In May 1903, George A. Wyman left San Francisco with the then crazy idea of riding his motorcycle all the way to New York City.
Into the Rockies
East of Ogden, the sharp, rocky 9,000-foot peaks of the Wasatch Range look impenetrable, but the Weber River has patiently carved a canyon on its way to the Great Salt Lake. Like the pioneers before him, this is Wyman’s route eastward, and it’s my route too, along I-84.
“It is a beautiful country, and the scenes shift from wild and rugged natural grandeurs in the narrow parts of the canyon to pastoral loveliness in the places where the mountain pass broadens and the small but fertile and splendidly kept farms of Mormon settlers are found here and there where the sides slopes to the river.”
George A. Wyman
As in Wyman’s time, the valley cradles small farms sustained by the river and the canyon walls are composed of the red sandstone more often seen in the southern part of the state. I pick up old Highway 30 as it follows Echo Creek eastward, and the land grows drier and drier, becoming arid before I’ve crossed into Wyoming.
Wyman’s first twenty-four hours in Wyoming proved challenging. He couldn’t find a room in Evanston because President Roosevelt was in town, and so Wyman wound up sleeping on a chair at the railroad station. After a terrible night’s sleep, Wyman left town at 6:20 a.m. And then this happened: