Trail Stories
A Ride Into Hell's Canyon
When my wife first saw the machine she started laughing. She said it was the ugliest motorcycle she ever saw and couldn't believe we drove this far to buy it. I admitted that it was kind of strange looking, but it was supposed to be the ultimate off-road machine. It said so right on the tank : "Goes Anywhere", and that is just where I wanted to go.
I'd read about these strange beasts; a 2-wheel drive motorcycle. It had huge 6.70/15 low pressure tires, 15 inches of ground clearance and the reputation for being able to crawl up, down, over and on terrain that a standard motorcycle couldn't even get near. At the time (1964) the Trail-Breaker was being manufactured by some guys in California that owned a cosmetics factory. This early model I bought used for $450 had a hydraulic torque converter that didn't last long and hollow aluminum wheels that could hold 4½ gallons of liquid each, if one wished to fill them. They stopped making them for a while in the '70's.
They are once again being manufactured by ROKON Inc. of Keene, New Hampshire. They're a little more sophisticated than the early models, (and a lot more expensive), but basically the same. Still powered by a Chrysler 2-stroke fan-cooled engine, with an automatic centrifugal clutch and a hand shifted 3-speed transmission. An ingenious mechanism allows the front wheel to run free, except when the rear wheel starts slipping. Then both wheels drive together, each seeking its own traction. With a rider aboard the 185 pound machine, the wide soft tires have a lighter footprint weight than a man walking. Top speed about 25 mph. Strictly an off-road machine. Really an off-trail machine.
I was living in a small Idaho community at the Eastern foot of the Seven Devils Mountains. On the other side of that rugged range is the deepest gorge in the United States. Through it, the Snake River forms deep green pools between the rapids, and at the bottom of the pools lives the white sturgeon. These prehistoric fish can be over 10 feet long, more than 100 years old and weigh upwards of 500 pounds. My plan was to ride my Trail-Breaker down into Hell's Canyon to the Snake River, and catch one.
There was no point in asking anyone to go with me. From what I'd heard about the trails into Hell's Canyon, I was certain a standard trail motorcycle could not make it, and no one else in the area had even heard of a 2-wheel drive motorcycle, let alone own one. I only knew three or four guys in the area that rode trail bikes and when I told them what I wanted to do, they all politely excused themselves for one reason or another.
On the map, the trail I intended to ride descended about 3,400 feet in five miles, coming out at the old McLeod Ranch on the east bank of the Snake. About a mile downriver from the ranch was a tent-cabin belonging to the Idaho Fish and Game Department where I planned to stay. It was equipped with cooking gear and bunks, so all I had to take was some food, a sleeping bag, personal items and my fishing tackle. I showed my wife where I was going on the map and told her that I planned to spend three days on the river plus one day to ride down into the canyon and one day to get out. If I wasn't home by the end of day five I was probably in trouble. There is no way you can look at even the best maps and tell what the trail is really like. If there had been, I wouldn't have gone.
It was a hot July morning when I left home with the Trail-Breaker in the back of my pickup. I passed Cold Springs Lookout on the rough dirt road about 9:30 AM and by 10 o'clock I was tying my gear on the bike at Low Saddle. Besides my camping and fishing supplies, I had a small bag of tools and spare parts for the machine. I strapped on my .357 Magnum "hog-leg", started up the engine and looked out over the country.
Rugged really isn't an adequate word for Hell's Canyon. The canyon itself is a granite gorge, not dissimilar to the Grand Canyon of the Colorado in places. Many awed observers have penned profound descriptions of its beauty and waxed poetic over its precipices, spires, amphitheaters, cliffs, shapes, colors and sounds. People float through it on rafts, power up it in jet boats, hike it and horse it. There are no roads into it. The few trails that enter the canyon from the sides come down gulches or creek canyons that drain the surrounding country. Most of them are steeper than a cow's face. The trail that descended from Saddle Gulch was one of these.
It was already in the high 80's when I started out. The trail was red gravel and dirt and it dropped right into the bottom of the gulch. There were a few big ponderosa scattered about but mostly I was surrounded by dry grass, brush and rock. The trail grew steep, heading into the rocky draw. The occasional cloudbursts that passed through the area had eroded the trail and as I traveled down it began to turn into a narrow washed-out channel. My feet hit on the sides of it and I had to take them off the folding pegs and duck-walk along the top edge. The trail got steeper and the sides were halfway up the bike. It was getting hotter, my legs were cramping and I wondered what in hell I had let myself in for. This went on for a couple of hundred yards and at times the sides of the trail pinched in against the bike and I had to bust through, raising clouds of dust around me in the heat. Eventually, I was relieved to find the gulch widening and leveling out. Then the trail climbed out of the eroded channel and came out at the edge of Clarks Hole.
