Mork of the Desert Part I
WOMAN OVERBORED!
Jan. 01, 2006 By Kim Orndorff
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:
*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.
WOMAN OVERBORED!
Jan. 01, 2006 By Kim Orndorff
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!!!
*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.
Mork of the Desert Part II
WOMAN OVERBORED!
Feb. 01, 2006 By Kim Orndorff
A couple of days ago Chris and I were at an inside fairground arena watching a barrel racing competition. Ya know, with horses? We were both depressed because we'd come to Moab to ride motorcycles, but the weather didn't cooperate. We stayed depressed until we heard the following announcement come over the PA system in a slow, relaxed drawl: "For the owner of a white Ford F-150 with an ACME Construction logo on it's side - Your horse is kicking in your door." We'd have laughed out loud if there hadn't been so damn many tough looking, spur-wearin' cowgirls swaggering around.
But . . . if you're gonna tie your high strung barrel horse within 10 feet of your nice work truck -- you'll get what you deserve.
1973 Honda CB175, complete with luggage rack
And if you're gonna take your vintage street bike ... oops, I mean your 'dirt bike with knobby tires' onto a desert trail ? apparently you'll get a helicopter bill, and an article, and a plaque commemorating your faux pas.
When last we left our hero, he had alienated the entire county, run up a tab at *Joe's Tavern*(1), and hopefully bought new underwear. Big Al had been unable to guarantee *Mork* a rescue crew 'immediately' and *Mork* had decided to arrange your average everyday helicopter airlift.
In a subsequent phone conversation before the scheduled lift, *Mork* told Big Al he had hired a helicopter 'out of New Mexico.' Big Al was completely appalled. Now, you remember that in previous articles over the years I have accused Big Al of carrying dental floss in his fanny pack. Lest you think I am kidding, consider the following conversation between Big Al and *Mork*. I'd love to take credit for this, but I can't. This is 100% Memorex real.
Big Al: "Mork, don't hire a helicopter - it's too expensive. I can ride your bike out."
Mork: "No you can't. I pulled a muscle in my leg, I left it lying on it's side, I'm sure all the gas has run out on the ground."
Big Al: "That's not a problem, I carry extra gas."
Mork: "My bike only runs on aviation fuel."
Big Al: "Not a problem, I happen to have aviation fuel."
(It is this author's opinion that Big Al has, in his possession, any part required to fix any bike for any make, model or year, as well as spare parts for the space shuttle.)
Mork: "I'm sure all the oil has leaked out."
Big Al: "I carry oil."
Mork: "I'll bet the battery's dead."
Big Al (Big sigh): "Does the kickstarter work?"
Mork: "Yes."
Big Al: "I can start it with the kickstarter and ride it out."
Mork: "I bent the shift lever."
Big Al grinding his teeth: "Well, does first gear and the clutch work?"
Mork: "Yes."
Big Al: "Then that's all I need. As long as the clutch and transmission work, I don't need a shift lever."
Mork: "No. This is a SAFETY ISSUE."
(Authors Note: There are absolutely no words at my disposal to adequately describe the irony of that statement from a man who went into the desert alone with ONE pint of water.)
Apparently Mork felt that since HE got injured, he didn't want anyone else to get injured getting his bike out. This sentiment would be admirable, if I didn't think there was an ego underneath it all, i.e. if Mork couldn't do it without getting hurt ... then it was obviously a situation fraught with great and terrible peril.
The conversation continued.
Mork: "It's too difficult, that trail is too dangerous."
(Author's Note: Mork unwittingly crossed a line here and questioned Big Al's ability. Big Al could ride a tricycle out of the desert doing wheelies. Plus, Big Al is intimately familiar with the area and that trail. Big Al delivered this next line to help Mork understand how to walk under a door with high heel shoes on.)
Big Al: "Uhm, we ride that trail all the time with women and children."
