Day Eight: Eye of the Hare

Day Eight: Eye of the Hare

Miles: 37

Climb: 2908

Ave. spd.: 7.3 mph

A cold and windless night, upper 30’s that felt colder as it snaked into my tent.  I dozed, woke, read a little, back to sleep--the long night syndrome of winter desert touring.  The inside of this tent and I are old friends from many adventures, especially my coast-to-coast ride in 2007.  Almost a hundred nights we spent together. I stretch out on the pad, pull up my book or Kindle, and I’m home for a while.

Out of the nylon crypt before sunrise, this time putting on toe warmers before getting up--bliss. Coffee and tortillas stuffed with cheese will do for breakfast. I will feel the loss of that package for the rest of the trip.  My fault. I should have got it sent off earlier, but I figured a week would be enough time--but no. Gah again. Fortunately, I’ve got just enough coffee and fuel to cook it to see me through to Needles where I think I can resupply.  I cinch, stuff, roll and strap, gape at the clear morning sky and pedaled off shortly after 7AM.

The Kelbaker road--a combination of Kelso and Baker--traverses some spectacular country.  Having pedaled it twice with Jodi, I knew what to expect, but it was still a deep pleasure to pull away from the groaning artery of Hwy 15 with its continuous throb of cars and trucks going to and from Vegas and head south into the preserve--NO commercial traffic allowed.  Booyah.

To those who have not traveled it, any description of the pavement would stress belief.  It was more random cobbles in a cracking grey matrix than pavement, some stones as big as a man’s fist.  It was brutal, slow riding, and I had vowed that I would never traverse this country again. But then Caltrans had to go and pave it.  Well, “pavement” might be a little enthusiastic, for it was really a knobby slather of Satan’s Vomit--chip seal, but it was better--by far--than the rotting, chuck-holed, be-cobbled nightmare of before.  I made slow but steady progress, feeling the drag of the chip seal for sure, but happy to have the improved surface.

A few miles into the ride, I slowly rolled past a dead rabbit, freshly killed--last night?  The ravens had yet to discover it. A smear of blood, smooth white and grey fur, an eye looking up at me, declaring--Your next! Or perhaps a more forlorn--Remember me.  It seemed to follow me into the morning.

Hours of grinding on this 20 mile hill were the work of my day, moving higher into the Joshua Tree zone, that twisted icon of the Mojave.  In the heart of the preserve at a place called Cima Dome one can find the world’s biggest Joshua Tree forest, a thick swelling of fantastic shapes bulging into the sky on the gently curved surface of the enormous dome.

After a long and rough ride down, the old necrotic pavement lurking of the chips, I arrived at Kelso Depot.  Of course it was closed down because of the standoff between President Trump and the democratic congress.  Riding a narrow trike, I rolled the the barrier to check things out. Thankfully, the water spigot was operational even if the bathrooms were locked.  This I could work with. I swung across the road to park in front of a long-closed post office, paint chipped and faded, wood of the door flaking apart from the relentless sun, windows cracked, a classic desert shack.  

It was warm in the sun as I prepared lunch and watched too-frequent cars motor by, coming and going from Vegas, this being an intersection that connects Hwy 40 and Hwy 15.  The reach of that toxic town is immense. Finally, I grabbed my water containers and jogged over to fill up. Just as I was about to return to my trike, “ranger” who is really a cop in green, came up to me and said, “Ah, my water guy.”  He tried, in a nice way, to bust my chops for coming through the barrier, that this was CLOSED due to the “government shut down.” In a friendly tone, he did at least acknowledge that we would have to break protocol because I really needed water.  Human powered travelers get a few breaks. I lingered for a time and about 3PM, motored up the next grade to camp in the creosote jungle. Tomorrow, Granite Pass, Hwy 40 and the dubious glories of Fenner.

Camp: