A few years ago I made a pact with my motorcycle-riding friend that within three years we would go on a motorcycle camping trip. Since I had just gotten my Motorcycle endorsement through the Motorcycle Safety Foundation, this meant I would need to find a bike and hone my skills enough to navigate through some rural terrain with camping gear, and make it back alive.

My friend had been lucky enough to have been riding since childhood, starting out on dirt bikes on country roads. As a kid I begged my mom to let me ride dirt bikes with my best friend, but was never allowed and wasn’t quite yet witty or sneaky enough to go ahead and do it anyway.

(Yes, my wheel is turned a precarious direction. It’s that sweet, humbling learning curve. My companion was so kind as to take a majority of our gear on the F800GS, as I was unsure about my own balance with the added weight and how it might affect me as a new rider on my first big trip. Well, that was a nice first free pass. I’m on my own now!)

I had just gotten my motorcycle endorsement at the time of the pact, but didn’t yet have the funds to buy a bike, gear, and insurance. I worried the career track I was on (fresh out of college and still waiting tables and working seasonal retail jobs) wouldn’t allow me to get the money within the time frame, but decided I could, and would, find a way to save up and make this happen. Two years later, it did. Will, way, you know the deal. Plan for it, people. Make it a priority, even if it means cutting back on nights out with friends, or more beans and rice.

Opportunity arose when a buddy was selling his problem-child ’84 CB700SC Nighthawk S for a steal, and I jumped. I had admired the vintage style of this particular bike, and was developing quite the crush on the CB series. And she (my baby, er, bike. Fuck it–baby) was so good to me from the get go. Of course all new riders need to meet their mandatory quota of new-rider humiliation, so first I needed to drop her in the DMV parking lot right after registering the bike and making our relationship official. And then I had to crash into some bushes in an attempted U-turn. You know, for learning’s sake, we all need those not-so-gentle reminders that just because we ride a motorcycle doesn’t mean we’re cool. It will happen to you. Feel the feels, and then move on. Wear it like a badge of honor and share your stories with new riders to ease their pain.

After riding my new-to-me motorcycle with glee any chance I got, including commuting to work, and reading up on sport riding technique, I was on my way to booking a camp site and fulfilling my promise.

I will never forget the feeling after leaning through the exit ramp off of a crowded six-lane stretch of Interstate 5 on fourth of July weekend and rolling onto that two-lane country scenic route, past farms of alpacas, Christmas trees, and orchards, looking at the meadows of rolling hills on either side of me, and feeling the temperature rise and fall as we rode over the hills, smelling and feeling the mountain run-off rivers before seeing them, and watching a Swallowtail butterfly float across the road before zipping past it. My eyes welled up a little, being immersed in so much natural beauty, and in the middle of this dream-turned-reality.

350 miles of back roads took us through Mt. Hood National Forest, the Willamette National forest, and the Deschutes Nation Forest past the Three Sisters, Mt Washington, and the Three Fingered Jack. Micro-climates changed from the temperate valley to alpine to high desert. We wound through roads edged by cliff drop offs on one side and the threat of falling rocks on the other, through sharp blind curves, and around boulders.

I can still hear and feel the sound and scrape of my first ever foot peg against asphalt on a cliff side twisty. It sent my stomach downward somewhere near my nether regions like a lead ball. Yet in this adrenaline filled “I WANT TO LIVE!” moment, I managed to look where I wanted to go and accelerate out of that curve with a newfound alertness and awareness that I could low side right off a cliff if I wasn’t careful. But this didn’t make me want to quit. It made me respect the machine I ride, take responsibility for my actions and accept that this is a sport I will need to keep learning for the rest of my life. And I realized that the payoff, of being totally alive in this moment, immersed in the world, and present, all senses attuned to the world around me, was worth the risk of death.

Growing up in South Chicagoland, everything was and is very developed, so I am still amazed by how much untouched beauty and “rugged” land remains in the United States. I don’t just mean state and national parks, either, but the number of cliff side mountain roads without so much as a guardrail still amazes me, and it’s a great wake up call to enjoy the view, but stay awake.

We rode along rocky snow melt rivers, and in the 100 plus degree heat and relentless sun, it was a welcome relief to soak our bandanas and t-shirts, letting each fiber absorb the icy relief before changing back into them. Beneath our baked black leather jackets, we enjoyed a moment of this DIY air conditioning before drying out and heating back up in minutes on the afternoon pavement atop metal machines being propelled by a series of gasoline explosions.

(Water! River! Shade! Yusssssssss!)

