the continental U.S. mostly because you can’t get there from any major point on the map in Nevada. Access to the town is through southern Idaho. It’s isolated and the locals like it that way.
I met some good people there.
I still haven’t found the exact path I took to make it from Wild Horse to Jarbidge but I do know that I entered Nevada through southern Idaho, which is the only way to get to Jarbidge. I used Highway 51 from Bruneau, Idaho all the way to Owyhee, Nevada through open desert and irrigated lands, past derelict and abandoned gas stations, rest stops and farms. Past open stretches of 100 degree desolation and through occasional blasts of hellish, coke oven superheated wind that turned my Garmin and cellphone screens black and took my breath. Past the unidentifiable, dessicated and heat flattened remains of animals. It was just as I entered Nevada that I saw the first puzzling sign of what was to come.
The warning was actually an illuminated mobile sign that flashed ‘Caution – Slick Roads’. My only thought was, ‘What?! It’s 100 degrees farenheit and dry so why the warning?’
Check the link below to a news item on the Mormon cricket swarm plague horror. The swarm wasn’t isolated to the Elko area but had spread north, all the way through to Owyhee and Jarbidge. Nothing clicked or crackled until I started hitting red tinged and rancid pavement. The overpowering smell was very much like a badly serviced grease trap or those tanks out back of restaurants for collecting used cooking oil. Anyone who lives in a northern climate is familiar with snow plows and sweepers. Now think of snowplows being used to clear the highway of crawling, swarming, writhing, cannibalistic insects. My skid plate and fenders were quickly coated with gristly gore.
Shudder.
Cringe.
From WIKI:
The Mormon cricket (Anabrus simplex) is a large insect native to western North America in rangelands dominated by sagebrush and forbs. Anabrus is a genus in the shield-backed katydid subfamily in the Tettigoniidae family, commonly called katydids, bush crickets, and previously “long-horned grasshoppers”. Its common name, “Mormon cricket”, is a misnomer: true crickets are of the family Gryllidae.
The Mormon cricket takes its common name from the prominent role it played in the miracle of the gulls, after the Mormon settlers in Utah had encountered them while pushing westward.
Although flightless, the Mormon cricket may travel up to two kilometres a day in its swarming phase,during which it may be a serious agricultural pest and sometimes a traffic hazard.
Another alarming characteristic of these creatures is that they are cannibalistic. When one is crushed or injured under the wheels of motorists, others swarm the victim and proceed to feed. The greater the casualties, the greater the feeding frenzy. The casualties and gore escalate.
Biblical cricket zombie apocalypse?
Source of orgasm for WEF, ‘Insects As Food’ enthusiasts?
As for the ‘Lost’ adventure that covered territory between the Wild Horse Recreation Area and Jarbidge, all I can determine so far is that, among others, I used National Forest Develop Road 061 Trail, National Forest Develop Road 067 Trail, FR 037 and Gold Creek Road all of which are best travelled by tank, 4×4 off road vehicles and not heavily laden 2 wheeled motorcycles with 80/20 tires…or avoided entirely.
I allowed the GPS to guide me into several red herring turns onto trails that went from two rocky tracks to one, up hills I got stuck on…that required careful, backward creeping, footing crawls back down. GPS kept telling me that I was close to my destination, that the next important turn was only 2 or 17 kilometres away. Hopes were often dashed as 2 kilometres became 5 and 17 became 20….and the time passed. The tracks became progressively worse. The washout areas and crevasses became more frequent, the rocks bigger, the inclines steeper, the gravel and sand deeper. The sun was going down too fast. The shadows made advance planning for navigating around rocks and ruts so much harder. I was surrounded by panoramas of color and alien beauty but was totally focused on getting out of and down from the situation I was in. It didn’t occur to me to be afraid but I didn’t think it important to photograph or video the views from the tops and bottoms of where I found myself minute to minute, hour after hour. The magical mystery mis-adventure tour from Wild Horse to Jarbidge took roughly 7 hours of humping, jostling, sliding, shuddering and wrist pounding action and sensational overload through canyons and valleys, over hills and dales.
With every near spill I thought, ‘please not yet!’
Was Tsawhawbitts coming for me?
Bring it.
What the hell is a dale?
The west setting sun was greeted by massing dark clouds in the distant east. There were flashes of lightning and distant thunder.
I thought…’Why not?
And then…
‘Please not now.’
It sprinkled a bit.
I made it into Jarbidge at 10:30 pm that night. Too late to see about a room or a meal.
I pitched camp in an empty RV park and ate Lara Bars and trail mix and an orange.
And water.
Lots of water.
Everything in the night sky was crystal clear and close.
I took an immovene tablet and some Tylenol 500s.
My right calve and wrists hurt like hell but I was so magnificently tired.
I fell asleep to the sound of the Jarbidge river and millions of crickets scrambling around outside and the plocking sound of them hitting the tent.
Like rain.
The thing is, and I don’t dwell on it, is that nobody really knew where I was between July 24 and July 30, and for sure when I was officially and blissfully lost on those trails between Wild Horse and Jarbidge. Even with all of the advanced technology that tracks and traces our every move, I could still have disappeared. No cell service. No Google maps. Anything could have happened. I could have spilled into an abyss or a creek and turned into one of those unfortunate sun flattened and dessicated critters I passed on the way in but not without providing the local scavengers with a buffet.
But then they could very well have been overfilled with crickets by the time they found me.
This could very well have been my end and purpose.
So be it.
I’m not sorry for all those millions of crickets I killed.
I took the ‘easy’ way home.
I rode north on the gravelled North Fork Charleston Road and made the twisting climb out of the valley to where it met up with the paved and winding Three Creek Highway. I nearly kissed the tarmac. And then on to Hollister and Bellvue.
And then north on Highway 93 through Twin Falls, Jerome and Shoshone.
Through the mess of the gentrified and overpriced ‘resort’ area of Sun Valley.
Past the eco-friendly airport that services the private jet traffic that shuttles the elite to Sun Valley.
And then Highway 26 through Richfield, Carey, The Craters of the Moon (where some of the moon landing footage was filmed?) and Arco, the first city on Earth to be solely lit by nuclear energy in 1955.
Imagine that.
Past potato fields and bunkers, feed lots, fragrant silage pits and The First Church of Jesus Christ and The Second Coming Chapel and Mini Storage Complex.
As an aside, it was in Arco where I stopped at an intersection to plot my next move. The road sign indicated left towards Hamilton, Montana. The Garmin said to turn right to Idaho Falls.
I turned left.
And then onward and upward on Highway 93 again, through Moore, Mackay, Chilly, Challis, Ellis, Elk Bend, Salmon, Carmen, North Fork, Gibbonsville and Sula.
After a night in a run-down, ‘fixed by cousin’, Patel Mafia motel in Hamilton, Montana I got the ‘itch’, the ‘frenzy’ and overcame the notion of spending another night on the road. I went into a Red Bull and beef jerky fuelled, non-registered ‘Iron Butt Challenge’ mode and rode for 13 hours or so with a few stops.
Through Stevensville, Polson, Flathead Lake country, Kalispell, Whitefish, Eureka, crossing back into the hazy, dystopian, Cultural Marxist, Liberal, Globalist hellhole of what was once Canada.
And then to Grasmere, Elko, B.C., Fernie, Sparwood and the Crowsnest pass to go north on Highway 22, ‘The Cowboy Highway’ as the sun set on a brilliant rainfresh cattle and horse country landscape.
And then home to Airdrie.
The end.
But I doubt it.
I don’t know how or why all this life is possible under the circumstances but I might be on to something.
And I’m still not sorry for all those crickets I killed.
