Part 1 28/12
Today i didn't make the distance.
I rode for 6½ long hours into a strong, cold headwind but still only covered 45 miles. My target was 60.
This part of West Texas is flat,open and wild. It is ranch country, all scrub cover and yucca plants. It's the perfect terrain for wild animals to hide out. It reminds me of South Africa, sometime I imagine an impala or a kudu emerging from the bushes.
There do seem to be plenty of animals around. Yesterday I saw a pair of buffalo lumbering along browsing as they went. They weren't bothered about me, even though they knew I was there. I could have shot them with a pea shooter if I was so inclined.
I have also seen some collared peccaries, small forest pigs about the size of a dog. Last week I saw a herd of light brown antelope, I'm yet to find out what they were.
Mostly I see individual deer or small groups of angora goats.
One of the advantages of being on a bicycle is animals don't expect to see one. In fact I'm not sure if they know what I am when they do see me. Of course I am also nearly silent, just like in a canoe. It is possible to sneak up on animals quite easily on a bike.
It's like a cycle safari.
The ranches are enormous around here, it can take an hour or more to ride through one. I don't even see the ranch houses, just signs at the gates and the dirt tracks going off into the bush.
They don't seem heavily stocked, I get the impression the land is left to go fairly wild. I think they stock the ranches with some game too and then sell the hunting rights to wealthy hunters.
The tiny towns are often practically ghost towns, about 60 miles apart. There is nowhere else to get water. I can't rely on the establishments in these towns not to have closed down so I am carrying enough food and water for about 2 ½ days.I re stock to that level whenever possible.
There is always a good fence at the edge of the ranches. The roadside verges are wide, trimmed and neat. I think it is to stop wild animals leaping into the road and causing accidents. It does makes it impossible to slip behind a bush to bivouac in secret without trespassing.
Today I have gone for the blatant option instead. I have put up my tent using my bike as an anchor in a picnic area lay-by, stringing my food bag up under the most distant shelter.
I had to camp here because I physically can't ride anymore today. On a normal day this much effort would have won me 70 miles or more.
I am hoping my camp set up will act as a self explanatory note to the border patrols and state troopers. Tent and bike in plain view equals camping cyclist not illegal alien. Hopefully they won't want to leave their vehicular cocoons and will let me sleep on, not bothering me with ID checks and 20 questions.
Today was a struggle again, what with low gears, no changes in scenery, cold headwinds and I didn't even get the satisfaction of arriving anywhere.
One good thing did happen though: a man called Gonzalo and his friends stopped me and gave me a bottle of gatorade, 4 tangerines, 2 yogurts and a carrot. How amazingly thoughtful it that? The fresh food was such an unexpected treat, you can't buy food like that in this part of Texas.
I ate it all immediately to save weight and to get all those nutrients on board.
If there is one thing I will always remember from this trip it is the the kindness and generosity of everyday Americans. It is something I have experienced all along my journey.
...........................
Part 2. 29/12
Today made yesterday seem like a walk in the park.
Today I rode as hard as I could for six hours and covered only 35 miles!
I woke to the wind whistling around the shelter and the sides of the tent flapping violently. The wind was still coming from the east which is where I am going.
"Well, I can't ride in this." was my initial reaction. I turned over and went back to sleep.
An hour or so later I woke up to check the situation: no change. I was going to have to stay put for the day. I didn't know if it was actually possible to make forward progress in such a strong wind.
It wouldn't be the first time I'd spent the day trapped in my tiny tent. In New Zealand I spent more than 24 hours in it whilst a lightening storm raged outside. Trees fell, thunder clapped and torrential rain hammered down. There was no point in trying to go anywhere. I was a day's walk from everywhere I could get shelter, except for a back country hut which was on the far side of a flooded river.
You can only sleep for so long even when you are really tired, so once again I prepared myself for some serious boredom. However fate had other plans.
It had rained in the night and I soon noticed that I was lying in a growing pool. The ground was flooded and soon the tent would be too. I couldn't lie in near freezing water all day. I'd have to brave the wind.
Wind is my least favourite of all the elements. It blows my stuff away; makes me cold especially when I'm wet; makes it very hard to control my canoe and can turn a nice bike ride into a pleasureless slog.
After abandoning some futile attempts to dry the tent and sleeping bag in the strong but freezing gusts. I finally got ready. Time to find out whether I could make headway in this horrible tempest.
Much to my surprise I could, just about. Thus the pace for the day was set: head down; extremities numb; lowest gears; legs spinning; bike creeping forwards slightly faster than walking pace.
The sky was grey all day long, it never warmed up above 5 degrees C, strong cold gusts buffeted me endlessly.
Hunched over, I edged forwards snail like across the expansive landscape. I stopped often and slumped over the handlebars before picking myself up and carrying on.
Sometimes the road passed through a cutting. These features funnelled the winds to create unridable conditions. I got off and pushed.
I carried out some experiments and was impressed to discover that even on quite steep down hill stretches, if I didn't pedal the head wind would bring me to a halt. However I couldn't get it to make me roll backwards on the flat.
With nothing to think about my mind turned to far away troubles, to lost friends and loved ones and to present day worries of my own. I alternated between introspection and frustration at the weather.
It was miserable, boring and miserable.
I have started to question the value of what I am doing. So far it has been a good mixture of challenge and adventure. It has maintained my interest and stimulated my mind. It has been something I will always be glad I did.
However I did not come out here to be bored and cold. I didn't come here to prove I could ride stubbornly into the wintry winds. I'm past proving myself.
This journey is one of personal discovery and exploration, not one of dogged suffering to reach an ultimate goal. Take away the quality of the experience and the whole thing is invalidated.
I'm not going to get further into debt and miss more of my niece growing up just for the sake of it. I want to get something worthwhile out of continuing.
Tomorrow I should reach Del Rio, Texas. It is only 40 miles away. I will do some research on what may lie ahead, have a rest day and a rethink.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Christmas in Marathon, Texas 25/12/2009
I decided to ride on Christmas Day.
It was sunny with a light wind was blowing my way. It was generally down hill for the next 60 miles too. It was going to be an easy day, a sort of Christmas present for me.
Plus I couldn't afford two nights in this extortionate motel, the most expensive I'd found in over 1,000 miles of riding.
Fort Davis is a very nice little town but it is definitely a tourist trap. Situated amongst really fantastic scenery in Fort Davis State Park and miles from anywhere else, you have to pay whatever they ask for goods and services. No doubt it is more expensive to get things there, like it is in the Highlands of Scotland.
All the same I would have to leave for financial reasons.
The German cyclist had told me about a hostel in the Marathon, Texas where they welcomed cyclists with open arms. In fact you could stay for free if you arrived on a bike. The hostel was run by a long haired guy apparently and their card said, " Come and join us on the scruffy side".
It sounded like my kind of place, maybe I would take two rest days there and recover from the recent challenges.
I ate a slap up breakfast in a local cafe and had a pleasant chat with a very friendly Texan couple, before finally getting out on the road.
The ride went by easily enough. The road snaked down between the hillsides for a couple of hours. There were weathered sandstone boulder fields or long hill-top escarpments around every bend. It looked like you could have a lot of fun here on a climbing trip.
In the afternoon I rode into the Marathon Basin, the flat grasslands stretched off to rounded ridges on the horizons. Once again it seemed to take an absolute age to to cross these vast open plains.
I was worn out when I got to Marathon, the previous days were catching up with me. Soon I would be resting at the hostel I told myself. They'd probably be pleasantly surprised to see a long distance biker arriving to join the celebrations.
It took a while to find the place, on the edge of the little town up a dead end road. When I finally made it there it was very much closed, no one was there at all. They'd all gone off to celebrate Christmas elsewhere I guessed.
A little disappointed, I went to see if the local RV park would have me. If not it looked like I'd be eating pasta at the side of the road this evening.
My luck was in, I could stay and there was just time to get the tent up before dark.
As I was cursing the rock hard, stony soil, a helpful fellow came over and pointed me in the direction of some softer ground. Ten minutes later he came back and invited me to share Christmas dinner with him and his wife. I was overjoyed, I wasn't going to be eating pasta on my own on Christmas day after all.
Forest and Cynthia are American Nomads. They live in their trailer with their dog and travel around the US. They are in their early sixties and their kids are all grown up now and they have been on the road for a few years.
They are not completely retired. Forest went back to school and trained to to repair RVs when the work was drying up in top end construction. Hence they can travel wherever they want, so long as there are people in RVs who need to get them fixed.
It sounded like a pretty good life compared to many and they seemed to be very happy.
They were kind and generous warm and intelligent people. It was their first Christmas with no other family and they told me they were glad to share it with me.
They settled in Northern California when they were young. Forest was a long haired hippy then. He had built them a log cabin in the Redwood forests and it was there that they had their first child.
Far out hippies from the commune, small- town settlers(like Forest and Cynthia)and old-time loggers all co-existed on the mountain at that time. At the weekends sometimes they would all get together and play soccer!
It sounded like a lot of fun but like all good things it all came to an end. Growing Marijuana became big business on the mountain. Organised crime got involved and it became a dangerous place to bring up kids. All these crazy characters went their separate ways.
We ate chicken and mash, carrots and cranberry jelly. It was similar to what we might have for Christmas dinner but less over the top. I think Americans go overboard on Thanksgiving more. It was probably the best meal I've eaten in the US and it certainly made a wonderful change from my constant diet of porridge, bagels, cereal bars and pasta.
We had pumpkin pie for dessert, I'm told this is the real American traditional celebration pie. Forest had made it himself. It was delicious and I went back for seconds.
We drank a little wine and chatted into the evening on all sorts of topics. It was the first time in a month of being here that I've had more than a passing encounter with an American. The first time I've felt invited into somebody's life. I was deeply touched by the thought and it was great to get to know them. I left feeling like I had made new freinds.
Thanks to Forest and Cynthia it felt like Christmas after all.
It was sunny with a light wind was blowing my way. It was generally down hill for the next 60 miles too. It was going to be an easy day, a sort of Christmas present for me.
Plus I couldn't afford two nights in this extortionate motel, the most expensive I'd found in over 1,000 miles of riding.
Fort Davis is a very nice little town but it is definitely a tourist trap. Situated amongst really fantastic scenery in Fort Davis State Park and miles from anywhere else, you have to pay whatever they ask for goods and services. No doubt it is more expensive to get things there, like it is in the Highlands of Scotland.
All the same I would have to leave for financial reasons.
The German cyclist had told me about a hostel in the Marathon, Texas where they welcomed cyclists with open arms. In fact you could stay for free if you arrived on a bike. The hostel was run by a long haired guy apparently and their card said, " Come and join us on the scruffy side".
It sounded like my kind of place, maybe I would take two rest days there and recover from the recent challenges.
I ate a slap up breakfast in a local cafe and had a pleasant chat with a very friendly Texan couple, before finally getting out on the road.
The ride went by easily enough. The road snaked down between the hillsides for a couple of hours. There were weathered sandstone boulder fields or long hill-top escarpments around every bend. It looked like you could have a lot of fun here on a climbing trip.
In the afternoon I rode into the Marathon Basin, the flat grasslands stretched off to rounded ridges on the horizons. Once again it seemed to take an absolute age to to cross these vast open plains.
I was worn out when I got to Marathon, the previous days were catching up with me. Soon I would be resting at the hostel I told myself. They'd probably be pleasantly surprised to see a long distance biker arriving to join the celebrations.
It took a while to find the place, on the edge of the little town up a dead end road. When I finally made it there it was very much closed, no one was there at all. They'd all gone off to celebrate Christmas elsewhere I guessed.
A little disappointed, I went to see if the local RV park would have me. If not it looked like I'd be eating pasta at the side of the road this evening.
My luck was in, I could stay and there was just time to get the tent up before dark.
As I was cursing the rock hard, stony soil, a helpful fellow came over and pointed me in the direction of some softer ground. Ten minutes later he came back and invited me to share Christmas dinner with him and his wife. I was overjoyed, I wasn't going to be eating pasta on my own on Christmas day after all.
Forest and Cynthia are American Nomads. They live in their trailer with their dog and travel around the US. They are in their early sixties and their kids are all grown up now and they have been on the road for a few years.
They are not completely retired. Forest went back to school and trained to to repair RVs when the work was drying up in top end construction. Hence they can travel wherever they want, so long as there are people in RVs who need to get them fixed.
It sounded like a pretty good life compared to many and they seemed to be very happy.
They were kind and generous warm and intelligent people. It was their first Christmas with no other family and they told me they were glad to share it with me.
They settled in Northern California when they were young. Forest was a long haired hippy then. He had built them a log cabin in the Redwood forests and it was there that they had their first child.
Far out hippies from the commune, small- town settlers(like Forest and Cynthia)and old-time loggers all co-existed on the mountain at that time. At the weekends sometimes they would all get together and play soccer!
It sounded like a lot of fun but like all good things it all came to an end. Growing Marijuana became big business on the mountain. Organised crime got involved and it became a dangerous place to bring up kids. All these crazy characters went their separate ways.
We ate chicken and mash, carrots and cranberry jelly. It was similar to what we might have for Christmas dinner but less over the top. I think Americans go overboard on Thanksgiving more. It was probably the best meal I've eaten in the US and it certainly made a wonderful change from my constant diet of porridge, bagels, cereal bars and pasta.
We had pumpkin pie for dessert, I'm told this is the real American traditional celebration pie. Forest had made it himself. It was delicious and I went back for seconds.
We drank a little wine and chatted into the evening on all sorts of topics. It was the first time in a month of being here that I've had more than a passing encounter with an American. The first time I've felt invited into somebody's life. I was deeply touched by the thought and it was great to get to know them. I left feeling like I had made new freinds.
Thanks to Forest and Cynthia it felt like Christmas after all.
Notes from the Davis Mountains, 24/12/2009
In the morning it wasn't raining or snowing, so I got up and left as quickly as I could.
Like in the jungle, I operate a wet and dry routine. That means I wear my dry clothes at night. To keep them dry for the next night, I put my wet clothes back on for the day.
Fortunately most of my wet clothes were actually pretty dry and I soon felt comfortable. My shoes were the exception. I'd kept them in the tent overnight to stop them freezing but there was no way the leather was drying out anytime soon.
It was a a cloudy day. The tops of the mountains were covered in thick cloud and the sun was nowhere to be seen. The mountain slopes had a thick layer of snow on them too. It was cold, just above freezing I estimated.
I put on a dry pair of cotton biking socks then put on my wet shoes.
Putting on wet shoes and socks is a horrible moment when out hiking but to me it is a familiar one. Once you start walking your feet soon warm up and you forget they are wet at all.
Off I went to cross the Davis Mountains with 51 miles including 2,500ft of ascent ahead of me, travelling from north to south.
The mountains looked beautiful all covered in snow, if only that cloud would shift so I could see more of them and warm up a bit.
It was a steady climb and it wasn't long before the snow was all around me. 6-8 inches lay on the roadside verges. It was incongruous to see prickly pear cacti with a good dose of powder snow settled on them. The familiar arid grassland backdrop had certainly been transformed by the storm, into a winter wonderland.
My progress seemed slow and I was distracted from the festive scene by my feet. The water had of course soaked into the cotton socks and now the cold was gnawing at my toes. I was pedalling fast in the low gears,I had even built up a bit of a sweat, but it just didn't seem to be warming my feet up at all.
I could just about put up with the painful numbness I thought. At least riding with the wind was minimising the wind chill. I resolved to wiggle all my toes periodically to make sure I still could and pressed on.
It seemed to be taking forever to get anywhere. There wasn't another soul to be seen, it was Christmas Eve after all. I supposed everyone was already wherever they wanted to be.
Then a solitary car passed me. It took an inordinately long time to go out of view and I realised why I felt like I was going nowhere. It was down to the scale of things. Even cars took ages to get places out here and they were going a lot faser than me.
Parts of West Texas are a bit like some other American landscapes. It's classic 'basin and range' country: where flat wide open plains( basins) lead to far off mountain ranges. Like the kind of thing you find in Arizona but with more grass, less people and no giant cacti.
The difference in Texas is the sheer size of the expanses. Texas is really big. The wide open plains are really wide and really, really open and the distant mountains? Yep, you guessed it they are bloody miles away!!
The epic landscape can give the cyclist the demoralising impression he is not progressing at all.
It is very inspiring but not helpful when you need to be distracted from the discomfort.
Ten miles in and I was starting to seriously worry about my feet. They were really quite bad. I had to stop and take my shoes and socks off. I wanted to see if my toes were actually wiggling when I tried to wiggle them and check the colour of my feet.
They wiggled and were white. It was OK, for now.
"This is ridiculous," I thought " standing with snow all around me and icy winds blowing up the hillside. It was much colder for the rest of my body when not riding along with the wind, but my feet were hating being in the wet shoes and socks.
I decided to break the wet and dry rules and use my dry wool mountaineering socks normally reserved for sleeping. Wool has some warming properties even when it is wet. After all there was no point in being able to warm my feet later if I'd damaged them by then.
I could make a hot water bottle for my feet using my Nalgene drinking bottle if I ended up having to camp out in the snow.
It did make a big difference. I covered another 10 miles and climbed up to 6,000ft before they stared to really dominate my thoughts again.
If I had been walking over this pass my feet would have warmed up nicely by this time. I have learnt there is something different about biking, it just will not warm up very cold feet. It is odd because your legs are working really hard and blood should be pumping away down there. Maybe it's the windchill created by moving at higher speeds.
One way or another my feet were absolutely killing me again. First painful, then numb, then coming back to life with an agonising tingling feeling. They were completely dominating my day, I couldn't really think of anything except how I wanted the sun to come out and dry them out and warm me up.