(Author's Note: Touche')
Mork however, was unshakeable in his ego and his decision and the date was set for the airlift. Mork asked Big Al for one favor. Could he help him hook the bike to the helicopter at the airlift site? And could Big Al GET the bike to the airlift site. Big Al was all over it.
But Big Al needed help. Well, that's not really true. He didn't need help, he just wanted to be generous and let a few others have ring side seats at the show. I received a call from Big Al offering me one of those seats, but couldn't get a flight to *Iceland* in time. (You remember this all happened in Iceland, right?)
Big Al arranged the following Big 4 'rescue' crew: Kari (a woman), Dick Brass (71 years old, creator of this particular trail, and of the infamous 'Dick Brass Trail System' in the San Rafael Swell, including the legendary 5MOH), and last but not least; 'Wheels' - the creator of the map for the trail in question and a part-time conspiracy theorist.
The following day, Big Al and the rescue crew met Mork. Much to Big Al's surprise, while Mork had been playing the 'age' card, Mork appeared to be very physically fit, and a prime candidate for Blackwell's Worst Dressed List. Big Al suspects to this day that Mork is ex-military. (Which would explain Mork's propensity to give lots of orders and expect to be obeyed, as well as his inability to coordinate civilian clothes.) When introduced to the rescue crew Mork's comment was "Well, this is rather humbling." It should have been. One women, one old guy, one little skinny guy and Big Al.
The Big 4 set off to find the bike on the trail while Mork stayed back and waited for the helicopter to pick him up. There is a DVD of the Big 4's adventure to get the bike to the helicopter rendezvous. It should be submitted at the Sundance Film Festival. When the Big 4 arrived at the abandoned bike, they found the bike exactly as Mork had left it, and as he had described it. What he hadn't described was WHERE Mork had abandoned ship. Dumped on it's side and in the middle of one of the gnarliest sections of the trail, Big Al was amazed. How Mork had even made it that far was a question Big Al posed to Mork later.
Big Al: "Why ... why ... WHY did you keep going when you realized the trail was getting so rough?"
Mork: "The rocks were calling to me. They spoke to me and said "C'mon ... you can do it! C'mon, keep coming, keep coming!!"
(I have a theory on this based in large part on the DSM IV.)
During the course of the rescue, conspiracy theorist "Wheels' took center stage. You need a little background on Wheels to appreciate what happened during the rescue.
Wheels at one time was convinced that Kari (who works for the National Forest Service and is a member of the *Fighting Banana Slugs* and an avid desert racer) was a 'plant' by an extreme environmentalist group. He had also suspected that Dick Brass, who at one time worked in the NASA space program ...was a Russian spy. As far as Wheels was concerned, this whole helicopter lift smacked of a sinister plot. He just couldn't figure out how it fit together. He had put his own life in jeopardy by coming on this adventure, he knew that much.
Wheels: "There is NO WAY a helicopter is gonna come pick this up. Something else is going on."
While Kari, Big Al and Dick were as happy as pigs in slop, playing with the horn on the CB, and checking out the extent of the mechanical damage, Wheels was rooting through the luggage case looking for bombs and drugs.
Kari looks on as 'Wheel' checks for bombs
Dick considers whether to put the CB 175 out of everyones misery
Wheels: "It's safe... I think" When a thorough search and diagnostic evaluation yielded nothing more than exactly what Mork had described, Wheels found that, in and of itself, highly disturbing.
Wheels: "There's something this guy's not telling us."
The other three managed to get the bike running (Big Al having brought along the oil, aviation fuel, a catered lunch and a computer and microfiche for the CB175), while Wheels continued to ponder the mystery.
It didn't help when they managed to get the bike to the lift site and discovered a 'cache' underneath a nearby juniper tree of : Three pairs of white underwear, three pairs of black socks ... and three .22 shell casings.
The "evidence" - underwear and socks NOW Wheels knew what had happened.
Wheels: "Oh my gosh. He murdered his wife! He brought her out here and murdered her!"
Of course, Kari, Big Al and Dick had better things to do, like ignore Wheels and play some more with the horn. While Wheels worried, the other three played.
