30 October 2008
West of Bryan, you enter Lee County and the Hill Country of central Texas. The area has a rich German, Czech and Wendish tradition. My great, great grandparents were of the latter, immigrating here from what is now southeastern Germany. My grandparents lived here, and this place feels like home.
I first stopped for some kolaches, sweet bread filled with fruit. My grandmother made a poppy seed kolache, unrivaled and unreplicable. Just past West Yegua Creek, in Lincoln, is the land they tended when I was a young child. My first memories are in this place. They include a rusty gate, a barbecue pit, a peanut field, a series of barns, a nail on the top of a tin chicken coop, flying cow patties, creaky stairs, feisty geese, the creek, an olive tree, many oaks, cousins and family. Much of the place is still as it was, though in greater disrepair, and I wandered the fields by the dry creek as sunlight filtered through an oak arcade.
Just to the south is Giddings, where my grandparents moved as they grew older. I stopped at the City Meat Market for some barbecue. Texas barbecue is charred in deep, brick pits. The heat and smoke is convected in from a fire built outside the pit. The walls are covered in soot. The meat is smoked long and tender, and served on butcher paper that quickly saturates in grease. Tastes of childhood. My grandparents lived here until I left Texas after high school, and my memories are clearer, including dominoes with my grandfather and great uncle, working with him on the house, tending the garden, pickling and preserving and baking in my grandmother's warm kitchen.
I rode back roads through Serbin and Northrup, Wendish settlements, full of oaks draped with Spanish moss and rolling ranchland. It was night when I climbed the unlit road to the Lost Pines. The next day I strolled the back road that connects Buescher and Bastrop, where I came out on the final highway into Austin.
Apparently your body knows when you have almost finished. For almost the entire ride, I felt invincible. Sure, tired at moments, but never impaired. I never needed to fight malady to accomplish a goal. The knowledge of impending arrival must release the mind from its guardianship over the body. I was now free to be exhausted. Add to that several flat tires, questionable food and water choices, and treacherous highway interchanges. My leisurely and triumphant ride home became a hellish fight to muster the energy needed to find haven.
However, arrival overcomes the preceding difficulty. Austin rolls along steep hills. I climbed one more, coasted into my sister's driveway, yodeled for my niece and nephews, and submerged exhausted in the grass under the oak's speckled shade.
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Monday, November 24, 2008
The Possum Whisperer
28 October 2008
Coming into Bryan, Texas, my sister arranged for me to stay with her friend's family south of town. I called Kathy, who after assuring that I wasn't an axe murderer, and giving me strict instructions on how to kill her if I were, generously offered her home.
I arrived. We chatted. She gave me some fantastic spinach cornbread. She'd ask for details on the trip. "You're nuts," she would say.
She showed me a little doll-sized baby bottle. "Guess what animal this is for." I hazarded ridiculous guesses.
"A parakeet?"
"What kind of answer is that? Karli! This guy thinks it's for a parakeet!"
"An iguana?"
"Now he thinks it's for an iguana!" she announced to her family tauntingly.
"Um, a mouse?" This answer was apparently more acceptable, though still incorrect. My three guesses expired. It was for a squirrel, one of a long line of rodents and other animals that Kathy has rehabilitated. The squirrel was named Tina, because Hurricane Ike knocked her out of her tree. Kathy also had a possum. When you see them in full light, possums are much cuter, though still in a skeletal sort of way. She tried to get me to take him.
"Imagine how awesome you would look riding into Austin with a possum on your shoulder." I admit, this would have been very cool. "You'd be the best uncle ever if you showed up to your niece and nephews with a possum." Also very true, but maybe not the best brother. She let the possum roam around a little. He was very gentle and shy. I would definitely take him once I had my own place. She brought out Tina as well. This she-squirrel was feisty. She would stand on her hind legs and box with Kathy's husband, then scamper wildly.
Kathy asked me more about the ride. I'd give her some details, and she would declare my insanity. "How many miles? You are nuts." The squirrel ran up her shoulder, onto her head, rustled through her hair, and down the other side. "You'd sleep in city parks?! You're crazy," she said definitively. The squirrel jumped from her knee onto my back, climbed down my leg and thought about running up into my shorts, before leaping back to Kathy and burrowing inside her shirt.
"You are a loony," she would say.
.
Coming into Bryan, Texas, my sister arranged for me to stay with her friend's family south of town. I called Kathy, who after assuring that I wasn't an axe murderer, and giving me strict instructions on how to kill her if I were, generously offered her home.
I arrived. We chatted. She gave me some fantastic spinach cornbread. She'd ask for details on the trip. "You're nuts," she would say.
She showed me a little doll-sized baby bottle. "Guess what animal this is for." I hazarded ridiculous guesses.
"A parakeet?"
"What kind of answer is that? Karli! This guy thinks it's for a parakeet!"
"An iguana?"
"Now he thinks it's for an iguana!" she announced to her family tauntingly.
"Um, a mouse?" This answer was apparently more acceptable, though still incorrect. My three guesses expired. It was for a squirrel, one of a long line of rodents and other animals that Kathy has rehabilitated. The squirrel was named Tina, because Hurricane Ike knocked her out of her tree. Kathy also had a possum. When you see them in full light, possums are much cuter, though still in a skeletal sort of way. She tried to get me to take him.
"Imagine how awesome you would look riding into Austin with a possum on your shoulder." I admit, this would have been very cool. "You'd be the best uncle ever if you showed up to your niece and nephews with a possum." Also very true, but maybe not the best brother. She let the possum roam around a little. He was very gentle and shy. I would definitely take him once I had my own place. She brought out Tina as well. This she-squirrel was feisty. She would stand on her hind legs and box with Kathy's husband, then scamper wildly.
Kathy asked me more about the ride. I'd give her some details, and she would declare my insanity. "How many miles? You are nuts." The squirrel ran up her shoulder, onto her head, rustled through her hair, and down the other side. "You'd sleep in city parks?! You're crazy," she said definitively. The squirrel jumped from her knee onto my back, climbed down my leg and thought about running up into my shorts, before leaping back to Kathy and burrowing inside her shirt.
"You are a loony," she would say.
.
The Long Haul
27 October 2008
The Buffalo River winds around limestone bluffs and caves and ancient homesteads, and a blue haze lingers over its wooded banks. The first run of the Ozarks climbs steeply between the Buffalo and the Arkansas rivers. Essentially a plateau, its corrugated ridges stretch toward the horizon in a smoky violet green. They rise again between the Arkansas and the Ouachita. I passed through Hot Springs, a town where Victorian roots, criminally organized infrastructure and hipster accents collide mercilessly.
During the climb into the Ozarks, and especially on the descent, my mindset shifted. I had been content to wander, I was now intent on home. For the next week and a half, I simply rode. Sleeping briefly in city parks and roadside hideaways. Rising, riding, rendering, resting and rising. Neither rushing nor lingering. Observing intently, but not meticulously. Pearly dawns. Migrating shadows, long westward, underfoot, stretching east, dissolving in the burnt orange falling sun. Following dusky road lines and constellations to the next wayside camp.
.
The Buffalo River winds around limestone bluffs and caves and ancient homesteads, and a blue haze lingers over its wooded banks. The first run of the Ozarks climbs steeply between the Buffalo and the Arkansas rivers. Essentially a plateau, its corrugated ridges stretch toward the horizon in a smoky violet green. They rise again between the Arkansas and the Ouachita. I passed through Hot Springs, a town where Victorian roots, criminally organized infrastructure and hipster accents collide mercilessly.
During the climb into the Ozarks, and especially on the descent, my mindset shifted. I had been content to wander, I was now intent on home. For the next week and a half, I simply rode. Sleeping briefly in city parks and roadside hideaways. Rising, riding, rendering, resting and rising. Neither rushing nor lingering. Observing intently, but not meticulously. Pearly dawns. Migrating shadows, long westward, underfoot, stretching east, dissolving in the burnt orange falling sun. Following dusky road lines and constellations to the next wayside camp.
.
Monday, November 10, 2008
The continued learning
-Don’t read Cormac McCarthy novels when you’re camped off the side of some obscure highway.
-Sausage and kolaches alone do not provide for an energizing or sustaining meal.
-When you reach a moment of euphoric and rhythmic riding, expect a flat. This may have something to do with the fact that you are gleefully looking up, basking in the wind and sun, and not at the road.
-Helmet-mounted bicycle rearview mirrors are a waste of money and may even create more hazard than they prevent.
More to come...
-Sausage and kolaches alone do not provide for an energizing or sustaining meal.
-When you reach a moment of euphoric and rhythmic riding, expect a flat. This may have something to do with the fact that you are gleefully looking up, basking in the wind and sun, and not at the road.
-Helmet-mounted bicycle rearview mirrors are a waste of money and may even create more hazard than they prevent.
More to come...
The Bardo’s Rules of the Road
-If two routes seem comparable in distance and safety, you pick based on how cool the town names are. For example, a route that passes through Lone Star and Daingerfield must be infinitely better than one that passes through Linden and Maud.
