Day Seven: Cooking for Baker

Day Seven:  Cooking for Baker

Miles:  65.9

Climb: 1883 ft.

Ave. spd.: 10.6 mph

Up almost an hour earlier than last morning, I wanted to make sure I landed in Baker, nearly 60 miles south with Ibex Pass between us.  I packed, coffeed, got it done as the sky grew teal and crimson to the east, palm trees silhouetted like a cliched pitch for the good life in California.   Shortly after 7AM, the first rays of the sun casting long shadows, I rolled out of Shoshone, south bound again.

My first shock was on the edge of town where the cafe, C’est si Bon, used to be.  We knew it had been closed before, and that in itself was a lesson in letting go, but now I find that every last tamarisk tree that used to cast such beautiful shade and overhang the century old building are completely gone--every stump, branch and needle has been swept away.  The tamarisk, an Asian invader, is known for sucking up vast amounts of water and in some cases removing all surface water from once flowing streams, so it’s open season on them. I understand the impulse to cut them out, but those shaggy, grey-green, salty needled trees have always spoken to me, embodying the desert in some meaningful way.  And the shade and cosy campsites they created were magnificent. More change, more loss. And my dinner guests informed me that the cafe’s owner, David’s son--who did not exist when we first pedaled up to the cafe--is now searching for colleges to attend. Stop it! Ugh. I pedaled on.

Out, out, and gently down to the alkali sinks and runnels, the strangely carved buttes and gullies of the Amargosa River Valley. It’s an enchanting, otherworldly terrain.  The temperatures fell into the mid-30’s as I zipped along, chilled and warmed simultaneously in that way unique to cycling.

Before long, I dug into the gentle grades towards Ibex Pass, at about 2,000 ft  This pass offers the best bang-for-the-buck of almost any stretch of riding when you take it north to south as I was.  Gentle, fast climbing--for a loaded pedal-powered machine, about 6--8 mph--led me quickly to the summit and a surging descent for about eight miles out into the vastness of the Dumont Dunes area and the Henry Wade route out of Death Valley.  Dumont Dunes draw huge off-road vehicle crowds on weekends, so it is crucial to avoid this stretch of road on big traffic days. The Henry Wade route into Death Valley refers to and 1849 caravan that suffered in the valley, and Henry struck out on his own, finding an escape and link to the Old Spanish Trail.  I can hardly imagine traversing the rough, sandy ground with an ox drawn cart in the 19th century. Those people were nuts.

At last I pulled into Baker, only 2PM--winning.  I crank the extra mile or so to the Post Office and go in to collect my packages. Only there are none to be found.  None. No pad, no food--nada. GAH! Effin’ PO couldn’t deliver as promised. The bastards. I get to talk to Jodi at last and too much of it is my ranting about the shipping problems.  I tell her we’ll talk more later, and I run off to look for fuel for my stove--none to be found! Groceries suck in this town, but the Mexican market had a few things, so I loaded up with cheese, tortillas, some tuna and avocados and a few other things.  I wouldn’t starve, but dinners for a few nights wouldn’t be very interesting or very warm. So it goes. At least I had enough fuel and coffee to see me through to Needles, three days hence. I grabbed a big chicken gyro at the Mad Greek restaurant, a beer, and some water and set out into the desert.

Five miles out, the sun low behind me, I pulled off into a shallow arroyo and called it camp.  Early dinner was the perfect inhalation of the gyro, rice, and a tall, cool 805, eaten form the seat of the trike as I watched the sun set.  I was going to live--and well. I called Jodi again then got about my chores, the winter desert chill creeping through the spindly creosote bushes.  Bed and tent were calling. A big day over a major pass and down to Kelso was on tap for tomorrow.