When TJ Brown heard the newly minted NorCal Backcountry Discovery Route (BDR) was being opened in the summer of 2024, he immediately called a meeting of his friends, all adventure motorcyclists. The BDR Bros, as he dubs them, assembled on a Tuesday evening with maps, both Google and folding, and began planning for a two-wheeled trek from Mammoth, California, to Goose Lake on the Oregon border. The BDR Bros had already completed border-to-border crossings of Arizona and Idaho. As the newest invitee into the brotherhood, the NorCal BDR would be my initiation.
After watching a slideshow of their two previous trips, I pointed out that their cell phone snapshots belonged in a bad family reunion scrapbook. I shared a few images from my photography website, and they anointed me as the trip documentarian—both with pen and lens.
Dates were discussed. Logistics were loosely planned. Vacations were penciled in. Then came the hiccup. Well, more than a hiccup. During his regular six-month checkup, TJ’s neurosurgeon discovered an irregularity. After tests and biopsies, it was confirmed that TJ again had esthesioneuroblastoma (ENB) for the third time. In his brain. In his sinuses. In his clavicle. This confirmation came one month before the scheduled NorCal BDR launch. TJ had a biopsy of his lymph nodes on July 15, and within five hours of coming out of surgery and while still in a Phoenix hospital room, he sent a group text: “Leave Prescott August 14 at 5:00 a.m., nine-hour drive to Mammoth Lakes, the beginning of the ride. We plan to start riding on the 15th and complete the first day, which is 91 miles. We will be back in Prescott on the evening of Sunday, August 25th, ready for work on Monday the 26th.”
Cancer be damned. The trip was a go.
Setbacks are nothing new to TJ Brown. And as August 14 drew near, another glitch appeared: wildfires. The Park Fire was now engulfing parts of Northern California. Messages machined-gunned from phone to phone as the BDR Bros tracked the fire’s movement. A week before go-time, the flames raged 14 miles west of the BDR route, moving eastward, and smoke engulfed the region. TJ called an emergency meeting. “Be at my garage in 10 minutes.” Everyone showed. A debate ensued over plan B. Colorado? Wyoming? Utah? Due to logistics and the short window of less than a week, Utah won the bid.
TJ did his first BDR shortly after his second bout with cancer. It was a means of escape from the nausea of chemotherapy and an opportunity to ride with family and friends. Thus, the BDR Bros were born.
The BDR Bros is a band of eight brothers. Four are the literal offspring of the same mother. TJ (2022 BMW 1250 GSA), Ryan (2023 KTM 500 XCF-W), Shawn (2022 KTM 500 XCF-W), and Patrick (2023 KTM 450 XCF-W). After their parents divorced, the four created an inseparable bond of loyalty to their mom and each other—a glue that has cemented the Brown family. The other four Bros are family by adoption—motorcycles being the adoption papers. Matt Holdsworth (2019 Honda Africa Twin 1000cc) is the chief navigation officer. He plans the route, builds the spreadsheets, and usually rides at the front of the pack. Jason Campbell (2023 KTM 890 Rally) is the first responder. His brain is packed with medical knowledge, and his bag with medical supplies. Lance German (2023 KTM 450 XCF-W) is the quiet, always-there-to-help teammate. And I run sweep in a Speed UTV that hauls too many camera lenses, extra fuel, and a small parts store for the bikes.
A week before our departure, TJ woke up with a hole in his forehead—a small, pin-sized orifice through the skin. He immediately called his physicians. It was determined that after his numerous earlier surgeries, osteomyelitis (bone infection) was eating away his skull. He informed them that he had an upcoming motorcycle trip, and he wasn’t canceling it. They gave him bottles of horse-pill-sized antibiotics, and he told them he’d see them on the flipside.
TJ isn’t a masochist. He’s a realist, brimming with life more than any person I’ve met. As a child, TJ was backed over by a car twice and narrowly escaped being crushed by moving vehicles in two other incidents. Between cancer and radial tires, he’s faced death head-on more times than you can count on one hand, but I don’t think that’s why he’s always planning two adventures ahead. I think he was born to ride. Back roads. Wide-open throttles. Wheelies. Fresh alpine air. Muddy, rutted aspen-laden trails. All this fuels a spirit that refuses to be tamed by cancer or anything else.