-Take local advice with a grain of salt. Locals often don’t know, especially in regards to steepness, distance or bike-friendliness of any given route. They also are often unaware of the existence or quality of local restaurants. Not always, but often.
More to come…
-Take local advice with a grain of salt. Locals often don’t know, especially in regards to steepness, distance or bike-friendliness of any given route. They also are often unaware of the existence or quality of local restaurants. Not always, but often.
More to come…
The True Hardcores
As you bike, you hear stories of other rides and riders. Like any endeavor, people are eager to share stories, both first and secondhand, of similar enterprises. An acquaintance of mine, Graham, during a long distance cycle, would put some brown rice in a tin with some water on the back of his bike in the morning. It would “cook” during the day and this is essentially all he would eat. A bike shop employee told me of a rider he knew who cycled in Montana in the winter. He would ride during the night and sleep in the midday sun in order to stay warm. He sustained himself on sprouts that he grew during the ride by hydrating a backpack full of soil and seed in any stream or pond he passed. Compared to these burly men, my ride was incredibly posh and ninnified. And, of course, they probably built their own bikes from spare parts scavenged from the roadside. If I remember correctly, for his long cycles, my friend Peter built his bike out of spider webs and spit and would make any spoke or cable repairs with woven strands of his own hair. I only aspire to such self-sufficiency.
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Thursday, November 6, 2008
The Why
Occasionally, after bike commuting in harsh conditions or at great length, others have asked, earnestly, “Do you enjoy biking?” Lest you think that I’ve been overwhelmed by masochism or cognitive dissonance, I will answer.
Yes.
Especially for transportation.
Cycling, I...
...feel engaged into my surroundings and more highly perceptive.
...feel stronger, mentally, physically and spiritually, disciplined and focused.
...save money, build energy, avoid stress and often save time.
...feel healthy in my relationship with the Earth.
...feel the rush of effort and speed, of work and reward, stress and recovery.
And it’s fun.
Do it.
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That Old Story
21 October 2008
Evening rode quickly across the Buffalo River to the Little Buffalo River, at the foot of the Ozark plateau. Vic stopped me to rattle off a few questions about the ride, snagged Johnny as he was walking by, and Johnny said I could camp out in front of his trailer. Johnny was selling everything he had to go bicycle around Hawaii. After grabbing a bite, I returned to Johnny’s place, rooting around vainly for a comfortable arrangement. Vic must not have felt at ease with me at Johnny’s, as he shuffled over to open up his place to me in case I wanted a shower or to camp in his patio.
Vic had a kind of jittery and prolific energy, bouncing from leg to leg as he spoke like a young child and talking for hours in a sort of stream of consciousness…
“You see we retired here years ago I knew I wouldn’t be able to get Linda any further west and this place gets all sorts of folks there are a bunch of Buddhists north of here and then you got the folks out on Mt. Judea they’re a little bit what you might call angry and crazy you know I mean you know what I mean they don’t much like people coming round over there so we mostly let them alone you know that old story” (umm, I guess so) “and then in the 70s Willie Nelson said the best weed he ever smoked was from here from Murray Valley and so all these hippies moved into Murray Valley and started growing their stuff and it’s so far back up in there that the law don’t try and do much about it and even when I moved in everybody thought I must have been a narc and then they realized that I wasn’t and they figured I must be a grower and now they’re not too suspicious anymore but these hippies they keep growing over there but they didn’t much count on the elk you see the elk they’re rather fond of pot you know that old story” (umm, not really) “and so they had to keep the elk out of their crops and even in some places it was made legal to take an elk on your property but a lot of the hippies started growing organic blueberries along with their pot” (at this moment, Linda was making divine muffins with these blueberries) “and you see we got the river here too that brings a lot of people around it was one of the first protected rivers in the country which is good but sometimes the Park Service goes a little overboard and they want to throw away the key I mean you know what I mean so we kind of have a running battle with the park service you know that old story” (actually, yes) “and we’ll run the river when they don’t want us to but they can’t ever quite seem to catch us you know they want to lock up some of these roads but we need these to get down to run the river and so you know we’re kind of in a running battle and sometimes they want to take a piece of land for the river and eminent domain it and they tried to do that with old Fawn Cash but he’s an angry old ball of lead and everyone told them that he would literally kill them if they tried to get anywhere near his land and the Park Service kinda didn’t pay them any mind but they got run off the property and had themselves a little scare you know that old story” (eh) “and so you know it’s kind of lawless out here and they don’t try and do much about all the weed oh they’ll sacrifice a gringo every year or so you know that old story” (huh?) “oh you know they won’t turn over a local but you got these flatlanders coming in and they’ll sacrifice one of them every year or so to keep the law happy and then you got the folks that Y2ked themselves up here and they got these extreme homes like fortresses in all these limestone caves they’ve got around here and don’t you know they keep finding these new caves and I tell them don’t tell the Park Service about it they will lock those caves up and keep you out and so they finally learned and stopped telling the rangers about the caves you see we have this kind of running battle with the Park and anyway this one guy built himself a fortress down in one of these caves and I mean a fortress but then you know Y2K never amounted much to anything and now this guy wants to bring in white rhinoceros to live on his estate and what are you going to do with a rhinoceros in a cave you know and you gotta have some of Linda’s hot chocolate it is unbelievable and sometimes people get lost down there by the river and in these caves you probably heard a few years ago that little girl that got lost yea she got angry cause her grandpa wouldn’t let her go in a cave and they were hiking and so she kind of wandered off she was so angry and they spent four days looking for her and the Park Service is out there looking of course they’re all fools and they couldn’t get anything done but they wouldn’t let the locals go in certain places even though everyone’s out there wanting to help look and finally a couple locals said hey this girl is gonna die and so they went and found her near a cave and she was still angry she was an ornery little cuss she didn’t even seem to care she had been lost all full of hellfire and that river gets high in the spring especially all this water we had last year and we decided to run it of course the park wanted to lock us up for it but we ran it anyway and all these little rapids had turned into class six holes that would fold your canoe in half and the water was so high we were up in the trees and this one guy got snagged up in a branch and ripped right out the boat just hanging up in the branch by his clothes and the one thing we didn’t count on was the water moccasins, they got flooded right out and you know that old story…”
.
Evening rode quickly across the Buffalo River to the Little Buffalo River, at the foot of the Ozark plateau. Vic stopped me to rattle off a few questions about the ride, snagged Johnny as he was walking by, and Johnny said I could camp out in front of his trailer. Johnny was selling everything he had to go bicycle around Hawaii. After grabbing a bite, I returned to Johnny’s place, rooting around vainly for a comfortable arrangement. Vic must not have felt at ease with me at Johnny’s, as he shuffled over to open up his place to me in case I wanted a shower or to camp in his patio.
Vic had a kind of jittery and prolific energy, bouncing from leg to leg as he spoke like a young child and talking for hours in a sort of stream of consciousness…
“You see we retired here years ago I knew I wouldn’t be able to get Linda any further west and this place gets all sorts of folks there are a bunch of Buddhists north of here and then you got the folks out on Mt. Judea they’re a little bit what you might call angry and crazy you know I mean you know what I mean they don’t much like people coming round over there so we mostly let them alone you know that old story” (umm, I guess so) “and then in the 70s Willie Nelson said the best weed he ever smoked was from here from Murray Valley and so all these hippies moved into Murray Valley and started growing their stuff and it’s so far back up in there that the law don’t try and do much about it and even when I moved in everybody thought I must have been a narc and then they realized that I wasn’t and they figured I must be a grower and now they’re not too suspicious anymore but these hippies they keep growing over there but they didn’t much count on the elk you see the elk they’re rather fond of pot you know that old story” (umm, not really) “and so they had to keep the elk out of their crops and even in some places it was made legal to take an elk on your property but a lot of the hippies started growing organic blueberries along with their pot” (at this moment, Linda was making divine muffins with these blueberries) “and you see we got the river here too that brings a lot of people around it was one of the first protected rivers in the country which is good but sometimes the Park Service goes a little overboard and they want to throw away the key I mean you know what I mean so we kind of have a running battle with the park service you know that old story” (actually, yes) “and we’ll run the river when they don’t want us to but they can’t ever quite seem to catch us you know they want to lock up some of these roads but we need these to get down to run the river and so you know we’re kind of in a running battle and sometimes they want to take a piece of land for the river and eminent domain it and they tried to do that with old Fawn Cash but he’s an angry old ball of lead and everyone told them that he would literally kill them if they tried to get anywhere near his land and the Park Service kinda didn’t pay them any mind but they got run off the property and had themselves a little scare you know that old story” (eh) “and so you know it’s kind of lawless out here and they don’t try and do much about all the weed oh they’ll sacrifice a gringo every year or so you know that old story” (huh?) “oh you know they won’t turn over a local but you got these flatlanders coming in and they’ll sacrifice one of them every year or so to keep the law happy and then you got the folks that Y2ked themselves up here and they got these extreme homes like fortresses in all these limestone caves they’ve got around here and don’t you know they keep finding these new caves and I tell them don’t tell the Park Service about it they will lock those caves up and keep you out and so they finally learned and stopped telling the rangers about the caves you see we have this kind of running battle with the Park and anyway this one guy built himself a fortress down in one of these caves and I mean a fortress but then you know Y2K never amounted much to anything and now this guy wants to bring in white rhinoceros to live on his estate and what are you going to do with a rhinoceros in a cave you know and you gotta have some of Linda’s hot chocolate it is unbelievable and sometimes people get lost down there by the river and in these caves you probably heard a few years ago that little girl that got lost yea she got angry cause her grandpa wouldn’t let her go in a cave and they were hiking and so she kind of wandered off she was so angry and they spent four days looking for her and the Park Service is out there looking of course they’re all fools and they couldn’t get anything done but they wouldn’t let the locals go in certain places even though everyone’s out there wanting to help look and finally a couple locals said hey this girl is gonna die and so they went and found her near a cave and she was still angry she was an ornery little cuss she didn’t even seem to care she had been lost all full of hellfire and that river gets high in the spring especially all this water we had last year and we decided to run it of course the park wanted to lock us up for it but we ran it anyway and all these little rapids had turned into class six holes that would fold your canoe in half and the water was so high we were up in the trees and this one guy got snagged up in a branch and ripped right out the boat just hanging up in the branch by his clothes and the one thing we didn’t count on was the water moccasins, they got flooded right out and you know that old story…”
.
Monday, October 27, 2008
The Arkansas Beginnings
19 October 2008
At Bull Shoals, on the White River, morning saw fog tumbling across the surface. The high water allowed only a glimpse of the limestone bluffs. An artist had sculpted a huge sundial near the campgrounds and was out refurbishing his work. Learning of my planned route, he suggested I just roll straight through Harrison and don't look back. "Nothing to offer", "full of racists and hate." A white supremacist group is headquartered nearby. En route to Harrison, I stopped to ask directions of an older couple, out doing yard work. They echoed the same warning, in bitter tones of resignation, suggesting no hope for that place.
I continued, but the landscape seemed somehow bloodier, tainted. The otherwise beautiful array of sunlit oaks were drenched in hateful suspicion. I considered their advice, but kept course for Harrison. Rolling into town, I eyed bystanders with a condemning doubt. I found lodging, and set about exploring town and taking care of some odds and ends. Harrison is a sleepy, but tidy town. Nearly everyone i interacted with, from Monty at the bike shop, to the librarian, to the convenience store clerk, to the innkeeper, to a couple of random strangers, was abundantly generous and sympathetic, in the sense that you can tell that this is how they are, and not because they had to be. And, far from having nothing to offer, Harrison houses Homey Hearth, the heavenliest harbor a bicyclist has ever dreamt. Hmmm.
To top it off, on Sunday, Fred invited me for dinner and arranged for me to stay at his in-law's place south of town. In perfect Sunday fashion, Fred, Sarah, Doreen, Norm, Janie and I had a blissfully placid afternoon, together making dinner, playing cards, enjoying easy and genuine company and watching the sun set over the horse pastures and woods near Snowball Creek, consuming with it the last dismal residues of the previous morning's negativity.
.
At Bull Shoals, on the White River, morning saw fog tumbling across the surface. The high water allowed only a glimpse of the limestone bluffs. An artist had sculpted a huge sundial near the campgrounds and was out refurbishing his work. Learning of my planned route, he suggested I just roll straight through Harrison and don't look back. "Nothing to offer", "full of racists and hate." A white supremacist group is headquartered nearby. En route to Harrison, I stopped to ask directions of an older couple, out doing yard work. They echoed the same warning, in bitter tones of resignation, suggesting no hope for that place.
I continued, but the landscape seemed somehow bloodier, tainted. The otherwise beautiful array of sunlit oaks were drenched in hateful suspicion. I considered their advice, but kept course for Harrison. Rolling into town, I eyed bystanders with a condemning doubt. I found lodging, and set about exploring town and taking care of some odds and ends. Harrison is a sleepy, but tidy town. Nearly everyone i interacted with, from Monty at the bike shop, to the librarian, to the convenience store clerk, to the innkeeper, to a couple of random strangers, was abundantly generous and sympathetic, in the sense that you can tell that this is how they are, and not because they had to be. And, far from having nothing to offer, Harrison houses Homey Hearth, the heavenliest harbor a bicyclist has ever dreamt. Hmmm.
To top it off, on Sunday, Fred invited me for dinner and arranged for me to stay at his in-law's place south of town. In perfect Sunday fashion, Fred, Sarah, Doreen, Norm, Janie and I had a blissfully placid afternoon, together making dinner, playing cards, enjoying easy and genuine company and watching the sun set over the horse pastures and woods near Snowball Creek, consuming with it the last dismal residues of the previous morning's negativity.
.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
The Bones of Missouri
17 October 2008
Hill country. Hill upon hill upon hill. Kind of like the steep ones better, as the work feels shorter and the reward greater. Pleasant countryside, just experiencing the first tinges of autumn. More quantity and variety of roadkill than all other states combined. Not sure what this means for bikers. I try just to keep my eyes peeled and not think of the implications. Cities like Warsaw and Lebanon that seem to compare aptly to their old world namesakes. Osage-Orange trees with their distinctive and impenetrable fruits. Black walnuts scattered along the shoulder. The Katy Trail, an endless arcade of sycamore, oak, telegraph poles and more. Gusty scatterings of rain while camping on Pomme de Terre, the Osage River. Amish country, with horse and buggy, and fresh pommes d'amour. A day of heavy and interminable rain. Luckily warm enough to embrace it, of course after fighting it at first. The rain cleared into a brisk autumn blue. A bald eagle joined me briefly. Going further south, the farms seemed better kept. This is as rural land ought to be. No reason that any place shouldn't be well maintained. Took back roads, on to gravel roads for a piece. Past a quaint junkyard. Who knows how many antiques hidden there. Fourteen junkyard dogs gave chase. I don't know what they'd do if they caught me. More dogs gave chase. One old and fat. Imagine the body of a limousine steer, scaled down to a large black lab. I slowed down to give him a little hope. Applaud the effort. Mark Twain National Forest. Perhaps he ambled here. Went through Mansfield, land of Laura Ingalls Wilder and the Little House. Didn't visit the historic home, as I figured Mary wouldn't be there, at least not how I remembered her. Camped in some woods near Mount Zion, Missouri. Woken by a murder of crows, cawing in unison. Ferried across the White River.
.
Hill country. Hill upon hill upon hill. Kind of like the steep ones better, as the work feels shorter and the reward greater. Pleasant countryside, just experiencing the first tinges of autumn. More quantity and variety of roadkill than all other states combined. Not sure what this means for bikers. I try just to keep my eyes peeled and not think of the implications. Cities like Warsaw and Lebanon that seem to compare aptly to their old world namesakes. Osage-Orange trees with their distinctive and impenetrable fruits. Black walnuts scattered along the shoulder. The Katy Trail, an endless arcade of sycamore, oak, telegraph poles and more. Gusty scatterings of rain while camping on Pomme de Terre, the Osage River. Amish country, with horse and buggy, and fresh pommes d'amour. A day of heavy and interminable rain. Luckily warm enough to embrace it, of course after fighting it at first. The rain cleared into a brisk autumn blue. A bald eagle joined me briefly. Going further south, the farms seemed better kept. This is as rural land ought to be. No reason that any place shouldn't be well maintained. Took back roads, on to gravel roads for a piece. Past a quaint junkyard. Who knows how many antiques hidden there. Fourteen junkyard dogs gave chase. I don't know what they'd do if they caught me. More dogs gave chase. One old and fat. Imagine the body of a limousine steer, scaled down to a large black lab. I slowed down to give him a little hope. Applaud the effort. Mark Twain National Forest. Perhaps he ambled here. Went through Mansfield, land of Laura Ingalls Wilder and the Little House. Didn't visit the historic home, as I figured Mary wouldn't be there, at least not how I remembered her. Camped in some woods near Mount Zion, Missouri. Woken by a murder of crows, cawing in unison. Ferried across the White River.
.
The Southwest Chief
10 October 2008
After leaving Currant Creek valley, cruising past the Royal Gorge, I spent the night camping in Florence. This is the upper Arkansas River valley, and I climbed steadily south, taking the long way, until I descended back toward Pueblo. After Pueblo, it was a long flat 60 mile ride into La Junta. Against a headwind. In Pueblo I called Amtrak to reserve a spot on the Southwest Chief into Kansas City. (I was taking a train because if I got the job, I needed to get to North Carolina sooner than I could ride there. If I didn't get the job, I needed to get to Austin and get things in order. As my aunt put it, I'm only half a free spirit.) After six hours of near-constant pedaling, I made it with eight minutes to spare, and the Amtrak staff were probably the most accomodating I have ever worked with in any realm of transportation.
After a fitful but resting night on the train, I awoke just before sunrise. Fog and steam wafted over the Kansas River in damp and purple hues of morning. The arid eastern Colorado plains had given way to stately oaks and kudzu's aggressive greenness. The city was still quiet as I biked away from the Kansas City, Missouri station to my aunt's home in Kansas, just across the border.
My aunt Elaine and uncle Arne hosted me for the next two days. We alternated making dinner for each other and I recovered from the two previous heavy biking days. We debated the pros and cons of secular society and organized religion and talked politics. These are topics one might normally shy away from. It requires a great deal of mutual respect and individual confidence to discuss them freely, and I appreciated that we could converse easily about sensitive subjects. And we traded stories of bike treks. One of my sister's first memories was of Elaine and Arne biking from New Jersey to Vermont en route to Maine, and they've also trekked in California, North Carolina and Scandinavia. Kindred spirits, as it were, who know the power of experiencing the world on a bicycle. As I join Leah, Lincoln and Peter for a while, I hope to similarly bring up young minds in the way of the bike.
Leaving the security of family, I biked back through Kansas City, had some fantastic barbecue at Jack Stack, and drifted through 18th and Vine. On my way to Liberty, a commuter cycled up behind me and struck up a conversation. Scott biked out of his way for several miles to guide my path and put me on a better route to Liberty. Much appreciated. By sunset I made it out to a campground on the Missouri. This is the land of cicadas and crickets and mosquitoes, of dense green woods with thick underbrush and humid air. If you haven't heard cicadas, it only takes a few to surround you in an overwhelming and undulating vibration, like didgeridoos in stereo. Lulls me to sleep, each wave of sound like a deep breath from the earth.
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After leaving Currant Creek valley, cruising past the Royal Gorge, I spent the night camping in Florence. This is the upper Arkansas River valley, and I climbed steadily south, taking the long way, until I descended back toward Pueblo. After Pueblo, it was a long flat 60 mile ride into La Junta. Against a headwind. In Pueblo I called Amtrak to reserve a spot on the Southwest Chief into Kansas City. (I was taking a train because if I got the job, I needed to get to North Carolina sooner than I could ride there. If I didn't get the job, I needed to get to Austin and get things in order. As my aunt put it, I'm only half a free spirit.) After six hours of near-constant pedaling, I made it with eight minutes to spare, and the Amtrak staff were probably the most accomodating I have ever worked with in any realm of transportation.
After a fitful but resting night on the train, I awoke just before sunrise. Fog and steam wafted over the Kansas River in damp and purple hues of morning. The arid eastern Colorado plains had given way to stately oaks and kudzu's aggressive greenness. The city was still quiet as I biked away from the Kansas City, Missouri station to my aunt's home in Kansas, just across the border.
My aunt Elaine and uncle Arne hosted me for the next two days. We alternated making dinner for each other and I recovered from the two previous heavy biking days. We debated the pros and cons of secular society and organized religion and talked politics. These are topics one might normally shy away from. It requires a great deal of mutual respect and individual confidence to discuss them freely, and I appreciated that we could converse easily about sensitive subjects. And we traded stories of bike treks. One of my sister's first memories was of Elaine and Arne biking from New Jersey to Vermont en route to Maine, and they've also trekked in California, North Carolina and Scandinavia. Kindred spirits, as it were, who know the power of experiencing the world on a bicycle. As I join Leah, Lincoln and Peter for a while, I hope to similarly bring up young minds in the way of the bike.
Leaving the security of family, I biked back through Kansas City, had some fantastic barbecue at Jack Stack, and drifted through 18th and Vine. On my way to Liberty, a commuter cycled up behind me and struck up a conversation. Scott biked out of his way for several miles to guide my path and put me on a better route to Liberty. Much appreciated. By sunset I made it out to a campground on the Missouri. This is the land of cicadas and crickets and mosquitoes, of dense green woods with thick underbrush and humid air. If you haven't heard cicadas, it only takes a few to surround you in an overwhelming and undulating vibration, like didgeridoos in stereo. Lulls me to sleep, each wave of sound like a deep breath from the earth.
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Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The Turn
North Carolina didn't work out. This is disappointing, but not tragic. Like any job, it had its pros and cons, and in this case they were fairly evenly matched. What's more, this job application process in particular has helped me to understand and articulate what I want to do with my career, so there's gain there.
The classically scripted ending to the bike ride doesn't appear imminent. The limbo is still intact. And the ride so far has taught me something about loving the uncertain, unknown and unexpected.
So at Warrensburg, Missouri I decidedly turn south to Austin. While Austin has many cool offerings, three advantages make it stand out far and above North Carolina. They are named Leah, Lincoln and Peter. Lincoln called me, and in his 3-year old voice, asked if I would come stay with them and told me to "work a little harder so I get there faster." Leah told me she would ride fifty miles with me, on her tricycle.
As for the route, I'll be trading the Smokies and waterfalls for the Ozarks and hot springs. Not bad. Either way, I get unintelligible accents and toothless ruralness, so no loss there. I'll trade the Carolina farm country and bluegrass for Austin's hills and endless music. Kayaking for rock climbing. With the wonder of nieces and nephews, together with with my loving sister Michele and brother-in-law Andrew, the balance is stoutly in Austin's favor. I guess I am getting a little more certainty than I let on. There's some beauty in that as well.
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The classically scripted ending to the bike ride doesn't appear imminent. The limbo is still intact. And the ride so far has taught me something about loving the uncertain, unknown and unexpected.
So at Warrensburg, Missouri I decidedly turn south to Austin. While Austin has many cool offerings, three advantages make it stand out far and above North Carolina. They are named Leah, Lincoln and Peter. Lincoln called me, and in his 3-year old voice, asked if I would come stay with them and told me to "work a little harder so I get there faster." Leah told me she would ride fifty miles with me, on her tricycle.
As for the route, I'll be trading the Smokies and waterfalls for the Ozarks and hot springs. Not bad. Either way, I get unintelligible accents and toothless ruralness, so no loss there. I'll trade the Carolina farm country and bluegrass for Austin's hills and endless music. Kayaking for rock climbing. With the wonder of nieces and nephews, together with with my loving sister Michele and brother-in-law Andrew, the balance is stoutly in Austin's favor. I guess I am getting a little more certainty than I let on. There's some beauty in that as well.
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Sunday, October 12, 2008
The Hoosier Passing
6 October 2008
As I launched out on the highway, where clouds swirled and the occasional patch of sun lit the snow-flocked trees, I realized that there were only three or four miles left to climb. After a series of hairpin turns in the light rain and snow, and a final reach of neck-arching horizon, I was at the summit. Howling wind and frigid fingers, I took a few pictures, remembered the Pacific watershed for one last time, and headed down into the South Platte Headwaters. As soon as I began to descend, the clouds vanished, the roads dried and it was nearly pure downhill, with the exception of a brief climb over Currant Creek Pass, down the correspondingly named valley, until it joined with the Arkansas River.
I almost didn't have to pedal. But of course I did, to see if I could add a little more speed and thrill to the descent. Ironically, I strained my legs more on the descent than I had during the previous weeks of climbing, as I pulled harder to get energy off the upstroke. Double irony, I was quickening my exit from the gorgeous Currant Creek Valley and my subsequent entrance into the somewhat less gorgeous plains east of the Rocky Mountain front.
Between the Hoosier descent and the Currant Creek Pass and Valley was a section of high desert shrubbiness. Somehow, this section of land, just as high as many of the forests around it, was mostly windswept plain. Occasionally, a stand of aspen would oddly plunk down like a wandering traveler that decided to go no further.
The Blue River Valley
5 October 2008
After the Sunday morning speakers. Rich and Vicki invited me for lunch, with several of their children and a pack of grandchildren, including Sterling, Maisy, Rhett, Packer, Scout, Jazzy and Landon. (I think I'm forgetting one.) We celebrated Maisy's fourth birthday. She wore a dress of vivid yellow, pinks and purples, seemed to have a personality to match, and managed to be simultaneously shy and beaming as we sang. Balloons would occasionally pop, making toddlers cry and adults laugh.
These are only a fraction of Rich and Vicki's children and grandchildren. They moved to Frisco from Idaho some thirty years earlier. Rich began as a roughneck, before moving into carpentry and then welding, before starting his own welding business, creating mostly beams and steel structure. He has silvery, prophetic eyes, a barrel chest, a formidable grip and the gentle demeanor that comes from having great strength and knowing how to use it. A countenance that comes from having labored an ease for himself and his family.
After the afternoon speakers, Riley and Sarah offered for me to stay at a house they take care of at the base of Hoosier Pass. I rode along the Blue River from Frisco to Breckenridge to the town of Blue River. As it was getting late and even dark for part of the ride, I was preoccupied with finding the house, and unwittingly took care of most of the climb toward Hoosier Pass. After getting into the right neighborhood, and a couple hours of slogging through poorly marked streets of snow and mud, I finally got into lodge, pretty nice digs for a bike trekker and a perfect place to rest for the coming day.
