From Che Guevara to Augusta and Adeline Van Buren, the motorcycle was the vehicle of choice for many of history’s iconic adventurers.

When I graduated from my master’s program at the University of Idaho, I moved to central Washington and signed on with the U.S. Forest Service to spend the next four months fighting wildfires. So, a red and black 2003 Kawasaki Ninja 500R was a logical investment. The bike was small enough to make the learning curve manageable for someone who had never touched a motorcycle before taking a two-day Motorcycle Safety Foundation class and big enough to provide the adrenaline rush that comes only from watching pavement and countryside fly by at what law enforcement officers would usually describe as “excessive speed.”

When October rolled around and the autumn rains brought an end to fire season, I set off on a three-week, 3,000-mile motorcycle journey down the West Coast, through the Sierra Nevada and across the Colorado Plateau. Road trips never fail to provide memorable times, but being by myself and on a bike added new elements to the experience. I opted for scenic, two-lane highways over more efficient routes, hiked dozens of short trails to stretch my legs between rides and struck up conversations with locals and fellow travelers alike in brewpubs, coffee shops, hostels and roadside diners.

It’s virtually impossible to avoid “taking in the scenery” on a motorcycle. Riders tend to be hyper-aware of their surroundings: Their life may depend on their ability to react to the unexpected. In short, my experiences of the places I visited were enriched by exploring things often overlooked by those who are “just passing through.”

I didn’t have a planned route or schedule. I set off down the coast with the intent of returning to Colorado before the snow became a problem when crossing the Continental Divide. After two days of riding through cold mist along the rocky coast of Oregon and Northern California, I ventured inland. After a night in Groveland, Calif. – home of the most overpriced beer outside of airports, concerts and sporting events – I rode California Highway 120 over Tioga Pass, where the massive granite walls of the Sierra Nevada Batholith were adorned with swaths of deep green and bright gold.

I headed south, into the desert, where the countryside transformed into a desolate expanse of rugged peaks dotted with sagebrush and the occasional juniper tree. Upon entering Death Valley, I descended a sequence of hairpin curves past outcrops of red and brown rock on what I like to think of as a motorcycle journey through geologic time. The roads in Death Valley are, for the most part, straight, flat and not all that exciting for motorcycling, but for those who are inclined to seek thrills in the spirit of Hunter S. Thompson, there are plenty of open stretches to test a bike’s limits.

Even in October, the heat seemed brutal. Every time I stopped – to take a picture or hike to a viewpoint – I couldn’t get my helmet and jacket off fast enough. Although the speed limit is 55 mph, even on straight stretches, the minimum speed necessary to avoid overheating while wearing Carhartts and a leather jacket in the desert is about 65 mph.

Gas is expensive in the desert and sometime scarce. It was 6:40 p.m. when I rolled into the tiny town of Shoshone and the gas station was closed. An old sedan pulled up and a gentleman sporting a Santa-like beard and rainbow suspenders stepped out. He suggested I go to Pahrump, Nev. – about 25 miles away. I figured that would be pushing it, but it was my only option, so I set off into the night. About 12 miles in, I felt the bike rapidly lose momentum, so I switched over to my reserve fuel. I’d never ridden until I was completely empty. I hoped that I could cover the remaining 13 miles because alone and out of fuel on a remote, desolate road in the California desert was NOT where I wanted to be. Luckily, I made it to Pahrump. I filled up and headed back towards Tecopa, Calif., to stay at the hostel at Cynthia’s Unique Desert Lodging.

The next stop was a night in Las Vegas, followed by a ride through the brilliant red sandstone cliffs and canyons of Zion National Park, a frigid crossing of the central Utah Mountains and a night in an inexpensive hotel in Green River. Then I was back in my native state of Colorado.

Traveling alone is exciting, sometimes frustrating and rewarding. My bike was a subject of discussion with many of the people I met on my journey. I got a few of the usual remarks about the dangers of motorcycling, but no one said anything about the fact that I was a woman traveling around the American West by myself on a bike. Society has come a long way since the days of the Van Buren sisters, who received a lot of criticism on their motorcycle journey across the United States in 1916 in an unsuccessful effort to become military dispatch riders. The military said no thanks.

There continues to be more men than women on motorcycles today, but there seems to be little prohibition to keep women from riding. Motorcycles don’t discriminate.

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Amy McMillin is a geologist and freelance writer.