A MONTH ON THE ROAD FROM SQUAMISH TO BISHOP
Words by Alex Souza | Photography by Alex Souza & Jaclyn Souza
In collaboration with Huckberry
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Anticipation filled the air as we embarked on what we dubbed simply “The Ride.” Sabbaticals have a way of nurturing grand ideas, those adventurous seeds long planted and now ready to bloom. I’ve been lucky enough to be part of the Huckberry creative team for nearly a decade and have taken full advantage of the generous monthlong sabbaticals offered every four years of employment.
This go-round, we’d U-Haul our bikes up to Squamish, British Columbia, camp and climb our hearts out on the impeccable granite splitters of the Chief for a few weeks, then link up with the famed Great Pacific Divide Route as we moto-camp our way over 3,200 miles of dirt roads through the PNW and Sierra Nevada, back to our home in Bishop, California. A dirtbag daydream that harks back to the old-school appeal of riding a naked bike and traveling light with nothing more than a change of clothes and some bare essentials strapped to the rear seat.
With my wife Jac as my adventure partner, we set out north from Squamish on the Sea to Sky Highway, winding through forested climbs and turquoise lakes. After Whistler and Pemberton, we turned south at Lillooet Lake, entering the remote Fraser Valley. Gravel roads replaced asphalt, our bikes hugging the lake’s edge amid glaciated peaks and lush timberline. This land, home to the St’át’imc people, reflects their deep connection to nature through hunting, fishing and foraging.
Given the magnitude and remoteness of this landscape, signs of life were seldom. Hours passed like minutes as I settled into that unique flow state only a motorcycle can elicit. Legs warming up, throttle finding its rhythm, back tire letting loose on the curves: the perfect union of man and machine. This was the maiden voyage for my purpose-built Desert Sled, made to tackle the endless gravel backroads with effortless style.
In the late afternoon, dust-filtered light streamed through cedars as I checked the backcountry map on my phone, searching for a remote hot spring a local friend had recommended. After navigating a maze of forest service roads, we arrived at an almost empty campground with prime spots on a lush hillside. Hot and dusty, we headed to the river, finding geothermal tubs along the turquoise glacial waters—pure bliss.
At sunrise, we shared coffee by the pools before riding deeper into the Fraser Valley, following Harrison Lake. Navigating unmarked logging roads proved challenging, but we eventually made our way. We stopped at a secluded bay for a midday swim, where Jac, ever adventurous, led the charge with her free spirit.
By early afternoon, we crossed back into the U.S., with British Columbia behind us and Washington, Oregon, and Northern California ahead. We headed for Mount Baker, finding comfort at a roadside lodge among dense evergreens. Graham’s Bar offered perfect cold PNW pints, and just two days in, the road already felt like home.
No stronger sense of freedom can be gleaned than by this way of living. Just two wheels and everything you need strapped to a seat. The places you can reach and the feeling you have while doing it are unmatched. Like climbing, riding a motorcycle is moving meditation. The stressors of everyday life melt away, and some of my clearest thinking can be done on a bike. It’s an integral component of my creative process in both work and life.
The winds had changed, and the wildfire smoke forecast for the next few days looked grim. The heavy smoke-filled sky burned red as the sun crested over the horizon. The new normal for August in the American West. No damper to our spirits, though. The smoky haze, though tough to breathe in, offered incredible photo opportunities.
In the crisp morning air, with smoke still lingering, we climbed toward White Pass for fuel and the darkest espresso we’d ever had. Maps spread across our tanks as we planned another long day of endless dirt. Nothing left to do but smile, smile, smile.
I’ve learned that a loaded-out bike, covered in dust and dirt, is quite the conversation starter for the curious observer. The Pacific Crest Trail passes by these parts, and many folks asked of our adventures with awe and admiration. “Life is short, make the most of it,” I express, but it feels platitudinal. Words just seem unsuited to describe this experience. Find the life you want to live and own it.
Equally, if not more, impressive to onlookers was the fact that Jac was on this ride. People seemed shocked to see the helmet come off to flowing blonde hair, blue eyes, and a smile that could kill. Women seemed inspired by her, and men enamored. If only they knew her like I do. Always a yes to new experiences and grand adventures, Jac is a doer in the fullest sense of the word. And yes, she certainly does have the word “BOSS’’ tattooed on the inside of her lip.
We connected with the Washington Backcountry Discovery Route near Packwood, riding over a hundred miles of gravel without touching pavement. Fast, flowy dirt transitioned to rocky climbs and epic overlooks, delivering hours of grinning adventure. I love the thrill of gravel roads and climbing switchbacks at 50 mph.
Eventually, we reached the Columbia River and followed it to White Salmon. Crossing the metal toll bridge into Hood River, Oregon, marked the end of our Washington ride. We’d traversed forest service roads from Rainier to Hood, weaving between Mount Adams and Mount St. Helens, barely touching pavement. Washington offers some of the best riding in the country, with exceptionally maintained forest roads.
We then headed west to the Oregon Coast, staying with some friends in Pacific City. We feasted on fresh catch, surfed knee-high waves, and explored the stunning coastline. The clear Pacific air was a welcome break from the inland smoke.
After our coastal reset, we returned east to Hood River. Nights beneath Mount Hood’s gaze at Lost Lake and days winding through Oregon’s diverse landscapes filled us with awe.
