The story you are
about to read is 97.5 % true. I can prove it because there are
photos. I'm not capable of taking a decent photo, much less doctoring
one. Trust me, if I could doctor photos, my ex-husband would be
plastered on the internet in drag. The 2.5 % that isn't true is based
on truth with license at my whim. Oh, and of course the names have
been manipulated to protect Big Al and the chopper pilot's identity
from the BLM. Names of people and locations (1) have been significantly changed and all will be asterisked. I want
the BLM to be confused - I mean more confused than they already are. (2) On August 20,
2004, if you were anywhere in the vicinity of the *The North Pole*, you
may have witnessed a helicopter airlifting a 1973 CB 175, complete with
luggage compartments, out of the very remote desert. You were not drunk.
(Or maybe you were drunk, that's none of my business.) 
1973 Honda CB175, complete with luggage rack |
For those of you
unfamiliar with that particular bike, it is essentially a street bike.
At best it is a really old dual sport/enduro bike - if you stretch the
interpretation of 'enduro bike' like a hot Gumby. It was meant
to go on the road, and hit a few dirt roads. You know, dirt roads
without ledges, cliffs, boulders and whoops. Enter Big Al.
Big Al lives in the vicinity of *The North Pole*, and is occasionally on
good terms with the BLM. Which is why the BLM called him when our
motorcycle club (*The Fighting Banana Slugs*) got blamed by the CB 175's
owner *Mork*, for the aforementioned bike being stuck out in the
wilderness. Six days prior to
August 20th, *Mork* went out for a desert trail ride all by
himself on his CB 175. That statement alone should raise flags in
most sane people's minds. *Mork* is a photographer from back east
where water can be a curse. *The North Pole* is brutal desert
country where water is gold. *Mork* loaded up his camera gear in
his luggage compartments on his CB, packed a little water, didn't tell
anyone where he was going, and set off for a happy dirt-biking adventure
in the remote desert on his vintage street bike. While toodling around
*Mork* came upon *Elevator Shaft Trail*, an inventoried trail on BLM
land and adopted by *The Fighting Banana Slugs*. On a whim, he decided
to see where it went. He went in on his bike, and after many hours
came out on foot, leaving his bike and his underwear behind. He was not
happy. Shortly
thereafter, Big Al got a call from the BLM. It seemed *Mork*
wanted his bike back. ( I suppose he wanted to Supercross with it next,
I don't know.) How did Big Al get
involved? Well ... *Mork*, upon arriving in town sans bike,
underwear and dignity, called the local Search and Rescue. Search
and Rescue promptly informed him that unless he wanted to go out there
and stay lost with his bike, THEY were not in the business of rescuing
motorcycles. They offered him the phone number to a local towing
company. *Mork* proceeded to *Bob's Tavern* to spill his woes to
anyone who would listen. And *Mork* called the towing company ...
who promptly informed him that unless a wrecker could access his bike,
they had better things to do, like wash the wrecker. *Mork* was
persistent in trying to push responsibility on to someone else to
recover his bike. Since he'd bombed out with Search and Rescue
and the towing company, and since the travesty occurred on BLM soil, *Mork*
called the BLM, who promptly informed him that it was not the BLM's
responsibility to rescue stranded motorcycles, it was only the BLM's
business to make proposals to try and shut them out entirely so things
like this didn't happen in the first place. (Oh okay, maybe they
didn't say that last part.) At this point *Mork* says to the
nice BLM lady "Hey, who ARE these *Fighting Banana Slugs* who
adopted the trail? I saw their names at the trail head.
Surely THEY must be responsible for this AND the hot coffee I spilled
into my lap this morning?" And THAT's when
the BLM called Big Al, a dedicated and loyal member of the *Fighting
Banana Slugs*. Nice BLM Lady: "Big Al, you want I should give this Copernicus your phone number?" Big Al loves a
challenge. And tangling with some easterner with the brass cajones
to blame the *Slugs* for a stranded motorcycle was enough for him to
take the bait. Now, understand that at this point, Big Al has
absolutely no idea what bike *Mork* was riding. In fact, Big Al
knows nothing, other than some 'guy' from out of town has a
'bike' stranded in the desert and is blaming his club. By way of
information and to help you arrive at an even greater empathy for Big
Al, a great majority of the work done on *Elevator Shaft Trail* was/is
volunteer work. Working with the blessings of, and in cooperation
with the BLM, a few local members of the *Fighting Banana Slugs*, had
put in countless volunteer hours to make kiosks at the trail head, and
mark and maintain the trail for off-road riders. Big Al was one of
those volunteers. Rather than wait
for *Mork* to call, Big Al placed a phone call to *Mork* on Monday
morning. For the first few minutes of the conversation, *Mork* launched
into Big Al and blamed the *Fighting Banana Slugs* for his mishap
because he was an 'old guy' (this is our fault?) and the
club had not: - Put enough
information on the kiosks at the trail head.
