Day Five: Mixed Emotions

Day Five: Mixed Emotions

Miles: 31.7

Climb: 1232

Ave. spd.:10.0 mph

It was not best of nights.  It was not the worst of nights.  It could have been a better night without the winds and my Ukulele plinking, droning neighbor.  Fine, gritty sand blew into the tent, which I had foolishly left open. Even with earplugs jammed deep, deep, deep, the guy’s droning voice and plink-plunking instrument carried over the buffeting tent.  At 11PM, I’d had enough, climbed from my nylon cave and told him to park it. JEEZ! After a sleeping pill, I finally got some rest. Although, over 30 miles away, I think I can still hear the plink-plunk of his “girl friend,” as he called it.

In truth, his voice wasn’t bad, but every song, regardless of melody or lyrics, started to sound the same.  The curse of the ukulele? He did say something interesting as I shared his fire for a time before bed. He mentioned many of his long, very difficult hiking adventures, but ultimately he said that being alone in the wilderness didn’t have anything else to teach him.  I understood. You stick at something long enough, pour your heart into it, you finally figure it out. But then, mentioning how his friends have become an “old guys complaining” club, how one seemed to isolate himself more and more, my companion said he needed community, that, like his friends, he’d go mad if he went their route.  I didn’t say anything at the time, but camping out indefinitely, mostly alone, no vehicle to go anywhere, and relying on a constantly changing parade of campers who usually only stayed a couple of nights hardly qualifies as community. I wish him well, but the current trajectory is not encouraging.

I got up shortly after 6AM and discovered my extra pad had blown away in the wind.  DAMMIT! I’d strapped it to the bench, but obviously not firmly enough. That thing was useful for wild camping.  My trail angel, my wife, Jodi, ordered a replacement that I could pick up a couple of days down the road. Success!  Amazon to the rescue. I’d better get to the post office in Baker before it closes.

I rolled out of Dodge/Stovepipe Wells before my musician friend crawled from his tent.  Adios, amigo. Farewell. The winds came and went, then came and stayed, sometimes quartering,  but often dead behind. I FLEW. The miles pedalled themselves, I tell you. The great valley unfurled.  One a-hole passed too close, too fast. Mostly it was a joy.

Furnace Creek had changed, an extreme make-over of the store/restaurant area.  I truly did not recognize it. The new face was slick with stucco and wood, but I missed the funky old place, the planking walls and courtyard in front of the store.  Now if felt sterile, like another slick mall in Santa Clarita. The parking lot was now a “square” with intersecting walkways and lots of transplanted palms--Vegas generica.  Change is a bitch.

I purchased a boxed salad to satisfy a little of my hunger for fresh veggies, and ate lunch shielded from the wind by a weird arch that kinda sorta invoked an old Mexican fireplace.  I spent a couple of hours at the visitor center, reading and escaping the wind.

Finally, I had to roll.  As I pulled away, I was startled by a coyote coming right out of the creosote near the road.  It looked me straight in the eye, closed in to one side then the other, fascinated by me, wanting to pace me.  There was nothing menacing in it’s movements or gaze. I was overcome with emotion. I’d pedalled through here with Jodi and Django, who had a special hatred for all things coyote.  But here he was, come to join me again. I looked more closely, and this was not a healthy animal. His tail hung low. Bone protruded from hips and shoulders. Mangy fur hung loosely on his starving frame.  He managed to barely keep up with a lame sort of trot. Soon, he gave up the chase and stared forlornly after me as I pulled away, a worker’s truck stopping to let him clear the road. Almost in tears, I pedaled up towards sea level, brooding on time and change and loss.

Up around the too-fancy-for-the-likes-of-me “Inn at Furnace Creek”--the preposition is critical--I began the climb towards Death Valley Junction.  I checked for possible camping areas but realized soon enough that I’d need to find our old site up the dirt road, which vaguely remembered was somewhere up ahead?  After some anxiety, I found the track and fought my way up the loose gravel to a suitable camp. The winds came and went over the sere ridges. Can’t brood too much.  Chores to do. Tomorrow, Death Valley Junction and Shoshone. Dinner out!

Day Four: Rest is Best

Day Four:  Rest is Best

Miles: Precious few

Climb: Zilch

Ave. spd.:  Speed? What speed?

Crappy night with partiers next door.  Blood moon was awesome. Sleep was rare.  Oh, how I can hate conventional campgrounds.  I flirted with the idea of moving on and guerrilla camping somewhere, but I really need the rest, so I’ll stay.  As the morning progressed, a vast exodus of campers! Ah, perhaps tonight I will sleep. Now a breezy, gently cloudy day drifts across the valley.  This will do for a rest day. At least a shower yesterday took the grime off. Chores, writing, reading. That’s it. And that’s enough.

My camping savior turns out to be an aging extreme hiker, a Fred Becky style trekker who for many years, it seems, has drifted from hike to epic hike, sometimes disappearing in the Sierras for a month at a time with his brother.  He’s section hiked the PCT twice, been on the Continental Divide, the Arizona Trail, and more. Now he is traveling without a car--his broke down--and getting around by hitchhiking, using public transport, and friends to move from place to place, living off Social Security, although he hopes to score some sort of job in Death Valley.  He tried to live a bike touring lifestyle last year but had his rig stolen in Yucca Valley on the first leg of his travels He’s living life on the edge for a 69 yr. old. His life of hiking has left him fit, so it’s working, but life on the edge can cut you quick. I wish him well, especially since he’s on the park service “radar,” and they may not want him staying indefinitely.  A job, of course, would change that.

Tomorrow it’s a moderate start to a 30+ mile day with a little climbing.  I’ll work part of the way up towards Death Valley Junction after resupplying at Furnace Creek.  These wheels a keep on rolling.

Day Three: Surfing Giants

Day Three:  Surfing Giants

Miles: A lousy 28

Climb: 3452 ft.--Double Ugh.

Ave. spd.: 6.1 mph

The morning begins in dampness and fog--prodigious amounts of moisture.  Absent straight-up rain, this is my dampest camp since waking up on the shores of Lake Erie in the summer of my cross country ride.  Everything is soaked. It takes some effort to drag myself out into the soggy cold, but I manage at dark-thirty to pull on my big boy pants and get to work.  Hot coffee, as always, helps enormously, and it works its magic. A weak sun at last breaks over Telescope Peak and by 8AM I’m pedaling away from camp and into the belly of the beast.

For all my sturm und drang, the trike climb of the century goes well, though not, of course, without considerable sweat and effort.  While I’m unhappy about the flat light caused by the high and shifting clouds, I have to admit the moderated temperatures help considerably.  In no time I’m sweating hugely, the cycloputer reading 9--10% steady, bumping to 12% sometimes more. It is a work of hours, slow, relentless patience to tackle these climbs.  This isn’t my first rodeo. Jodi and I have done many such ascents, but each time climbing these outrageous techtonic waves leaves me humbled. What a crazy thing to do. I laugh out loud when a car drives by and a woman passenger gives me a priceless WTF?! look.  Exactly, lady. Exactly.

A huge gulf of air and mountain slope opens up behind me.  To the west, The Sierras break the horizon, and I quickly name off Olancha, Langley, Whitney and others.  Adios, amigos.  See you in a couple of weeks.  At a break, I actually have to chock the rear wheel to aid my parking brake and keep the trike from backsliding.  I stop periodically to cool, eat, stretch. I cannot believe how much moisture I’m pumping out through my skin. And the temps are in the mid-50’s!  Timing is everything on desert tours.

An upshifting of gears marks a momentous event in the life of the climb.  Slowly, so slowly, the grade is easing towards the pass, but my urge to finish makes even the lessening grade hard enough.  The last mile is a painful push. At noon, I stand beside the Towne Pass sign, just a shave under 5,000 ft. A cold breeze cuts through the gap under a grey sky.  I suit up, eat up, and push off for the nearly 20 mile, no-pedal descent to sea level.

It’s a huge, freezing rush. I should have layered more, but my hands are the worst.  Even with insulated mitts, my hands are frozen claws on the brakes, but I’ve got enough movement to use the occasionally--but not much.  For long stretches, I’m ripping along in the high 30’s to low 40’s, which is painfully slow in a car, but with no steel and glass around you and your ass about 5 inches off the pavement, that speed takes on a different dimension.