I spent five minutes dancing in the road to my i-pod: Dire Straits "Money for Nothing" of all things! It helped quite a lot.
The road got a lot steeper and soon I was at 6,500ft. The temperature had plunged. There was easily a foot of snow on the verge here and the road was covered in a slush/snow/ice mix.
Water was splashing up on the bottom of the bike and freezing instantly. The front derailleur froze up stuck on the middle cog. The rear cassette got so clogged up with ice and grit I could no longer engage any of the small cogs. In short whole the bike was slowly freezing up.
Conditions seemed to be right at the limit of what I could actually bike in, I wondered if I was going to end up walking after all.
I needed fuel but couldn't stop moving otherwise the bike and I could both cease to function. So I took out my sandwiches and ate it whilst pushing at bike up the hill. The water in my bottle was too frozen to wash it down, but the Camelback in my panniers was still liquid.
I tried to guess the temperature, a little below freezing perhaps?
My laces had frozen solid, so had the soaked leather of my shoes. I thought my socks were still not frozen. There was no point in stopping to check at this stage. I was fairly confident I could feel my toes wiggle. I had to keep moving.
How I wished the sun would come out.
It was technically hard to ride on the frozen roads. I tried to follow the tracks where cars had driven earlier in the day. I daren't get any speed up because the chances of coming off seemed pretty high, going too slow seemed unstable too with such a heavy load on the back.
It reminded me a little of tricky ascents on slippery, muddy tracks in the Dark Peak District area. I was really glad to have a mountain bike with wide tyres for extra friction. The difficult riding also provided an excellent distraction from my frozen feet for a good hour or more.
The route began to rise and fall annoyingly as these mountain passes seem to do. Reaching an altitude so close to that of the summit only to lose that precious height, before presenting yet anther frustratingly steep slope to climb.
Finally, two hours after lunch the battle was over. I passed a large space observatory and started going down for good.
On the southern side of the mountain the snow soon vanished and best of all the sun came out. Better late than never.
I raced down to what I hoped would be warmer climes.
Back at 5,000ft I still felt my feet hadn't warmed up so I stopped to have a look. Even after riding in the sun for a good ½ hour the laces and leather were still frozen solid. My socks were not frozen but they were wet and very cold. I took them off, ate peanut butter and jam sandwiches and warmed my poor naked feet in the afternoon sun.
A man stopped to see if I was alright. He offered me a lift to Fort Davis. I thanked him but told him I'd ride once my shoes had defrosted. There was only 10 miles to go and after all I'd been through it would be a shame not to finish the day.
Fort Davis State Park is a very beautiful place with curiously shaped sandstone escarpments and boulder fields.It was the kind of place I usually love.
However I was not in an appreciative mood. The last two days had been really hard work. Today had mostly been agony. In fact I had spent much of the day unable to appreciate where I was. I'm sure it would have been lovely to experience in comfort but today my thoughts had been completely overcome by my frozen feet.
I treated myself to a hotel. It was Christmas Eve and I just wanted the struggle to be over.
I wanted to wake up in a nice place on Christmas day.
I wanted to dry my shoes too.
I ate my dinner and had a shower. I lay on the comfortable bed thinking of far away friends and family.
It didn't really feel like Christmas to me.
Like in the jungle, I operate a wet and dry routine. That means I wear my dry clothes at night. To keep them dry for the next night, I put my wet clothes back on for the day.
Fortunately most of my wet clothes were actually pretty dry and I soon felt comfortable. My shoes were the exception. I'd kept them in the tent overnight to stop them freezing but there was no way the leather was drying out anytime soon.
It was a a cloudy day. The tops of the mountains were covered in thick cloud and the sun was nowhere to be seen. The mountain slopes had a thick layer of snow on them too. It was cold, just above freezing I estimated.
I put on a dry pair of cotton biking socks then put on my wet shoes.
Putting on wet shoes and socks is a horrible moment when out hiking but to me it is a familiar one. Once you start walking your feet soon warm up and you forget they are wet at all.
Off I went to cross the Davis Mountains with 51 miles including 2,500ft of ascent ahead of me, travelling from north to south.
The mountains looked beautiful all covered in snow, if only that cloud would shift so I could see more of them and warm up a bit.
It was a steady climb and it wasn't long before the snow was all around me. 6-8 inches lay on the roadside verges. It was incongruous to see prickly pear cacti with a good dose of powder snow settled on them. The familiar arid grassland backdrop had certainly been transformed by the storm, into a winter wonderland.
My progress seemed slow and I was distracted from the festive scene by my feet. The water had of course soaked into the cotton socks and now the cold was gnawing at my toes. I was pedalling fast in the low gears,I had even built up a bit of a sweat, but it just didn't seem to be warming my feet up at all.
I could just about put up with the painful numbness I thought. At least riding with the wind was minimising the wind chill. I resolved to wiggle all my toes periodically to make sure I still could and pressed on.
It seemed to be taking forever to get anywhere. There wasn't another soul to be seen, it was Christmas Eve after all. I supposed everyone was already wherever they wanted to be.
Then a solitary car passed me. It took an inordinately long time to go out of view and I realised why I felt like I was going nowhere. It was down to the scale of things. Even cars took ages to get places out here and they were going a lot faser than me.
Parts of West Texas are a bit like some other American landscapes. It's classic 'basin and range' country: where flat wide open plains( basins) lead to far off mountain ranges. Like the kind of thing you find in Arizona but with more grass, less people and no giant cacti.
The difference in Texas is the sheer size of the expanses. Texas is really big. The wide open plains are really wide and really, really open and the distant mountains? Yep, you guessed it they are bloody miles away!!
The epic landscape can give the cyclist the demoralising impression he is not progressing at all.
It is very inspiring but not helpful when you need to be distracted from the discomfort.
Ten miles in and I was starting to seriously worry about my feet. They were really quite bad. I had to stop and take my shoes and socks off. I wanted to see if my toes were actually wiggling when I tried to wiggle them and check the colour of my feet.
They wiggled and were white. It was OK, for now.
"This is ridiculous," I thought " standing with snow all around me and icy winds blowing up the hillside. It was much colder for the rest of my body when not riding along with the wind, but my feet were hating being in the wet shoes and socks.
I decided to break the wet and dry rules and use my dry wool mountaineering socks normally reserved for sleeping. Wool has some warming properties even when it is wet. After all there was no point in being able to warm my feet later if I'd damaged them by then.
I could make a hot water bottle for my feet using my Nalgene drinking bottle if I ended up having to camp out in the snow.
It did make a big difference. I covered another 10 miles and climbed up to 6,000ft before they stared to really dominate my thoughts again.
If I had been walking over this pass my feet would have warmed up nicely by this time. I have learnt there is something different about biking, it just will not warm up very cold feet. It is odd because your legs are working really hard and blood should be pumping away down there. Maybe it's the windchill created by moving at higher speeds.
One way or another my feet were absolutely killing me again. First painful, then numb, then coming back to life with an agonising tingling feeling. They were completely dominating my day, I couldn't really think of anything except how I wanted the sun to come out and dry them out and warm me up.
I spent five minutes dancing in the road to my i-pod: Dire Straits "Money for Nothing" of all things! It helped quite a lot.
The road got a lot steeper and soon I was at 6,500ft. The temperature had plunged. There was easily a foot of snow on the verge here and the road was covered in a slush/snow/ice mix.
Water was splashing up on the bottom of the bike and freezing instantly. The front derailleur froze up stuck on the middle cog. The rear cassette got so clogged up with ice and grit I could no longer engage any of the small cogs. In short whole the bike was slowly freezing up.
Conditions seemed to be right at the limit of what I could actually bike in, I wondered if I was going to end up walking after all.
I needed fuel but couldn't stop moving otherwise the bike and I could both cease to function. So I took out my sandwiches and ate it whilst pushing at bike up the hill. The water in my bottle was too frozen to wash it down, but the Camelback in my panniers was still liquid.
I tried to guess the temperature, a little below freezing perhaps?
My laces had frozen solid, so had the soaked leather of my shoes. I thought my socks were still not frozen. There was no point in stopping to check at this stage. I was fairly confident I could feel my toes wiggle. I had to keep moving.
How I wished the sun would come out.
It was technically hard to ride on the frozen roads. I tried to follow the tracks where cars had driven earlier in the day. I daren't get any speed up because the chances of coming off seemed pretty high, going too slow seemed unstable too with such a heavy load on the back.
It reminded me a little of tricky ascents on slippery, muddy tracks in the Dark Peak District area. I was really glad to have a mountain bike with wide tyres for extra friction. The difficult riding also provided an excellent distraction from my frozen feet for a good hour or more.
The route began to rise and fall annoyingly as these mountain passes seem to do. Reaching an altitude so close to that of the summit only to lose that precious height, before presenting yet anther frustratingly steep slope to climb.
Finally, two hours after lunch the battle was over. I passed a large space observatory and started going down for good.
On the southern side of the mountain the snow soon vanished and best of all the sun came out. Better late than never.
I raced down to what I hoped would be warmer climes.
Back at 5,000ft I still felt my feet hadn't warmed up so I stopped to have a look. Even after riding in the sun for a good ½ hour the laces and leather were still frozen solid. My socks were not frozen but they were wet and very cold. I took them off, ate peanut butter and jam sandwiches and warmed my poor naked feet in the afternoon sun.
A man stopped to see if I was alright. He offered me a lift to Fort Davis. I thanked him but told him I'd ride once my shoes had defrosted. There was only 10 miles to go and after all I'd been through it would be a shame not to finish the day.
Fort Davis State Park is a very beautiful place with curiously shaped sandstone escarpments and boulder fields.It was the kind of place I usually love.
However I was not in an appreciative mood. The last two days had been really hard work. Today had mostly been agony. In fact I had spent much of the day unable to appreciate where I was. I'm sure it would have been lovely to experience in comfort but today my thoughts had been completely overcome by my frozen feet.
I treated myself to a hotel. It was Christmas Eve and I just wanted the struggle to be over.
I wanted to wake up in a nice place on Christmas day.
I wanted to dry my shoes too.
I ate my dinner and had a shower. I lay on the comfortable bed thinking of far away friends and family.
It didn't really feel like Christmas to me.
Wind Rider 23/12/2009
It had not been a good night. I'd been up and down like a yo-yo, filling a hole with toxic waste. Those pesky Mexicans had poisoned me with their yummy, spicy food.
I didn't feel good but I had to get on. The border patrol were cruising up and down the road in convoy again and it turned out that my camp was only 10 feet from the road. I was amazed that they still failed to notice me in broad daylight. Not that I was complaining mind you. I could do without the hassle of producing documents and explaining why I was sleeping behind a bush first thing in the morning.
There was another reason to get going. The wind was getting up. It was blowing from the south west and today I was travelling north east.
It was a tail wind, a total result.
In a long distance cycling when the wind blows from behind you ride no matter what. You get up early and you ride all day long. It's payback time for all those days you've pushed on into the wind gritting your teeth and fighting for every yard.
On a tailwind day you can go a long way, like going down hill all day long.
I used the last of my water to make porridge but I wasn't worried. It was only a mile to a service station and restaurant according to my map.
Relieved that breakfast hadn't triggered another explosive episode, I was on my way by 7.30.
When I got to the service-station it was 'Closed for refurbishments'. This was not an ideal situation to say the least. The next water stop was 22miles away in Sierra Blanca and I was already dehydrated.
22 miles it was then, I had better get on with it. At least the sun wasn't out. In fact it was cloudy and grey.
My initial excitement about the tailwind was wearing off. I felt ill; it was dismally cloudy; today's route was on the interstate all day and it was uphill with no water for the first 22 miles.
Grunting my way up a steep section in the hard shoulder, using the lowest gears I was not exceeding 7mph. Meanwhile cars were zooming past at 80. Occasional pit stops were required.
The tail wind didn't seem to be helping. It was all beginning to get me down.
Then one of those things amazing things happened. I found a full bottle of mineral water on the roadside. The seal was intact, a whole litre. What are the chances? My spirits lifted a little.
I made it to Sierra Blanca by 10am, it was practically a ghost town. I found the only store in town, ate and drank all I could and filled up my water.
I went to the gas station for a coffee. They gave it to me for free. Nice.
People were running from their warm cars to into the station building apparently traumatised by the cold winds. To be fair it did seem a lot colder and windier than I had realised, things were blowing about on the forecourt.
Feeling better for eating and gassed up on coffee my drive had returned. The wind was getting stronger, about 30mph, and blowing straight down the highway. Days like this don't come along very often. It was 'Big Wednesday' for cross-country cyclists. I was gonna ride that sucker for all it was worth.
I got back on the freeway and went for it. The road had flattened out now and I was flying. The odometer read 35mph sometimes, even going up little slopes it read 25mph.
Only in the highest gears could I actually make any difference. The bike wanted to go north-east and I was along for the ride. I was was loving it.
The cars and trucks were still rushing past but I was racing too. For the first time it felt right that I should be on the freeway. The miles were flying by.
I entered the central time zone, my third time zone of the trip, but there was no time to stop and photograph the sign. It stared to rain. I didn't care. I wanted to just keep on eating up those miles.
I worked out I was averaging 20-25 mph twice my normal average. I arrived in Van Horn (mile 54) at 11.30, except now it was 12.30 central time.
I had achieved my normal day's mileage before lunch but I didn't want to stop there.
Quickly I refilled the water. I ate 3 burgers and 2 bananas then finished up with another big cup of coffee. I wanted to get back out and ride the wind.
The next stop was Kent, Texas nearly 40 miles down the road, at that point my planned route left the interstate and turned to the south-east. Tomorrow the wind was forecast to blow out of the north- west.
If I got to Kent today I'd be set for another tail-wind day when I crossed the 6,000ft + Davis Mountains. Conversely if I didn't get there I'd have a hard time riding in horrible cross winds.
I figured I could make it. It might only take 2 or 3 hours and I was psyched.
Out on the forecourt things had taken a turn. Strong winds often herald an incoming front and so it was today. It had started to hail, horizontally. The skies were dark and threatening, it was windy and cold. Cars began to turn on their lights, pedestrians ran for cover.
I put on my vest and lights and grinned to myself as I hurried out into it.
"Got to get a move on if I want to cover 40 miles. Got to get back on the wind while it lasts."
I was reminded of the days spent white-water kayaking in Wales. The heavy rainstorms and high winds drive most sensible people to take cover indoors. But crazy river paddlers delight, this is what they've been waiting for, this their time.
Today was my time. Charged up on coffee, I was up for it.
The shoulder was full of puddles. Water sprayed up all over my feet and lower legs.
Not a problem-it doesn't matter if you are wet. So long as you are moving you can keep warm, the wind doesn't chill you if you are riding along with it.
10 miles into it the rain returned, cold hard rain. Then it turned to sleet.
The trucks sprayed me all over as they sped by.
Ahead a pick-up had pulled over onto the shoulder. I was going to have to go around on the grass. I wasn't going near those speeding juggernauts in this. I doubt they could see me at all.
As I passed a lady stuck her head out.
"Do you want a ride?" she asked " This isn't good weather for bicycling."
It threw me initially, I was actually enjoying it. Then I instantly knew the right thing to do.
"Yes, please." I said ," That's so kind of you." It blew my whole day's game plan out of the water.
Once settled in the cab I was slightly confused for a while, all hyped up with no where to go. There was no doubt in my mind however that only an idiot would to turn down this offer of safe passage off the interstate. I do like a challenge, even if I have suffer a little. It makes me feel alive but I like to stay alive too.
As we drove the 30 odd miles to Kent the weather got really bad, heavy snow fell and it began to settle. I was actually a bit scared even in the car. I wondered if we were going to skid on the compacted slush that built up.
As Jess kept the car in the tracks the other vehicles had left I imagined myself cycling through this. A big lorry pulled over onto the shoulder to stop. I could have been on that shoulder, I was so glad I wasn't.
Kent turned out to be a gas station with corner shop between the freeway and the railroad.
The monosyllabic guy working there let me put my tent up on his lawn.
It was a miserable place to camp. The lights of the forecourt stayed on throughout the night. Cross country trains passed hourly all night long, sounding their horns as they went. The roar of the freeway 50 yards away never hushed as people hurried home for Christmas Eve.
Worst of all however, the customers seemed to have been using the lawn as a toilet for both their dogs and themselves. I tried my best to avoid the paper and other offerings as I put up my tent. Then very thoroughly sanitised my hands.
Often on this trip I have wished there was somebody with me to share in it all, a plucky young lady perhaps. Tonight I was glad no one else had to sleep here but me.
It had been a fun day. I had had more than my share of good fortune.
Still as I lay in the rain; in my tent; on my own; surrounded by human and animal waste it was hard to feel glad I had made it this far.
I didn't feel good but I had to get on. The border patrol were cruising up and down the road in convoy again and it turned out that my camp was only 10 feet from the road. I was amazed that they still failed to notice me in broad daylight. Not that I was complaining mind you. I could do without the hassle of producing documents and explaining why I was sleeping behind a bush first thing in the morning.
There was another reason to get going. The wind was getting up. It was blowing from the south west and today I was travelling north east.
It was a tail wind, a total result.
In a long distance cycling when the wind blows from behind you ride no matter what. You get up early and you ride all day long. It's payback time for all those days you've pushed on into the wind gritting your teeth and fighting for every yard.
On a tailwind day you can go a long way, like going down hill all day long.
I used the last of my water to make porridge but I wasn't worried. It was only a mile to a service station and restaurant according to my map.
Relieved that breakfast hadn't triggered another explosive episode, I was on my way by 7.30.
When I got to the service-station it was 'Closed for refurbishments'. This was not an ideal situation to say the least. The next water stop was 22miles away in Sierra Blanca and I was already dehydrated.
22 miles it was then, I had better get on with it. At least the sun wasn't out. In fact it was cloudy and grey.
My initial excitement about the tailwind was wearing off. I felt ill; it was dismally cloudy; today's route was on the interstate all day and it was uphill with no water for the first 22 miles.
Grunting my way up a steep section in the hard shoulder, using the lowest gears I was not exceeding 7mph. Meanwhile cars were zooming past at 80. Occasional pit stops were required.
The tail wind didn't seem to be helping. It was all beginning to get me down.
Then one of those things amazing things happened. I found a full bottle of mineral water on the roadside. The seal was intact, a whole litre. What are the chances? My spirits lifted a little.
I made it to Sierra Blanca by 10am, it was practically a ghost town. I found the only store in town, ate and drank all I could and filled up my water.
I went to the gas station for a coffee. They gave it to me for free. Nice.
People were running from their warm cars to into the station building apparently traumatised by the cold winds. To be fair it did seem a lot colder and windier than I had realised, things were blowing about on the forecourt.
Feeling better for eating and gassed up on coffee my drive had returned. The wind was getting stronger, about 30mph, and blowing straight down the highway. Days like this don't come along very often. It was 'Big Wednesday' for cross-country cyclists. I was gonna ride that sucker for all it was worth.
I got back on the freeway and went for it. The road had flattened out now and I was flying. The odometer read 35mph sometimes, even going up little slopes it read 25mph.
Only in the highest gears could I actually make any difference. The bike wanted to go north-east and I was along for the ride. I was was loving it.
The cars and trucks were still rushing past but I was racing too. For the first time it felt right that I should be on the freeway. The miles were flying by.
I entered the central time zone, my third time zone of the trip, but there was no time to stop and photograph the sign. It stared to rain. I didn't care. I wanted to just keep on eating up those miles.
I worked out I was averaging 20-25 mph twice my normal average. I arrived in Van Horn (mile 54) at 11.30, except now it was 12.30 central time.
I had achieved my normal day's mileage before lunch but I didn't want to stop there.
Quickly I refilled the water. I ate 3 burgers and 2 bananas then finished up with another big cup of coffee. I wanted to get back out and ride the wind.
The next stop was Kent, Texas nearly 40 miles down the road, at that point my planned route left the interstate and turned to the south-east. Tomorrow the wind was forecast to blow out of the north- west.
If I got to Kent today I'd be set for another tail-wind day when I crossed the 6,000ft + Davis Mountains. Conversely if I didn't get there I'd have a hard time riding in horrible cross winds.
I figured I could make it. It might only take 2 or 3 hours and I was psyched.
Out on the forecourt things had taken a turn. Strong winds often herald an incoming front and so it was today. It had started to hail, horizontally. The skies were dark and threatening, it was windy and cold. Cars began to turn on their lights, pedestrians ran for cover.
I put on my vest and lights and grinned to myself as I hurried out into it.
"Got to get a move on if I want to cover 40 miles. Got to get back on the wind while it lasts."
I was reminded of the days spent white-water kayaking in Wales. The heavy rainstorms and high winds drive most sensible people to take cover indoors. But crazy river paddlers delight, this is what they've been waiting for, this their time.
Today was my time. Charged up on coffee, I was up for it.
The shoulder was full of puddles. Water sprayed up all over my feet and lower legs.
Not a problem-it doesn't matter if you are wet. So long as you are moving you can keep warm, the wind doesn't chill you if you are riding along with it.
10 miles into it the rain returned, cold hard rain. Then it turned to sleet.
The trucks sprayed me all over as they sped by.
Ahead a pick-up had pulled over onto the shoulder. I was going to have to go around on the grass. I wasn't going near those speeding juggernauts in this. I doubt they could see me at all.
As I passed a lady stuck her head out.
"Do you want a ride?" she asked " This isn't good weather for bicycling."
It threw me initially, I was actually enjoying it. Then I instantly knew the right thing to do.
"Yes, please." I said ," That's so kind of you." It blew my whole day's game plan out of the water.
Once settled in the cab I was slightly confused for a while, all hyped up with no where to go. There was no doubt in my mind however that only an idiot would to turn down this offer of safe passage off the interstate. I do like a challenge, even if I have suffer a little. It makes me feel alive but I like to stay alive too.
As we drove the 30 odd miles to Kent the weather got really bad, heavy snow fell and it began to settle. I was actually a bit scared even in the car. I wondered if we were going to skid on the compacted slush that built up.
As Jess kept the car in the tracks the other vehicles had left I imagined myself cycling through this. A big lorry pulled over onto the shoulder to stop. I could have been on that shoulder, I was so glad I wasn't.
Kent turned out to be a gas station with corner shop between the freeway and the railroad.
The monosyllabic guy working there let me put my tent up on his lawn.
It was a miserable place to camp. The lights of the forecourt stayed on throughout the night. Cross country trains passed hourly all night long, sounding their horns as they went. The roar of the freeway 50 yards away never hushed as people hurried home for Christmas Eve.
Worst of all however, the customers seemed to have been using the lawn as a toilet for both their dogs and themselves. I tried my best to avoid the paper and other offerings as I put up my tent. Then very thoroughly sanitised my hands.
Often on this trip I have wished there was somebody with me to share in it all, a plucky young lady perhaps. Tonight I was glad no one else had to sleep here but me.
It had been a fun day. I had had more than my share of good fortune.
Still as I lay in the rain; in my tent; on my own; surrounded by human and animal waste it was hard to feel glad I had made it this far.
Notes from El Paso County, Texas 21-22/ 12/2009
It was with a great deal of anticipation and a little trepidation that I entered the great state of Texas
Discovering a cycle route across the large and empty looking expanse of 'The Lone Star State' on the map was what had originally drawn me to bike across the southern USA.
"Now there's place I don't know much about" I thought.
Quickly followed by. " I bet it's still warm down there this time of year."
For,like an old friend of mine named Howard, I too am solar powered.
To me the name of Texas conjures up few images. I don't know much about the place. Nodding-dog oil wells come to mind maybe or ranchers roping steers.
Texas is of course home to George W. Bush and to J.R. Ewing from the 80s soap 'Dallas' , celebrated bad guys of fact and fiction.
It is is also the setting for 'The Dukes of Hazard', where good old Bo and Luke Duke tussle with the corrupt local law enforcement.
JFK was shot here. There was an attack on a government buliding in Waco.
Beyond that I don't know much about the biggest state in the lower 48.
You could fit New York, New Jersey, Illinois, Ohio and Pensylvania in the area of land Texas fills. It is about 800 miles across in the direction I am travelling, straddling 2 time zones.
It's unwieldy size was taken into consideration when Texas joined the union. A provision was made giving Texas the right to split into four more managable sized states if necessary.
The clause in question remains on the statue, if it were ever to be acted upon this area would have far greater influence in Washington, sending 4 times as many senators to congress and possibly shifting the balance of power.
In San Diego I had been that warned that Texans really don't like anybody from outside Texas. Although apparently it would be benficial that I am white and have short hair, so long as I didn't speak.
I took these warnings with a large pinch of salt. I have heard similar tales all over the world. People are forever warning you that things are not as good in neighbouring areas or countries.
Gambians will tell you not to trust the Senegalese, they will rob you apparently. As will the Cambodians according to the Lao. Omanis warn that Emiraties are not welcoming as they are. Many a Brit will tell you how awful the French or the Germans are. Southern English will tell you "It's grim up north", whilst some northerners say the south is full of snobs.
It has been my first hand experience that none of the above is true. Consequently I have come to Texas with an open mind. I will take the Texans as I find them and hope they do me the same courtesy.
My first surprise upon arrivng in El Paso, Texas, was to find out that most Texans there are.......
well, Mexicans.
I'm told 93% of population of El Paso are Spanish speaking people of Mexican descent. Mexican Americans perhaps you are supposed to say?
It transpires that 49% of all Texans claim Mexican descent.
Mexican people in El Paso are the antidote to regular Americans. A Mexican waitress who served me in El Paso did so with an air of nonchalance verging on indifference. A complete contrast to the super-friendly, anything to please attitude I have found elsewhere in the country.
There is a rerefreshing honesty to the 'whatever' attitude towards you in El Paso. However I personally I prefer the enthusiasm many other Americans bring to encounters. I am not so cynical in my old age. I buy into the idea that many people are just freindly and helpful. Sure it's sometimes their job too but I believe many of the people I have met were genuine in their positivity towards me.
To an extent you see yourself in others. In Phoenix a homeless man asked me for a cigarette, I didn't have one. He left wishing me luck and saying that he and I were in the same situation. Seeing my scruffy clothes, messy beard and pile of bags on my bike, he had understandably taken me for a fellow bum.
Minutes later at a bus stop a student who met me in the exact same state opened a conversation by telling me how he too planned to ride across the country next year.
El Paso lies in the gap where the Rio Grande flows between the Franklin Mountians and the Sierra Madre in Mexico. It is two cities in one. On the Northern side of the river lies El Paso, spreading up onto the hillsides, on the southern side lies Juarez, Mexico. One city split into two by the river and the national boundary. The quality of life differs a great deal depending on which side you live I am told.
Thousands of peolple cross the border in both directions each year. Mexicans like to come shopping in the US for the day, Americans and others also enjoy the attactions on offer south of the border.
My inability to speak Spanish put me at a distinct disadvantage, it is the Lingua Franca. English is rarely heard on the streets of El Paso. I frequently found myself in a position of not really knowing what was going on.
It was not proving to be to my advantage to white with short hair!
People on the streets of El Paso have an air of patient long-suffering about them. Maybe it is because they are poorer than they'd like to be? Perhaps just because this is their winter? I don't know.
However from time to time they become do extremely animated. If they see an old friend for example or something fires their imagination. Afterwards they fade back into their latent state of apathy.
I ate Mexican food for dinner and stocked up on groceries for the road. I rested my weary legs for a night in a shabby hostel.
After a good experience avoiding traffic gettting out of Phoenix, I decided to put my bike on the bus in El Paso too. I could rest my legs and get a head start on the day I thought.
The bus was 1 ½ hours late. Then the driver got lost and had to turn back. It took 2 hours for the bus to travel 14 miles. The bus ride cost me 3 ½ hours of daylight for a distance I could have covered in an hour and a half by bike.
With services like these for the poor, it is no wonder the El Pasoans have such a disposition.
The theme of following the Rio Grande valley continued with scenery much like what I had left behind in New Mexico: pecans; cotton; horses and ploughed fields.
2 weeks ago I met a German cyclist on the San Carlos Apache Reservation going the other way. He told me, "In Texas every man's land is his own, it is all fenced off. They shoot first and ask questions later. You won't be able to camp like you have there."
So it was reassuring to see occasional patches of unfenced wild land between the fields, scrubby bushland not much good to man nor beast, but ideal camp spots for me.
One noticable difference in Texas is the the Federal Border Patrol. Large numbers of 4 x4 vehicles drive up and down the quiet roads close to the river or park up on the edges of the wild land. The officers never seem to leave their vehicles.
I remain unsure as to what it is they actually do. Mexicans are allowed to come and go across the border anyway and there are numerous legal crossing points along the river. It seemed to be something of a show of force, perhaps to justify the money spent on it.
I have heard a lot about the dangers of Mexican drug cartels, gangsters who operate close to the border. It is said they are finding it hard to make money out of drug smuggling and people trafficing these days and have instead turned their hand to kidnapping Americans for ransom.
I understand the victims have not always crossed into Mexico to enjoy the night life over there.
I would be an easy target for such a plan.
Antonio, a very open and trusworthy local at the hostel, told me the chances of it happening even in Mexico are really very slim- unless you do something stupid. He takes tourists over the border nearly every week.
Like most of the scare stories you hear in this culture of fear, I suspect the dangers are greatly exagerated.
Riding through the ploughed fields of the river valley I was starting to tire of the same old scenery. I remembered one American in San Diego telling me Texas is a boring place to travel.
"If I've got 800 miles of this I'm in trouble" I thought to myself.
A dust cloud blew across the fields from the south, bringing with it a tumble weed which rolled right across the road infront of me.I had imagined tumble weeds to be small, maybe about the size of a big dog. This one was the size of me on my bike at least. Impressive.
With dark clouds gathering in the northern skies and the sun going down over the Mexican mountains to the south-east the place revealed it had a certain atmosphere of it's own. It wasn't so boring after all if you were willing to see it.
I rode on into the night. Miles and miles into the darkenss with not a car or a house in sight. Eventually I ran out of steam and pushed my bike onto some wild land and hid behind some bushes.
The border patrol drove past every couple of hours, I could hear them coming a mile off. I closed the lid of my notebook or turned off my stove to keep my position a secret.
It was a clear starry night but still it was relatively warm. I was the furthest south I'd been so far and at only 3,000 feet. The was no dew, no frost, no need for tent or bivvy bag. I just lay on the mat on the ground gazing up at the clear night skies.
Texas didn't seem like such a bad place.......so far.
Discovering a cycle route across the large and empty looking expanse of 'The Lone Star State' on the map was what had originally drawn me to bike across the southern USA.
"Now there's place I don't know much about" I thought.
Quickly followed by. " I bet it's still warm down there this time of year."
For,like an old friend of mine named Howard, I too am solar powered.
To me the name of Texas conjures up few images. I don't know much about the place. Nodding-dog oil wells come to mind maybe or ranchers roping steers.
Texas is of course home to George W. Bush and to J.R. Ewing from the 80s soap 'Dallas' , celebrated bad guys of fact and fiction.
It is is also the setting for 'The Dukes of Hazard', where good old Bo and Luke Duke tussle with the corrupt local law enforcement.
JFK was shot here. There was an attack on a government buliding in Waco.
Beyond that I don't know much about the biggest state in the lower 48.
You could fit New York, New Jersey, Illinois, Ohio and Pensylvania in the area of land Texas fills. It is about 800 miles across in the direction I am travelling, straddling 2 time zones.
It's unwieldy size was taken into consideration when Texas joined the union. A provision was made giving Texas the right to split into four more managable sized states if necessary.
The clause in question remains on the statue, if it were ever to be acted upon this area would have far greater influence in Washington, sending 4 times as many senators to congress and possibly shifting the balance of power.
In San Diego I had been that warned that Texans really don't like anybody from outside Texas. Although apparently it would be benficial that I am white and have short hair, so long as I didn't speak.
I took these warnings with a large pinch of salt. I have heard similar tales all over the world. People are forever warning you that things are not as good in neighbouring areas or countries.
Gambians will tell you not to trust the Senegalese, they will rob you apparently. As will the Cambodians according to the Lao. Omanis warn that Emiraties are not welcoming as they are. Many a Brit will tell you how awful the French or the Germans are. Southern English will tell you "It's grim up north", whilst some northerners say the south is full of snobs.
It has been my first hand experience that none of the above is true. Consequently I have come to Texas with an open mind. I will take the Texans as I find them and hope they do me the same courtesy.
My first surprise upon arrivng in El Paso, Texas, was to find out that most Texans there are.......
well, Mexicans.
I'm told 93% of population of El Paso are Spanish speaking people of Mexican descent. Mexican Americans perhaps you are supposed to say?
It transpires that 49% of all Texans claim Mexican descent.
Mexican people in El Paso are the antidote to regular Americans. A Mexican waitress who served me in El Paso did so with an air of nonchalance verging on indifference. A complete contrast to the super-friendly, anything to please attitude I have found elsewhere in the country.
There is a rerefreshing honesty to the 'whatever' attitude towards you in El Paso. However I personally I prefer the enthusiasm many other Americans bring to encounters. I am not so cynical in my old age. I buy into the idea that many people are just freindly and helpful. Sure it's sometimes their job too but I believe many of the people I have met were genuine in their positivity towards me.
To an extent you see yourself in others. In Phoenix a homeless man asked me for a cigarette, I didn't have one. He left wishing me luck and saying that he and I were in the same situation. Seeing my scruffy clothes, messy beard and pile of bags on my bike, he had understandably taken me for a fellow bum.
Minutes later at a bus stop a student who met me in the exact same state opened a conversation by telling me how he too planned to ride across the country next year.
El Paso lies in the gap where the Rio Grande flows between the Franklin Mountians and the Sierra Madre in Mexico. It is two cities in one. On the Northern side of the river lies El Paso, spreading up onto the hillsides, on the southern side lies Juarez, Mexico. One city split into two by the river and the national boundary. The quality of life differs a great deal depending on which side you live I am told.
Thousands of peolple cross the border in both directions each year. Mexicans like to come shopping in the US for the day, Americans and others also enjoy the attactions on offer south of the border.
My inability to speak Spanish put me at a distinct disadvantage, it is the Lingua Franca. English is rarely heard on the streets of El Paso. I frequently found myself in a position of not really knowing what was going on.
It was not proving to be to my advantage to white with short hair!
People on the streets of El Paso have an air of patient long-suffering about them. Maybe it is because they are poorer than they'd like to be? Perhaps just because this is their winter? I don't know.
However from time to time they become do extremely animated. If they see an old friend for example or something fires their imagination. Afterwards they fade back into their latent state of apathy.
I ate Mexican food for dinner and stocked up on groceries for the road. I rested my weary legs for a night in a shabby hostel.
After a good experience avoiding traffic gettting out of Phoenix, I decided to put my bike on the bus in El Paso too. I could rest my legs and get a head start on the day I thought.
The bus was 1 ½ hours late. Then the driver got lost and had to turn back. It took 2 hours for the bus to travel 14 miles. The bus ride cost me 3 ½ hours of daylight for a distance I could have covered in an hour and a half by bike.
With services like these for the poor, it is no wonder the El Pasoans have such a disposition.
The theme of following the Rio Grande valley continued with scenery much like what I had left behind in New Mexico: pecans; cotton; horses and ploughed fields.
