Day Five: Mixed Emotions

Day Five: Mixed Emotions

Miles: 31.7

Climb: 1232

Ave. spd.:10.0 mph

It was not best of nights.  It was not the worst of nights.  It could have been a better night without the winds and my Ukulele plinking, droning neighbor.  Fine, gritty sand blew into the tent, which I had foolishly left open. Even with earplugs jammed deep, deep, deep, the guy’s droning voice and plink-plunking instrument carried over the buffeting tent.  At 11PM, I’d had enough, climbed from my nylon cave and told him to park it. JEEZ! After a sleeping pill, I finally got some rest. Although, over 30 miles away, I think I can still hear the plink-plunk of his “girl friend,” as he called it.

In truth, his voice wasn’t bad, but every song, regardless of melody or lyrics, started to sound the same.  The curse of the ukulele? He did say something interesting as I shared his fire for a time before bed. He mentioned many of his long, very difficult hiking adventures, but ultimately he said that being alone in the wilderness didn’t have anything else to teach him.  I understood. You stick at something long enough, pour your heart into it, you finally figure it out. But then, mentioning how his friends have become an “old guys complaining” club, how one seemed to isolate himself more and more, my companion said he needed community, that, like his friends, he’d go mad if he went their route.  I didn’t say anything at the time, but camping out indefinitely, mostly alone, no vehicle to go anywhere, and relying on a constantly changing parade of campers who usually only stayed a couple of nights hardly qualifies as community. I wish him well, but the current trajectory is not encouraging.

I got up shortly after 6AM and discovered my extra pad had blown away in the wind.  DAMMIT! I’d strapped it to the bench, but obviously not firmly enough. That thing was useful for wild camping.  My trail angel, my wife, Jodi, ordered a replacement that I could pick up a couple of days down the road. Success!  Amazon to the rescue. I’d better get to the post office in Baker before it closes.

I rolled out of Dodge/Stovepipe Wells before my musician friend crawled from his tent.  Adios, amigo. Farewell. The winds came and went, then came and stayed, sometimes quartering,  but often dead behind. I FLEW. The miles pedalled themselves, I tell you. The great valley unfurled.  One a-hole passed too close, too fast. Mostly it was a joy.

Furnace Creek had changed, an extreme make-over of the store/restaurant area.  I truly did not recognize it. The new face was slick with stucco and wood, but I missed the funky old place, the planking walls and courtyard in front of the store.  Now if felt sterile, like another slick mall in Santa Clarita. The parking lot was now a “square” with intersecting walkways and lots of transplanted palms--Vegas generica.  Change is a bitch.

I purchased a boxed salad to satisfy a little of my hunger for fresh veggies, and ate lunch shielded from the wind by a weird arch that kinda sorta invoked an old Mexican fireplace.  I spent a couple of hours at the visitor center, reading and escaping the wind.

Finally, I had to roll.  As I pulled away, I was startled by a coyote coming right out of the creosote near the road.  It looked me straight in the eye, closed in to one side then the other, fascinated by me, wanting to pace me.  There was nothing menacing in it’s movements or gaze. I was overcome with emotion. I’d pedalled through here with Jodi and Django, who had a special hatred for all things coyote.  But here he was, come to join me again. I looked more closely, and this was not a healthy animal. His tail hung low. Bone protruded from hips and shoulders. Mangy fur hung loosely on his starving frame.  He managed to barely keep up with a lame sort of trot. Soon, he gave up the chase and stared forlornly after me as I pulled away, a worker’s truck stopping to let him clear the road. Almost in tears, I pedaled up towards sea level, brooding on time and change and loss.

Up around the too-fancy-for-the-likes-of-me “Inn at Furnace Creek”--the preposition is critical--I began the climb towards Death Valley Junction.  I checked for possible camping areas but realized soon enough that I’d need to find our old site up the dirt road, which vaguely remembered was somewhere up ahead?  After some anxiety, I found the track and fought my way up the loose gravel to a suitable camp. The winds came and went over the sere ridges. Can’t brood too much.  Chores to do. Tomorrow, Death Valley Junction and Shoshone. Dinner out!