The vast dry valley absorbs this tiny trike and rider, and I fall at last to the outpost of Stovepipe Wells, a busy resort hub--hotel, restaurant and saloon, convenience store and gas station--cars, RV’s, motorbikes, and one other cyclist, a young superfit guy with an unloaded carbon fiber sissy bike that probably weighs less than ONE of my panniers.  So what if the guy did 8,000 ft of climbing yesterday and Wild Rose pass today. I’ll show him! Stunned, we both talk about the freezing descent. My hands are so numb I can hardly get my helmet off, and it takes a good 15 minutes for feeling to come back into my fumbling flippers.

Eventually, I go to find a campsite amid the chaos--forgetting it was a long weekend AND a super blood moon eclipse, too.  So the crowds. On a Sunday. Fortunately a sympathetic camper offers me a site he was reserving for a friend who, he says, was probably unlikely to stay the night, and my savior could see my situation.  Grateful, I pull in and setup camp. Behind me, massive troops of Scout tents foretell more chaos. Welcome to DV on a holiday weekend.

Day Two: Karma’s a Bitch

Day Two: Karma’s a Bitch

Miles: 58.44

Climb: 2111 ft.

Ave. spd.:  10.4 mph

A day of great contrasts, of joy, effort, outrage, instant karma, friendly greetings from kindred spirits.  It began in the dark.

I knew from yesterday’s effort that needed to get an earlier start, so I set the alarm for 6AM and didn’t need it.  I tossed and turned a bit through the night, but slept well enough, and found myself checking the time at 5:45AM. Time to rise if not shine.  Damp, damp, frosty, damp 33 deg. F. and not fun. The toe warmers did their trick, however, so the lil’ piggies are happy in my chores. There is so much to do when traveling this way, especially when my beloved isn’t here to share the effort.  We had it down--a slick team effort.  I’d jump out and get coffee brewing; Jo would start packing bags and rolling pads.  Flying solo, it’s all on me, so I get busy.

The black before dawn yields to a flare of color then a sick grey, rancid meat sky the inspires minimal enthusiasm.  To the north, it’s dark and foreboding. Above, it’s a sickly smoky gin without the buzz. Slowly I pack, heat water for coffee on my ultra-nifty Pepsi can alcohol stove, the silent cooker.  The sun doesn’t rise but ooze into being above the Inyo’s. Finally, I saddle up and put foot to pedal and head out. A pass and many desert miles have my name on them.

Before long, I’m out of town and swinging around the N.E. side of Owen’s Lake, a soggy alkali patch that before the era of Los Angeles supported countless birds and a paddle wheel ferry to Keeler, a mining berg, on the far side.  The Sierras fall into a more distant perspective behind, and I stop at 11AM to stretch and snack where the southern road that comes in from Olancha joined my track. As I eat, the gods of the road deliver a gem, a jewel of unusual delights.

In the distance I can hear the high pitched, shifting whine of a car moving fast--very fast. After a moment, the German engineered bullet comes into view, a silver late model Porsche burning the desert highway, well over 100 mp kih, I reckon.  I watch as it closes down on the T-bone intersection. Conjure the voice of Homer Simpson: “I am rich! I have a badass sports car! I am invincible!” The driver finds horse power and Teutonic engineering and testosterone were not enough: Screeeech!  Slide! He blasts through the intersection, slowing, but not enough--BLAM! An $80,000 dollar sports car plows into a gnarly hunk of indifferent black besalt. Porsche comes to a halt in a drift of dust and tire smoke. In a frenzy, the driver throws it into reverse, loose soil flying, and back off the shoulder, a huge dangling chunk of spoiler catching on the boulder and swinging free from the front end, limp and fractured like a useless limb.  The driver turns towards me, the plastic chunk dragging noisily, and for a moment I think he’ll take me down, but he corrects, and drags his wounded rig a hundred yards up the road towards Death Valley. What’s up with this guy? Can’t he hear the dragging wreckage? At last he pulls over.

And then the others come--one, two, five, ten?  Hot Porsches, a Lamborgini? A gull-wing Mercedes.  A friggin’ parade of extraordinarily expensive rolling iron pulls in behind the lame leader.  Each driver sports a razor clean beard, dark classes, driving gloves. They and a few girl friends hop out of their sports cars and gawk at the damage.  Of course, someone pops a drone into the air for some sweet footage, man.  It’s just too much. I see the driver of the crashed car rip the thinly connected toenail free.  A cop shows up and tells the gang they need to move along. The driver of the gull wing says, “Everything’s great.  Everything’s fine. Woohoo! Let’s go!” I don’t suppose anyone mentioned the 100+ mph lead up to the crash. Indeed, I don’t think the cop knew anything about it. At last, the caravan of mighty horse power guns its engines and rumbles off into the distance.  I’m grateful I wasn’t further along, droppng down the twisties into the Panamint Valley. Who knows what these chumps would have done with me if I got in their way. I saddle up and crank into the low southern sun, lots of climbing still to go.

