Day Nine: Necrosis Rising, Realm of the Road Snake

Day Nine: Necrosis Rising, Realm of the Road Snake

Miles: 51

Climb:2242

Ave. spd.:9.2 mph

Let me explain.  To a road touring cyclist, pavement quality is a constant issue.  It provides moment-to-moment feedback, blessing or cursing your progress, tainting or lifting your mood--at least mine, anyway.  As I mentioned, the old Kelbaker road had signed a pact with Satan to achieve world class status as crappy road surface.  The cheesy chip seal job helped a lot, but it was far from a perfectly smooth, durable surface. As I climbed the big grade to Granite Pass, I could see the old beast lurking beneath the chip, poking through, veiled but hinting at its former decrepitude. As I descended from the spectacular pass, big stone that was off limits to climbers, fell away to the west, and I hit chunks and bumps that told me this road was not long for this world.  The monster was there, waiting.

Part of highway riding, which I was quickly approaching, is dealing with the inevitable “road snakes,” a term I first heard from Jodi during our Rocky Mountain tour.  These are strips and chunks of big rig re-treads that lie in wait along the side of the road, from sweet little garter snakes to humongous anacondas, they lurk and provide obstacles to safe riding--not to mention flats. Somehow, I dodged the worst and made great progress, although most of the shoulder was clear of debris.

Here is a fierce example, the notorious Mojave Black. You can see it curled, ready to strike!

Now, if you want to grab one, do it quick as a snake!  Note my elite reflexes have allowed me to pinch it firmly behind the head so it cannot reach around and bite me.  This one was not going to be messing with me, no sir.

Under a warm sun, I de-layered for a short climb up to the massive, double barreled Hwy 40.  Although noisy because of the trucks, I was immediately gifted with a HUGE smooth shoulder, a rumble strip between lil’ ol’ triking me and the trucks.  It was great riding. I would never want to do a long stretch of such riding--the noise and movement of the trucks is a downer--but for a few hours today and tomorrow?  Bring it on. There was little doubt it was safer than many so-called “quiet” roads where sight lines are poor and shoulders nonexistent. I jammed ear plugs in and spun for glory and Fenner, about 30 miles away.  My secret weapon? Most of it was gently downhill. At times up to 30 mph and rarely less than 10 mph, I chewed up those miles. Booyah.

Still, it WAS a lot of pedalling, and the miles wore me down.  Many, many times the trucks would swing to the far lane to pass.  I was grateful and waved. I even saw several “Share the Road” signs for us cycling folk.  Schweet.

After 3PM, which is becoming my default stopping time, after fighting serious side winds, I climbed into the gusts to land in Fenner, a large gas station complex.  As I pulled close to the entrance, I saw a sign that said “Bike Parking Only.” Now THAT is a sign you don’t often see. But it was true. I could camp for free, out of the wind, water a restroom nearby.  Traffic, a billion watts of fluorescent light, and the occasional rumbling train as well, but, hey, you can’t have everything. I had to laugh. It was one of those classic funky lousy bike touring camps that happen sometimes.  You just gotta roll with it. At least I had some artsy ponds with statues of pink flamingos and naked ladies holding up conch shells. WTF? There was, however, the compensation of beer at astronomical prices. Fine with me. There are so few options out here. My other choice was to backtrack to the closed section of Route 66 and camp out in the open right next to the moderately active train tracks. Ugh. No good choices. Tomorrow it’s a cheap motel in Needles--classic. That’ll do me right. At least I got to talk to Jodi and throw a few barbs on Facebook.  Time now for deep earplugs and an eye cover. Gonna be a long, long night. Sigh….

Day Eight: Eye of the Hare

Day Eight: Eye of the Hare

Miles: 37

Climb: 2908

Ave. spd.: 7.3 mph

A cold and windless night, upper 30’s that felt colder as it snaked into my tent.  I dozed, woke, read a little, back to sleep--the long night syndrome of winter desert touring.  The inside of this tent and I are old friends from many adventures, especially my coast-to-coast ride in 2007.  Almost a hundred nights we spent together. I stretch out on the pad, pull up my book or Kindle, and I’m home for a while.

Out of the nylon crypt before sunrise, this time putting on toe warmers before getting up--bliss. Coffee and tortillas stuffed with cheese will do for breakfast. I will feel the loss of that package for the rest of the trip.  My fault. I should have got it sent off earlier, but I figured a week would be enough time--but no. Gah again. Fortunately, I’ve got just enough coffee and fuel to cook it to see me through to Needles where I think I can resupply.  I cinch, stuff, roll and strap, gape at the clear morning sky and pedaled off shortly after 7AM.