2 weeks ago I met a German cyclist on the San Carlos Apache Reservation going the other way. He told me, "In Texas every man's land is his own, it is all fenced off. They shoot first and ask questions later. You won't be able to camp like you have there."
So it was reassuring to see occasional patches of unfenced wild land between the fields, scrubby bushland not much good to man nor beast, but ideal camp spots for me.
One noticable difference in Texas is the the Federal Border Patrol. Large numbers of 4 x4 vehicles drive up and down the quiet roads close to the river or park up on the edges of the wild land. The officers never seem to leave their vehicles.
I remain unsure as to what it is they actually do. Mexicans are allowed to come and go across the border anyway and there are numerous legal crossing points along the river. It seemed to be something of a show of force, perhaps to justify the money spent on it.
I have heard a lot about the dangers of Mexican drug cartels, gangsters who operate close to the border. It is said they are finding it hard to make money out of drug smuggling and people trafficing these days and have instead turned their hand to kidnapping Americans for ransom.
I understand the victims have not always crossed into Mexico to enjoy the night life over there.
I would be an easy target for such a plan.
Antonio, a very open and trusworthy local at the hostel, told me the chances of it happening even in Mexico are really very slim- unless you do something stupid. He takes tourists over the border nearly every week.
Like most of the scare stories you hear in this culture of fear, I suspect the dangers are greatly exagerated.
Riding through the ploughed fields of the river valley I was starting to tire of the same old scenery. I remembered one American in San Diego telling me Texas is a boring place to travel.
"If I've got 800 miles of this I'm in trouble" I thought to myself.
A dust cloud blew across the fields from the south, bringing with it a tumble weed which rolled right across the road infront of me.I had imagined tumble weeds to be small, maybe about the size of a big dog. This one was the size of me on my bike at least. Impressive.
With dark clouds gathering in the northern skies and the sun going down over the Mexican mountains to the south-east the place revealed it had a certain atmosphere of it's own. It wasn't so boring after all if you were willing to see it.
I rode on into the night. Miles and miles into the darkenss with not a car or a house in sight. Eventually I ran out of steam and pushed my bike onto some wild land and hid behind some bushes.
The border patrol drove past every couple of hours, I could hear them coming a mile off. I closed the lid of my notebook or turned off my stove to keep my position a secret.
It was a clear starry night but still it was relatively warm. I was the furthest south I'd been so far and at only 3,000 feet. The was no dew, no frost, no need for tent or bivvy bag. I just lay on the mat on the ground gazing up at the clear night skies.
Texas didn't seem like such a bad place.......so far.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Notes from the Rio Grande New Mexico, 19 -20 /12/2009
Since crossing the mountains. I have descended in to the valleys again and sent the last few days following the path of the Rio Grande.
The Rio Grande starts out in the mountains of Colorado, then flows south and east across New Mexico. Upon arrival at El Paso,Texas it then forms the border between Mexico and the United States as it continues its journey to the Gulf of Mexico.
Personally I don't understand Spanish but the name Rio Grande brings images of a mighty river to mind somehow. In reality is the modern Rio Grande little more than a wandering stream in Southern New Mexico. If you were to throw a stick in for your dog, there are places where it is questionable whether he would have to swim to retrieve it.
The stream does, however, run in a ditch big enough to hold a mighty river were one to hand.
As with anything to do with precious water in this arid land, there are lots of possible explanations for where all the water has gone. It depends who you listen to.
A man named Antonino in El Paso told me that two dams upstream in New Mexico are responsible for the river's unimpressive nature.
Activities in the flat and fertile valley suggest another possible explanation, being as it is, heavily farmed. Canals criss-cross the area taking water here there and everywhere. It seems the river has left it's natural ditch and is hard at work in the fields producing food for us.
This is chile country and they grow here in their millions. Growing, dehydrating and packing chiles is a big business. The chile is very much at the heart of the cuisine throughout the south.
The other major product of the valley is the pecan,( pronounced "pCAN" here). Pecan orchards are even more numerous than chile fields.
I rode through an avenue of pecan tress several miles long at one point. Long straight rows of trees,pruned and tendered, stretched off into the distance as far as then eye could see. The higher branches of the roadside trees reached overhead as if to touch, but in vain as even the back roads in the US are too wide for them to span.
This time of year the pecan nuts can be easily seen hanging in the trees as the leaves have recently fallen. Stern signs make it clear that pinching nuts is not allowed. The funny thing is initially I had no intention of taking pecans, the idea hadn't even crossed my mind. But there must be something about forbidden acts that stirs the rebel inside. After a while I became increasingly tempted to just throw down my bike and go pecan-picking crazy.
I restrained myself. A fortune cookie in Silver City had told me, 'The honourable path leads to all you need.'. I am not one to ignore the advice of sage yet delicious confectionery.
Round one bend there was a rustling in the orchard. I was primed for something to rush out of the bushes: I have been chased by dozens of barking dogs on this trip. Some are remarkably persistent. It turns out a great many breeds of dog can maintain a speed of 20-25mph, whilst barking, for a long time!
On this occasion however the noise was actually a vibrating tree.
Not being something you see very day this caught my interest.
Pecans are harvested by a kind of tractor with a specialised attachment. It backs up to a tree and metal jaws take hold of the trunk. Then it vibrates violently- giving the trees a good shake and all the nuts to fall to the floor.
Next another sit-on-top diesel vehicle drives around the orchard sucking up the leaf litter. Somehow it separates the nuts from the leaves, the latter are duly spat back out onto the ground.
In Texas I've seen the job of the second machine being done by hand. Mexican farm workers sit on the floor sorting the individual nuts from the leaves all day long. It looks quite a boring job and I shouldn't imagine they are getting rich doing it either.
Alongside the chiles and nuts grow fields of maize, grape vines, grass for feed and the ubiquitous cash crop cotton. Dairy farms and horse ranches break up the arable from time to time.
All in all this sunny, fertile, irrigated valley produces pretty much everything you need for a good life: water; food; cloth; wood; animals; even a little wine. No doubt it's one of nature's special places.
It was in the Rio Grande valley that I first came across whole communities of Mexican people living in the US. Putting the Mexico in New Mexico. They seem to mostly live and work in the agricultural areas here. Some speak English really well, better than me, others hardly at all.
It was a sunday when I rode through their communities, everyone went to church. People were smiling and waving as I passed by. I noticed they were much more patient and considerate drivers than some other Americans I have encountered.
Sadly I did not eally have the chance to spend any time with these seemingly peaceful people.
As I rode into Texas after two days in the Rio Grande valley I looked back on my short time in New Mexico. I have only seen a tiny part of the state in the five days I've been here.
Overall my impression is that New Mexico is not as bankrupt as Arizona. There were few closed down businesses and a normal amount of lots and houses for sale. The shops are not full of 'beat the recession' special offers.
Perhaps this is because South East New Mexico is a productive place? It has big mountains that produce rivers. It has fertile pastures and grasslands, they must produce a lot of food and provide work for the people.
In a way it makes more sense for people to live in a place like this. Here nature can provide for their needs more easily.
It reminds me of an old Taoist saying," Work with rather than against things that happen and you will have evrything that matters."
The Rio Grande starts out in the mountains of Colorado, then flows south and east across New Mexico. Upon arrival at El Paso,Texas it then forms the border between Mexico and the United States as it continues its journey to the Gulf of Mexico.
Personally I don't understand Spanish but the name Rio Grande brings images of a mighty river to mind somehow. In reality is the modern Rio Grande little more than a wandering stream in Southern New Mexico. If you were to throw a stick in for your dog, there are places where it is questionable whether he would have to swim to retrieve it.
The stream does, however, run in a ditch big enough to hold a mighty river were one to hand.
As with anything to do with precious water in this arid land, there are lots of possible explanations for where all the water has gone. It depends who you listen to.
A man named Antonino in El Paso told me that two dams upstream in New Mexico are responsible for the river's unimpressive nature.
Activities in the flat and fertile valley suggest another possible explanation, being as it is, heavily farmed. Canals criss-cross the area taking water here there and everywhere. It seems the river has left it's natural ditch and is hard at work in the fields producing food for us.
This is chile country and they grow here in their millions. Growing, dehydrating and packing chiles is a big business. The chile is very much at the heart of the cuisine throughout the south.
The other major product of the valley is the pecan,( pronounced "pCAN" here). Pecan orchards are even more numerous than chile fields.
I rode through an avenue of pecan tress several miles long at one point. Long straight rows of trees,pruned and tendered, stretched off into the distance as far as then eye could see. The higher branches of the roadside trees reached overhead as if to touch, but in vain as even the back roads in the US are too wide for them to span.
This time of year the pecan nuts can be easily seen hanging in the trees as the leaves have recently fallen. Stern signs make it clear that pinching nuts is not allowed. The funny thing is initially I had no intention of taking pecans, the idea hadn't even crossed my mind. But there must be something about forbidden acts that stirs the rebel inside. After a while I became increasingly tempted to just throw down my bike and go pecan-picking crazy.
I restrained myself. A fortune cookie in Silver City had told me, 'The honourable path leads to all you need.'. I am not one to ignore the advice of sage yet delicious confectionery.
Round one bend there was a rustling in the orchard. I was primed for something to rush out of the bushes: I have been chased by dozens of barking dogs on this trip. Some are remarkably persistent. It turns out a great many breeds of dog can maintain a speed of 20-25mph, whilst barking, for a long time!
On this occasion however the noise was actually a vibrating tree.
Not being something you see very day this caught my interest.
Pecans are harvested by a kind of tractor with a specialised attachment. It backs up to a tree and metal jaws take hold of the trunk. Then it vibrates violently- giving the trees a good shake and all the nuts to fall to the floor.
Next another sit-on-top diesel vehicle drives around the orchard sucking up the leaf litter. Somehow it separates the nuts from the leaves, the latter are duly spat back out onto the ground.
In Texas I've seen the job of the second machine being done by hand. Mexican farm workers sit on the floor sorting the individual nuts from the leaves all day long. It looks quite a boring job and I shouldn't imagine they are getting rich doing it either.
Alongside the chiles and nuts grow fields of maize, grape vines, grass for feed and the ubiquitous cash crop cotton. Dairy farms and horse ranches break up the arable from time to time.
All in all this sunny, fertile, irrigated valley produces pretty much everything you need for a good life: water; food; cloth; wood; animals; even a little wine. No doubt it's one of nature's special places.
It was in the Rio Grande valley that I first came across whole communities of Mexican people living in the US. Putting the Mexico in New Mexico. They seem to mostly live and work in the agricultural areas here. Some speak English really well, better than me, others hardly at all.
It was a sunday when I rode through their communities, everyone went to church. People were smiling and waving as I passed by. I noticed they were much more patient and considerate drivers than some other Americans I have encountered.
Sadly I did not eally have the chance to spend any time with these seemingly peaceful people.
As I rode into Texas after two days in the Rio Grande valley I looked back on my short time in New Mexico. I have only seen a tiny part of the state in the five days I've been here.
Overall my impression is that New Mexico is not as bankrupt as Arizona. There were few closed down businesses and a normal amount of lots and houses for sale. The shops are not full of 'beat the recession' special offers.
Perhaps this is because South East New Mexico is a productive place? It has big mountains that produce rivers. It has fertile pastures and grasslands, they must produce a lot of food and provide work for the people.
In a way it makes more sense for people to live in a place like this. Here nature can provide for their needs more easily.
It reminds me of an old Taoist saying," Work with rather than against things that happen and you will have evrything that matters."
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Notes from crossing the Emory Pass,19/12/2009
The sun has just slipped below the horizon. Jumping the gun, the crescent moon is already up in the western sky- not putting in much of a performance today it would appear.
The firewood is piled up and ready to go, sorted according to size.
It will be cold again soon. Very cold.
Before that though I have a chance to record my experiences for the first time in a while.
The day of crossing the big pass got off to a shaky start. Getting the news about my job set me back an hour and I didn't end up leaving until 10 am. With 48 miles and over 4000ft of climbing I was going to be cutting it fine to get over the pass that day.
Leaving Silver City I discovered where they keep all the fast food stores: on the road out of town. I guess it would have been too much to believe they had truly kept them at bay. The fact remains downtown Silver City has lovely locally owned and run feel to it not that common in America, in my limited experience.
I climbed from 6000ft to 7000ft, passing the Santa Clara open-cast copper mines. They are the deepest in the US. You could fit several of the biggest slate quarries back home inside that hole. That's big.
Unlike the Dinorwig slate quarries however, which have a certain beauty to them if your mind is open to it, this mine is an ugly sight to behold. It has neat and geometric appearance, the product of the systematic destruction of a perfectly good mountain on an enormous scale.
Annoyingly the route now descended to 5000ft, making the top of the pass at 8,228ft seem like a big ask.
The river valleys in South East New Mexico remind me of the fictional Hazard County from 'The Dukes of Hazard'. There is grassland with plenty of deciduous trees about. Creeks and ditches are lined with Cotton Woods and Willows, bare in their winter plumage. Old oaks stand proud at the side of the road.
There are single storey wooden houses tucked away in copses on roadside the farmsteads. Outside lie battered old pick up trucks and caravans in various states of disrepair. Fortunately Bo and Luke Duke have not come roaring around the bends in the General Lee. Unfortunately Miss Daisy Duke is conspicuous by her absence too although I think I may have seen Uncle Jesse going the other way a few times!
The cycling has actually been very liberating here in New Mexico, the roads have been quiet and small. True back roads taking me through the peaceful countryside. Every time I pass a car we wave to each other, in recognition of another fellow human.
I have not felt the need to wear my high-vis vest once and only a couple of time has the helmet come out. More often my 'Indiana Jones' felt hat is called for, to give me protection from the sun.
Dr Jones knew a thing or two. It is a fine example of a hat - keeping off the sun, the rain and can even keeping you warm. You can squash it in your bag and it just goes right back into shape. Brilliant.
It has been all over the world with me and it seems very much at home in this land where every man has a useful hat.
Despite its many talents, the felt hat is not really ideal for cycling. It's wide brim has a habit of catching the breeze unexpectedly. I have learnt that if I engage the biggest ring on my front set of gears, it means I'm exceeding 15 mph and the hat is coming off one way or another!
This leads to a hilarious situation when riding those rollercoaster undulating dips in the road: wearing my hat I grind up the hills puffing and panting. Then I de-hat at the top and I whizz down the other side with it scrunched up in my teeth, ready to be redeployed when the momentum inevitably runs out.
Ah well at least on the long uphills, where I never exceed 10 mph, the felt hat is very useful protection, as it is at lunch stops.
Thankfully climbing up out of the valley a second time wasn't too arduous. However the landscape was nothing new: grassland, hills, junipers bushes etc. I was beginning to think it was a bit of a bore having to climb over 8,000ft of grassy hills with the occasional tree.
With nothing else to think about, my mind began to wonder back to my troubles and my worries away from this ride.
7,000ft came again. Then the road went down to 6,500 again, I was very annoyed this time. It was getting late and I had to get to the summit and down 9 miles of very steep zig-zags on the other side. I wanted to do that in the daylight thanks very much.
I got a flat tyre, it took ½ an hour to fix, it was 15.30.
Back to 7,000ft once more, the trees had now fully taken over from grass. I had to admit the views down into the pine clad valleys in all directions were rather nice even if the top was nowhere to be seen.
Pushing on and up very steeply at practically walking pace I passed a rise with a particularly fine view of snowy hillsides to the south. When the road dropped back to 7000ft again my patience was really starting to wear thin.
'Just take me to the bloody top', I grumbled, to whom I'm not sure.
Then out of the blue the road entered a charming flatter section. A little gorge with 20m tall rock walls on either side. The empty road twisted and turned following the path of a tiny river 10m below me. The crumbly grey schist cliffs blocked out the sun and I could see patches of frozen water in the stream.
There was something secret and magical about being in this dark, cold canyon. For a few miles the riding was easy and I had time to look about into all the little corners of the forest close by. Snow appeared at the roadside, in little patches at first. Like a big kid I stopped to take a photo of the bike in the snow.
There was black ice on the road to avoid too. I had to pay attention, taking care not to get too engrossed in the atmosphere. What with one thing and another it was pleasantly distracting.
Absorbed in it all I could tell I was smiling, my worries seemed a million miles away. New Mexico dubs itself 'Land of Enchantment' on it's tourist information signs, I was beginning to see why.
The canyon came to an end but to my delight the special ambiance remained in the forest. I followed the river valley back and forth slowly rising closer to the top without much noticing the effort. Soon enough there was snow on the ground amongst the trees.
It was 16.30 and I was still only at 7,500ft. It as getting colder and going to get dark in an hour. I willed the pass to come and as if in answer to my thoughts the road got considerably steeper.
It began to feel like the bike had got a lot heavier. I stopped to check the brakes weren't stuck on. They weren't, nor were the tyres flat. I was very odd, I was finding it very hard going. As 8,000ft arrived I had a shortness of breath that I never get when riding.
I am blessed with a natural ability to walk and ride up hills forever. I don't know why I just can. I never have to stop on the road. I just go slow and keep going indefinitely.
It was all very odd.
After my second enforced stop I noticed a slight pain in my chest, almost like indigestion....... and.... maybe a bit of a headache?
Finally I put two and two together. I was suffering from the altitude, for the first time in my life. I was surprised because I'm sure I've worked at higher altitudes than this before without problems.
I knew I wasn't in danger. My symptoms were mild, but I did need to get over the top and lose some height. Either that or go back down the way I'd just come up. I couldn't just wait for a while and adapt (as you sometimes can), because it was about to go dark and it was bloody freezing!