The Rabbit Ears
3 October 2008
Finally all was in order and I climbed Rabbit Ear's pass. Steep, but short, and the sun broke for me as I summited. The pass has two major summits, lulling you into a false sense of security with the first and then continually throwing more climbs at you until you reach the second, my first crossing of the Continental Divide. At Rabbit Ears, so named for a pair of volcanic columns visible from the eastern descent, I crossed from the Upper Yampa watershed into the Colorado Headwaters. From this point, the Divide makes a big horseshoe east. Descending the Muddy Creek Valley toward Kremmling, I made a brief, bottlenecked foray into the Colorado Headwaters, which flow pacifically, before climbing back up the divide, in the Blue River Valley. (I think I got all that right).
The road to Kremmling wasn't as downhill as I hoped. Winds gusted and I saw the first rain to fall on a travel day. Dusk fell quickly, with the occasional curtain of sunlight draping down from the cloud cover. The pasture land was again perfectly manicured, and I considered setting up a hobo's camp in an abandoned 1800's barn at the base of Whiteley Peak, a sheer prominence around which Muddy Creek seemed to gyrate. A mare paced me for a few hundred yards before reaching the limits of her corral. A hawk perched casually on a fence post. I set up tarp at Wolford Mountain, reluctantly shielding myself from the only rain I'd yet seen.
The "Sponsors"
Nothing is accomplished alone. Especially packing up all your stuff and heading out on a bike, while still trying to have one foot in the real world. So this post is to try and remember all the generosity that has "possibilitated" this trip, ranging from small acts, random or planned, to larger generosities. This is really for my sake, so you might find it boring, although I think it illustrates something about people. If you're not on this list and you think you should be (and you're one of the dozen people that read this blog), by all means let me know. Memory can be a blurry beast some times. This doesn't even begin to mention all the people who provide encouragement, love and moral support, perhaps even more valuable and appreciated.
Ranui Gardens
Mark and Saturday Cycles
Brad and Atom
Craig, Hans and Kori
The Matsumori's
guys at Guardsman Pass
Anna and Nate and their friends
Red Rock Cycles in Vernal
Sage Motel
Bob and Anne
Kyle and Derrick
Kelvin in Dinosaur
Ranger One
Kathleen, Todd and Marshall
guy on Shield Road in Steamboat
The Aranyosi Clan
folks up to Strawberry Hot Springs
woman at the garden stand
Big Agnes Outdoor Company
Orange Peel and Steamboat Ski and Bike
crew heading to Denver
family at Wolford Reservoir
folks at Pearl Izumi store in Silverthorne
strangers in Frisco neighborhood
Rich and Vicki
Riley and Sarah
Amtrak staff in La Junta
Elaine and Arne
Scott
Camel Crossing B&B
Central Missouri State University
Ricky and Gail
Boone County Library
Bicycle Outfitters in Harrison, AR
Queen Anne House B&B
Fred, Sarah, Camden and Doreen
Norm and Janie
Vic and Linda and Johnny
Arkansas Tech University
guys in Mineral Springs
Rusk County Library
Crockett Library
Kathy, Jerry, Karli and Jason
John and Louis and Texas Parks and Wildlife
Leah, Lincoln, Peter, Michele and Andrew
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Saturday, October 4, 2008
The Steamboat
3 October 2008
Steamboat Springs didn't want to let me leave. And I was happy to oblige and stay an extra day. Much thanks to Greg for first planting the idea of riding to Steamboat. Otherwise I may have planned a more direct route. I was bummed he couldn't make the ride along with me.
Unlike most "resort" towns, Steamboat is a real place. Blue collar workers trying to keep their heads above water. Businesses and industries apart from the ski hill and its satellites. A football team ranked third in the state. And even in its attractions, the town hasn't sold its soul to accommodate some abstract market that kneels to lowest common denominators and homogeneity. Steamboat does it its own way. It is growing, so of course not everyone is happy, and some of the growth is a little bland and contrived. But on the whole, the town has done an excellent job of governing its identity and channeling the resort's boon into smart infrastructure and excellent schools.
I stayed with Andrew and his son Andy, whom I found off a reciprocal hosting website for traveling cyclists. Andrew is an exceptionally generous and very low-key guy, with a wealth of knowledge on Colorado cycling. He moved from Louisiana to Steamboat via bicycle, with Andy, who was in middle school at the time. I have to believe that this ride is a huge part of why Andy is one of the coolest and most confident high-schoolers I've known. I mean, he has to be one of a dozen people who've made a bike trek as an 11-year old. And he is cool, in the truest sense, with no chest puffing or trash talking in sight, unafraid to be himself. Andrew and Andy seemed to have an excellent father-son relationship - they cook, they bike, they camp and they seem to avoid the major pitfalls that plague a lot of families, especially during high school years. I'm guessing their cross-country ride factors into this strength as well. Father is invested in son, while allowing independence and son respects father, as they work together to build a life.
Andrew guesses they host five to ten cyclists a year. He once hosted a guy who was biking for dog cancer. I'm often asked if I'm biking for a cause. To which I respond, if my biking across the country inspires you to donate to AIDS research or cancer programs or hunger abatement or TBA treatment or any other cause grand or small, I fully support that.
On Thursday I biked up to Strawberry Hot Springs. Past immaculate ranch lands that made me wonder if I were in Switzerland. Up seven miles to a series of pools set in stone, nestled in the wooded hilltops, soaking in crystalline heat while the last rays of twilight illuminated the crowns of the highest trees.
.
Steamboat Springs didn't want to let me leave. And I was happy to oblige and stay an extra day. Much thanks to Greg for first planting the idea of riding to Steamboat. Otherwise I may have planned a more direct route. I was bummed he couldn't make the ride along with me.
Unlike most "resort" towns, Steamboat is a real place. Blue collar workers trying to keep their heads above water. Businesses and industries apart from the ski hill and its satellites. A football team ranked third in the state. And even in its attractions, the town hasn't sold its soul to accommodate some abstract market that kneels to lowest common denominators and homogeneity. Steamboat does it its own way. It is growing, so of course not everyone is happy, and some of the growth is a little bland and contrived. But on the whole, the town has done an excellent job of governing its identity and channeling the resort's boon into smart infrastructure and excellent schools.
I stayed with Andrew and his son Andy, whom I found off a reciprocal hosting website for traveling cyclists. Andrew is an exceptionally generous and very low-key guy, with a wealth of knowledge on Colorado cycling. He moved from Louisiana to Steamboat via bicycle, with Andy, who was in middle school at the time. I have to believe that this ride is a huge part of why Andy is one of the coolest and most confident high-schoolers I've known. I mean, he has to be one of a dozen people who've made a bike trek as an 11-year old. And he is cool, in the truest sense, with no chest puffing or trash talking in sight, unafraid to be himself. Andrew and Andy seemed to have an excellent father-son relationship - they cook, they bike, they camp and they seem to avoid the major pitfalls that plague a lot of families, especially during high school years. I'm guessing their cross-country ride factors into this strength as well. Father is invested in son, while allowing independence and son respects father, as they work together to build a life.
Andrew guesses they host five to ten cyclists a year. He once hosted a guy who was biking for dog cancer. I'm often asked if I'm biking for a cause. To which I respond, if my biking across the country inspires you to donate to AIDS research or cancer programs or hunger abatement or TBA treatment or any other cause grand or small, I fully support that.
On Thursday I biked up to Strawberry Hot Springs. Past immaculate ranch lands that made me wonder if I were in Switzerland. Up seven miles to a series of pools set in stone, nestled in the wooded hilltops, soaking in crystalline heat while the last rays of twilight illuminated the crowns of the highest trees.
.
The Edumacation
Axioms verified or developed and lessons learned:
-Downhills are usually not as generous as you hope, climbs are rarely as cruel as they threaten.
-Almost as important as "pedal, pedal, pedal" (thanks Val), is "shift, shift, shift."
-Headwinds are a beautiful and challenging part of nature.
-Headwinds are going the wrong way.
-Truckers are generally the most conscientious and generous people on the road.
-Colorado produces more flat tires than Utah.
-Headwinds are unpatriotic.
-Getting a honk of encouragement really does energize you.
-From behind, it's hard to distinguish a honk of encouragement from a honk of irritation. If you are honking from behind to encourage a biker, follow it up with a fist pump or a wave.
-I should have got the Brooks leather saddle.
-Generosity cannot be hinted at or sought for. It must be unexpected and freely given.
-Headwinds are evil sorcerers that lie awake at night dreaming of the worst moment to strike.
-There is always someone more hardcore than you.
-Whatever you think you need, you need less.
-People are generous, friendly, weird and lovely.
-Headwinds can kiss my !*#$% ^&*(#. In fact, I wish they would. Then they would be tailwinds.
-Expectations often cause disappointments. Certainly we should still have them, but carefully.
-Often the cheapest hotels are the unique ones found downtown.
-Starting something is more intimidating than doing something.
-It's worth it.
.
-Downhills are usually not as generous as you hope, climbs are rarely as cruel as they threaten.
-Almost as important as "pedal, pedal, pedal" (thanks Val), is "shift, shift, shift."
-Headwinds are a beautiful and challenging part of nature.
-Bugs often do not die when they hit your windshield. They continue hobbled on the shoulder.