The Kelbaker road--a combination of Kelso and Baker--traverses some spectacular country.  Having pedaled it twice with Jodi, I knew what to expect, but it was still a deep pleasure to pull away from the groaning artery of Hwy 15 with its continuous throb of cars and trucks going to and from Vegas and head south into the preserve--NO commercial traffic allowed.  Booyah.

To those who have not traveled it, any description of the pavement would stress belief.  It was more random cobbles in a cracking grey matrix than pavement, some stones as big as a man’s fist.  It was brutal, slow riding, and I had vowed that I would never traverse this country again. But then Caltrans had to go and pave it.  Well, “pavement” might be a little enthusiastic, for it was really a knobby slather of Satan’s Vomit--chip seal, but it was better--by far--than the rotting, chuck-holed, be-cobbled nightmare of before.  I made slow but steady progress, feeling the drag of the chip seal for sure, but happy to have the improved surface.

A few miles into the ride, I slowly rolled past a dead rabbit, freshly killed--last night?  The ravens had yet to discover it. A smear of blood, smooth white and grey fur, an eye looking up at me, declaring--Your next! Or perhaps a more forlorn--Remember me.  It seemed to follow me into the morning.

Hours of grinding on this 20 mile hill were the work of my day, moving higher into the Joshua Tree zone, that twisted icon of the Mojave.  In the heart of the preserve at a place called Cima Dome one can find the world’s biggest Joshua Tree forest, a thick swelling of fantastic shapes bulging into the sky on the gently curved surface of the enormous dome.

After a long and rough ride down, the old necrotic pavement lurking of the chips, I arrived at Kelso Depot.  Of course it was closed down because of the standoff between President Trump and the democratic congress.  Riding a narrow trike, I rolled the the barrier to check things out. Thankfully, the water spigot was operational even if the bathrooms were locked.  This I could work with. I swung across the road to park in front of a long-closed post office, paint chipped and faded, wood of the door flaking apart from the relentless sun, windows cracked, a classic desert shack.  

It was warm in the sun as I prepared lunch and watched too-frequent cars motor by, coming and going from Vegas, this being an intersection that connects Hwy 40 and Hwy 15.  The reach of that toxic town is immense. Finally, I grabbed my water containers and jogged over to fill up. Just as I was about to return to my trike, “ranger” who is really a cop in green, came up to me and said, “Ah, my water guy.”  He tried, in a nice way, to bust my chops for coming through the barrier, that this was CLOSED due to the “government shut down.” In a friendly tone, he did at least acknowledge that we would have to break protocol because I really needed water.  Human powered travelers get a few breaks. I lingered for a time and about 3PM, motored up the next grade to camp in the creosote jungle. Tomorrow, Granite Pass, Hwy 40 and the dubious glories of Fenner.

Camp:

Day Seven: Cooking for Baker

Day Seven:  Cooking for Baker

Miles:  65.9

Climb: 1883 ft.

Ave. spd.: 10.6 mph

Up almost an hour earlier than last morning, I wanted to make sure I landed in Baker, nearly 60 miles south with Ibex Pass between us.  I packed, coffeed, got it done as the sky grew teal and crimson to the east, palm trees silhouetted like a cliched pitch for the good life in California.   Shortly after 7AM, the first rays of the sun casting long shadows, I rolled out of Shoshone, south bound again.

My first shock was on the edge of town where the cafe, C’est si Bon, used to be.  We knew it had been closed before, and that in itself was a lesson in letting go, but now I find that every last tamarisk tree that used to cast such beautiful shade and overhang the century old building are completely gone--every stump, branch and needle has been swept away.  The tamarisk, an Asian invader, is known for sucking up vast amounts of water and in some cases removing all surface water from once flowing streams, so it’s open season on them. I understand the impulse to cut them out, but those shaggy, grey-green, salty needled trees have always spoken to me, embodying the desert in some meaningful way.  And the shade and cosy campsites they created were magnificent. More change, more loss. And my dinner guests informed me that the cafe’s owner, David’s son--who did not exist when we first pedaled up to the cafe--is now searching for colleges to attend. Stop it! Ugh. I pedaled on.

Out, out, and gently down to the alkali sinks and runnels, the strangely carved buttes and gullies of the Amargosa River Valley. It’s an enchanting, otherworldly terrain.  The temperatures fell into the mid-30’s as I zipped along, chilled and warmed simultaneously in that way unique to cycling.

Before long, I dug into the gentle grades towards Ibex Pass, at about 2,000 ft  This pass offers the best bang-for-the-buck of almost any stretch of riding when you take it north to south as I was.  Gentle, fast climbing--for a loaded pedal-powered machine, about 6--8 mph--led me quickly to the summit and a surging descent for about eight miles out into the vastness of the Dumont Dunes area and the Henry Wade route out of Death Valley.  Dumont Dunes draw huge off-road vehicle crowds on weekends, so it is crucial to avoid this stretch of road on big traffic days. The Henry Wade route into Death Valley refers to and 1849 caravan that suffered in the valley, and Henry struck out on his own, finding an escape and link to the Old Spanish Trail.  I can hardly imagine traversing the rough, sandy ground with an ox drawn cart in the 19th century. Those people were nuts.