And then ... in the distance ...the sound of chopper blades could be heard over the tooting of the CB's horn.
Wheels had obviously seen Capricorn One and taken it deep into his heart. On the DVD you can hear him say "They're gonna kill us! They're gonna take us out with machine guns!"
Kari, Big Al and Dick just stared in awe as the helicopter approached and landed ? while Wheels peeked from behind the bushes.
In short order the bike was hooked up and lifted out of the desert. As the Big 4 watched the helicopter lift off and soar away, the CB dangling beneath, Big Al turned to his companions and said "Did we really just see that?"
Indeed they had.
'Wheels', the 'Dirtbike', and 'Mork'
Houston, We are go for liftoff
The tow truck...
Liftoff
One small step ...
... for a helicopter ...
... one giant leap for a CB 175
Mork
But what really happened to Mork out there? Fortunately for the Big 4, neither drugs, bombs nor murder had anything to do with it.
Mork's story was simple. He was either arrogant, ignorant, nutty or a bit of all three. The talking rocks did their job. They lured Mork farther and farther into one of the worst sections on the trail. The evil rocks, having done their insidious work began the process of tearing him and his bike apart. Mork tore his hamstring and bent the shift lever. The combination of the two left Mork unable to ride the bike either back out the way he'd come, or to the end of the trail the other direction. He decided to leave the bike and hike out.
Since by trade he is a photographer, he had packed his very expensive camera in the luggage compartment and wrapped it in the only thing he could find that morning in his camp trailer – dirty underwear and socks -- to protect it. As he abandoned his bike he grabbed the camera, underwear and gun and . . . no water. He didn't have any, he already used up the meager one pint of water he'd left camp with that morning.
Unable to walk very well, and out of water, he'd laid down under the juniper tree on top of the underwear and socks to rest.
And the first inkling of the predicament he had gotten himself into hit him. The *Fighting Banana Slugs* had lured him in. No one knew where he was. He was injured, he had no water and was miles from civilization. He fired off an SOS with his .22. No matter who you are, no matter how tough you are, when you lay down in the dirt and fire off an SOS, you're scared. Whether through arrogance or stupidity, death is a pretty stiff fine for such a mistake.
I think though that Mork's pretty stubborn, and obviously does not give up easily. He continued on his hike. Every time he took a step, he felt like a knife was twisting in his hamstring. (Big Al saw his leg and Mork was black and blue from his ankle to his butt.) It took Mork between five and six hours to hike out.
He finally came to a road that would take him to camp and followed it down (or up, whatever). As he was limping up or down the road (depending on how you hold your map in my opinion), exhausted, hurt and thirsty, a truck came down the road and he flagged it down. The dark tinted window on the driver's side came down half-way and the driver looked at him curiously. Mork told him he was out of water ... could he have some water? The driver perused him from top to bottom and said wryly "Water's pretty scarce out here in the desert ya know."
In Mork's condition (and I have to believe it was not too stable at that point), he became furious and yelled "Keep your water, I wouldn't take it anyway!" And then he stalked off!
Initially Mork wanted to blame everyone but himself. This is why I'm convinced there was ego involved. But truly there was no one to blame no matter how you want to look at it.
If you come to desert country, you must understand that Mother Nature does not even recognize you except as an expendable resource, let alone respect you, but you must respect her. There are a few points anyone who ventures out in the desert should know ... or they don't belong there.
And Mork pressed $400 into the hands of one of the Big 4 for their time and effort and refused to take it back. I believe he's back East now, pondering his next adventure. We can only hope it's at the North Pole and he takes along mukluks.
End result?
There is a plaque in the desert commemorating this historic event. Next time you take a trip to *Antarctica* , check it out.
WOMAN OVERBORED!