I received my first mid-ride bee sting up the sleeve of my jacket and into the soft underside of my upper arm. It took me by surprise, the quick surge of stinging pain, and it had been decades since I’d been stung at all. I pulled over to find out for sure what happened, and to gauge my reaction, honking and waving to my riding companion that I needed to pull over (In retrospect, we should have worked out some better hand signals ahead of time.)

I opened my jacket to find the stinger dangling from the puffy red ink blot on my arm, and pulled it out, taking a minute to make sure I wasn’t allergic. Luckily, it’s hard to be mad on a summer day on your first motorcycle headed to a beautiful lake to camp and follow up on a big life goal you set three years ago. It becomes a little funny when you get stung again, a hundred miles later, inches apart from the first sting.

Rolling up to the campgrounds, the Honda CB700SC took well to the gravel roads around Suttle Lake, albeit while abiding to the 10mph speed limit. I was a little nervous having wiped out from hitting patch of gravel on a little 50cc Kawasaki over a country creek bridge a couple years earlier, which ended with me landing in a ditch, but I remembered to ease off the death grip on the handles, and ride out the grooves and squiggles attentively, obeying the speed limit so as to take a precaution for all the pedestrians, children, and potentially imbibed adults buzzing from every pocket of the campground on a busy Fourth of July weekend.

We had been looking forward to peace and quiet in a rural setting, and were a bit taken aback at the size and sound of the crowds. We knew the campground was full, and had wound up with a corner site by cancellation luck, and were delighted to find a private spot totally not visible from any other camping spots (could even do a nudie dance back there without worrying about someone sneaking up from the thicket… if you wanted to.) Plus there was about a quarter acre of spacious woods surrounding three sides of our site. A view of the lake was accessible a few steps down the hill, and sitting propped up against a large Ponderosa pine would be the site for meditating, drinking, writing, reading, sunset viewing and relaxing in the days to come. We were thrilled to have this little private patch on the beautiful Suttle lake.

Waking up to the sound of jet skis in the morning, and the sound of jet skis in the afternoon was jarring at first, having expected a rural retreat, but ultimately we were just a little jealous we couldn’t give them a test ride. Plus, we ought to know about expectations by now. Fuck ’em, toss ’em in the wind!

Day one was spent walking around the Lake, viewing Mt Adams, and heading to Sisters for goods to make bratwurst over the campfire and grab some cold beer. The town was small, quaint, a bit touristy, but was warm and friendly all the same. It definitely had an old-west feel, which I learned later is part of the homeowners association guidelines and regulations. A few charm points lost in that, but a lovely town and experience all around.

Day two was spent hiking around the lake again, and taking our inflatable inner-tubes—no sorry, River Rats, purchased from the town grocery store, and floating the length of the lake, and letting the wind lead the way. It was incredibly relaxing to watch the water glisten, and float almost the entire length of Suttle Lake (sometimes at a good pace with the wind kicking in) and feeling the rays of sun offer their sweet kisses to our skin before the burn that would keep us warm that night. It was also great to rinse off after sweating on bike the day before, collecting all that high desert dust.

We swam to shore before hitting the creek running from the Lake and through the grounds at the Lodge (which is beautiful, traditional, and has very kind staff that recommended a local biker bar in town and let us borrow some wifi. There are even little individual cabins you can rent on the property, with varying degrees of luxury and many with views of the lake.)

We walked back, the river rats subjected to the dense shrubs and wild roses lining the narrow path back to the campgrounds, and up the big hill to our site. Somewhere in the water I lost my sarong, but my friend found a Deschutes Brewing hat, so the universe felt balanced. The ride home was quieter, with less traffic, and another bee sting nearly an inch away from the first. (I have since been stung twice again, once more on the same arm—and one on the other arm. I’m more amused than irritated at this point.)

Bee stings aside, I returned home in a dream state of true vacation. Getting to your destination by motorcycle makes for an instant adventure. You are so immersed in the spirit of the land you ride through, and it helps launch you in that state of presence and recharge mode that tends to dwell with you after the fact, like an after glow. If there’s anything this trip taught me, it’s the benefit and growth that comes from doing what scares you, and from following through on your dreams. The reward is worth the pain of the learning curve (like dropping your new-to-you bike in the parking lot of the DMV right after getting it registered, or learning to not bruise your shins on the foot pegs.)

This trip showed me that motorcycling is one of the best ways to see nature, and to make the journey of getting there as good as the destination itself, if not better. It instilled in me a desire to travel the world atop a motorcycle. Maybe most importantly, though, this trip taught me that goals which seem insurmountable are really just a series of little steps you take with a little help from your friends.