-Sometimes uphill feels like downhill and downhill like uphill.-Headwinds are going the wrong way.
-Truckers are generally the most conscientious and generous people on the road.
-Colorado produces more flat tires than Utah.
-Headwinds are unpatriotic.
-Getting a honk of encouragement really does energize you.
-From behind, it's hard to distinguish a honk of encouragement from a honk of irritation. If you are honking from behind to encourage a biker, follow it up with a fist pump or a wave.
-I should have got the Brooks leather saddle.
-Generosity cannot be hinted at or sought for. It must be unexpected and freely given.
-Headwinds are evil sorcerers that lie awake at night dreaming of the worst moment to strike.
-There is always someone more hardcore than you.
-Whatever you think you need, you need less.
-People are generous, friendly, weird and lovely.
-Headwinds can kiss my !*#$% ^&*(#. In fact, I wish they would. Then they would be tailwinds.
-Expectations often cause disappointments. Certainly we should still have them, but carefully.
-Often the cheapest hotels are the unique ones found downtown.
-Starting something is more intimidating than doing something.
-It's worth it.
.
The Heightened Sensory Perception
The HSP is a phenomenon of being more deeply and keenly in tune with your surroundings. It requires enough physical exertion to produce an endorphin rise, coupled with a slow enough speed to allow the senses time to absorb. A reasonably high speed may assist in creating a sense of excitement. Not having to focus too much on the activity at hand helps, however, HSP may be heightened by a reasonable fear for your safety, as this increases consciousness of surrounding activity. Road biking may be the prime avenue for experiencing HSP, no matter the distance nor the place.
With HSP, there is no such thing as a desolate landscape. The same route that may depress a car driver is energized and enlivening through HSP. Skies are bluer, sagebrush are greener, autumn aspen are yellower, desert sandstone redder. You are more likely to see the insects, animals and small roadside plants that may otherwise escape your attention. The ripple in the stream is more resonant and the wind in the grass is more hypnotic.
Life is more delicious.
.
With HSP, there is no such thing as a desolate landscape. The same route that may depress a car driver is energized and enlivening through HSP. Skies are bluer, sagebrush are greener, autumn aspen are yellower, desert sandstone redder. You are more likely to see the insects, animals and small roadside plants that may otherwise escape your attention. The ripple in the stream is more resonant and the wind in the grass is more hypnotic.
Life is more delicious.
.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
The Yampa River Valley
2 October 2008
The scape widened into a lush valley before narrowing around steep rocky walls. Narrowleaf cottonwoods burnt the river corridor orange, joined by box elder and dogwood. Willow and other shrubs shaded the banks purple. Aspen exploded like bright yellow nova against a dark green conifer sky. A train track held a steady line along the meandering stream. The ride drifted counter current before easing upward into Steamboat, where the aspen nova coalesce to brilliant the mountaintops in deep autumn gold.
.
The scape widened into a lush valley before narrowing around steep rocky walls. Narrowleaf cottonwoods burnt the river corridor orange, joined by box elder and dogwood. Willow and other shrubs shaded the banks purple. Aspen exploded like bright yellow nova against a dark green conifer sky. A train track held a steady line along the meandering stream. The ride drifted counter current before easing upward into Steamboat, where the aspen nova coalesce to brilliant the mountaintops in deep autumn gold.
.
The City Creek Canyon
23 September 2008
So I'm journaling out of order. The chronology of experience is less important to me than the sequence of reflection and incorporation.
I hadn't planned on riding the few days before I left. On Monday, Shalece persuaded me to ride City Creek the next morning (it didn't take much convincing). She made me work to keep pace with her and as we reached the top, the sun had yet to warm the chill away or dabble the creek and canyon road. In the dawn quietness, we walked the trail at the road's end, in awe that Salt Lake offers so much so close to the city, and talking a little of her new religious responsibilities. It's daunting, feeling engaged into others' spiritual well being. Of course, people are ultimately responsible for themselves. We are responsible for how we treat them, for how we love. And that's a difficult and constant thing.
We rode down past the limestone fins in the canyon's upper reaches and into the warm sunlight that awakened the autumn palette, the breeze tumbling leaves across the narrow road.
Shalece was one of the main supports for the garden that Julie and I planted at their place. The soil needed more than we gave it. Did we amend it enough for a healthy fruiting? The tomatoes were were thriving, maybe with too much foliage and not enough fruit, but we were beginning to reap a wide variety of heirlooms. Were the melons getting enough water to ripen? The true lemon cucumbers and the high bush eggplant were delicious. The peppers managed, but maybe needed more water and a little more time on the bush, as we tended to be a little antsy in picking them. I suppose at some point you've done what you know how to do, but you always want to do more.
I was a little sad, not being able to enjoy the full harvest. A lot of work went into digging and double digging, planting and tending and trellising. But I enjoyed a fair portion, and there's an odd appeal to working hard and letting others reap. (Not that Julie and Shalece haven't worked. They have, a lot). Something enjoyable about planting, then leaving.
.
So I'm journaling out of order. The chronology of experience is less important to me than the sequence of reflection and incorporation.
I hadn't planned on riding the few days before I left. On Monday, Shalece persuaded me to ride City Creek the next morning (it didn't take much convincing). She made me work to keep pace with her and as we reached the top, the sun had yet to warm the chill away or dabble the creek and canyon road. In the dawn quietness, we walked the trail at the road's end, in awe that Salt Lake offers so much so close to the city, and talking a little of her new religious responsibilities. It's daunting, feeling engaged into others' spiritual well being. Of course, people are ultimately responsible for themselves. We are responsible for how we treat them, for how we love. And that's a difficult and constant thing.
We rode down past the limestone fins in the canyon's upper reaches and into the warm sunlight that awakened the autumn palette, the breeze tumbling leaves across the narrow road.
Shalece was one of the main supports for the garden that Julie and I planted at their place. The soil needed more than we gave it. Did we amend it enough for a healthy fruiting? The tomatoes were were thriving, maybe with too much foliage and not enough fruit, but we were beginning to reap a wide variety of heirlooms. Were the melons getting enough water to ripen? The true lemon cucumbers and the high bush eggplant were delicious. The peppers managed, but maybe needed more water and a little more time on the bush, as we tended to be a little antsy in picking them. I suppose at some point you've done what you know how to do, but you always want to do more.
I was a little sad, not being able to enjoy the full harvest. A lot of work went into digging and double digging, planting and tending and trellising. But I enjoyed a fair portion, and there's an odd appeal to working hard and letting others reap. (Not that Julie and Shalece haven't worked. They have, a lot). Something enjoyable about planting, then leaving.
.
The Details
They can be mundane. Apparently the story is also in them. I hear the following things are sometimes of interest to those following bike trips. I don't find them too exciting, so I'm only posting the links here. If you are interested, you'll have to refer back to this post, as I'll only update the links occasionally, and not re-post the items.
Itinerary and Mileage
Packing List
Stuck Songs
Road Finds
Suggestions?
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Itinerary and Mileage
Packing List
Stuck Songs
Road Finds
Suggestions?
.
The True Crazy
1 October 2008
As sun rose, an hopefully-abandoned prairie dog hole and some fresh sage made for a glorious morning. I continued east, where I first ran into Roger, Kathleen and Todd, the support team for Marshall Ulrich.
If you think I'm nuts, Marshall is trying to break the 28 year old record for running across America. According to Roger, he runs from 6 am to 2 am the next morning, maybe taking an hour nap, sleeps for four hours, and then starts running again, averaging 60-70 miles a day. He's running from San Francisco to New York, in the shortest line he can find, eating a few bites every mile, trying to get there in less than 46 days. His team members are all fantastically nice, thanks to Kathleen for passing along some therapeutic gels from one of their sponsors.
I finally ran into Marshall (it took a lot longer than I thought), as we were heading up and down some rolling hills west of Maybell. He's super friendly and down-to-earth as well. He stopped and we chatted for a moment, as a trucker named Ranger One, a kind of highway vigilante, stopped to give us aid. He wore a fluorescent green first aid jersey, wielded a gallon of water, and after declaring to us that it was ambient temperature, insisted on pouring it on us. I hope I don't sound like I'm digging on Ranger One. I appreciate his helpfulness, especially compared to truckers who don't even get over much to pass. It does all bring a smile to my face, though.
The hills became tighter and the slopes grassier, passing antelope herds and elk range on the way into Maybell. I made it into Craig and spent a chilly night playing homeless in the city park. Marshall made it into Craig as well, probably around 2 in the morning, and was off before me the next day.
.
As sun rose, an hopefully-abandoned prairie dog hole and some fresh sage made for a glorious morning. I continued east, where I first ran into Roger, Kathleen and Todd, the support team for Marshall Ulrich.
If you think I'm nuts, Marshall is trying to break the 28 year old record for running across America. According to Roger, he runs from 6 am to 2 am the next morning, maybe taking an hour nap, sleeps for four hours, and then starts running again, averaging 60-70 miles a day. He's running from San Francisco to New York, in the shortest line he can find, eating a few bites every mile, trying to get there in less than 46 days. His team members are all fantastically nice, thanks to Kathleen for passing along some therapeutic gels from one of their sponsors.
