Story & photos by Ben Getz
September. Like a whisper from a Teutonic lover across your neck, it promises “Summer will be back.” Often fickle in temperature and with precipitous mood swings, it can be so enjoyable in the Pacific Northwest. Needing a break from the smoke-filled skies of eastern Washington, I loaded a bike and the dogs and pointed my RV to the, well, smoke-filled canyons and river gorges of Idaho. We set up at Long Camp RV in Kamiah, Idaho, right on the east bank of the Clearwater River, which is rightfully described as Idaho’s crown jewel waterway.
Flowing westward from the Bitterroot Mountains, it follows much of the tortured path of U.S. Route 12 as it slashes jaggedly across the throat of Idaho’s panhandle. The highway is highlighted by beautifully rugged terrain and exciting roads. And by “exciting,” I mean they can be rough, with wheel-swallowing potholes and crevices. Winters take their toll on the tarmac, as does summer’s harsh burns, and with this type of terrain and mostly narrow two-lane roads, repairs are often delayed.
I planned on riding two of my favorite there-and-back roads to the pavement’s ending at Elk City and Elk River, both visited on memorable rides over the last 30 years but never in succession. Also, the ride to Grangeville and back with a side spur to the heralded White Bird Grade on former U.S. 95 were included in the two 200-mile or so jaunts. There are more nice day rides than can be explored from this location: Lolo Pass, St. Maries, Pierce, Greer, and others. A region so full of natural beauty, wildlife, and manmade roads that will make any camera lens an optimistic liar.
One can’t swing a dead skunk by the tail and not hit a historic marker of the Lewis and Clark expedition or of the mighty Nez Perce nation’s rich and often tragic history. Much of the settlers’ history, exploration, expansion, and interactions with indigenous people, both good and bad, are catalogued in the terrain and markers around nearly every corner. Perhaps most notable is the Heart of the Monster heritage site that would be a worthwhile distraction for hours of hiking in the right footwear. It was a fitting centerpiece to my stay, as the monstrously good roads, whether on a Ducati Monster or a monstrosity rat bike like mine, are all good in keeping with a theme. Oh, and it’s Sasquatch country.
Smoky skies greeted my early departure and stayed along for the entire day, keeping the morning brisk through filtered sunlight. Since it was late September and in the middle of the week, traffic was so light it was almost nonexistent, mostly lumbering semis as opposed to the long lines of road-blocking RVs that are found in peak summer. All were easily dispatched with the Zed-Ex-Ten’s mill.
Rolling seven minutes south on U.S. 12, a lucky turn onto SR-13 at Kooskia rewarded me with some smooth curves and the sumptuous ascent up to the Grangeville plateau of wheatfields and ranches. I climbed into even thicker smoke, the burnt aroma filling ram-air fed nostrils of both myself and the bike under a struggling reddish orb above. Nothing was to be done but ride on and endure a bit of straight, taking U.S. 95 southbound and down the 7% White Bird Grade. It became a fun romp, with ample passing room in both directions, very fast sweepers, and tetonshaped geography as I dispatched two large groups of Austrian- and Bavarian-made ADVs heavily laden for an expedition.
With a quick left turn at the hill’s bottom, New 95 becomes old and wings you through the historic little burg of White Bird before doubling back on the old grade. Alas, but also fortunately, I met a road construction flagger only a mile out of town. The very pleasant lady said there was a one-hour wait, and it would only take me to 10 miles of freshly laid chip seal. Thanking her for this bit of data, I headed back for the even more spirited jog up the new grade and a return to Grangeville.
Back where I entered town was a small sign for Mt. Idaho, another grade but definitely not an ‘A’. Oh, it has very nicely radiused corners and some scintillating scenery even in the haze, but the steep downhill road surface suffers from neglect, so one’s line, plus pace selection, is critical to avoid the suspension-unsettling patches and a couple of swales and heaves that will get you airborne if not careful – or if so inclined. The reward at the bottom is to meet up with SR-14, the road to and from Elk City.