There was no contest with only 228 vertical ft to go I was going over the top. In the end I had to walk my bike the last few feet to the summit. The bent forward riding posture seemed to reduce my lung capacity. In the end, one way or another, I got up there.
The views were amazing. It was a 180 degree panorama of snow, forest and mountains all around, now in the shade as night drew in. Below were dry hills, grasslands and rock escarpments still lit up by the last of sun.
It was 17.00.
I couldn't hang around. I had to get down. A 1400Ft descent over 9 miles of steep switchbacks with precipitous drops awaited me. I needed to do it in the day light. Otherwise I'd have trouble avoiding the patches of ice on the road waiting to send me flying over the edge.
I wasn't breathing all that well either and even simple things seemed a lot more difficult then normal.
I put my helmet on, and my winter gloves, and off I went: quickly but carefully and with full concentration. I feathered the brakes and banked into the corners like racing motorcyclist. It was exhilarating to have to remain so totally focused at the end of such a demanding day.
Within 10 minutes I was below the snowline again and thanks to the windchill I could no longer feel my feet.
At 17.30 I arrived at the state forest campsite. I had just enough time tie up my hammock before being plunged into darkness.
My breathing was back to normal, unsurprisingly. Even with severe symptoms descending 1000ft and waiting is often enough to alleviate the problems I'm told.
Simple tasks still seemed much more difficult than normal though, I put it down to tiredness,dehydration and the cold. I cooked and ate dinner; drank a pint of hot tea; put the food in the bear box and went straight to bed- wearing all the clothes I have with me.
Quite a day really: lost my job; rode 48 miles, climbed 4,112ft; found a magical canyon and enchanted forest; got AMS; and slept in a hammock in the woods at over 2000m.
Today's 71 mile mission seemed tame by comparison.
I have decided to carry on with the ride. I will try to apply for work on rest days and only come home for an interview.
This is a once in a lifetime experience. You never know how long that lifetime is. I'll ride on in Simon's honour.
My hands are cold now. I'm going to light that fire.
Tomorrow I ride to Texas. Yee Ha!!!
The firewood is piled up and ready to go, sorted according to size.
It will be cold again soon. Very cold.
Before that though I have a chance to record my experiences for the first time in a while.
The day of crossing the big pass got off to a shaky start. Getting the news about my job set me back an hour and I didn't end up leaving until 10 am. With 48 miles and over 4000ft of climbing I was going to be cutting it fine to get over the pass that day.
Leaving Silver City I discovered where they keep all the fast food stores: on the road out of town. I guess it would have been too much to believe they had truly kept them at bay. The fact remains downtown Silver City has lovely locally owned and run feel to it not that common in America, in my limited experience.
I climbed from 6000ft to 7000ft, passing the Santa Clara open-cast copper mines. They are the deepest in the US. You could fit several of the biggest slate quarries back home inside that hole. That's big.
Unlike the Dinorwig slate quarries however, which have a certain beauty to them if your mind is open to it, this mine is an ugly sight to behold. It has neat and geometric appearance, the product of the systematic destruction of a perfectly good mountain on an enormous scale.
Annoyingly the route now descended to 5000ft, making the top of the pass at 8,228ft seem like a big ask.
The river valleys in South East New Mexico remind me of the fictional Hazard County from 'The Dukes of Hazard'. There is grassland with plenty of deciduous trees about. Creeks and ditches are lined with Cotton Woods and Willows, bare in their winter plumage. Old oaks stand proud at the side of the road.
There are single storey wooden houses tucked away in copses on roadside the farmsteads. Outside lie battered old pick up trucks and caravans in various states of disrepair. Fortunately Bo and Luke Duke have not come roaring around the bends in the General Lee. Unfortunately Miss Daisy Duke is conspicuous by her absence too although I think I may have seen Uncle Jesse going the other way a few times!
The cycling has actually been very liberating here in New Mexico, the roads have been quiet and small. True back roads taking me through the peaceful countryside. Every time I pass a car we wave to each other, in recognition of another fellow human.
I have not felt the need to wear my high-vis vest once and only a couple of time has the helmet come out. More often my 'Indiana Jones' felt hat is called for, to give me protection from the sun.
Dr Jones knew a thing or two. It is a fine example of a hat - keeping off the sun, the rain and can even keeping you warm. You can squash it in your bag and it just goes right back into shape. Brilliant.
It has been all over the world with me and it seems very much at home in this land where every man has a useful hat.
Despite its many talents, the felt hat is not really ideal for cycling. It's wide brim has a habit of catching the breeze unexpectedly. I have learnt that if I engage the biggest ring on my front set of gears, it means I'm exceeding 15 mph and the hat is coming off one way or another!
This leads to a hilarious situation when riding those rollercoaster undulating dips in the road: wearing my hat I grind up the hills puffing and panting. Then I de-hat at the top and I whizz down the other side with it scrunched up in my teeth, ready to be redeployed when the momentum inevitably runs out.
Ah well at least on the long uphills, where I never exceed 10 mph, the felt hat is very useful protection, as it is at lunch stops.
Thankfully climbing up out of the valley a second time wasn't too arduous. However the landscape was nothing new: grassland, hills, junipers bushes etc. I was beginning to think it was a bit of a bore having to climb over 8,000ft of grassy hills with the occasional tree.
With nothing else to think about, my mind began to wonder back to my troubles and my worries away from this ride.
7,000ft came again. Then the road went down to 6,500 again, I was very annoyed this time. It was getting late and I had to get to the summit and down 9 miles of very steep zig-zags on the other side. I wanted to do that in the daylight thanks very much.
I got a flat tyre, it took ½ an hour to fix, it was 15.30.
Back to 7,000ft once more, the trees had now fully taken over from grass. I had to admit the views down into the pine clad valleys in all directions were rather nice even if the top was nowhere to be seen.
Pushing on and up very steeply at practically walking pace I passed a rise with a particularly fine view of snowy hillsides to the south. When the road dropped back to 7000ft again my patience was really starting to wear thin.
'Just take me to the bloody top', I grumbled, to whom I'm not sure.
Then out of the blue the road entered a charming flatter section. A little gorge with 20m tall rock walls on either side. The empty road twisted and turned following the path of a tiny river 10m below me. The crumbly grey schist cliffs blocked out the sun and I could see patches of frozen water in the stream.
There was something secret and magical about being in this dark, cold canyon. For a few miles the riding was easy and I had time to look about into all the little corners of the forest close by. Snow appeared at the roadside, in little patches at first. Like a big kid I stopped to take a photo of the bike in the snow.
There was black ice on the road to avoid too. I had to pay attention, taking care not to get too engrossed in the atmosphere. What with one thing and another it was pleasantly distracting.
Absorbed in it all I could tell I was smiling, my worries seemed a million miles away. New Mexico dubs itself 'Land of Enchantment' on it's tourist information signs, I was beginning to see why.
The canyon came to an end but to my delight the special ambiance remained in the forest. I followed the river valley back and forth slowly rising closer to the top without much noticing the effort. Soon enough there was snow on the ground amongst the trees.
It was 16.30 and I was still only at 7,500ft. It as getting colder and going to get dark in an hour. I willed the pass to come and as if in answer to my thoughts the road got considerably steeper.
It began to feel like the bike had got a lot heavier. I stopped to check the brakes weren't stuck on. They weren't, nor were the tyres flat. I was very odd, I was finding it very hard going. As 8,000ft arrived I had a shortness of breath that I never get when riding.
I am blessed with a natural ability to walk and ride up hills forever. I don't know why I just can. I never have to stop on the road. I just go slow and keep going indefinitely.
It was all very odd.
After my second enforced stop I noticed a slight pain in my chest, almost like indigestion....... and.... maybe a bit of a headache?
Finally I put two and two together. I was suffering from the altitude, for the first time in my life. I was surprised because I'm sure I've worked at higher altitudes than this before without problems.
I knew I wasn't in danger. My symptoms were mild, but I did need to get over the top and lose some height. Either that or go back down the way I'd just come up. I couldn't just wait for a while and adapt (as you sometimes can), because it was about to go dark and it was bloody freezing!
There was no contest with only 228 vertical ft to go I was going over the top. In the end I had to walk my bike the last few feet to the summit. The bent forward riding posture seemed to reduce my lung capacity. In the end, one way or another, I got up there.
The views were amazing. It was a 180 degree panorama of snow, forest and mountains all around, now in the shade as night drew in. Below were dry hills, grasslands and rock escarpments still lit up by the last of sun.
It was 17.00.
I couldn't hang around. I had to get down. A 1400Ft descent over 9 miles of steep switchbacks with precipitous drops awaited me. I needed to do it in the day light. Otherwise I'd have trouble avoiding the patches of ice on the road waiting to send me flying over the edge.
I wasn't breathing all that well either and even simple things seemed a lot more difficult then normal.
I put my helmet on, and my winter gloves, and off I went: quickly but carefully and with full concentration. I feathered the brakes and banked into the corners like racing motorcyclist. It was exhilarating to have to remain so totally focused at the end of such a demanding day.
Within 10 minutes I was below the snowline again and thanks to the windchill I could no longer feel my feet.
At 17.30 I arrived at the state forest campsite. I had just enough time tie up my hammock before being plunged into darkness.
My breathing was back to normal, unsurprisingly. Even with severe symptoms descending 1000ft and waiting is often enough to alleviate the problems I'm told.
Simple tasks still seemed much more difficult than normal though, I put it down to tiredness,dehydration and the cold. I cooked and ate dinner; drank a pint of hot tea; put the food in the bear box and went straight to bed- wearing all the clothes I have with me.
Quite a day really: lost my job; rode 48 miles, climbed 4,112ft; found a magical canyon and enchanted forest; got AMS; and slept in a hammock in the woods at over 2000m.
Today's 71 mile mission seemed tame by comparison.
I have decided to carry on with the ride. I will try to apply for work on rest days and only come home for an interview.
This is a once in a lifetime experience. You never know how long that lifetime is. I'll ride on in Simon's honour.
My hands are cold now. I'm going to light that fire.
Tomorrow I ride to Texas. Yee Ha!!!
Friday, December 18, 2009
Bummer
The recession has claimed it's latest vicitm - me.
I was due to return to the UK in feburary, exhausted and penniless but with a good job to go to with one of the longest running providers of outdoor education, Outward Bound.
I turned down 2 other good jobs to take this one as I felt it was time to make a commitment to an employer who would help develop me as an instructor so I could provide my students with a really worth while experience.
Bookings are down for next year apparently and it's last in first out. So now I am left high and dry. The hiring time for 2010 is late 2009 so most of the other good jobs for next season will be gone already. Plus I'm on the wrong side of the pond to go to interviews.
The future looks uncertain, I don't really know what to do. I probably can't get a flight home until after xmas now anyway, maybe not even new year.
I'm all alone and things don't look too bright for me down the road.
I know I should try to just enjoy the time I have here somehow.
What is going to happen next?
I was due to return to the UK in feburary, exhausted and penniless but with a good job to go to with one of the longest running providers of outdoor education, Outward Bound.
I turned down 2 other good jobs to take this one as I felt it was time to make a commitment to an employer who would help develop me as an instructor so I could provide my students with a really worth while experience.
Bookings are down for next year apparently and it's last in first out. So now I am left high and dry. The hiring time for 2010 is late 2009 so most of the other good jobs for next season will be gone already. Plus I'm on the wrong side of the pond to go to interviews.
The future looks uncertain, I don't really know what to do. I probably can't get a flight home until after xmas now anyway, maybe not even new year.
I'm all alone and things don't look too bright for me down the road.
I know I should try to just enjoy the time I have here somehow.
What is going to happen next?
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Notes from Silver City, 17/12/2009
Silver City is the hidden gem of south eastern New Mexico. Surrounded by cattle ranches, fur trappers and large scale copper mining, this cultural oasis nestles between the hills waiting to be discovered.
The small university town has a calm and bohemian atmosphere. There is little traffic on the main streets of old downtown. Bicyclists drift quietly by in unusually large numbers for an inland US city.
Art and crafts seem to be central to ethos of the city. Many of the buildings are brightly coloured, others are decorated with vivid Latin American themed murals.
The businesses in town are mostly art galleries, craft shops, health food shops, farmers markets, coffee shops or little restaurants. There is not a single nationwide branded store or restaurant to be found on the downtown streets. It's was refreshing change to discover a corner of the country yet to become homogenised by the commercial chains which usually dominate.
I am having a rest day before I cross the continental divide for the second time tomorrow.
The locals tell me the views from the Emory Pass View Point are something special on a clear winters day.
I am camped on the lawn of an RV park in the centre of town yet there is less road noise here than some nights when I have wild camped in the desert such is the subdued ambiance of Silver City..
Along with drinking fair trade coffee, eating Mexican food, and a little window shopping, I have spent most of the day conversing with the residents of this trailer park.
This morning a former US marine named Chuck and I spent hours discussing the benefits of the vagabond lifestyle and the pleasures of cycle travel. Chuck has cycled across the USA himself as well as driving his motorbike from the America to Patagonia. Now in retirement, travel is his life.
Chuck's opinion was what guys like me are doing is having our retirement parallel to our working lives, rather than having one then the other. He thought it a wise course of action seeing as the era of jobs for life is gone and the retirement age may well go up by the time our turn comes.
It was a novel angle for me, but I liked it. I hadn't realised that I've been semi-retired all these years!
Another retiree, named Gary, made a point to come and chat this afternoon. He led our conversation through the cultural changes of the 1960s; the English influence on rock and roll; the value in learning foreign languages; Britain and America's roles in the slave trade; the ignorance of the American people to what the government and other powerful organisations are really up to.
Gary was a great guy, a real product of the 1960s. Now verging on becoming an old man his mind remains as open as his heart. He fills the long winter nights playing his guitar or educating himself, finding out what is really going on using his computer to escape the blinkered world of the US media.
These are the kind of people you may meet in Silver City, it's that kind of place. At least it has been for me.
In town Louis had set up his stall in a parking lot on the main drag. He sells locally grown, grass-fed beef, lamb and goat. He rears the cattle himself on the far side of Bear Mountain.
Louis explained his take on the juniper trees on his land. He told me they are very thirsty plants. Cattle won't eat the saplings so each year there are more and more. He told me of the many dry creeks that run through the valleys, most were full decades ago when there were less trees on the hillsides.
Apparently it is getting harder to rear cattle on the land these days. As the number of trees grows and grow so do the tensions between people over water rights. Bear Mountain got it's name because it was just that, not anymore apparently.
Fires used to sweep the lands from time to time, burning off all the vegetation. However since a devastating fire up in Iowa a few years ago, fires are no longer allowed to take hold. These fires would make the land completely unproductive for 5 or 6 years but they did prevent the forestation of the grasslands. It had been that way for 500 years or more.
Trees are generally viewed as climate heroes nowadays, they capture carbon and provide a wildlife habitat. It was interesting to hear the flip side of increasing tree numbers in these arid highlands.
Less local beef production means more food transportation, which in turn means more carbon emissions. Less local water available to the settlements here will ultimately result in the expenditure of more energy to pump water here from far away, as they do in Southern California.
Being a farmer it is worth bearing in mind Louis personal financial interest in the issue of the trees. Nevertheless does illustrate the complex balancing act of managing our natural to meet the need and wants of so many people.
I has been a thought provoking time in Silver City, but now it's time for calorie loading before tomorrows big push for the summit.
Wish me luck!
The small university town has a calm and bohemian atmosphere. There is little traffic on the main streets of old downtown. Bicyclists drift quietly by in unusually large numbers for an inland US city.
Art and crafts seem to be central to ethos of the city. Many of the buildings are brightly coloured, others are decorated with vivid Latin American themed murals.
The businesses in town are mostly art galleries, craft shops, health food shops, farmers markets, coffee shops or little restaurants. There is not a single nationwide branded store or restaurant to be found on the downtown streets. It's was refreshing change to discover a corner of the country yet to become homogenised by the commercial chains which usually dominate.
I am having a rest day before I cross the continental divide for the second time tomorrow.
The locals tell me the views from the Emory Pass View Point are something special on a clear winters day.
I am camped on the lawn of an RV park in the centre of town yet there is less road noise here than some nights when I have wild camped in the desert such is the subdued ambiance of Silver City..
Along with drinking fair trade coffee, eating Mexican food, and a little window shopping, I have spent most of the day conversing with the residents of this trailer park.
This morning a former US marine named Chuck and I spent hours discussing the benefits of the vagabond lifestyle and the pleasures of cycle travel. Chuck has cycled across the USA himself as well as driving his motorbike from the America to Patagonia. Now in retirement, travel is his life.
Chuck's opinion was what guys like me are doing is having our retirement parallel to our working lives, rather than having one then the other. He thought it a wise course of action seeing as the era of jobs for life is gone and the retirement age may well go up by the time our turn comes.
It was a novel angle for me, but I liked it. I hadn't realised that I've been semi-retired all these years!
Another retiree, named Gary, made a point to come and chat this afternoon. He led our conversation through the cultural changes of the 1960s; the English influence on rock and roll; the value in learning foreign languages; Britain and America's roles in the slave trade; the ignorance of the American people to what the government and other powerful organisations are really up to.
Gary was a great guy, a real product of the 1960s. Now verging on becoming an old man his mind remains as open as his heart. He fills the long winter nights playing his guitar or educating himself, finding out what is really going on using his computer to escape the blinkered world of the US media.
These are the kind of people you may meet in Silver City, it's that kind of place. At least it has been for me.
In town Louis had set up his stall in a parking lot on the main drag. He sells locally grown, grass-fed beef, lamb and goat. He rears the cattle himself on the far side of Bear Mountain.
Louis explained his take on the juniper trees on his land. He told me they are very thirsty plants. Cattle won't eat the saplings so each year there are more and more. He told me of the many dry creeks that run through the valleys, most were full decades ago when there were less trees on the hillsides.