I seriously considered bagging it right there. After all, I did have a wife and two little ones at home. Clarks Hole (so named on my map) looked like a volcano crater blown out right in the bottom of the gulch I was in. It was a giant funnel, at least 75 yards across, with steep sloping gravel and scree sides that ended in a pile of jumbled rocks and boulders at the bottom. What scared me, was the trail that traversed the inside slope of the crater. It was about a foot wide, in loose gravel and dirt and tilted to the outside. It went halfway around the hole before it climbed out the other side and continued out of sight over a rise. Mumbling to myself, I put the machine in first gear and started around.
The gravel trail was very loose and the rear wheel kept breaking traction and shifting to the outer edge. As I moved along, the trail became more narrow and tilted. I kept the machine on the trail by pointing the front wheel up the hill slightly and letting the front wheel drive keep pulling the rear end back up on the trail. I had one foot on the ground on the uphill side, crabbing along in first gear, when the rear wheel slid off the trail and the machine laid down into the hillside. The handlebar dug into the dirt and I fell on top of the bike, both wheels turning in the air over the edge of the trail. The hillside was too loose and steep to easily stand up, but I eased off the machine and by stomping heel holes in the dirt I was able to get above it. I gradually pulled it up on its wheels and back on the trail, glad it was a light machine and I had very little cargo. I restarted it with the pull rope, got back on and slowly crabbed my way around the rest of Clarks Hole. When I reached the other side I stopped to rest and wipe the sweat out of my eyes before I walked over the rise to see what was coming up next.
I was on a ridge between Saddle Gulch and Clarks Creek. The trail left the ridge and switch-backed down a very steep hillside of small loose scree and decomposed granite, eventually coming out in a swale full of brush. On the other side of the brush I could see the small creek tumbling down. The thought of that cold water made me go back and start up the Trail-Breaker. As I started down I could see the trail below me as it traversed back and forth across the hillside. I rode around two switchbacks and was about halfway across to the next when my front wheel crumbled off the edge. I aimed the bike straight down the hill and feathered the brake. The big tires rolled down through the soft dirt and gravel turning over just enough to maintain traction. I went across the next piece of cross trail, picking up speed. I had about 25 yards to go before the ground leveled out, when I saw the rock. When my front wheel hit it the rear end came up off the ground and right over me. I flew off the seat, did a beautiful cartwheel down the hillside and landed on my hands and feet in the sliding gravel. The bike was upside down, still running, just above me. We both slid to a rattling dusty stop at the foot of the slope. Neither the bike, the cargo, (including my fishing rod), or myself was damaged. Just a little scratched and dirty. I righted the machine, climbed on and headed down the trail towards the creek.
As I approached the stream, the trail went through dense underbrush and as I started to ride through it I recognized it as poison Ivy. I was never too susceptible to the Idaho variety, but being hot and sweaty lets the toxin into open pores. I protected my face with an arm and rode through it to the creek. The cold water was wonderful. I washed my face, drank about a quart and was beginning to think about moving on when with a sinking feeling noticed that my "hogleg" was gone. When I did the big cartwheel it went flying out of my holster. I'd been shook up enough to not have noticed. I had to ride back up through the poison Ivy to the foot of the hill. It took me a half hour digging around in the gravel and dirt to find it, then back down through the poison Ivy once more, to the creek.
