Day 1: 32 miles; 3,800 ft climb
Leading up to departure is usually a stressful affair–packing, organizing, plotting and planning. I obsess and annoy Jodi, understandably. But it’s my process. At last the bike was loaded–too portly for my desires, but everything seemed to fit. I rolled Ivan down the front stairs, Jodi took my picture, we said our goodbyes, and that was that. I missed her and Patch already, but sometimes I have to bite into a big project like this. I am blessed that she understands and sometimes tolerates my fits of solo adventuring, and this time she would meet me at the beginning of day 2 for a water drop. Above and beyond. I’m a lucky man.
After a false start to lower my seat, I was gone, Jodi off to the east side for a big hike with Patch, me blazing south, eating miles under a cold grey sky, the White Mtns. capped and cloaked by icy clouds. Bundled against the 38 deg. F chill, I buzzed with my fat tires along the Mother Road, the avenue of wonders, Hwy 395, one of the great stretches of blacktop in North America, my home.
In just over an hour, I landed in Big Pine, the first burg to the south, and coffeed up at Brewed Awakenings, a “spoonful of sarcasm” to get you rolling. I sipped a fat brew, warmed my toes by the fire, but couldn’t put off the inevitable–Death Valley Rd. and thousands of feet of climbing. Dig in, chump. This IS the point.
I was pleasantly surprised how quickly the climbing progressed, taking breaks here and there, the sere, sometimes craggy canyon closing in, expanding, drawing me deeper and deeper into the mountains, a paved crease between the Inyos to the south and the Whites to the north, a back door entrance over the highest pass to Death Valley.
The expected pulses of holiday traffic came and went–a fantastically expensive Sprinter van or two, a string of SUV’s bristling with “overlanding” gear–bolt on water and fuel tanks, tent toppers, the works. One bloke passed, stopped just above me as I ate lunch, thought better of this particular life choice, turned around and descended back to the valley. Beware Devil’s Gate, me bucko, for there be dragons!
I pushed on, thinking I would camp below the summit, but it soon became clear that I could make the pass easily. As the chasm of the Owen’s Valley deepened behind me, the Sierra crest, dark in shadow and snow plastered, cut across the western horizon, a seemingly impenetrable wall of cold, jagged granite.
Not long after 2pm, the summit was mine. Rigs parked and refilled tires after their journey out of the Saline Valley. I talked briefly to some Bishop locals who were intrigued by my rig, and after a quick photo op, I descended a short, rocky track to set up camp in the dust, a cold breeze giving urgency to my layering up and pitching the tent. Safe out of the breeze at over 7,500 ft., my shelter was a familiar place, a home and sanctuary for many journeys. I crawled in to write this journal and felt the warmth of the late sun through the tent walls. I knew it wouldn’t last. Before long, I would lay down and pass many hours sleeping, reading, sleeping some more, a minimum of 12 hours per camp in the nylon cocoon, the price one pays for late season touring.
Tomorrow, Jodi and Patchy at 9AM! Eureka Valley and another stout climb. And thousands and thousands of feet of descending. Yar.
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