Apparently it is getting harder to rear cattle on the land these days. As the number of trees grows and grow so do the tensions between people over water rights. Bear Mountain got it's name because it was just that, not anymore apparently.
Fires used to sweep the lands from time to time, burning off all the vegetation. However since a devastating fire up in Iowa a few years ago, fires are no longer allowed to take hold. These fires would make the land completely unproductive for 5 or 6 years but they did prevent the forestation of the grasslands. It had been that way for 500 years or more.
Trees are generally viewed as climate heroes nowadays, they capture carbon and provide a wildlife habitat. It was interesting to hear the flip side of increasing tree numbers in these arid highlands.
Less local beef production means more food transportation, which in turn means more carbon emissions. Less local water available to the settlements here will ultimately result in the expenditure of more energy to pump water here from far away, as they do in Southern California.
Being a farmer it is worth bearing in mind Louis personal financial interest in the issue of the trees. Nevertheless does illustrate the complex balancing act of managing our natural to meet the need and wants of so many people.
I has been a thought provoking time in Silver City, but now it's time for calorie loading before tomorrows big push for the summit.
Wish me luck!
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Notes from Gila County, New Mexico. 16/12/2009
The forest didn't last until bedtime unfortunately. Within an hour of crossing the pass I had lost 1000ft. I happily wound my way through the tall pine woods with occasional far reaching views to the far off lightly dusted peaks of the continental divide.
Then, before I knew what had happened, my dreams of spending the night swinging in my hammock in the woods evaporated. Whizzing down the hills gravity ejected me from the mountain forests into the open country of South Western New Mexico.
This part of New Mexico is pasture lands. High plateaus of undulating grassy hills. For a while there was not a tree to be seen, just the odd juniper bush dotted around on the hillsides or on the roadside fence line. I Imagine the grazing cattle may keep the woody plants from growing back.
Looking off into the distance I could see for miles and miles, away to higher hillsides with their greater covering of bushes and beyond those the bulky black mountains that make up the continental divide.
The grasslands are open and dry. There's not a fence to be seen save the one separating the ranches from the roadside. Nor is there a single solitary cactus. Although having the feel of a valley floor, surrounded by mountains as they are, the New Mexico Grassy plains are at 5000ft. Perhaps this high country is too much for our spiky friends from Arizona?
With so little cover and such clearly valued land, The chances of finding a sneaky free campsite seemed pretty slim. I was pondering my options.
As the shadows were growing long, having eaten all my food I stopped at a local shop in a tiny village to pick up some supplies.
There were 5 people in the shop, some staff, some clientele, however it soon became very apparent they all knew each other well. As everybody knows everybody out here it would seem.
They all turned to stare at me but none offered the usual greeting I have come to expect from storekeepers in the US. They just fell silent and stared. As if no one new had ever walked through that door before.
It was a true tumbleweed moment, I was just waiting for someone to utter the immortal words, "You're not from round here are you boy?".
Magic! I wish I could bottle that moment and keep it forever.
Ordering a sandwich seemed to break the ice but they didn't warm up too quickly mind you. My approach of acting like I knew I was meant to be there combined with quiet but good manners seemed to win them round to an extent.
Still, overall these New Mexican Cattlemen made the tight lipped Arizonan men seem gushing!
If New Mexico is like this I thought, I'd better go to an RV park to camp until I've got the measure of the place. Otherwise I might wake up staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
The leathery skinned park owner was a man of few words too he didn't smile easily either, but the fee was small. He showed me the piece of ground where folks can put up a tent. Then just as he was about to leave me to it a kind thought seemed to cross his mind: realising I might get a bit cold at night here he suggested I sleep on the floor in the laundry instead of tenting for the night.
What luxury- electric light, power to plug in the notebook,running water and I don't think it even went below freezing in there! I was the cat who'd got the cream. Stars are nice in the valley or round the campfire but it's good to warm up of an evening every now and then.
It was 20 degrees F that night outside. probably will be tonight too.
Thank you quiet unsmiling man your small kindness made a big difference to me.
Then, before I knew what had happened, my dreams of spending the night swinging in my hammock in the woods evaporated. Whizzing down the hills gravity ejected me from the mountain forests into the open country of South Western New Mexico.
This part of New Mexico is pasture lands. High plateaus of undulating grassy hills. For a while there was not a tree to be seen, just the odd juniper bush dotted around on the hillsides or on the roadside fence line. I Imagine the grazing cattle may keep the woody plants from growing back.
Looking off into the distance I could see for miles and miles, away to higher hillsides with their greater covering of bushes and beyond those the bulky black mountains that make up the continental divide.
The grasslands are open and dry. There's not a fence to be seen save the one separating the ranches from the roadside. Nor is there a single solitary cactus. Although having the feel of a valley floor, surrounded by mountains as they are, the New Mexico Grassy plains are at 5000ft. Perhaps this high country is too much for our spiky friends from Arizona?
With so little cover and such clearly valued land, The chances of finding a sneaky free campsite seemed pretty slim. I was pondering my options.
As the shadows were growing long, having eaten all my food I stopped at a local shop in a tiny village to pick up some supplies.
There were 5 people in the shop, some staff, some clientele, however it soon became very apparent they all knew each other well. As everybody knows everybody out here it would seem.
They all turned to stare at me but none offered the usual greeting I have come to expect from storekeepers in the US. They just fell silent and stared. As if no one new had ever walked through that door before.
It was a true tumbleweed moment, I was just waiting for someone to utter the immortal words, "You're not from round here are you boy?".
Magic! I wish I could bottle that moment and keep it forever.
Ordering a sandwich seemed to break the ice but they didn't warm up too quickly mind you. My approach of acting like I knew I was meant to be there combined with quiet but good manners seemed to win them round to an extent.
Still, overall these New Mexican Cattlemen made the tight lipped Arizonan men seem gushing!
If New Mexico is like this I thought, I'd better go to an RV park to camp until I've got the measure of the place. Otherwise I might wake up staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
The leathery skinned park owner was a man of few words too he didn't smile easily either, but the fee was small. He showed me the piece of ground where folks can put up a tent. Then just as he was about to leave me to it a kind thought seemed to cross his mind: realising I might get a bit cold at night here he suggested I sleep on the floor in the laundry instead of tenting for the night.
What luxury- electric light, power to plug in the notebook,running water and I don't think it even went below freezing in there! I was the cat who'd got the cream. Stars are nice in the valley or round the campfire but it's good to warm up of an evening every now and then.
It was 20 degrees F that night outside. probably will be tonight too.
Thank you quiet unsmiling man your small kindness made a big difference to me.
Notes upon leaving Arizona, 15/12/2009
To leave Arizona today I had to ride over a 6,200ft pass from sleeping at 3000 ft.
Riding over passes is the name of the game for the next week or so. Yesterday's pass was 5,000ft starting at 2,500ft, tomorrow's is 6,200ft from 4,000ft. In couple of days time the Emory Pass awaits 8,000ft from 5,000ft crossing the continetal divide.
Climb high sleep low as they say in mountaineering. That's what I am doing, only on a bike. I'm not really going high enough to feel the altitude much but at least sleeping low makes the nights slightly warmer.
It rained most of the day yesterday and never got above 5 degrees. Despite the plentiful cacti, the soggy hillsides and drizzle reminded me of home.
I had 4 flat tyres and only covered 35 miles.
Memories of Simon weighed heavy on my mind.
I slept on the lawn of the Arizona State Forest Rangers' Station last night. You can camp anywhere in the state forest, but they like it when you camp on their lawn because you have access to the toilets and don't pollute the land.
The rangers were very kind and gave me a cup of Chai when I went to say good bye this morning.
I asked them about their forest and they told me of spruce and pine, bears and mountain lions, it all sounded wonderful.
I read the advice on encounters with mountain lions. As well as how to avoid them in the first place, it included the following advice on what to do if you do end up having a close encounter:
Give the lion an escape route don't corner it.
Don't run away or you may trigger an attack reflex.
Make and maintain eye contact with the animal.
Make yourself look as big as possible, stand up tall wave your arms or open your jacket.
Talk loudly and confidently to the mountain lion.
Trow things you can get at (without crouching or making your self look small).
Overall try give the impression you are something the lion should fear not vice-versa.
Finally if attacked: FIGHT BACK.
Use whatever weapons you can get sticks, stones, etc. Mountain lion attacks have been stopped by people fighting back very aggressively.
Of course I've heard this advice before. However this morning I was tickled by the amusing image of stumbling upon a lion, meeting its gaze and loudly and confidently telling him:
“Hello there! I'm certainly glad I've met you today Mr Lion. As you can see I am extremely large and dangerous. In fact I'm thinking about attacking you right now!
"You really ought to try and get out of here. Because there's nothing I like more than taking on a mountain lion in hand to hand combat.
" Why,I'll start by throwing all the things in my pockets at you. Then I'm going to punch you in the nose, before I rip off your ears..... etc, etc”
It's hard to believe the lion would fall for it.
I suppose history does show that we are actually the most dangerous animals of all.
When I set off I began to wonder if forest means something different in American English, for the landscape was one of open hillsides. Juniper bushes were dotted here and there amongst the prickly pear cacti and the dried up grass. I struggled to imagine the big game they had told me about hiding out around here.
So it remained for at least a couple of hours, until well over 5,000ft. Eventually tree cover did come into view just before crossing the pass that would lead to New Mexico. All at once the junipers were bigger, tree-like rather than bushes and much more dense. Soon they were joined by the promised pines.
Finally, I was in the kind of woodland in which you could actually set up a hammock for the first time this trip.
From 5,500ft onwards the mountain landscape was splendid with granite cliffs and crumbly sandstone outcrops jutting out from open forested slopes. I stopped for lunch and to admire the views and look back on Arizona.
In Southern Arizona the cacti are taller than the houses; the cars never go rusty; people ride Harleys without helmets; men wear cowboy hats when driving; the fiercest tribe of Native Americans live on their tribal lands and old folks from all over the USA come to overwinter in the desert.
There are deserts, high plains, canyons, mountains and forests with bears, mountain lions, eagles and rattlesnakes to name but a few.
It's a poor state, but it's a cheap state and it's very much a free state.
Life here is simple, some might say old fashioned. It is not without it's problems but most people are noticeably honest and good. Women especially are kind here, men are often men of few words.
This is tough country inhabited by tough people.
It's the real wild west and I liked it.
Riding over passes is the name of the game for the next week or so. Yesterday's pass was 5,000ft starting at 2,500ft, tomorrow's is 6,200ft from 4,000ft. In couple of days time the Emory Pass awaits 8,000ft from 5,000ft crossing the continetal divide.
Climb high sleep low as they say in mountaineering. That's what I am doing, only on a bike. I'm not really going high enough to feel the altitude much but at least sleeping low makes the nights slightly warmer.
It rained most of the day yesterday and never got above 5 degrees. Despite the plentiful cacti, the soggy hillsides and drizzle reminded me of home.
I had 4 flat tyres and only covered 35 miles.
Memories of Simon weighed heavy on my mind.
I slept on the lawn of the Arizona State Forest Rangers' Station last night. You can camp anywhere in the state forest, but they like it when you camp on their lawn because you have access to the toilets and don't pollute the land.
The rangers were very kind and gave me a cup of Chai when I went to say good bye this morning.
I asked them about their forest and they told me of spruce and pine, bears and mountain lions, it all sounded wonderful.
I read the advice on encounters with mountain lions. As well as how to avoid them in the first place, it included the following advice on what to do if you do end up having a close encounter:
Give the lion an escape route don't corner it.
Don't run away or you may trigger an attack reflex.
Make and maintain eye contact with the animal.
Make yourself look as big as possible, stand up tall wave your arms or open your jacket.
Talk loudly and confidently to the mountain lion.
Trow things you can get at (without crouching or making your self look small).
Overall try give the impression you are something the lion should fear not vice-versa.
Finally if attacked: FIGHT BACK.
Use whatever weapons you can get sticks, stones, etc. Mountain lion attacks have been stopped by people fighting back very aggressively.
Of course I've heard this advice before. However this morning I was tickled by the amusing image of stumbling upon a lion, meeting its gaze and loudly and confidently telling him:
“Hello there! I'm certainly glad I've met you today Mr Lion. As you can see I am extremely large and dangerous. In fact I'm thinking about attacking you right now!
"You really ought to try and get out of here. Because there's nothing I like more than taking on a mountain lion in hand to hand combat.
" Why,I'll start by throwing all the things in my pockets at you. Then I'm going to punch you in the nose, before I rip off your ears..... etc, etc”
It's hard to believe the lion would fall for it.
I suppose history does show that we are actually the most dangerous animals of all.
When I set off I began to wonder if forest means something different in American English, for the landscape was one of open hillsides. Juniper bushes were dotted here and there amongst the prickly pear cacti and the dried up grass. I struggled to imagine the big game they had told me about hiding out around here.
So it remained for at least a couple of hours, until well over 5,000ft. Eventually tree cover did come into view just before crossing the pass that would lead to New Mexico. All at once the junipers were bigger, tree-like rather than bushes and much more dense. Soon they were joined by the promised pines.
Finally, I was in the kind of woodland in which you could actually set up a hammock for the first time this trip.
From 5,500ft onwards the mountain landscape was splendid with granite cliffs and crumbly sandstone outcrops jutting out from open forested slopes. I stopped for lunch and to admire the views and look back on Arizona.
In Southern Arizona the cacti are taller than the houses; the cars never go rusty; people ride Harleys without helmets; men wear cowboy hats when driving; the fiercest tribe of Native Americans live on their tribal lands and old folks from all over the USA come to overwinter in the desert.
There are deserts, high plains, canyons, mountains and forests with bears, mountain lions, eagles and rattlesnakes to name but a few.
It's a poor state, but it's a cheap state and it's very much a free state.
Life here is simple, some might say old fashioned. It is not without it's problems but most people are noticeably honest and good. Women especially are kind here, men are often men of few words.
This is tough country inhabited by tough people.
It's the real wild west and I liked it.
In memory of Simon Halstead, 14/12/2009
Today I found out that my friend Simon Halstead has just died in Oman.
He was swept to his death in a flooded Wadi whilst trying to save someone else.
Simon and I worked together last winter as trekking guides in Oman. We met getting off the plane at the start of the season keen and green together.
We were roommates and colleges and went on to become friends and climbing partners back in the UK.
Simon was a top bloke, a joker and an entertainer. He could do back flips and 'play the spoons' using just his hands.
He loved to laugh, to drive, to drink, to live.
Simon embraced all the experiences that came his way, he lived life to the full. He snorkeled in the ocean, jumped into pools of water, climbed up cliffs, went down caves, drove 4x4's in the sand dunes, walked up mountains, partied hard and relaxed to the max too.
Most of all he was one of the good guys, a kind and fun young man.
Maybe it seems like an odd thing to say, but Si was the kind of bloke who if you had to go to war you'd want mates like him by your side. Cheering you up in the hard times and giving it their all when it counts.
It wasn't the first time he'd been in the position of attempting to save someone's life. His death is both tragic and heroic at the same time.
Like I say, a stand up geezer.
I know all people all over the world will be remembering Simon well.
We were lucky to share our lives with him.
Rest in peace my friend
He was swept to his death in a flooded Wadi whilst trying to save someone else.
Simon and I worked together last winter as trekking guides in Oman. We met getting off the plane at the start of the season keen and green together.
We were roommates and colleges and went on to become friends and climbing partners back in the UK.
Simon was a top bloke, a joker and an entertainer. He could do back flips and 'play the spoons' using just his hands.
He loved to laugh, to drive, to drink, to live.
Simon embraced all the experiences that came his way, he lived life to the full. He snorkeled in the ocean, jumped into pools of water, climbed up cliffs, went down caves, drove 4x4's in the sand dunes, walked up mountains, partied hard and relaxed to the max too.
Most of all he was one of the good guys, a kind and fun young man.
Maybe it seems like an odd thing to say, but Si was the kind of bloke who if you had to go to war you'd want mates like him by your side. Cheering you up in the hard times and giving it their all when it counts.
It wasn't the first time he'd been in the position of attempting to save someone's life. His death is both tragic and heroic at the same time.
Like I say, a stand up geezer.
I know all people all over the world will be remembering Simon well.
We were lucky to share our lives with him.
Rest in peace my friend
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Critters
So far I have seen:
Coyote
Skunk
Road runners
Ospreys
Eagles
Big Deer
Little Deer
Starlings
Sparrows
Laughing doves
Racoon
Turkey vultures
Ravens
Ground squirrels- which i thought were chipmonks originally.
And i could have sworn I saw a coati but i'm not sure you actually find them here so i don't know what it was.
I have neither the knowledge nor literature to identify the exact species of deer and eagles which is a shame.
not a bad count so far for a place with no water. all the reptiles have gone to sleep for the time being.
Coyote
Skunk
Road runners
Ospreys
Eagles
Big Deer
Little Deer
Starlings
Sparrows
Laughing doves
Racoon
Turkey vultures
Ravens
Ground squirrels- which i thought were chipmonks originally.
And i could have sworn I saw a coati but i'm not sure you actually find them here so i don't know what it was.
I have neither the knowledge nor literature to identify the exact species of deer and eagles which is a shame.
not a bad count so far for a place with no water. all the reptiles have gone to sleep for the time being.
Notes from San Carlos Apache Nation, 11/12/2009
The San Carlos Apache Nation is 1.8 million acres of upland country, it is a reservation and as such is under tribal jurisdiction. 9,000 Apache live on the reservation, 65% of them live below the poverty line.
There is a Casino within a few miles of entering the reservation from the west. Not being close to any major towns it does not bring the income to the community that some tribes receive from gambling.