Feb. 01, 2006 By Kim Orndorff
A couple of days ago Chris and I were at an inside fairground arena watching a barrel racing competition. Ya know, with horses? We were both depressed because we'd come to Moab to ride motorcycles, but the weather didn't cooperate. We stayed depressed until we heard the following announcement come over the PA system in a slow, relaxed drawl: "For the owner of a white Ford F-150 with an ACME Construction logo on it's side - Your horse is kicking in your door." We'd have laughed out loud if there hadn't been so damn many tough looking, spur-wearin' cowgirls swaggering around.
But . . . if you're gonna tie your high strung barrel horse within 10 feet of your nice work truck -- you'll get what you deserve.
1973 Honda CB175, complete with luggage rack
And if you're gonna take your vintage street bike ... oops, I mean your 'dirt bike with knobby tires' onto a desert trail ? apparently you'll get a helicopter bill, and an article, and a plaque commemorating your faux pas.
When last we left our hero, he had alienated the entire county, run up a tab at *Joe's Tavern*(1), and hopefully bought new underwear. Big Al had been unable to guarantee *Mork* a rescue crew 'immediately' and *Mork* had decided to arrange your average everyday helicopter airlift.
In a subsequent phone conversation before the scheduled lift, *Mork* told Big Al he had hired a helicopter 'out of New Mexico.' Big Al was completely appalled. Now, you remember that in previous articles over the years I have accused Big Al of carrying dental floss in his fanny pack. Lest you think I am kidding, consider the following conversation between Big Al and *Mork*. I'd love to take credit for this, but I can't. This is 100% Memorex real.
Big Al: "Mork, don't hire a helicopter - it's too expensive. I can ride your bike out."
Mork: "No you can't. I pulled a muscle in my leg, I left it lying on it's side, I'm sure all the gas has run out on the ground."
Big Al: "That's not a problem, I carry extra gas."
Mork: "My bike only runs on aviation fuel."
Big Al: "Not a problem, I happen to have aviation fuel."
(It is this author's opinion that Big Al has, in his possession, any part required to fix any bike for any make, model or year, as well as spare parts for the space shuttle.)
Mork: "I'm sure all the oil has leaked out."
Big Al: "I carry oil."
Mork: "I'll bet the battery's dead."
Big Al (Big sigh): "Does the kickstarter work?"
Mork: "Yes."
Big Al: "I can start it with the kickstarter and ride it out."
Mork: "I bent the shift lever."
Big Al grinding his teeth: "Well, does first gear and the clutch work?"
Mork: "Yes."
Big Al: "Then that's all I need. As long as the clutch and transmission work, I don't need a shift lever."
Mork: "No. This is a SAFETY ISSUE."
(Authors Note: There are absolutely no words at my disposal to adequately describe the irony of that statement from a man who went into the desert alone with ONE pint of water.)
Apparently Mork felt that since HE got injured, he didn't want anyone else to get injured getting his bike out. This sentiment would be admirable, if I didn't think there was an ego underneath it all, i.e. if Mork couldn't do it without getting hurt ... then it was obviously a situation fraught with great and terrible peril.
The conversation continued.
Mork: "It's too difficult, that trail is too dangerous."
(Author's Note: Mork unwittingly crossed a line here and questioned Big Al's ability. Big Al could ride a tricycle out of the desert doing wheelies. Plus, Big Al is intimately familiar with the area and that trail. Big Al delivered this next line to help Mork understand how to walk under a door with high heel shoes on.)
Big Al: "Uhm, we ride that trail all the time with women and children."
(Author's Note: Touche')
Mork however, was unshakeable in his ego and his decision and the date was set for the airlift. Mork asked Big Al for one favor. Could he help him hook the bike to the helicopter at the airlift site? And could Big Al GET the bike to the airlift site. Big Al was all over it.
But Big Al needed help. Well, that's not really true. He didn't need help, he just wanted to be generous and let a few others have ring side seats at the show. I received a call from Big Al offering me one of those seats, but couldn't get a flight to *Iceland* in time. (You remember this all happened in Iceland, right?)