For 50 miles I enjoyed an almost endless series of corners, one after the other thrown at me with a steady variation of suggested speeds and changing pavement conditions from sublime to ‘oh shit!” The river was my constant companion, along with plenty of eagles and ravens. There is gas and food in the little city, and in the right season their Huckleberry treats are not to be beaten – just eaten.
The bliss of the return route was not lessened as I rode on entirely different pavement with a new view of the Clearwater River now on my port side. Along the rocky hill-side lane, the pavement takes on a more scarred condition and can be strewn with detritus. One can ride nonstop on this roller-coaster romp for 60 miles before it finally straightens out a bit in Stites, leaving me panting in my helmet by the time I was finished. Still, not a single elk was seen.
With so much named after them in this area, these second largest of North America land mammals must have once numbered in the thousands. They are also known in the Shawnee tongue as wapiti, meaning “white rump,” so we have that nickname in common! (Another story best left unwritten.) As it was early elk hunting season, they were wisely playing hide-and-seek from the hundreds of camouflaged visitors that swell both Elk City’s and Elk River’s populations by at least double.
Yet many of the elk’s smaller cousins are meeting their demise in a losing battle of bone, antler, and hide versus speeding chrome, steel, and plastic. The mixed blessing of riding motorcycles keeping you in touch with all your senses and surroundings was driven home with an olfactory exclamation point about every 10 miles, as the Eau de Cay filled my helmet in the now warming afternoon air. It’s best to reserve riding in these shorter days of light during their off hours, so like Lewis and Clark I headed back to Long Camp RV, which also sports a very good old-fashioned burger stand to sweeten the deal.
During the night a rogue weather system blew through, its sky-scouring downpour quite welcome the next morning as blue returned to the sky and the parched earth formed puddles. Azure skies beckoned this rider back to the river gorges and up into the hills to the north. Destination: Elk River. As I enjoyed the sun-sparked Clearwater River again along U.S. 12, the ride crossed to the northern bank at Orofino and followed it along the Cavendish Highway/Old SR-7. It wriggled like a spastic serpent into another plateau garnished with old towns, grain farms, and postcard-quality ranchettes before diving back down into Southwick/Wauncher Gulch to meet SR-3. I was so blissfully alone I could stop in the middle of the road for photos.
Enjoying a few fast, smooth curves along SR-3 north to Deary, my trajectory and speed saw me closing in on the clouds and their leaden dark bellies. As I turned eastward on the last leg, I caught up with fat, cold drops of rain. SR-8 into Elk River was very wet, and the temperature dropped to the high 40s/lower 50s. I took care on the surprisingly nice pavement, and it seemed that recent road construction had straightened some of the corners, to my dismay. My well-worn Michelin Power RS tires gripped like they had something to prove and lived up to their wet-handling reputation.
Sodden and cold, I holed up in a local diner for cups of hot Joe as I watched the blue and sunny expanse slowly push away the clouds and dry up the grounds. The town’s inhabitants and many visitors who were observing 9/11 Remembrance Day were also waiting for the annual rubber duck races, usually held in early August but delayed this year. Well then, if I couldn’t see any elk, I sure wanted to catch some of the hundreds of yellow duckies racing down Elk Creek!
Waiting with a handful of locals at the finish line and chatting with a young amphibian wrangler, I had spent far too much time out of the saddle before I heard the races were not happening for another hour…at least. Sad to miss it, I turned back down SR-8 onto the steadily drying and steaming tarmac glistening in the sun to retrace some very enjoyable miles back to camp, where I would dream of future elk sightings while sipping something edgy on the bank of the Clearwater with my buddy Squatch.
Benjamin “Ben-WA” Getz is a Washington state native who has been terrorizing the roads, trails, and tracks of the PNW with family and friends since 1976. He supports his motorcycle addiction as a designer and graphic illustrator.