Having been neither scalped by locals nor mauled by bears during the night, I loaded up and headed off across the reservation .
San Carlos encompasses mountains, high plains and river valley terrain and is some of the best conditioned wild country I seen so far. Cattle are run on the shrub covered hillsides but not so densely stocked as to actually see any. Permits sold to visitors to hunt, fish , hike and camp on the tribal lands, one of the tribe's sources of income.
In the 1870s the US government ordered all Apache West of the Rio Grande onto the reservation and detailed troops to keep them there. Ostensibly this was done for their own protection for at the time the Mexican government were paying top dollar for Apache scalps.
The Apache were the very last of the native tribes to meet this fate. They were nomadic warrior people, their raiding parties feared by Indian and colonist alike.
Their physical strength, horsemanship and knowledge of the land was legendary. It was said they could cover 75 miles a day on foot indefinitely and arrive ready to fight. They knew every inch of their vast homelands and could find water wherever it might be.
For ten years all the Apache were interned in San Carlos, to some it was already part of their home range to others it was a foreign place inhabited by rival factions. Every morning they were counted up and escapees were hunted down.
A decade passed and the Apache were given permission to return to their traditional hunting grounds. However some groups decided to stay their elders saying their ancestors had a connection with the Gila River that irrigates the nation.
Modern Apaches on the reservation live in simple western style wooden houses, drive cars, shop at the supermarket and mostly speak English to each other. Like most of the poor in the USA, the majority are obese.
Unfortunately a great many are alcoholics.
Riding a bicycle through the reservation on the Old Highway 70, the most striking thing is the thousands of glass bottles tossed into the bush. They shimmer in the morning sun. They would be quite beautiful were they not such a symbol of the tragic fate of many people of this once proud nation.
The first 20ft of the wild land either side of the highway is disrespected by it's custodians like nowhere else I've been. It's remarkable I didn't cut up my shoes, tyres or tent ground sheet as I snuck off into the bushes last night.
I was flagged down by a lovely Apache family at about 10am. They stopped their battered old car to meet and greet me. They asked me about my journey and seemed really excited to meet me. They proudly told me I was on Apache land and joked that I should pay to pass through. They were down to earth and welcoming, warm and friendly.
They invited me to join them at an Indian bar. It was a kind invitation and the first time an American has invited me to join them in their social activities.However, seeing as every single one of them was already completely sloshed and it was 10 miles in each direction to the nearest village I chose not to take a ride with them.
It's pity I'd have liked to spend some time with them to see what makes them tick.
I cycled through Peridot looking for the Apache Cultural Centre I had read was there. The small plywood building was closed and in a state of disrepair. In fact many well intentioned facilities in the populated areas of the reservation have been let go and a general air of neglect surrounds parts the settlements as a whole.
I rode the long straight road through the tribal lands with the snow capped Mt Graham to the south. Dropping down into the Gila Valley the bushy plains became groves of oak and other trees. This is good fertile land for Arizona , far from the barren wastelands I had imagined the Indians being given. It is good hunting land on the high ground and good farming land in the valley. Only a couple of fields of crops were actually being cultivated. The rest has been left wild, it remains a lovely place.
On the western side of the reservation, at a run down public rest area with broken water fountains and closed down services,I met another pair of Apaches. They told me they were Apaches and this was Apache land, they seemed very proud.
Sadly, despite speaking English well they couldn't explain what it means to them be Apaches. Both men spoke with the heavily slurred words of those who have been drunk for so many years they will probably never sober up.
They showed me a notice board where posters used to display information about Apache history and tradition. The posters are mostly gone now they explained.
Not all hope is lost in San Carlos, I saw signs on the schools declaring "Project Head Start"would help the children to get themselves educated and open doors to a better future. I met the tribal wardens who police the land, sober, upstanding and helpful men. Good people in the community are working for a better tomorrow.
But in a time when trouble is around every corner for the people of the USA I fear it may be doubly so for those already on the margins of society.
Leaving the reservation the landscape changes soon enough. The fertile valley floor is being exploited as one might expect. Cotton, beef, corn and other food crops are being mass produced.
I saw a spray paint sign warning against the environmental damage done by thirsty cotton plants, "Grow hemp and food ", it advised. Wise words or someone who wants a smoke and some munchies? Either way they're unlikely to be heeded in a county famous for it's cotton production in the country which originally outlawed production of hemp.
I stopped in the local grocery store in Fort Thomas, a one shop town. The lady kindly gave me a free cup of coffee. As I sat to drink it I took in the scene.
A family of Apaches bought burgers and fries. A white man in a ten gallon hat came in for something mundane.
Other wares on display alongside the usual corner shop fare included: hand made Indian Burden Boards and leather bags, hunting rifles, shot guns and a collection of second hand stereo systems.
"Yep, you're in the wild west now boy!", I laughed to myself as a I thanked the lady and rode out of town.
There is a Casino within a few miles of entering the reservation from the west. Not being close to any major towns it does not bring the income to the community that some tribes receive from gambling.
Having been neither scalped by locals nor mauled by bears during the night, I loaded up and headed off across the reservation .
San Carlos encompasses mountains, high plains and river valley terrain and is some of the best conditioned wild country I seen so far. Cattle are run on the shrub covered hillsides but not so densely stocked as to actually see any. Permits sold to visitors to hunt, fish , hike and camp on the tribal lands, one of the tribe's sources of income.
In the 1870s the US government ordered all Apache West of the Rio Grande onto the reservation and detailed troops to keep them there. Ostensibly this was done for their own protection for at the time the Mexican government were paying top dollar for Apache scalps.
The Apache were the very last of the native tribes to meet this fate. They were nomadic warrior people, their raiding parties feared by Indian and colonist alike.
Their physical strength, horsemanship and knowledge of the land was legendary. It was said they could cover 75 miles a day on foot indefinitely and arrive ready to fight. They knew every inch of their vast homelands and could find water wherever it might be.
For ten years all the Apache were interned in San Carlos, to some it was already part of their home range to others it was a foreign place inhabited by rival factions. Every morning they were counted up and escapees were hunted down.
A decade passed and the Apache were given permission to return to their traditional hunting grounds. However some groups decided to stay their elders saying their ancestors had a connection with the Gila River that irrigates the nation.
Modern Apaches on the reservation live in simple western style wooden houses, drive cars, shop at the supermarket and mostly speak English to each other. Like most of the poor in the USA, the majority are obese.
Unfortunately a great many are alcoholics.
Riding a bicycle through the reservation on the Old Highway 70, the most striking thing is the thousands of glass bottles tossed into the bush. They shimmer in the morning sun. They would be quite beautiful were they not such a symbol of the tragic fate of many people of this once proud nation.
The first 20ft of the wild land either side of the highway is disrespected by it's custodians like nowhere else I've been. It's remarkable I didn't cut up my shoes, tyres or tent ground sheet as I snuck off into the bushes last night.
I was flagged down by a lovely Apache family at about 10am. They stopped their battered old car to meet and greet me. They asked me about my journey and seemed really excited to meet me. They proudly told me I was on Apache land and joked that I should pay to pass through. They were down to earth and welcoming, warm and friendly.
They invited me to join them at an Indian bar. It was a kind invitation and the first time an American has invited me to join them in their social activities.However, seeing as every single one of them was already completely sloshed and it was 10 miles in each direction to the nearest village I chose not to take a ride with them.
It's pity I'd have liked to spend some time with them to see what makes them tick.
I cycled through Peridot looking for the Apache Cultural Centre I had read was there. The small plywood building was closed and in a state of disrepair. In fact many well intentioned facilities in the populated areas of the reservation have been let go and a general air of neglect surrounds parts the settlements as a whole.
I rode the long straight road through the tribal lands with the snow capped Mt Graham to the south. Dropping down into the Gila Valley the bushy plains became groves of oak and other trees. This is good fertile land for Arizona , far from the barren wastelands I had imagined the Indians being given. It is good hunting land on the high ground and good farming land in the valley. Only a couple of fields of crops were actually being cultivated. The rest has been left wild, it remains a lovely place.
On the western side of the reservation, at a run down public rest area with broken water fountains and closed down services,I met another pair of Apaches. They told me they were Apaches and this was Apache land, they seemed very proud.
Sadly, despite speaking English well they couldn't explain what it means to them be Apaches. Both men spoke with the heavily slurred words of those who have been drunk for so many years they will probably never sober up.
They showed me a notice board where posters used to display information about Apache history and tradition. The posters are mostly gone now they explained.
Not all hope is lost in San Carlos, I saw signs on the schools declaring "Project Head Start"would help the children to get themselves educated and open doors to a better future. I met the tribal wardens who police the land, sober, upstanding and helpful men. Good people in the community are working for a better tomorrow.
But in a time when trouble is around every corner for the people of the USA I fear it may be doubly so for those already on the margins of society.
Leaving the reservation the landscape changes soon enough. The fertile valley floor is being exploited as one might expect. Cotton, beef, corn and other food crops are being mass produced.
I saw a spray paint sign warning against the environmental damage done by thirsty cotton plants, "Grow hemp and food ", it advised. Wise words or someone who wants a smoke and some munchies? Either way they're unlikely to be heeded in a county famous for it's cotton production in the country which originally outlawed production of hemp.
I stopped in the local grocery store in Fort Thomas, a one shop town. The lady kindly gave me a free cup of coffee. As I sat to drink it I took in the scene.
A family of Apaches bought burgers and fries. A white man in a ten gallon hat came in for something mundane.
Other wares on display alongside the usual corner shop fare included: hand made Indian Burden Boards and leather bags, hunting rifles, shot guns and a collection of second hand stereo systems.
"Yep, you're in the wild west now boy!", I laughed to myself as a I thanked the lady and rode out of town.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Notes on leaving the Valley. 10/12/2009
I woke up covered in ice today.
My bivvy bag can't breathe when it's covered in a layer of frost so my sleeping bag was wet with condensation and had lost most of it's insulating powers.
'Brrrrr! The desert is freezing today.'
There was a thick layer of frost on everything this morning all my bags, my shoes, the bike.
Clear skies mean cold nights. All that heat just shoots off into the empty sky. Fortunately clear skies mean sunny mornings to warm me up and dry things off a little before I pack up.
Maybe it's time to break out the tent tonight? It's bound to get colder as I climb up. Eventually I'll cross the Main Divide, the mountainous spine that runs down the continent. Besides I can't have everything soaked with frozen dew every morning. It slows me down when I'm not at my best anyway.
Today I woke up at 1000ft and it was -1 C. Tonight I'll sleep at 3000 ft it will be colder than this.
Until now I have mostly been riding through basin and range country. Highways cross the wide, open desert 'basins' with distant mountains all around. I've been endlessly biking up towards impending ranges only for the road to somehow find a way through. It never seems to involve actually approaching the mountains. There's always been a sneaky path between the hills, I gain and lose altitude without ever feeling like I'm mountains terrain.
Today's a different story, an uphill journey from 1000 ft to cross a pass at 4400ft -over 50 miles of getting up close and personal with the mountain terrain.
From 1000 to 2000ft the road slowly wound its way snaking between the bigger mountains. Twisting and turning to display fine pale sandstone cliffs and bulky mountains rising high above the surrounding folded desert. The Sapporo cacti gradually thinned out, with woody shrubs increasingly filling in the gaps.
In the mountain town of Superior I stopped to have lunch. There's not much there, a couple of gas stations, restaurants and some closed down businesses,evidence of a mining industry.
A native American girl tried to sell me a knife, as I already have one I declined. She excitedly called her boyfriend over to see me, they were apparently delighted to discover a real Englishman making his own up of tea on a stove. I suspect they made conversation partly just to hear my accent.
I asked them how life was in the mountain town, " It's little slow, there's not a lot of work." he told me. He asked me how it was in England ,"It's difficult for some, but not as bad as out here. " I honestly replied.
He tried to sell me a 3 litre bottle of chilli sauce he had stolen from work. When I declined once more, on the grounds of weight. He gave me a packet of m&ms as a gift.
Nearly every encounter I have with everyday Americans is in some way heart warming. Some, like this one, are also tinged an air of tragedy.
After lunch the road got a lot steeper. Nearly to the limit of what I can ride laden down as I am. The snaking path wound up through layers of pink sandstone, the white and grey limestone. Limestone and giant cacti make strange bedfellows.
I love mountains more than any other type of landscape and it was so good to be back where I really belong. Around every bend was new view, down into a hidden valley or looking up at the gendarmes in the cliffs.
This road doesn't just climb the mountain goes right through it at one point. The Queen Creek Tunnel is a memorable experience for any cyclist. The tunnel is about 400m long on a steep incline, there is not a significant shoulder for shelter.
Trucks and big American cars roar up the road, round the blind bend and into the tunnel, their huge engines don't seem bothered by the hills. The last thing they expect to see is a cyclist going at 5mph.
In the tunnel the noise of the traffic coming the other way is amplified like nothing I've experienced before. It's like riding into the a monster's lair, wobbling and puffing, praying for a safe deliverance to other side.
Half way through and still there has been nothing coming my way. Was I going to make it through without being passed? No such luck, a Big Rig Truck comes rolling into view over my shoulder. Will he see me? Will he give me the space I need? I am momentarily terrified.
Fortunately my flashing lights and high vis-vest combined with this driver's awareness of the road keep me safe this time. 2 more SUVs pass by and I'm overwhelmed with relief to emerge into the daylight on the up-hill side. The 2 minutes of panic are over, my thighs feel like they are going to explode. 'Never again' I promise myself as I take a snap of the mouth of the tunnel.
The steep ascent, twisting trail and lack of shoulder continue as I make my way up a picturesque gorge. Now surrounded by reddish sandstone cliffs, pinnacles to my left and a deep river valley to my right it was a great place to be. My spirits lifted by the deciduous trees in Autumn attire. The rest of the climb up went by fairly painlessly.
I paused to photograph a large pool of ice at the roadside in a place called Devils Canyon. Have you ever noticed that many natural beauty spots are attributed to the devil? It is a world wide phenomenon.
These are places where the natural world inspires people.In the past many of them worshiped nature and made such places sacred. Hence these places were vilified by those bringing Christianity who saw it was the devils work to worship anything other than The Lord himself.
Much of Britain's own early history has been all but lost though the same process.
I eventually I arrived at 4000ft. The red sandstone pinnacles of the canyons gave way to an upland plain with white granite boulders and plentiful bushes. This place calls itself the top of the world, if you got there on a bike it's easy to see why. I was exhausted.
Rolling down the far side of the pass a new set of mountains came into view. I was momentarily torn between stopping to try and photograph them and maintaining momentum. I qickly realised however, that the landscape was scarred by open cast mines. The tops and sides of the hill have been blown off and terraced in search of copper.
Like at the iron mines of Queenstown, Tasmania I visited in 2005, these hills have been completely destroyed to supply our mineral needs.
European settlers came here in search of silver and gold, they fought many a bloody battle with the Apache tribes who once called all of these mountains home. Now the silver is a secondary resource. Large scale copper mining is the area's main industry.
The tumble down mining equipment, tatty buildings, battered pick ups and large numbers of Native American faces all give the Arizona towns of Miami and Globe a bit of an Old West feel.
I passed these atmospheric towns at sunset but pushed on through into the San Carlos Apache Nation. An Indian reservation.
After putting up my tent in the dark and eating dinner I settled down to read my book. Camped in thick bushes off the roadside, I discovered the forest of the San Carlos is home to: mule deer, wild pigs, deer, coyotes, mountain lions and BLACK BEARS.
Bears eh?...... I didn't know that.
They are one of the things I am most definately scared of. I wish I hadn't just prepared and eaten my meal inside my tent.
They probably steer clear of the road, right?
I'll move the food bag to somewhere else and hope for the best.
My bivvy bag can't breathe when it's covered in a layer of frost so my sleeping bag was wet with condensation and had lost most of it's insulating powers.
'Brrrrr! The desert is freezing today.'
There was a thick layer of frost on everything this morning all my bags, my shoes, the bike.
Clear skies mean cold nights. All that heat just shoots off into the empty sky. Fortunately clear skies mean sunny mornings to warm me up and dry things off a little before I pack up.
Maybe it's time to break out the tent tonight? It's bound to get colder as I climb up. Eventually I'll cross the Main Divide, the mountainous spine that runs down the continent. Besides I can't have everything soaked with frozen dew every morning. It slows me down when I'm not at my best anyway.
Today I woke up at 1000ft and it was -1 C. Tonight I'll sleep at 3000 ft it will be colder than this.
Until now I have mostly been riding through basin and range country. Highways cross the wide, open desert 'basins' with distant mountains all around. I've been endlessly biking up towards impending ranges only for the road to somehow find a way through. It never seems to involve actually approaching the mountains. There's always been a sneaky path between the hills, I gain and lose altitude without ever feeling like I'm mountains terrain.
Today's a different story, an uphill journey from 1000 ft to cross a pass at 4400ft -over 50 miles of getting up close and personal with the mountain terrain.
From 1000 to 2000ft the road slowly wound its way snaking between the bigger mountains. Twisting and turning to display fine pale sandstone cliffs and bulky mountains rising high above the surrounding folded desert. The Sapporo cacti gradually thinned out, with woody shrubs increasingly filling in the gaps.
In the mountain town of Superior I stopped to have lunch. There's not much there, a couple of gas stations, restaurants and some closed down businesses,evidence of a mining industry.
A native American girl tried to sell me a knife, as I already have one I declined. She excitedly called her boyfriend over to see me, they were apparently delighted to discover a real Englishman making his own up of tea on a stove. I suspect they made conversation partly just to hear my accent.
I asked them how life was in the mountain town, " It's little slow, there's not a lot of work." he told me. He asked me how it was in England ,"It's difficult for some, but not as bad as out here. " I honestly replied.