When I started down the canyon again, the trail and the creek became one. For a mile or more I rode in and out of the slippery little stream; down through pools and rocky channels, over little waterfalls and riffles. My boots were full of water and riding over and between slick boulders was rough and tiring. Clarks Creek is a tributary of the much larger Sheep Creek, and as I slowly worked my way down it I could see the larger drainage entering from the left through a rocky canyon. Where they joined, the gorge narrowed and a granite wall appeared on my right. The trail left Clarks Creek and I could see it descending the steep rocky hillside from the base of the wall to Sheep Creek. What I didn't see, which probably wouldn't have made much difference by then anyway, was the most terrifying switchback I've ever encountered, before or since. It was too tight to ride around and all loose dirt and rocks. The trail entered and left it at about a 45 degree angle. On the outer edge of it was a nearly vertical hillside of sharp rocks, brush and poison Ivy, ending at the boulder strewn bank of Sheep Creek. I couldn't back up and I knew that if I tried to ride down around it, it would probably be Adios City for me. I killed the engine, locked the machine in first gear and cautiously stepped off on the high side while balancing it upright. I slowly moved around in front of the bike, facing it, and put both hands on the bars. Then I started shuffling backwards down around the switchback. That early model machine was equipped with an internal expanding brake on the front wheel only. Because both wheels drive, by braking the front one, the back wheel is braked too. However, because of the override mechanism, locking the rear wheel with the transmission lets the front wheel run free, like a regular motorcycle would behave. By squeezing the hand lever with my right thumb I was able to control braking on the front wheel, while the rear wheel dragged. In this manner I started down around the switchback, slowly moving backwards, slipping and sliding on the loose dirt and rocks, balancing the Trail-Breaker and holding it back with the front brake. I could barely keep my footing in the loose gravel. When I was almost around, the rear wheel began to ride up on the inside slope of the turn. With the weight of the machine pushing on me I couldn't hold it back and began to slide out of control. The rear wheel rode higher on the hill and when I clamped on the front brake to try and stop what looked like swiftly escalating disaster, the machine over-balanced and looped over on top of me. I put my hand up as the bike came over me and palmed the seat. I shoved toward the hill as hard as I could and as the bike fell to the side my feet slid out from under me and we both came crashing down on the trail. Dislodged rocks were tumbling and bouncing down the slope and splashing into the creek. I expected the bike to follow them but to my relief it was still on the trail, upside down and tilted just enough into the hillside to hold it there, wheels in the air. I was lying face down in the dirt and rocks on the trail and just stayed there until the clatter of the rocks stopped and I could hear Sheep Creek below me. I looked down off the trail through the dust, and below me in the boulders, I could see the remains of a dead horse. White rib bones were sticking through its dried out hide and it was grinning up at me with empty eye sockets. It had been there a while, but I did not care to dwell on the circumstances of it's demise, or whether a rider had made the big trip with it. It was all I could do to collect myself enough to drag the bike around the rest of the switchback, turn it around, right it and ride the rest of the trail down to the creek.
It must have been over a hundred degrees in the canyon by then. I washed up, drank another quart of water and looked things over. The machine and my gear were OK. Everything was covered with dirt and dust. Leaked fuel mix made the machine a mess. My clothes were torn here and there and I looked and felt like I'd been beat up. After I relaxed a little, I brushed myself off, straightened up my cargo, started the machine and moved off down the trail.
Thankfully, I was soon out of the canyon and the ground leveled out across an old pasture that was part of the McLeod Ranch. The going was easy and I was relaxing a little as I rode alongside the brushy creek, when I came around a turn in the trail and right into a covey of about 50 chukar partridge. They exploded up around me like a landmine, scaring me half to death and sending my adrenaline level off the scale... just what I needed.
My heart was beginning to regain its natural rhythm when I rode into the yard of the old Mcleod ranch house on the bank of the Snake River. It was about 50 years old, gray weathered logs and boards, two stories high. There were three cowboys standing on the porch and an older woman in the doorway. They were greatly surprised to see this apparition before them and told me I was the first person to ride a machine down that trail. They had heard me coming but couldn't figure out what or where I was. They walked all around the machine looking it over. After some polite conversation, I headed downriver. They watched me go.
The river trail was easy and I arrived at the tent-cabin about 6 PM. I fixed some dinner and spent a couple of hours fishing before dark, but my heart wasn't in it. All I could think about was that I had to ride back up that insane trail. I didn't sleep well that night and decided I would cut my trip short and leave the next morning. Looking back, I see now that was a dumb thing to do. If I had gotten hurt on the way out I would have lain there for 3 days before my wife would have sent someone to look for me.
On the ride out I learned some basic facts about Trail-Breakers. The amount of traction they have is phenomenal. Unlike a standard motorcycle which needs momentum to get up and over very steep or loose terrain, you put a Trail-Breaker in first gear and crawl over it like a bulldozer. You can put the front wheel up against a tree, give it some throttle, and it will climb the tree until it comes over backwards. Going downhill, one is fighting gravity to keep the machine from running away. Going uphill, gravity becomes your friend; when you let off the gas, the machine stops. Because momentum is not needed, simply turning the throttle gets you going again. This preciseness made it relatively easy to ride back up the trail that was such a nightmare coming down. After I got home I wished I'd stayed the three days.
I never did go back and catch a sturgeon. A short time later I was transferred to another part of the state and a few years later the area came under the Wild Rivers Act and the trails were closed to motorized vehicles. I kept that same machine for 24 years and used it as my hunting mule. I could haul a whole deer or half an elk at a time, in a foot of snow, up a 30 degree slope and did so many times. The fellow I sold it to still uses it. It still says "Goes Anywhere" on the tank. It convinced me.
(You can click on the Trail-Breaker image at top to go to their site)