Heading south, we left the lush Western Cascades for the drier high desert of the Eastern Slope. We struggled through deep sand under the relentless August sun, feeling the fatigue of nearly two weeks of riding. Fortunately, the afternoon brought relief, and views of Crater Lake offered a welcome pit stop. We camped by a river, soaking in icy water before sharing a meal around the fire. Jac, peaceful by the glowing embers, expressed her love for our journey and life together.
The next day, we descended into Ashland, eager to see what the Sierra would bring as we neared the end of our Oregon adventure.
We passed Mt. Ashland Ski Area and connected to an alpine playground of vast wildflower-strewn ridgelines. Big views and tight switchbacks brought us miles and miles over incredible terrain, some of the best riding and views of the trip so far. My bike leaned left as I countered right and throttled hard in the corners. Beautiful sweeping slides on the endless gray gravel. Poetry in motion.
Descending from our ethereal morning, we crossed back into California and rolled into camp near the stunning McCloud Falls. We marveled at the sweeping cascade and swam in the tranquil pools until dusk.
With hazy eyes and a predawn wakeup, we inspected the bikes as we loaded up camp. Our trusty companions were definitely starting to show signs of the trip. Jac’s headlight was out, her speedometer cable severed, with zip ties and duct tape now holding together most of her windscreen and fairing. My bike seemed to be in okay shape cosmetically but was starting to give me concern, with subtle but noticeable power decreases on longer climbs. I banked it in the back of my mind; not a major problem … yet.
We set off shortly after sunrise on what we knew would be our longest riding day. We needed all the daylight hours we could get, given that night riding was out of the question with the state of Jac’s bike. We passed through Lassen, admiring the bubbling geothermal mud pools and wide-open mountain roads. Hours flew by, and we were finding our flow.
As the afternoon pushed on, we climbed into what is known as the “Lost Sierra.’” This is where my luck ran dry. My 800cc bike had taken on the character of a faintly powered Trail 90. I weaved and struggled to maintain a highway speed while we gradually climbed into higher elevations. The bike was drastically losing power, and fast. I putted along to the crest of the climb and coasted down the grade as my thoughts spun with the possible causes and the weight of the trip potentially being cut short.
With daylight hours fading fast and the bike still running, we limped into our intended camp for the night on the shores of Sardine Lake. With no nearby mechanic or cell coverage for internet research I was ill-equipped for a solution. Just a few days remained on the trip, and it seemed like we’d have to call it. I was beyond defeated and frustrated to come so close and end on such a low. Jac convinced me to sleep on it before we committed to bailing. My mind spiraled that night as I lay wide-eyed on the ground, pouring over potential issues.
Sleep brought clarity and a level head. We discussed our options and decided we’d stick to the road and hopefully make it to Truckee, where we could get cell coverage and research what could be causing this. The mostly downward slope toward Tahoe helped, and we kept on truckin’. I’d suspected it was probably clutch-related, and internet forums confirmed that as we researched from a coffee shop in Truckee.
We stopped into a local mechanic’s place to see if there was anything that could be done to keep the ride going for a few more days. The clutch was failing, but a quick cable adjustment bought us time, and time is what we needed. Night and day difference, the bike was back for now, and I was on cloud nine. The trip must go on. A flood of emotions swept over me as I ruminated on the past 24 hours. I was convinced, lying in that tent, that an anticlimactic end to this trip was inevitable—years in the making, all to come crashing down just shy of completion. The weight of that burden had now been lifted. Lady luck was back on our side.
Ecstatic, we decided to continue on our planned route of Sierra dirt and hope for the best.
On the first day of September, the weather shifted to fall, with ominous clouds and potential thunderstorms. After weeks of dry riding, rain was inevitable. By mid-morning, a torrential downpour turned roads into rivers. With nearly bald tires, we maneuvered through winding switchbacks and crossed a swollen river where a bridge was out. Jac skillfully chose her line, while I barely avoided submersion with a rough crossing.
The relentless rain and cold pushed us onward, visors up to see through the storm. A detour led us through eerie backwoods, but we didn’t linger. By late afternoon, we found shelter at Camp Connell General Store, warming up with espresso by the fire. The intensified rain made for a white-knuckle ride on slick tarmac toward Yosemite, the temperature dropping to near freezing. It was a climactic end to our trip, just as we had hoped—challenging and unforgettable.
The warm relief of a rustic lodge came soon enough as we peeled off our saturated gear and marveled in the ecstasy of a stiff drink in a dimly lit tavern after a full-value day. This was the last night of our journey, and it certainly felt earned. Grit and grimace carried us through that day, making us feel like heroes amid the story of our lives.
The petrichor of the soaked sage enveloped our senses as we crested Tioga Pass and dropped home to the Eastern Sierra. Rain had held strong, closing out our final stretch of riding with one last bone-chilling push. Stunning as ever, it was good to be home. I glanced over at Jac, our engines synchronizing on the open stretch of high-desert road. She locked eyes with me, and with a smile and nod, nothing more needed to be said.
Our odometers read 3,200 miles higher than when we’d set off a month ago. This beautiful way of existence was coming to an end for now, and it had left us with an ultra-penetrating sense of contentment and gratitude for the life we share. One life to live, and damned if we weren’t doing it right.