Good and Bad News

-The Bike.

I’m very picky about my motorcycle. I’d been without one for a decade when my brother Don found the perfect fit. I picked it up in late May and rode it home through the Colorado Rockies and back to Wyoming with him. It was a dream trip.

For a month, I became one with that bike.

And then it happened.

I woke before sunrise, grabbed the drone, and decided to capture some geology footage along the eastern edge of the badlands. I’d be out and back before breakfast—long before the heat set in. So why not take the bike and travel light?

The fading stars. The long blue shadows. The shifting light. The scent of sage and desert plants waking to the dew. That cool early-morning ride felt absolutely euphoric.

Things escalated quickly. Soon I was off pavement, moving twice as fast as my SUV ever could. Then onto a two-track. Past where I’d planned to stop. Then onto a single track. Then a cow trail. And finally, I was blasting through shale, hours from anything resembling help.

I never stopped to fly the drone. I just kept going—into terrain I’d only ever seen from the air. A place I’d always wanted to explore but couldn’t reach, even years ago as an exploration geologist with a four-wheel drive. The only humans who ever wander out there are seasonal cowboys gathering strays on horseback.

It’s that remote. That inhospitable.

Four hours later—and in 90-degree heat, far warmer than I’d planned for—I found myself very, very far out there.

-What could possibly go wrong following those shale ridges?

The Disaster

-And then it happened.

I was balanced on the pegs, creeping along at a walking pace. In one tiny moment of indecision, I dropped the bike.

No injuries. Nothing broken. Embarrassing, yes—but not a real problem.

Oh, I was so wrong.

The bike lay completely flat, both wheels about nine inches off the ground. I couldn’t get leverage using the traditional back-to-seat lift or the handlebar method. Every attempt just pushed it farther uphill through the loose shale.

The temperature climbed past 100 degrees. I had no water. I jammed my body against the frame, stacked rocks, dug holes to catch the wheels—gave it everything I had.

Then I suffered heatstroke.

I became disoriented and collapsed. After some time—I don’t know how long—I regained just enough awareness to crawl a few feet to my motorcycle jacket and pull it over my head for shade.

Eventually, I could sit up. And that’s when it landed.

I was in serious trouble.

I’ve been in tight spots before, but I’ve always had options. Not this time. The bike was no longer an option. Waiting for a passerby wasn’t realistic.

I had one option left: walk out or perish.

I stood. Wobbled maybe fifty feet. Collapsed again. Eventually crawled back to the jacket.

Half an option remained.

Wait for night. Hope the cool air revived me enough to move. Then head toward the cows I’d passed miles back. Cows never stray far from water. If I could reach them, I might live.

If not… someone would eventually find my bones.

What astonished me most was how calm I felt. No drama. No tears. No fear. It would simply be the end. And that was that.

Good News – The Rescue

As the heat intensified, I remembered my cell phone tucked in the outer pocket of my jacket. I assumed it was cooked. I knew I was far beyond service range. Still, I turned it on.

No service. No data. Nothing.

I shut it off to save the battery.

Later, sitting there suspended in time, I decided—almost casually—to dial 911.

And oh my gosh… it connected.

The signal was intermittent, and no GPS data transmitted automatically. I could barely see the screen. After multiple attempts, I managed to read my GPS coordinates aloud. Thank heaven that the coordinate screen pops up automatically when dialing 911—I was too confused to navigate any apps.

Rescue was on the way.

While I waited, I replayed everything. The hard boundaries I’d set when I bought the bike. And how, in my euphoria, I’d ridden right past every single one.

As time stretched on, doubt crept in. Had I transposed numbers? I’d mixed up 8s and 3s repeatedly. Maybe they were searching in Montana. Or Colorado. Or up the wrong ridge a few miles away.

I forced myself to stay alert, ready to stand and wave my jacket if I saw dust or heard engines.

At times, I wondered if I’d lose consciousness before they found me. I even imagined drones hovering overhead, searching.

Five hours later, two four-wheel-drive sheriff vehicles appeared—suddenly—about a hundred feet away.

No dust trail. No distant engine noise.

Just… there.

There were no drones. And those deputies hadn’t materialized out of thin air.

I was simply that far gone.

I would never have made it to those cows.

I came very close to dying.

More Good News – The Recovery

It took a week before I could walk steadily without assistance. Two weeks before I could move somewhat normally.

I had truly given it everything. I was deeply bruised—one continuous dark band from collarbone across my upper chest on both sides. The same across my upper thighs. I looked awful. I felt worse. It took over a month for those bruises to heal.

Now summer is nearly over. I’m still weaker than usual. And heat? I can’t tolerate it. Even with a hat and water, strong sunlight or midday temperatures trigger vertigo. So I stay indoors during the hottest part of the day.

Bad News – Consequences

Daytime motorcycle riding is off the table. Honestly, I haven’t felt much desire anyway.

And so are the twenty-three collecting adventures I had planned. I managed one with my son Isaac and another in Colorado with my brother Don. That may be it for this season—unless something dramatically changes before the snow flies.

So yes—the bad news is I almost CROAKED.

The good news?

I ALMOST croaked. ✨

Cheers,
D 🪨🔥