Perhaps we should have put jetting and tire specs ... and bike
recommendations instead of silly stuff like maps and 'you are
here' signs, and trail markings. Since Big Al helped build those
kiosks for free in his spare time, his blood pressure began to go up
about a point every second.
- Had not
informed potential riders how 'tough' the trail was.
Tough for who exactly? Women and children have ridden that
trail.
And ... I love this one ...
- Had not
specified how much water he should have taken and he could have died
out there.
Nahhh . . . really? It's the desert ...
hellooooo!!!
At this point Big
Al was wishing he had. *Mork* continued
his diatribe about the unfairness of the universe and the demise of the
record player. Since Big Al could not reach through the phone and
strangle him, he choked out a question. Big Al: "What... bike... were... you... riding?" Mork: "A
1973 CB175." I'd love to know
how long the pause lasted here. Big Al: ..."THAT'S A STREET BIKE!!" Mork: "No
it isn't ... it's an off-road bike. It has knobby tires." There are moments
when time stands still. Moments when you understand that your
particular universe is about to implode. Moments when you suspect
you may be losing your temper because of a fruitcake. In one fell
swoop, Big Al gathered his wits, lying in a pile at his feet, and put *Mork*
squarely in touch with the reality of personal responsibility a la Ayn Rand. Big Al: "This is NOT my fault. This is YOUR fault." Mork: "Uhh..." Big Al: "And
... let's see ... were you alone?" Mork: "Uhh, yes." Big Al: "Well that was pretty stupid." And it was
undeniably stupid on all counts. *Mork* switched tactics, he quit
lambasting the club. It must have dawned on him that the only
people who could potentially help him get his bike out were probably
connected to the guy on the phone he had just so thoroughly alienated.
Whatever *Mork* said after that exchange, softened Big Al up a bit
because he agreed to help him get his bike out. *Mork*, not one to
stop being stupid too quickly then asked:
Mork: "Can you [drop your entire life and] come down to
get it out immediately [because I'm used to having my way]?"
(Words in brackets added by author.) Ya know ... at
this point I would have hung up on the guy, ridden out to find his CB
and then blown it up. Then I would have called Search and Rescue
and had them haul me out with the CB's pieces strapped to my body. Upon arriving at
home with the mangled bike pieces, I would have had the local towing
company deliver the CB pieces to *Mork* via wrecker, and then made an
anonymous call to the BLM about some 'old guy on a street bike'
poaching antelope. But that's just my warm and fuzzy side, and
Big Al is very far from being a pushover. But I suspect at this
point that Big Al's curiosity about a guy with brass cajones dragging
on the ground ? and a possible plausible excuse to take a day off work
and go riding - had him hooked solid-like. Big Al told *Mork*
that though he would try and help him, his SuperPowers weren't
functioning up to snuff, and he would be unable to help at that very
nanosecond. Big Al: "Give
me a couple of days to pull a small team together and get time off." *Mork* became
frustrated that no one would drop everything to rescue his bike and said
in now-classic *Mork* style: Mork: "Well,
if I can't find anyone to get it out, I'll just hire a helicopter
and lift it out of there." Now THERE'S a
reasonable solution for the average underwear-less guy with a few
thousand dollars burning a hole in his pocket! Big Al thought he was kidding. Big Al ... was wrong. To
be continued with pictures and everything next month! Kim Orndorff Author's
Note: Any resemblance this story bears to a similar incident
in the San Rafael Swell is coincidental. I heard about that story.
Nobody I know was involved. This story happened somewhere
near Irkutsk, I have translated the entire account from Russian
witnesses. Editor's
Note: Off-Road.com would like to recognise that the BLM and USFS are
organizations made up of individuals, most of which share our enthusiasm
and enjoyment of these lands, but whom also face tremendous financial,
legal, and political challenges in the course of following their primary
function, managing land resources. We hope that our readers will take
these' jabs' in the spirit they were given. | 