I finally ran into Marshall (it took a lot longer than I thought), as we were heading up and down some rolling hills west of Maybell. He's super friendly and down-to-earth as well. He stopped and we chatted for a moment, as a trucker named Ranger One, a kind of highway vigilante, stopped to give us aid. He wore a fluorescent green first aid jersey, wielded a gallon of water, and after declaring to us that it was ambient temperature, insisted on pouring it on us. I hope I don't sound like I'm digging on Ranger One. I appreciate his helpfulness, especially compared to truckers who don't even get over much to pass. It does all bring a smile to my face, though.
The hills became tighter and the slopes grassier, passing antelope herds and elk range on the way into Maybell. I made it into Craig and spent a chilly night playing homeless in the city park. Marshall made it into Craig as well, probably around 2 in the morning, and was off before me the next day.
.
The Open Range
30 September 2008
Riding east from Vernal, to your left is Dinosaur National Monument, rising over stretches of irrigated pasture. The formation sweeps gently up from the west, in scrubby and rocky slope, and the arc follows back down to the east. In the middle is a bowl-shaped swath, as if cut by a giant jagged pendulum, that opens a view to the successive ridge. Further east, the ridge tapers off into Blue Mountain and across the Colorado border.
This time of year, at about 5 o'clock begins the sweet hour of riding. Not too cold like the morning, nor too hot like about 3 o'clock. Your body is warmed and rhythmic from a days worth of riding, and enthused at the coming prospect of rest. The light becomes deeper and more saturated, from golden to pink to purple as the evening wears on. I rode this euphoria, past a grassy ridge with dozens of red sandstone fins directly on the dorsal spine, like a gargantuan loch ness monster submerging in a juniper sea.
As Colorado deepens, the high desert opens up into waves of grassier range, lined by the occasional red sandstone cliff. This is the land sung about in cowboy songs and Woody Guthrie anthems. As I looked for a place to camp, for the first time I felt a loathing for barbed wire and private ownership of public domain. But, as Woody says, them private property signs don't say nuthin' on the backside, and I eventually found a place to bed down.
.
Riding east from Vernal, to your left is Dinosaur National Monument, rising over stretches of irrigated pasture. The formation sweeps gently up from the west, in scrubby and rocky slope, and the arc follows back down to the east. In the middle is a bowl-shaped swath, as if cut by a giant jagged pendulum, that opens a view to the successive ridge. Further east, the ridge tapers off into Blue Mountain and across the Colorado border.
This time of year, at about 5 o'clock begins the sweet hour of riding. Not too cold like the morning, nor too hot like about 3 o'clock. Your body is warmed and rhythmic from a days worth of riding, and enthused at the coming prospect of rest. The light becomes deeper and more saturated, from golden to pink to purple as the evening wears on. I rode this euphoria, past a grassy ridge with dozens of red sandstone fins directly on the dorsal spine, like a gargantuan loch ness monster submerging in a juniper sea.
As Colorado deepens, the high desert opens up into waves of grassier range, lined by the occasional red sandstone cliff. This is the land sung about in cowboy songs and Woody Guthrie anthems. As I looked for a place to camp, for the first time I felt a loathing for barbed wire and private ownership of public domain. But, as Woody says, them private property signs don't say nuthin' on the backside, and I eventually found a place to bed down.
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The Uinta Basin
29 September 2008
The climb into Vernal proved taxing. Mostly because I let myself think I was close when I wasn't. On the way into town, KP and the fine folks at Red Rock Cycle trued my wheel for free, and gave me a pair of riding gloves to replace the pair I left on a gas station bathroom shelf, somewhere east of Duchesne.
In the past few years, Vernal has morphed from a sleepy town at the base of the Uintas to a booming oil and natural gas epicenter. It felt perhaps like Texas in the 1800's. Workers migrate in to supply labor, filling up the hotels during the week, and then flow back out of town on the weekend, as the supply of housing hasn't yet met the employment boom. Roughnecked and grizzled men fill the fields and the restaurants and ride the wave of money to its unclear destination. I was told that I could get hired on the spot as a roustabout on a drilling rig, by a fellow who was amply baffled that I was traveling across the country to work for a non-profit. Yet he also mentioned that there was no joy in the oil life, only money, and I have to suspect that the wave could crest at any moment and leave a trail of empty hotels and workers splayed out on the shore.
I rested in Vernal on Sunday, and Bob and Anne invited me for dinner. They live in a safe and gregarious neighborhood past some farmland south of town, which also brought to mind, in a very positive way, a nostalgia for some type of friendlier past. I played a little chess with their son Collin, and we shared a delicious dinner, largely harvested from Bob's garden. Bob and Anne seemed to balance each other perfectly in demeanor and the family seamlessly blended striving for excellence and being genuinely down-to-earth. I'd be greatly pleased to have such a family one day. After dinner, we went out to look at the bike and talk shop. We tried to get their son Christian to join me for the first 25 miles or so of the ride to Dinosaur. He politely declined. The neighbors walked by, parents, teenagers and toddlers, and we chatted for a while, including about how to get rid of the basketball-sized hornet's nest that was up 35 feet in Bob and Anne's tree. Bob grabbed his Schwinn and we strolled the neighborhood for a few minutes, saying hi to some neighbors, before I headed back past the farmlands to the north side of town, where Kyle and Derrick graciously put me up for the night.
The next morning, after breakfast at Betty's Cafe (a must visit), and recouping my strength a little more in Vernal, I met Gail, a rancher from Duchesne who supported his ranching by working in the oil fields. Which either means that Duchesne isn't really the place to run cattle, or that we have a long ways to grow in reprioritizing the economy to make farm practice viable. Probably both. At any rate, I then set off toward Colorado.
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The climb into Vernal proved taxing. Mostly because I let myself think I was close when I wasn't. On the way into town, KP and the fine folks at Red Rock Cycle trued my wheel for free, and gave me a pair of riding gloves to replace the pair I left on a gas station bathroom shelf, somewhere east of Duchesne.
In the past few years, Vernal has morphed from a sleepy town at the base of the Uintas to a booming oil and natural gas epicenter. It felt perhaps like Texas in the 1800's. Workers migrate in to supply labor, filling up the hotels during the week, and then flow back out of town on the weekend, as the supply of housing hasn't yet met the employment boom. Roughnecked and grizzled men fill the fields and the restaurants and ride the wave of money to its unclear destination. I was told that I could get hired on the spot as a roustabout on a drilling rig, by a fellow who was amply baffled that I was traveling across the country to work for a non-profit. Yet he also mentioned that there was no joy in the oil life, only money, and I have to suspect that the wave could crest at any moment and leave a trail of empty hotels and workers splayed out on the shore.
I rested in Vernal on Sunday, and Bob and Anne invited me for dinner. They live in a safe and gregarious neighborhood past some farmland south of town, which also brought to mind, in a very positive way, a nostalgia for some type of friendlier past. I played a little chess with their son Collin, and we shared a delicious dinner, largely harvested from Bob's garden. Bob and Anne seemed to balance each other perfectly in demeanor and the family seamlessly blended striving for excellence and being genuinely down-to-earth. I'd be greatly pleased to have such a family one day. After dinner, we went out to look at the bike and talk shop. We tried to get their son Christian to join me for the first 25 miles or so of the ride to Dinosaur. He politely declined. The neighbors walked by, parents, teenagers and toddlers, and we chatted for a while, including about how to get rid of the basketball-sized hornet's nest that was up 35 feet in Bob and Anne's tree. Bob grabbed his Schwinn and we strolled the neighborhood for a few minutes, saying hi to some neighbors, before I headed back past the farmlands to the north side of town, where Kyle and Derrick graciously put me up for the night.
The next morning, after breakfast at Betty's Cafe (a must visit), and recouping my strength a little more in Vernal, I met Gail, a rancher from Duchesne who supported his ranching by working in the oil fields. Which either means that Duchesne isn't really the place to run cattle, or that we have a long ways to grow in reprioritizing the economy to make farm practice viable. Probably both. At any rate, I then set off toward Colorado.
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Sunday, September 28, 2008
The Rock at Starvation
26 September 2008
Last night I stayed with Anna, her husband Nate, and their daughter Maya Pearl. After an oatmeal breakfast, as Pearl slept, Anna joined me for the first miles of the ride east from Heber. We split ways and I continued up to Daniel's Summit, a climb much more accomodating than Guardsman Pass. This ridge divides the Great Basin from the Upper Colorado watershed, and upon cresting, the narrower valley of Daniel's Creek, with autumn quakies tinged orange, gave way to the sweeping wide and gentle Strawberry River valley. A roadside vendor supplied me with elk and venison jerky.
The Strawberry joined with the Duchesne, and I (mostly) descended to Starvation Reservoir. Climbed the last couple miles, past pockets of farmland, to Indian Bay. The sun set in amber hues and silhouetted ridges. Bathed lightly in Starvation's refreshing water, ate some greens and scrambled around on the sand and the sandstone boulders. Made my bed on a broad, flat rock, perpendicular to the Milky Way's perfectly prominent arc. Saw three shooting stars before dozing in the breezy night.
