Blaine, WA. 3954 miles.

After an absolutely beautiful morning ride out of Sandpoint across the natural bridge in the lake I instantly found myself in traffic for the first time in almost a week. From Coeur d’Alene all the way through Spokane it was rush hour and even though I ride in NYC traffic every day it was disorienting after the days of remote highway riding. By the time I got back on RT 2 and clear of the bustle I breathed a heavy sigh of relief and settled in a for what would turn out to be a very very long run through eastern Washington.

I guess I have never thought too much about the state of Washington. I assumed it was the Pacific Northwest and that conjures a certain image. So as the landscape slowly turned from vast grassland into high desert I didn’t know what to make of it. By the time I passed the massive electrical dam in Coulee City I would have thought I was in New Mexico. It was close to 100 degrees without a cloud in the sky and the only word I can use is wasteland. For 50 miles or more I did not see another car or human built structure. I would expect this in certain parts of the country but finding yourself in it with no warning is a bit terrifying. My phone overheated within minutes and even though I was reasonably sure I knew how far I was from civilization there is always a little voice in your head saying “Are you sure you didn’t make a wrong turn?” The buzzards don’t make it any better.

Eventually I made it to apple orchard country. I never knew that high desert was the ideal climate for growing apples. When I heard of Washington apples I had thoughts of lush green fields. Instead they are mathematically planned acres worked by armies of migrant labourers with crates of apples stacked on the side of the road 50 feet high. I stopped at a small grocery store in Brewster and found they cooked the most amazing Mexican food in the back. On the way out of town I first passed the lakefront mansions of the orchard owners and then the shanty towns that house the workers. It was a pretty stark disparity within half a mile and I don’t think I’ll ever take a bite of an apple without thinking of it.

From there the desert continued almost endlessly, but very very slowly the landscape began to green and then the pine trees began to reappear. As I climbed out of the desert the temperature dropped and soon I was at the edge of the North Cascades. For yet another day I was completely unprepared for what I was about to see. After the Badlands, Black Hills, Yellowstone, and the great basins of Montana I managed to find the most beautiful place I have ever seen. The Cascades don’t get the publicity of Yellowstone or Yosemite but that only keeps the crowds away. I can’t describe how incredible the afternoon was riding through this range. The motorcycle gods were smiling today. You have to see it to believe it.

(Time for another bike rant. I don’t think you could draw up a better motorcycle road. Not the hairpins of Big Horn or Beartooth that require 2nd gear riding, the Washington Pass is more like a European GP track through the most beautiful scenery you have ever seen. The Thruxton pulled through every curve as I drew the lines with my eyes. As corny as it sounds it was like the bike was an extension of me and when I got to the other side I wasn’t even tired because I had barely had to use my upper body for countersteering. The combination of FAST twists and hard low gear riding was as much fun as I’ve ever had on a bike. I hate admitting this publicly but I talked to the bike the whole way and I swear she talked back to me. I told her this was what she was made for and she answered by hugging every corner like she wanted it and I swear she pulled the throttle on me a few times wanting to go faster. When I got to the other side I gave serious consideration to turning around and doing the 100+ miles back again.)

Now officially into the PNW it was a fairly uneventful ride up I-5 to Blaine, WA, which is the northwestern most point in the continental United States. It isn’t the Pacific yet, but when I got to the Canadian border and saw the bay it finally hit me that I had traversed the continent. 3500 miles through every kind of terrain, I looked out on the water as the sun was setting and all I could think was “Pull a left and head back.”

And so tomorrow starts the run down the coast to Mexico. You really can’t make this stuff up.

Wyatt Neumann was a phenomenally talented photographer and director, a loving husband and father, and a passionate motorcyclist. On June 11th he was doing what he loved riding in Delaware when he suffered a brain aneurysm which caused him to lose control of his motorcycle. He died shortly after. Wyatt was instrumental in both inspiring this trip and planning many of its routes and logistics. The title of this site was unapologetically stolen from his series of photographs from his own travels. He leaves behind a wife and two young children. A memorial fund has been established to help his family in this very trying time. Please consider donating. Any amount will help. Thank you.

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