Revenge of the 29'er Day 3

 

Day 3: 65 miles/1,600 ft. climb

Night turned out more challenging than expected. After charging down a mix of Chana masala and salmon, I crawled into the tent and struggled to get to sleep. Then, about to fall asleep, a message comes through from Jodi. Hah, such timing. Still, happy to get it, and I only had about 11 more hours in the tent. Then I discovered that the pad would not hold air. Slowly, slowly, the air eased out, a silent killer. Periodically throughout the night, I would roll off the pad, pump in a few breaths of air and roll back on top. Even so, I got sleep–eleven hours, after all.

I grunted my way out of the little cave as the skyline brightened. While not a lot of climbing, I knew the day would be a long one, over fifty miles and some of that the bad dirt and gravel I’d been enjoying so far. The temperature hovered just below 40, not bad at about 3,000 ft. At the pass it had been in the low 20’s, a challenging bike packing zone for this hombre. I vowed to be moving by 8am. I started in the pedals at 8:05. Good work, punk.

I struggled with bad surfaces off and on, sometimes flying, sometimes bouncing like a rodeo clown off the horns of a disgruntled bull. Okay, not that bad, but I like the metaphor. Bad road, capiche?

Contrary to my feelings and impressions about a cursory glance at the route profile, I did precious little descending. The way followed a rolling traverse far above the valley floor, cutting across vast alluvial fans, titanic aprons of debris that I would come to understand better later in the day. Hard to the east, the Grapevine Mountains rose bleak and austere.

After an hour of tedium, at last I broke onto pavement. I let out a yell of freedom, blessed the road building engineers, put on the Eagles’ “Hotel California,” and shed tears of joy. I’d busted the big passes and rough tracks of northern Death Valley. Now all that remained of the day was to grind out the miles to Furnace Creek–and grind and grind and grind. I was officially on a “closed” road due to monsoon flooding and debris flows, but the surface was fine, the route clear. An occasional work truck would pass, the passengers returning my wave. As I’d hoped, no one cared.

Not far beyond the turnoff for Scotty’s Castle (yes, I do have a castle), this Scotty began to encounter the reasons for the official closure–mile after mile of millions of tons of rock, sand, and gravel had washed from these ancient Grapevine Mtns. down across the road, at times deeply undermining it such that chunks had fallen off. Here and there, the edge of the road was a sharp drop-off into a ragged erosive cavern below. Through it all was always at least one lane providing clear passage. My instinct about the park service having done some work paid off. If they had not? I would have been in a pretty serious situation. I would have been looking at perhaps dozens of miles where the riding would have been difficult in the extreme and sometimes impossible–that is get-off-and-push terrain. And that happens in bike packing. No shame in it, and it often comes as a welcome relief. The saddle is not always your friend. But when your speed goes from 14 mph to 2.5 mph, the calculus of travel gets serious. Lucky me, I never had to do those calculations. Butter my buns and call me a biscuit, I was a free man.

So while the road was good, the miles were long, a barrier of time and distance. Good music and riding conditions kept me moving, quick lunch and stretch, guzzle water, go! While my old recumbent road bike would have made this road a moderately pleasant crank, the heavily shod Ivan took some pushing, the limitations of a small bike seat, back and shoulder strain making the whole process more exhausting. By mile 50 I was ready to be done, but the road had differing views. Furnace Creek, shower, nirvana, was another 12 miles. Sweat, strain push, smooth pavement, speed, traffic, sun dipping lower and lower. By three o’clock or so this time of year, the darkness starts whispering: Better start lookin’ for a camp, boy. I am the night, and I’m a hungry hunter. I relaxed somewhat, knowing I’d have a campground and a shower–A SHOWER!--waiting.

A final drop through barren, sensuous hills, a turn, and the date palms of Furnace Creek filled my vision. Brace yerselves, mates, for a shower is $14. Worth every penny. I washed jersey and cycling shorts as I stood in the hot water. Zo, zo gut.

It was far too early for dinner even if the sun had just dropped behind Telescope Peak over 11,000 ft. above. I pedaled the last mile up to Texas Spring campground–a great tent-only section and no generators. Bliss. But this weary–if clean–bike packer was not about to cook his own dinner tonight, no sirree. Strap on lights and bomb back down to fill my gut at the $34 buffet ($37 with tax). Everything here is top dollar, the gas north of $7/gallon. Being so remote, it makes perfect sense. Prepare accordingly.

Camp, sleep, mattress pump. It’s a bike packer’s life for me.