Revenge of the 29'er Day 9

 

Day 9: 37.3 miles/2190 ft. climb

Something I said to one of the motorists at the Shell station echoed in my mind, knocking around my head bone here and there. She asked how old I was. “I’m sixty,” I replied. Indeed, that is my age, and I’ve mentioned it before once or twice to people I’ve encountered on the tour. She was surprised, saying I didn’t look that old. I thanked her, but for some reason, this time the utterance had more gravity. I’m sixty fucking years old. What the actual hell? How does that even happen? I don’t know what sixty feels like, what sixty looks like–except to think back on my parents or look at the wider society. But ME? Sixty? So totally unthinkable. How did I get here? Gradually and then all at once, as Hemmingway said about bankruptcy. You live your life, and if you’re lucky and don’t die, you’ll be sixty eventually. Happens all the time–BUT NOT TO ME. Except it did. It used to seem so old, like an old person’s age, but now it’s just me. Retired. An AARP member. Jesus Christ on a cracker.

And I like riding bikes.

This morning started too early with what I was sure was a rodent chewing on my tires. The fekking bastard. I yelled, turned on my headlamp, shined it about–nothing. Then I heard the chewing sound again. Maybe the food in the panniers. I suited up and scrambled out of the tent at 4:30AM, hell bent on getting control of the situation. I found no offending mouse, but I lumbered about in the dark thirty cold, sealing up the panniers–should have done that before–and climbed back in to wait out the final dark hours. Off and on throughout the night, I’d felt the tent shift, heard the wind in the Joshua tree spines above me, in the creosote bushes. I thought too much of the forecast that predicted headwinds gusting up to 21 mph. Grrrr….

Somehow I fell asleep and awoke sometime later to brightness filtering through the tent walls. Six thirty. Time to boogie. Not too bad, 39 deg. F. The temperature of champions, or something. Lots of grey in the sky, but even so, I was gifted with some sun, and as I was about to depart, it was warm and I had to layer down a bit.

The first miles were through the bombed out appearance of the Joshua tree forest, the remains of the Cima Fire that burned over forty three thousand of acres and an estimated 1.3 million Joshua trees. Cima Dome, the enormous swollen lump to the south, had been home to one of the greatest Joshua forests in the region–a magnificent vegetable, by the way, that is only found in high desert southern and eastern California and a small wedge of Arizona and nowhere else on the planet. Strange and wonderful twisted creatures they are. And here was a no-man’s land, rank upon rank of burned and toppled trees, many of them hundreds of years old. Hopefully, you could see some that had survived, their tips green and reaching upward in that contorted, comical style. The grasses that sprouted after the fire had dried out with the summer season, and now the vast blackened forest had a blond base stretching to the horizon. It glowed in the sun like a young surfer’s close cropped hair.

I climbed with enthusiasm in the early cool air, anxious about the coming wind but thankful for the cloud cover. At the summit, gazing at the distant New York Mtns. I would skirt, the granite Teutonia Peak, an old favorite, to my right, I knew I needed to suit up for the miles long drop to Cima–a long, long way to a mostly empty and desiccated place that seemed to have one occupied dwelling, a newer manufactured home. Here I encountered traffic for the first time. Thanks to Lord Google and who knows what else, the East Mojave Preserve was now a kind of “commuter” path between Hwy 40 in the south and Hwy 15 to the north and, especially, Las Vegas. Not heavy by many biking standards, the traffic did put me on alert, so I attached my rear view helmet mirror and kept an eye on overtaking traffic, giving them all a nice wave well ahead of time to remind them of a human being they should avoid. Less than five quick downhill miles and I was done, cutting off onto Cedar Canyon Rd.

The ride so far had been fantastic, but the cake was about to come. Paved at first when I expected dirt, I ascended quickly and was a little surprised to see traffic coming down. Maybe this wasn’t the 4x4 road I was expecting. When a conventional sedan rolled by in a cloud of dust, I knew this was going to be a pretty good rood. It was, in fact, one off the best dirt roads I’ve had the pleasure of riding. The sandy sections were short–big payoff there with the fat tires–and the rest was mostly smooth, hard gravel, fast climbing. I didn’t even bother to lower the PSI in my tires. I’d climb better with them nice and firm. And so I did, dodging in the process a pack of Overlanders! driving way too fast, sending up immense clouds of dust. I motioned with a downward had to slow down, and most of them did–except one who didn’t even seem to see me, turning a bit late but safely enough and roaring by in a tsunami of dust and gravel. Thanks, buddy! The next clown bearing down hard at speed didn’t like my attempt to get him to slow down–which you would THINK would be the most basic kind of courtesy. As I motioned downward to slow, he glared at me and offered me his two middle fingers and a vicious scowl, as if having to slow down for, oh, twenty, thirty seconds, was some sort of horrendous insult. What a complete and total ass. He must be great fun to live with. Ladies, steer clear. He’s a loser.

My anger at the encounter fueled my legs for a while and I charged the summit, taking no prisoners, giving no quarter, telling no lies, just good hard bike packing, the junipers filling in the rocky slopes, the sun bearing down bright and warm, the wind, astoundingly, at my back. I’d out-witted the wind monster! A classic cliff banded mesa appeared ahead as I hit the intersection for Black Canyon Rd., the track rising steep and sandy to the south. This was supposed to be closed, but there appeared fresh tracks, and no sign blocked access. Hmmm… I could take it to Hole-in-the-Wall campground and make it to Fenner that way, but I’d carried all this agua. Screw it. I’d stay on Cedar Canyon–and make the best decision of the tour so far.

More fantastic hard pack led up to the summit pass where I had lunch, the view a meal in itself, fantastic mesas, boulders and juniper forests radiant in the late season light. Stupid happy was I. A couple of very nice motorists stopped to ask if I were okay, I said I was fantastic. Every other driver was superb, but programmed to pay attention to risks, we hang onto our experiences with the bad ones so much stronger. To hell with that guy. I was the winner here.

Mile after mile of fast roads led me down out of the mountains, but I had to stop at the stone cabin, a gorgeous structure of rounded granite rocks stacked and cemented above a beautiful canyon, a spring below for water. One Bert Smith, lungs badly damaged by mustard gas in WWI, moved to the Mojave in the late 1920’s, hoping the desert climate—and perhaps isolation from the madness of the world—would help, but he didn’t expect to live long. I suspect much to his surprise, he lived another 25 years. Later, an artist moved in and lived for a time, selling his work to tourists on the Jeep excursions that were popular at the time. Now the fabulous cabin is a reminder of a long ago time and of the sacrifice of our veterans. I paused in the fabulous afternoon light and tried to imagine living there for decades.

As always, daylight was fleeting, so more descent along fast sandy tracks led to a camp in a perfect arroyo. The warm winds died as I settled in, a fat moon overhead.