He tried to sell me a 3 litre bottle of chilli sauce he had stolen from work. When I declined once more, on the grounds of weight. He gave me a packet of m&ms as a gift.
Nearly every encounter I have with everyday Americans is in some way heart warming. Some, like this one, are also tinged an air of tragedy.
After lunch the road got a lot steeper. Nearly to the limit of what I can ride laden down as I am. The snaking path wound up through layers of pink sandstone, the white and grey limestone. Limestone and giant cacti make strange bedfellows.
I love mountains more than any other type of landscape and it was so good to be back where I really belong. Around every bend was new view, down into a hidden valley or looking up at the gendarmes in the cliffs.
This road doesn't just climb the mountain goes right through it at one point. The Queen Creek Tunnel is a memorable experience for any cyclist. The tunnel is about 400m long on a steep incline, there is not a significant shoulder for shelter.
Trucks and big American cars roar up the road, round the blind bend and into the tunnel, their huge engines don't seem bothered by the hills. The last thing they expect to see is a cyclist going at 5mph.
In the tunnel the noise of the traffic coming the other way is amplified like nothing I've experienced before. It's like riding into the a monster's lair, wobbling and puffing, praying for a safe deliverance to other side.
Half way through and still there has been nothing coming my way. Was I going to make it through without being passed? No such luck, a Big Rig Truck comes rolling into view over my shoulder. Will he see me? Will he give me the space I need? I am momentarily terrified.
Fortunately my flashing lights and high vis-vest combined with this driver's awareness of the road keep me safe this time. 2 more SUVs pass by and I'm overwhelmed with relief to emerge into the daylight on the up-hill side. The 2 minutes of panic are over, my thighs feel like they are going to explode. 'Never again' I promise myself as I take a snap of the mouth of the tunnel.
The steep ascent, twisting trail and lack of shoulder continue as I make my way up a picturesque gorge. Now surrounded by reddish sandstone cliffs, pinnacles to my left and a deep river valley to my right it was a great place to be. My spirits lifted by the deciduous trees in Autumn attire. The rest of the climb up went by fairly painlessly.
I paused to photograph a large pool of ice at the roadside in a place called Devils Canyon. Have you ever noticed that many natural beauty spots are attributed to the devil? It is a world wide phenomenon.
These are places where the natural world inspires people.In the past many of them worshiped nature and made such places sacred. Hence these places were vilified by those bringing Christianity who saw it was the devils work to worship anything other than The Lord himself.
Much of Britain's own early history has been all but lost though the same process.
I eventually I arrived at 4000ft. The red sandstone pinnacles of the canyons gave way to an upland plain with white granite boulders and plentiful bushes. This place calls itself the top of the world, if you got there on a bike it's easy to see why. I was exhausted.
Rolling down the far side of the pass a new set of mountains came into view. I was momentarily torn between stopping to try and photograph them and maintaining momentum. I qickly realised however, that the landscape was scarred by open cast mines. The tops and sides of the hill have been blown off and terraced in search of copper.
Like at the iron mines of Queenstown, Tasmania I visited in 2005, these hills have been completely destroyed to supply our mineral needs.
European settlers came here in search of silver and gold, they fought many a bloody battle with the Apache tribes who once called all of these mountains home. Now the silver is a secondary resource. Large scale copper mining is the area's main industry.
The tumble down mining equipment, tatty buildings, battered pick ups and large numbers of Native American faces all give the Arizona towns of Miami and Globe a bit of an Old West feel.
I passed these atmospheric towns at sunset but pushed on through into the San Carlos Apache Nation. An Indian reservation.
After putting up my tent in the dark and eating dinner I settled down to read my book. Camped in thick bushes off the roadside, I discovered the forest of the San Carlos is home to: mule deer, wild pigs, deer, coyotes, mountain lions and BLACK BEARS.
Bears eh?...... I didn't know that.
They are one of the things I am most definately scared of. I wish I hadn't just prepared and eaten my meal inside my tent.
They probably steer clear of the road, right?
I'll move the food bag to somewhere else and hope for the best.
Notes from Apache Junction, Az. 9/12/2009
I put my bike on the train, then loaded it onto the front of a bus. All to get out of Greater Phoenix. The bike racks on the front of buses are a great innovation, I don't know why we don't have them in UK yet.
In the US everything is so spread out having a bike to get onto once you get off the bus makes life a lot easier. It encourages both bus and bike travel by making them both more convenient and less exhausting.
I rode for a few hours to get away from the residential areas. The scenery is quite different of to the west of Phoenix. The mountains are more solid, there are vertical cliffs and light coloured sandstone pinnacles as opposed the the giant piles of earth and loose rock that have made up the ranges until now.
The scenery was nice but the riding was not. Highway 60 is a freeway out of Phoenix with a very thin and poorly maintained shoulder which periodically disappears as the highway crosses bridges.
Overall the Phoenix valley is not a good place to be a cyclist, despite the Arizona canal cycle path, the bike carrying buses, and the really lovely people I met in the hostel, I was looking forward to not being in Phoenix anymore.
Out of town and into ranching country, I wanted to stop riding and camp up for the night, night riding on this road was not a good option.
The recession came through for me again. A vacant lot up for sale provided me with a chance to slip off the road into the Arizona desert for the night. Surrounded by the cacti and the scrub possibly for the last time in this state got me thinking about desert living.
The best way to get out of trouble in the desert is not to get into trouble in the first place. The best way to do that is to be prepared and to know what you're up against.
These once wild and hostile places have to a large extent been tamed in the modern USA, principally by the well used highways. If you know where the road is and you can get to it you can get help. If you are on the road you are onto a winner, someone will come by and the main thing is to be able to survive till they get to you.
This time of year that's easy enough it's not even really hot. Only warm, like a nice day in British summer time. A few litres of water will see you through a whole day. Shade is not essential but will make you a lot more comfortable. You are more likely to get hypothermia at night than overheated or dehydrated in the day.
In the summer it's a different ball game it reaches 50 degrees C or more. Anybody coming into the desert even in a reliable air conditioned car should tell people where they are going, know how to contact help, carry a lot of water and something to make a shade outside the car. Water, shade and wait on the road side that's all you really need these on the roads I've seen in the US.
But it wasn't always like that here. There are plenty of places in the world where people still visit or live in the desert away from well used roads. To do this you need to be self-reliant. You need to know where your water is coming from. If you don't know how and where to get it, you need to carry it with you. You also need to know how to get out or how to get rescued.
Water is life in the desert, but it is heavy. Hence limiting how much you need can help you to move around more easily. This is especially true if you don't have a vehicle. Then you really feel the weight.
Here are some of the desert living tips I've learnt so far:
1.Cover up. Loose fitting long sleeve clothes keep the sun off you and prevent excessive evaporation of sweat.
2.Wash with sand if it's there. Sand is an excellent abrasive cleaner. All your pot, pans, plates etc can be cleaned with just sand alone. Stubborn sticky residues will shift more quickly if a tiny amount of wet sand is used first, followed by a "rinse" with dry sand. You can clean yourself with sand too if you're actually mucky or oily.
3.Move early and rest in the hot part of the day. Stay in the shade when it's hot, sleep if you can. Travelling at night is a good way to conserve water and to keep warm during the cold nights. The Apache would cover vast distances at night in the desert - up to 75 miles in 24 hours day after day.
4.Drink all the water! When in dusty or gravel soil areas use small amounts water to rinse pots immediately after eating and drink the resulting mixture. Also drink the water you boiled you food in.
5.Eat food. Your body need electrolytes to maintain it's water balance and calories to cope with the extreme conditions. Salt and sugars are particularly important.
6.If things have gone wrong far from help don't ration water from the outset. Even a small amount of dehydration severely affects one's performance. Stay hydrated in the early stages when you will be making most of the crucial decisions that will most likely determine your fate.
7.Carry a straw. Dew and condensation are a lot more common than rain. But make sure the plants the dew is resting on are not poisonous. In a survival situation sleep in a tent with the fly sheet at night, if you have one. This will collect the water vapour lost in your breath as condensation on the inside of the fly. In the morning it can be collected with the straw.
8.Birds: Small seed eating birds like finches cannot survive without liquid water. They will roost by it. They drink water in the morning they fly off to look for food. They may go to water during the day but will also return to water in the evening.
9.Animal: Snakes often hibernate in the winter. At other times sleep away from where you ate. Small mammals are attracted to your food waste, then hunting snakes may accidentally stumble upon you.
Ambush predators like vipers lie in wait for their prey in areas of short cover or piles of dried leaves, look where you put your feet where there is short vegetation.
Larger animals shelter under the shade of trees and bushes in the hot part of the day, this is the most likely place to pick up ticks. Sleep away from trees and bushes at night.
Tomorrow I am leaving the true desert lands for a while as I climb up into the mountains to cross the main divide next week. The desert has been varied and interesting however I'm looking forward to a change of scene.
In the US everything is so spread out having a bike to get onto once you get off the bus makes life a lot easier. It encourages both bus and bike travel by making them both more convenient and less exhausting.
I rode for a few hours to get away from the residential areas. The scenery is quite different of to the west of Phoenix. The mountains are more solid, there are vertical cliffs and light coloured sandstone pinnacles as opposed the the giant piles of earth and loose rock that have made up the ranges until now.
The scenery was nice but the riding was not. Highway 60 is a freeway out of Phoenix with a very thin and poorly maintained shoulder which periodically disappears as the highway crosses bridges.
Overall the Phoenix valley is not a good place to be a cyclist, despite the Arizona canal cycle path, the bike carrying buses, and the really lovely people I met in the hostel, I was looking forward to not being in Phoenix anymore.
Out of town and into ranching country, I wanted to stop riding and camp up for the night, night riding on this road was not a good option.
The recession came through for me again. A vacant lot up for sale provided me with a chance to slip off the road into the Arizona desert for the night. Surrounded by the cacti and the scrub possibly for the last time in this state got me thinking about desert living.
The best way to get out of trouble in the desert is not to get into trouble in the first place. The best way to do that is to be prepared and to know what you're up against.
These once wild and hostile places have to a large extent been tamed in the modern USA, principally by the well used highways. If you know where the road is and you can get to it you can get help. If you are on the road you are onto a winner, someone will come by and the main thing is to be able to survive till they get to you.
This time of year that's easy enough it's not even really hot. Only warm, like a nice day in British summer time. A few litres of water will see you through a whole day. Shade is not essential but will make you a lot more comfortable. You are more likely to get hypothermia at night than overheated or dehydrated in the day.
In the summer it's a different ball game it reaches 50 degrees C or more. Anybody coming into the desert even in a reliable air conditioned car should tell people where they are going, know how to contact help, carry a lot of water and something to make a shade outside the car. Water, shade and wait on the road side that's all you really need these on the roads I've seen in the US.
But it wasn't always like that here. There are plenty of places in the world where people still visit or live in the desert away from well used roads. To do this you need to be self-reliant. You need to know where your water is coming from. If you don't know how and where to get it, you need to carry it with you. You also need to know how to get out or how to get rescued.
Water is life in the desert, but it is heavy. Hence limiting how much you need can help you to move around more easily. This is especially true if you don't have a vehicle. Then you really feel the weight.
Here are some of the desert living tips I've learnt so far:
1.Cover up. Loose fitting long sleeve clothes keep the sun off you and prevent excessive evaporation of sweat.
2.Wash with sand if it's there. Sand is an excellent abrasive cleaner. All your pot, pans, plates etc can be cleaned with just sand alone. Stubborn sticky residues will shift more quickly if a tiny amount of wet sand is used first, followed by a "rinse" with dry sand. You can clean yourself with sand too if you're actually mucky or oily.
3.Move early and rest in the hot part of the day. Stay in the shade when it's hot, sleep if you can. Travelling at night is a good way to conserve water and to keep warm during the cold nights. The Apache would cover vast distances at night in the desert - up to 75 miles in 24 hours day after day.
4.Drink all the water! When in dusty or gravel soil areas use small amounts water to rinse pots immediately after eating and drink the resulting mixture. Also drink the water you boiled you food in.
5.Eat food. Your body need electrolytes to maintain it's water balance and calories to cope with the extreme conditions. Salt and sugars are particularly important.
6.If things have gone wrong far from help don't ration water from the outset. Even a small amount of dehydration severely affects one's performance. Stay hydrated in the early stages when you will be making most of the crucial decisions that will most likely determine your fate.
7.Carry a straw. Dew and condensation are a lot more common than rain. But make sure the plants the dew is resting on are not poisonous. In a survival situation sleep in a tent with the fly sheet at night, if you have one. This will collect the water vapour lost in your breath as condensation on the inside of the fly. In the morning it can be collected with the straw.
8.Birds: Small seed eating birds like finches cannot survive without liquid water. They will roost by it. They drink water in the morning they fly off to look for food. They may go to water during the day but will also return to water in the evening.
9.Animal: Snakes often hibernate in the winter. At other times sleep away from where you ate. Small mammals are attracted to your food waste, then hunting snakes may accidentally stumble upon you.
Ambush predators like vipers lie in wait for their prey in areas of short cover or piles of dried leaves, look where you put your feet where there is short vegetation.
Larger animals shelter under the shade of trees and bushes in the hot part of the day, this is the most likely place to pick up ticks. Sleep away from trees and bushes at night.
Tomorrow I am leaving the true desert lands for a while as I climb up into the mountains to cross the main divide next week. The desert has been varied and interesting however I'm looking forward to a change of scene.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Scary stuff. 7/12/2009
I'm not scared of many things. I'm not scared of snakes, or scorpions or spiders or bugs. I'm not scared of mountain lions or wolves; I'm not scared of heights.
I'm not scared to travel alone nor to be alone in the wilderness in the desert or the jungle.
I'm not scared to use my judgement and trust a stranger anywhere in the world.
There are a few things I am scared of. I have been scared a lot in the last 24 hours.
I am scared of 'Big-Rig' trucks, 16 wheel juggernauts hauling tonnes of freight across the US. If one of those hits me I will die instantly, if the driver didn't see me he might not even notice as he smashed me to pieces and spread them all over the roadside.
As a vehicle passes a bike at speed it generates its own winds. Initially buffeting the cyclist , knocking him off balance then at one point the winds suck you towards the rear wheels of the passing vehicle. The bigger the vehicle, the faster it's going, the closer it is to you the more chance you're going under.
Trucks going fast and close scare the shit out of me.
I'm scared of biking on the interstate freeway.
When I ride on the interstate it feels like playing Russian roulette. Cyclists ride in the (hard) shoulder, it's our designated area. I weave my way along dodging the disintegrated truck tyres and smashed headlight glass as I go.
I am a sitting target. 3 lanes of traffic speed by at 70+ miles an hour 8 feet to my left. All it takes is for one tyre to go, one driver to fall asleep or lose control, or to drift off line whilst texting. If it happens at the wrong moment and BANG it's all over for me. My soft and brittle body spread all over that shoulder.
Biking on the interstate is like living on borrowed time, my fate is out of my hands. However if I want to make my jounrney across the southern US on a bike, at times I have to ride on it.
There are times when the interstate is the only black top road across the desert.Unlike the UK, out here there is not always a parallel road for the use of cyclists, pedestrians, horse riders, tractors and anyone else who chooses not to enjoy the dubious pleasures of motorway travel.
It is noteworthy that in California when an alternative route exists motorcyclists are also often prohibited on the interstate. Is this recognition that these places are not safe for any of us cycle travellers?
I am also scared of car drivers, especially American urban drivers.
It was different in San Diego. But since then urban drivers have a dangerous attitude towards me. Perhaps they just don't know how to deal with me. It's almost like they've never a cyclist before. I'm sure they have, they just don't like to.
In Greater Phoenix there is heavy traffic and often no lane for bikes. I don't ride close to the sidewalk. If I do that cars pretend I'm not there and pass close at high speed putting me in great danger. Instead in I occupy my lane fully. I wear a high vis-vest and ride in the middle of the lane. I block the lane and force cars to change lanes to overtake me. This is called defensive riding, it is how you are supposed to ride incidentally.
Drivers don't like cyclists . Heaven forbid I should delay them for 30 seconds by riding in a way that may just save my life. Some have deliberately and aggressively pulled in within inches of me. Some have yelled abuse at me, and generally behaved in the exact opposite way to what I have come to expect from Americans when they are not in their cars.I still am waiting for one to throw a beer bottle at me, a common occurrence I 'm been told.
It is a widely held belief that roads are for cars, not for people. Drivers have yelled at me to ride on the sidewalk. Sometimes I have done, when I've got too shaken up by the dangerous antics of drivers.
I've even ridden on the side walk past police officers- they don't seem to care. Pedestrians are an endangered species outside town centres so there's no one to hit right? Or maybe being in cars themselves police officers also believe that roads are not for bicycles.
In the USA you can turn right at a red light, so long as no one is coming from the left. As a biker in the right (slow) lane going straight at a cross roads: if you stop at a red light you are blocking the cars who would otherwise turn right. So if the lights start to change to red as you arrive the thing to do is change to the next lane so turning cars can get by. Then when the lights change pull back into the right lane. All the time avoiding all the other cars going straight on in both lanes who have not noticed you.
It pays to remember as you come up to a crossroads on a green light at 20+ mph that the cars to your right may pull out into your lane in front of you even though their light is red. They may well not see you, they are not looking for a bike.
"It's a war out there." it is often said of urban cycling the world over. In the US it's more like being under attack. It's not a war it's self-defence. There's no time to notice saddle sores or aching limbs in this adrenaline-fuelled, totally focused, fight for your life.
I'll be putting my bike on the light rail to miss the next 15 miles of urban riding on my way out of Greater Phoenix tomorrow.
I'll live to fight another day.
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