Day 8: 34.5 miles/1,540 ft. climb
What if I told you that I did this tour because I needed to meet a charming big game hunting guide from the north of England in the middle of the Mojave? Sometimes these chance encounters feel that way, that you needed something you had never imagined.
He pulled in late and mentioned that his group was going to be coming in the next day. He politely asked if it were okay if he camped on the other side of the campground. I can’t imagine what he would have said had I said – “No good. You gotta go!” His accent was a dead giveaway, and I looked forward to talking to him more, which we did when I emerged from my tent after a 13 hour session. Early cold dark condition’s forced me in, and I didn’t get out except to heed the call of nature and jump back into the warm bag.
The early light filtered through the nylon, and I couldn’t stand lying down anymore. Get up! When I stood up, I was immediately disappointed at the grey sky–no early sun to warm the bones of this cold bike packer, not today. Jeff, the hunting guide, began moving things over, just his truck and a tent for now–other guides and a cook would be coming soon, a big tent going up. Big Sahib Hunter would be treated like a king by this outfit. Jeff explained that there were only two tags released in the whole state for a desert big horn sheep hunt, and people interested in such things were likely to get only one chance in their lives to pursue this game. These were often older, obviously wealthy, given what this guide service must cost. People like Jeff spend months, years wandering these mountains, studying the animals, doing, really, the work the prospective hunter should be doing but for countless reasons did not. As a result, this man from England has a job that takes him into the wildest portions of the state for weeks at a time. His huge enthusiasm for the terrain and the animals was infectious. Our talk brought back a flood of memories when I used to hunt with my father, the ghosts of my past swirling about me as I stood with coffee in hand below the old craggy walls of the Kingston Mountains, some of the upper reaches dusted with snow.
Before long, Jeff motored off on his quad to scout animals, his binoculars strapped to his chest over a camouflaged jacket. And then it was just me and the quiet. I puttered about, finishing breakfast, knowing the day was not to be a very difficult one, and some of it on pavement. Then something strange happened. The sun began to break through the grey muck and warm my hungry frame. Ra! The Sun God. What’s not to like? At last I looked at Ivan, fully locked and loaded, and could put it off no longer: Shall we go for a ride? Ivan, the strong, silent type, said nothing, but I could tell. We crunched down the gravel track together and dropped out of the mountains and into vast slopes of Joshua trees and deep green creosote, the day warming and brightening as we went.
Riding Ivan is for me something of a struggle–not that he doesn’t respond to my commands and carry the weight and take the beatings without complaint. No, the issue is with me. Coming from a long history of riding recumbents, this upright bicycle world is still a tough one for me, the saddle issues, the back, the shoulders, all of these conspire against me to diminish the experience. I believe I need to work on strength and flexibility, especially in my back and shoulders, to make this a more pleasurable experience. I do get into the zone sometimes, but the back and shoulders get me, even with the rather upright posture I’ve built into Ivan’s layout. Playing music has, many times, helped me overcome the discomfort and keep riding, but I find I do take a lot of breaks, two or three per hour of riding, sometimes more depending on the need for pictures, clothing changes and the like. How these hardcore riders go for hours is astounding to me. Still, pausing frequently has many advantages in seeing the country, hearing what is and isn’t there, taking the landscape into every molecule so that you can replay it later. So our travel is a herky jerky affair: Bang out a few miles, pause, drink, look around; saddle up for another round. I wasn’t here to break records even if the big miles of other riders sometimes nagged at the back of my mind. They make it sound so casual. I was finding that for me, on a heavily loaded bike with big tires that 30-40 miles is a good day, doubly so with so few daylight hours.
So think of this: The night has been freezing–literally or close enough, so getting up in the dark is far from optimal. So you finally get the nerve and climb out of the tent around 6:30AM as the day is getting on its way. Coffee, breakfast, gaping at the surrounding gorgeous takes time. Breaking camp and getting loaded is astoundingly time consuming. You have to be pretty motivated to be on the road in an hour from when you wake up. One and a half to two is easy to do. So let’s say on this hypothetical morning, you get rolling at 8AM. You have only seven hours, basically, to get everything done for the day–riding, resting, eating, maybe chatting with someone at a store, because by 3pm, you better be looking for a camp. The temps start to drop, the sun seeming to accelerate towards the horizon. By a little after four, give or take depending on the terrain, boom, sun down, temps dropping, standing around gets less and less comfortable, so it’s back into the tent for another 12 hour suspended animation. Winter touring has its own rhythm, that’s for sure.
About 30 miles into the day, I crossed a milestone–Hwy 15, the massive artery between LA and Vegas. This was critical for me because the Shell station on the south side is where I would get water and supplies for the East Mojave Preserve. In the distance, I could see the vast scar left from the Cima Dome blaze that took out millions of Joshua trees. The enormous dome looked bald, a pale pate in the sun that should have been deep green. The next day I would get an up close view.
The Shell station lived up to its reputation as a busy stop over–with 30 kinds of jerky! And a tinkling fountain urinal in the men’s room—rank stank and dingy–no bueno. I got the supplies I needed at astronomical prices, including a massive fried chicken sandwich (I’d ordered grilled, but no matter), chatted with some motorists, and pushed off to the south, moving back into Joshua trees and a miles-long straightaway. You don’t do a lot of turning on some of these desert tracks. I cranked until it seemed prudent to stop. That’s the beauty of carrying enough water and supplies, you can just…camp. Another lurid sunset and a talk on the phone with my abandoned wife–having too much fun in my absence, if you ask me–and it was off to bed for another round of Mojave dreams and coyote songs.
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