At last I pulled into Baker, only 2PM--winning.  I crank the extra mile or so to the Post Office and go in to collect my packages. Only there are none to be found.  None. No pad, no food--nada. GAH! Effin’ PO couldn’t deliver as promised. The bastards. I get to talk to Jodi at last and too much of it is my ranting about the shipping problems.  I tell her we’ll talk more later, and I run off to look for fuel for my stove--none to be found! Groceries suck in this town, but the Mexican market had a few things, so I loaded up with cheese, tortillas, some tuna and avocados and a few other things.  I wouldn’t starve, but dinners for a few nights wouldn’t be very interesting or very warm. So it goes. At least I had enough fuel and coffee to see me through to Needles, three days hence. I grabbed a big chicken gyro at the Mad Greek restaurant, a beer, and some water and set out into the desert.

Five miles out, the sun low behind me, I pulled off into a shallow arroyo and called it camp.  Early dinner was the perfect inhalation of the gyro, rice, and a tall, cool 805, eaten form the seat of the trike as I watched the sun set.  I was going to live--and well. I called Jodi again then got about my chores, the winter desert chill creeping through the spindly creosote bushes.  Bed and tent were calling. A big day over a major pass and down to Kelso was on tap for tomorrow.

Day Six: Wild, Wild Horses

Day Six:  Wild, Wild Horses

Miles: 59

Climb: 3075

Ave. spd.: 9.3 mph

The night was everything I needed.  The winds died and no one camped nearby with a ukulele.  Quiet. Solitary. I lingered a short while in the bed but finally dragged myself out at 6:30AM.  Severe clear. I rolled out shortly after 8AM, ready for the long climb. Almost always low angle--about 3%--I was able to chug and chug the miles under a perfect sky, even  a slight tailwind. Glorious.

At close to the 2,000 ft. level, I took a break and was caught up by a day rider, Steve.  We chatted for some time about cycling and my route, which he knew well. Another desert rat.  Soon he took off only to tag the 2,000 ft. level and head back down. I was all about up up up.  I needed some extra octane in the tank and opted for Sheryl Crow--like Steve McQueen. Her punchy rhythms set just the right pace.  By 11:30 I’d cracked the pass--cool and clear. I wolfed down a mini-lunch and rolled off for Death Valley Junction, where lunch #2 would meet its end in front of the old Opera House.

I lounged in the warm sun, reluctant to come to grips with the remaining 27 miles, but it was already 1:30PM, so I knew that a 4PM finish time was likely--getting late for this time of year.  

I think, for the first time ever, I didn’t have a raging tailwind so had to actually pedal more forcefully than usual on this gently down-trending line through empty desert.  The traffic was light, an occasional truck or auto. Usually I pedalled alone, no one visible north or south. I stopped once for short rest and revelled in the shocking silence--nothing but a distance crow and a ringing in my ears to mark the passage of time.  I heard the cartilage crunch in my neck as I surveyed the rugged Mojave shimmering in the afternoon light. In the distance a trio of wild horses meandered towards a soaring peak of jagged volcanic rock. I pushed on.

Tired, ready for the end, at 4PM, I did finally roll into Shoshone as the shadows drew long and deep. Camp, shower, quickly as the light faded, then off to the store and the Crowbar Cafe for dinner. For the first time, I used the bike lights to find my way into the main part of town, my flashers blazing into the late January night.

Before heading out to dinner, some uppity RV chump got all up in my grill. I showed him what badass trikers from Bishop can do:

Let's just say that recumbent trikers are a force to be reckoned with.

At the cafe, I encountered Billy and his partner. Billy was a long time cyclist and tourer who was fascinated by my setup.  He’d recently retired as a local fire fighter and was ready to get back in shape. I missed her name, but his partner was a lovely woman and bodyworker.  We all talked around the table as they watched me eat, having already just finished their own meal. I was grateful for the friendly company, one of those random encounters that make cycle touring so special.

I struck out on some items at the store but SCORED the date nut bread from the local grove.  Oh, there is a God, and he/she/it makes this bread to make life wonderful. I will eat too much.  And that’s okay. A big day looms tomorrow. I’m sore and a stiff from the riding. My legs hum and vibrate from the miles, so I think it’s an ibuprofen kind of evening.

Tomorrow, early start, Baker post office for supplies, load up and head out into the East Mojave for a wild camp most excellent. And I’ll get to talk to Jodi! Been on voice lock down for days.  But first, some date nut bread.