TJ, Matt, and Jason elected to ride their big bikes. It was a decision that almost came to haunt them. Exiting the Valley of the Gods and entering Butler Wash, we quickly encountered long stretches of silt beds. The big bikes fishtailed in the lax dirt. I watched as TJ and Jason’s big-bootie motorcycles belly-flopped in the sand numerous times. With the heat of August and progress slowed to a geriatric pace, the big bike Bros were overheating in their riding suits. Lifting their 600(+)-pound bikes repeatedly had them seeing stars and in real danger of heat exhaustion. At one point, nearly delusional and out of human gas, Jason spoke of abandoning his bike and hiking out. TJ looked him in the eye and said, “I don’t know who that guy is that’s speaking right now, but take Danny Downer behind the sagebrush and kill him.” Jason rehydrated, found another gear, and aced the rest of the wash.
Monsoon rains doused the region each afternoon, and as the BDR cautions riders going into Nine Mile Canyon, roads may be impassable. Mud proved to be a formidable nemesis. Two days before, we’d encountered washed-out sections on Sheens Road before La Sal—passing through required crossing exposed gas lines and moving medicine-ball-sized rocks. Now, as we probed deeper into Nine Mile, the mud began to cling to tires, bumpers, and suspensions like barnacles. As the road inclined, momentum declined—eventually bringing the group to a halt. Matt suggested we sit for an hour or so while the roads dried out—the only danger being if we weren’t out by afternoon, more rains might come, and we’d be camping right there for the rest of the day and perhaps longer. Shawn offered to scout ahead on his KTM and report back on the road conditions. TJ, not being one to sit around, dug the mud out of his fenders with a stick and decided to trudge forward while the rest of us broke out energy bars and packets of tuna. Within a few yards, TJ’s bike had sat down in the mud like a belligerent toddler in the grocery store aisle. Patrick and Lance quickly came to his aid, helped him lift the BMW, and acted as his training wheels as he inched forward. TJ eventually reached higher and dryer ground and proceeded after Shawn. Forty minutes later, Shawn relayed that the mud was not as relentless up the canyon. Our path had dried sufficiently for Matt and Jason to squirrel through, and the remainder of Nine Mile Canyon proved beautiful, with farmsteads and horses creating artist-worthy scenery.
Dispersed camping along our 850-mile route exceeded any 5-star accommodations we could have booked in Park City. A full moon showered our cots with moonlight each evening as we slept roofless beneath the constellations at nearly 9,000 feet. The nights were so bright that headlamps weren’t necessary. Each night before turning in, we’d ask TJ what time he wanted to get up. Sleeping isn’t always easy for him, and we set our departure times according to his “emotional alarm clock.”
On our final day, as we traversed Monte Cristo Ridge and headed toward Bear Lake on the Utah/Idaho border, I took the lead with my camera at the ready. We encountered two bull moose and a magnificent Great Pyrenees tending a large flock. We could have been in New Zealand by all accounts. Northern flickers danced out of the aspens around every corner, and a huge red-tailed hawk hovered above us as if it were a spy plane conducting reconnaissance. I called out to the group through my headset, “Good morning, my name is Marlin Perkins. Welcome to Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.” I’m not sure any of them were old enough to understand the reference.
By mid-morning, we had crossed the Idaho border. After quickly snagging a photo at the state line, we invaded a small coffee and crepe shoppe. All of us enjoyed sweet and savory crepes smothered in compote and whipped cream. All except TJ. He’s abandoned all sugar and most carbs. He ordered a crepe-less plate of scrambled eggs with sausage, peppers, and onions.
As BDR Bros, we basked in the satisfaction of our small, week-long accomplishment. The trip was over, and the somber realization of finality was setting in. In a couple of hours, bikes would be loaded on the trailer, and we’d be burning highway miles home.
The prognosis for TJ is still unknown. He is scheduled to undergo peptide receptor radionuclide therapy (PRRT) over the next eight months. The doctors have hope. TJ’s wife and kids have amazing faith. And the BDR Bros have a bond and memories that will live forever.
Editor’s Note: This article was originally published in Overland Journal’s Summer 2025 Issue.
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