Big Al arranged the following Big 4 'rescue' crew: Kari (a woman), Dick Brass (71 years old, creator of this particular trail, and of the infamous 'Dick Brass Trail System' in the San Rafael Swell, including the legendary 5MOH), and last but not least; 'Wheels' - the creator of the map for the trail in question and a part-time conspiracy theorist.
The following day, Big Al and the rescue crew met Mork. Much to Big Al's surprise, while Mork had been playing the 'age' card, Mork appeared to be very physically fit, and a prime candidate for Blackwell's Worst Dressed List. Big Al suspects to this day that Mork is ex-military. (Which would explain Mork's propensity to give lots of orders and expect to be obeyed, as well as his inability to coordinate civilian clothes.) When introduced to the rescue crew Mork's comment was "Well, this is rather humbling." It should have been. One women, one old guy, one little skinny guy and Big Al.
The Big 4 set off to find the bike on the trail while Mork stayed back and waited for the helicopter to pick him up. There is a DVD of the Big 4's adventure to get the bike to the helicopter rendezvous. It should be submitted at the Sundance Film Festival. When the Big 4 arrived at the abandoned bike, they found the bike exactly as Mork had left it, and as he had described it. What he hadn't described was WHERE Mork had abandoned ship. Dumped on it's side and in the middle of one of the gnarliest sections of the trail, Big Al was amazed. How Mork had even made it that far was a question Big Al posed to Mork later.
Big Al: "Why ... why ... WHY did you keep going when you realized the trail was getting so rough?"
Mork: "The rocks were calling to me. They spoke to me and said "C'mon ... you can do it! C'mon, keep coming, keep coming!!"
(I have a theory on this based in large part on the DSM IV.)
During the course of the rescue, conspiracy theorist "Wheels' took center stage. You need a little background on Wheels to appreciate what happened during the rescue.
Wheels at one time was convinced that Kari (who works for the National Forest Service and is a member of the *Fighting Banana Slugs* and an avid desert racer) was a 'plant' by an extreme environmentalist group. He had also suspected that Dick Brass, who at one time worked in the NASA space program ...was a Russian spy. As far as Wheels was concerned, this whole helicopter lift smacked of a sinister plot. He just couldn't figure out how it fit together. He had put his own life in jeopardy by coming on this adventure, he knew that much.
Wheels: "There is NO WAY a helicopter is gonna come pick this up. Something else is going on."
While Kari, Big Al and Dick were as happy as pigs in slop, playing with the horn on the CB, and checking out the extent of the mechanical damage, Wheels was rooting through the luggage case looking for bombs and drugs.
Kari looks on as 'Wheel' checks for bombs
Dick considers whether to put the CB 175 out of everyones misery
Wheels: "It's safe... I think" When a thorough search and diagnostic evaluation yielded nothing more than exactly what Mork had described, Wheels found that, in and of itself, highly disturbing.
Wheels: "There's something this guy's not telling us."
The other three managed to get the bike running (Big Al having brought along the oil, aviation fuel, a catered lunch and a computer and microfiche for the CB175), while Wheels continued to ponder the mystery.
It didn't help when they managed to get the bike to the lift site and discovered a 'cache' underneath a nearby juniper tree of : Three pairs of white underwear, three pairs of black socks ... and three .22 shell casings.
The "evidence" - underwear and socks NOW Wheels knew what had happened.
Wheels: "Oh my gosh. He murdered his wife! He brought her out here and murdered her!"
Of course, Kari, Big Al and Dick had better things to do, like ignore Wheels and play some more with the horn. While Wheels worried, the other three played.
And then ... in the distance ...the sound of chopper blades could be heard over the tooting of the CB's horn.
Wheels had obviously seen Capricorn One and taken it deep into his heart. On the DVD you can hear him say "They're gonna kill us! They're gonna take us out with machine guns!"
Kari, Big Al and Dick just stared in awe as the helicopter approached and landed ? while Wheels peeked from behind the bushes.
In short order the bike was hooked up and lifted out of the desert. As the Big 4 watched the helicopter lift off and soar away, the CB dangling beneath, Big Al turned to his companions and said "Did we really just see that?"