Strangest encounter:  Up ahead, looks like a cyclist.  Close in. Nope. A walkin’ dude.  American flag ball cap, dirty baggy khakis, flannel shirt, scruffy beard..  What I take to be a backpack is in fact a large duffle, no belt, just narrow straps digging into his shoulders.  I’m excited to see an extremist plying his trade, but as I wave, his eyes are locked dead on the road ahead, affording not even the slightest recognition of my presence.  I suspect a wounded warrior and ride on, wondering about his solitary walk.

Startling encounter:  From behind I hear the climbing whine an engine gaining on me.  I expect a car and keep glancing in the mirror, waiting for it to overtake me.  Louder, louder, LOUDER. In an instant I realize it’s a jet, raging in low and hot.  My eardrums are split by the thunderous roar as the plane rips overhead, some sort of trainer, I suspect--V-tail, straight wings with small pontoons at the tips.  The daring pilot banks right then hard left, vanishing over the pass, out of sight. Wow.

Greatest atrocity:  Starting a mile or so into the climb, I begin to encounter papers on the side of the road, then more and more. Auto Traders, hundreds of them, scattered along the side of the road,  GAH! Some garbage rig with an uncovered load? Who knows. For miles, off and on, I encounter drifts of the junk.  I make a mental note to look into gathering a workforce to clean it up. Friends of the Inyo?

Much higher I’m overtaken by a pair of super fit, crazy happy Filipino cycling  guys who grin and yell at me as they close in. One asks, “You ride double?” No doubt referring to a tandem trike.  “I see you ride double!” Since tandem trikes are extraordinarily rare, he must have encountered us before. They cheer me on, and pull steadily away.  I am left to my slow but steady progress. The only annoyances are the surprising amount of traffic--not enough to make the cycling dangerous--but every one to five minutes, I encounter another car or cluster of them.  This was to be the standard for the rest of the day and into the night. I guess this weekend everyone one said, “Y’know, honey, let’s take that driving trip to Death Valley we’ve been dreaming about. The weather’s going to be great!”  Occasionally I pass a squad of six or eight dusty, muddy Jeeps and rad 4X4’s flying in tight formation, heading who-knows-where. It all feels rather zooy, the apocalyptic realization of Ed Abbey’s worst nightmare. To each his own. Still, the cycling is good.

At last I cross the 5,000 ft. barrier and crack the pass, my 2,000 ft. of climbing in the bag.  What follows is perhaps one of the greatest descents any cyclist can ever do--a dozen miles of twisting, perfect blacktop.  Huge curves, tight curves, narrow slots, massive drop-offs into grim dark canyons. Across the dry valley, snow capped Telescope Peak dominates the skyline at over 11,000 ft.  I find myself bursting out in uncontrollable laughter. It is all so insanely wonderful.

Too soon I drop into the store and campground at Panamint Springs--lots of amenities, although only two were of concern to me:  beer and water. I quickly secure both and find the restaurant has wifi. Since phone service is absolutely not available, I take the opportunity to send a message to Jodi about my progress, and to tell her I was doing well.  I quickly post a couple of photos (which ultimately fail) and light out for the valley floor, several miles beyond. Rolling heavy with a big bag of water, I am thankful NOT to be tackling the monster that leers and looms across the way--Towne Pass, one of the toughest climbs in the US.

I find our old camping road soon enough and bounce down the dirt until a suitable spot appears--camp! Warm, if filtered, sun, and a cold beer make the late afternoon sun a true pleasure.  I get about unloading, pitching camp, thinking with some sadness that my last time here we had Django with us. It would be his last tour. I am missing Jodi and feeling a bit too nostalgic.  At last I shake it off with too many chores to do. Darkness closes over the valley as aromatic steam floats from the pot, the brutality of tomorrow’s ascent lost in blackness above. The pain will come, Scotty, and you will rise to meet it.