Indeed they had.
'Wheels', the 'Dirtbike', and 'Mork'
Houston, We are go for liftoff
The tow truck...
Liftoff
One small step ...
... for a helicopter ...
... one giant leap for a CB 175
Mork
But what really happened to Mork out there? Fortunately for the Big 4, neither drugs, bombs nor murder had anything to do with it.
Mork's story was simple. He was either arrogant, ignorant, nutty or a bit of all three. The talking rocks did their job. They lured Mork farther and farther into one of the worst sections on the trail. The evil rocks, having done their insidious work began the process of tearing him and his bike apart. Mork tore his hamstring and bent the shift lever. The combination of the two left Mork unable to ride the bike either back out the way he'd come, or to the end of the trail the other direction. He decided to leave the bike and hike out.
Since by trade he is a photographer, he had packed his very expensive camera in the luggage compartment and wrapped it in the only thing he could find that morning in his camp trailer – dirty underwear and socks -- to protect it. As he abandoned his bike he grabbed the camera, underwear and gun and . . . no water. He didn't have any, he already used up the meager one pint of water he'd left camp with that morning.
Unable to walk very well, and out of water, he'd laid down under the juniper tree on top of the underwear and socks to rest.
And the first inkling of the predicament he had gotten himself into hit him. The *Fighting Banana Slugs* had lured him in. No one knew where he was. He was injured, he had no water and was miles from civilization. He fired off an SOS with his .22. No matter who you are, no matter how tough you are, when you lay down in the dirt and fire off an SOS, you're scared. Whether through arrogance or stupidity, death is a pretty stiff fine for such a mistake.
I think though that Mork's pretty stubborn, and obviously does not give up easily. He continued on his hike. Every time he took a step, he felt like a knife was twisting in his hamstring. (Big Al saw his leg and Mork was black and blue from his ankle to his butt.) It took Mork between five and six hours to hike out.
He finally came to a road that would take him to camp and followed it down (or up, whatever). As he was limping up or down the road (depending on how you hold your map in my opinion), exhausted, hurt and thirsty, a truck came down the road and he flagged it down. The dark tinted window on the driver's side came down half-way and the driver looked at him curiously. Mork told him he was out of water ... could he have some water? The driver perused him from top to bottom and said wryly "Water's pretty scarce out here in the desert ya know."
In Mork's condition (and I have to believe it was not too stable at that point), he became furious and yelled "Keep your water, I wouldn't take it anyway!" And then he stalked off!
Initially Mork wanted to blame everyone but himself. This is why I'm convinced there was ego involved. But truly there was no one to blame no matter how you want to look at it.
If you come to desert country, you must understand that Mother Nature does not even recognize you except as an expendable resource, let alone respect you, but you must respect her. There are a few points anyone who ventures out in the desert should know ... or they don't belong there.
- Know where you are going. If you take an unfamiliar trail, expect anything.
- Don't go alone. If you DO go alone, tell someone where you are so they can find your bones if you don't come home in a reasonable time.
- Understand that there is NO WATER in the desert. You better take plenty. Conservative estimates are one gallon per person per day.
- Never 'assume' anything. Even experienced locals can get lost or in difficult situations very quickly.
- Take Big Al with you.
And Mork pressed $400 into the hands of one of the Big 4 for their time and effort and refused to take it back. I believe he's back East now, pondering his next adventure. We can only hope it's at the North Pole and he takes along mukluks.
End result?
- Parts for CB175 damaged in desert: Under $200
- Cost for rescue: $400 to the Big 4
- Helicopter lift est.. ahelluvalot
- Undetermined Tab at *Ethel 's Tavern* ???
- Look on Wheels face as the helicopter approached: Priceless.
There is a plaque in the desert commemorating this historic event. Next time you take a trip to *Antarctica* , check it out.
(1.) Names of people and locations have been significantly changed and all will be asterisked, mostly...
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.
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.