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Last night I stayed with Anna, her husband Nate, and their daughter Maya Pearl. After an oatmeal breakfast, as Pearl slept, Anna joined me for the first miles of the ride east from Heber. We split ways and I continued up to Daniel's Summit, a climb much more accomodating than Guardsman Pass. This ridge divides the Great Basin from the Upper Colorado watershed, and upon cresting, the narrower valley of Daniel's Creek, with autumn quakies tinged orange, gave way to the sweeping wide and gentle Strawberry River valley. A roadside vendor supplied me with elk and venison jerky.
The Strawberry joined with the Duchesne, and I (mostly) descended to Starvation Reservoir. Climbed the last couple miles, past pockets of farmland, to Indian Bay. The sun set in amber hues and silhouetted ridges. Bathed lightly in Starvation's refreshing water, ate some greens and scrambled around on the sand and the sandstone boulders. Made my bed on a broad, flat rock, perpendicular to the Milky Way's perfectly prominent arc. Saw three shooting stars before dozing in the breezy night.
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The Committing Day
25 September 2008
Atom, Kori and I dined euphorically last night. Brad decided to join me for the beginning ride. I was still throwing things together as he arrived. After I finished packing (for those who are curious, the bike weighs about 30 lbs, all the packs and incidentals about 70 lbs more), I slammed a quart of squash-coconut soup, leftover from last night's dinner, some raspberries and a peach. Not your typical power food, but satisfying.
With me on my tank, and Brad on my old road bike, we meandered through Mill Creek neighborhoods, up to Wasatch Drive, overlooking the city on the way to the mouth of Big Cottonwood Canyon. Just into the canyon, Brad's tire split. The tube bulged out and punctured on the road. With a failed tire, fixing the tube was useless. Brad hitchhiked to a bike shop, and I continued the climb.
Big Cottonwood Creek is steep enough, but Guardsman Pass is a wicked mistress, beginning comfortable and subtle and then heaving into a vertical nightmare. Another biker made the climb with me. He was circling around to Park City. He looked like he could be ninety years old. He was as thin as his bicycle, had a purple Grateful Dead jersey, and a grey beard and hair that flowed like Moses. I descended into Midway down a washboard dirt road, perhaps more miserable than the climb. The golden aspen gave way to red scrub oaks as I crossed from the Wasatch Front to Back. During the climb, I thought, quite strongly, that I could still go back, it's all downhill from here. Now in Heber, that would be much harder. Now the course is set.
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Atom, Kori and I dined euphorically last night. Brad decided to join me for the beginning ride. I was still throwing things together as he arrived. After I finished packing (for those who are curious, the bike weighs about 30 lbs, all the packs and incidentals about 70 lbs more), I slammed a quart of squash-coconut soup, leftover from last night's dinner, some raspberries and a peach. Not your typical power food, but satisfying.
With me on my tank, and Brad on my old road bike, we meandered through Mill Creek neighborhoods, up to Wasatch Drive, overlooking the city on the way to the mouth of Big Cottonwood Canyon. Just into the canyon, Brad's tire split. The tube bulged out and punctured on the road. With a failed tire, fixing the tube was useless. Brad hitchhiked to a bike shop, and I continued the climb.
Big Cottonwood Creek is steep enough, but Guardsman Pass is a wicked mistress, beginning comfortable and subtle and then heaving into a vertical nightmare. Another biker made the climb with me. He was circling around to Park City. He looked like he could be ninety years old. He was as thin as his bicycle, had a purple Grateful Dead jersey, and a grey beard and hair that flowed like Moses. I descended into Midway down a washboard dirt road, perhaps more miserable than the climb. The golden aspen gave way to red scrub oaks as I crossed from the Wasatch Front to Back. During the climb, I thought, quite strongly, that I could still go back, it's all downhill from here. Now in Heber, that would be much harder. Now the course is set.
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The Amble
The following posts will reflect my bicycle ride from Salt Lake City to North Carolina (or to Austin), related matters, and probably some random thoughts.
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The Salmon and Lemhi River valleys
13 August 2008
Yesterday, we continued along the Bitterroot, in the sawtoothed shadow of Trapper's Peak. We rested in the long grass at an oxbow in the East Fork, before camping at Sula. Jim hitchhiked down from the Continental Divide, for a mail drop, as he hiked the ridge from Mexico to Alberta. As he thumbed his way back to the trail, we started the climb to Lost Trail Pass, from where the Bitterroot flows north, and the Salmon runs south. We touched the Divide, and followed the Salmon River down into North Fork. The alpine forests began to thin out into small farms. We rested at a campground in North Fork, interrupted by three girls, poster children for teenage self-hate and destructiveness, who lost interest after they realized we wouldn't buy them more beer for their two o'clock binge.
Nearing the town of Salmon, the thinning forests succumbed to large expanses of river-bottom farmland. Craggy outcroppings towered over the farms and the rolling hills of sage. We headed east, along the Lemhi River valley, the Divide on our left, the Lemhi Mountains on our right. After a few miles, spent and without nearby campgrounds, we eyed the hayfields for some stealth camping. At Baker, a town of four houses, we knocked on the door of Solaas' Bed & Breakfast, to see if we could fill our water. Without hesitating, Roger offered his lawn for camping.
"Honey, I'm gonna show the boys the garden!", he cheered. His wife smiled and waved, having no clue who we were. He guided us through his greenhoused tomatoes and filled our bike helmets with apricots. A trellised arcade of green beans framed a dusky view of the Lemhis.
Roger, 72 years old, had rooted in this valley some forty years ago. For five years, he never left the county. Not from some cloistered fear of the world, but because here he was starting his life. He raised his ten children, hunted up in the Divide, fished in the Lemhi, and started a lumber business. He spent two weeks straight, handmaking a wood picket fence, jigging and painting each picket, and setting them in a series of peaks and valleys. After setting deep roots, he ventured out, heading to Alaska and Canada to fish and hunt. Recently, he went to Thailand to help build a school. In the morning, he brought us an egg sandwich, fresh from the henhouse.
If you're passing near Salmon, stay at Solaas and say hello to Roger.
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Yesterday, we continued along the Bitterroot, in the sawtoothed shadow of Trapper's Peak. We rested in the long grass at an oxbow in the East Fork, before camping at Sula. Jim hitchhiked down from the Continental Divide, for a mail drop, as he hiked the ridge from Mexico to Alberta. As he thumbed his way back to the trail, we started the climb to Lost Trail Pass, from where the Bitterroot flows north, and the Salmon runs south. We touched the Divide, and followed the Salmon River down into North Fork. The alpine forests began to thin out into small farms. We rested at a campground in North Fork, interrupted by three girls, poster children for teenage self-hate and destructiveness, who lost interest after they realized we wouldn't buy them more beer for their two o'clock binge.
Nearing the town of Salmon, the thinning forests succumbed to large expanses of river-bottom farmland. Craggy outcroppings towered over the farms and the rolling hills of sage. We headed east, along the Lemhi River valley, the Divide on our left, the Lemhi Mountains on our right. After a few miles, spent and without nearby campgrounds, we eyed the hayfields for some stealth camping. At Baker, a town of four houses, we knocked on the door of Solaas' Bed & Breakfast, to see if we could fill our water. Without hesitating, Roger offered his lawn for camping.
"Honey, I'm gonna show the boys the garden!", he cheered. His wife smiled and waved, having no clue who we were. He guided us through his greenhoused tomatoes and filled our bike helmets with apricots. A trellised arcade of green beans framed a dusky view of the Lemhis.
Roger, 72 years old, had rooted in this valley some forty years ago. For five years, he never left the county. Not from some cloistered fear of the world, but because here he was starting his life. He raised his ten children, hunted up in the Divide, fished in the Lemhi, and started a lumber business. He spent two weeks straight, handmaking a wood picket fence, jigging and painting each picket, and setting them in a series of peaks and valleys. After setting deep roots, he ventured out, heading to Alaska and Canada to fish and hunt. Recently, he went to Thailand to help build a school. In the morning, he brought us an egg sandwich, fresh from the henhouse.
If you're passing near Salmon, stay at Solaas and say hello to Roger.
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Wednesday, August 20, 2008
The Bitterroot River valley, at dusk, near Victor, Montana
11 August 2008
Patrick and Kathleen walked down from the foothills, after investigating a small pillar of smoke and a nearby osprey’s nest. They waved from a distance, and twilight's purple rays ran up the Sapphires, giving way to the long shadow of the Bitterroots. We waited, I on my lumbering oak tree of a bicycle. Before we even said hi, Patrick invited us to camp on the grass near the anvil house. We slept there, under the Perseid-filled sky.
Patrick had thrived over stage four throat cancer. Tall, lanky and robust, with the positive worldview of someone who has survived. Kathleen ran rivers, among a life of other vocations. Just as tall. Her face spread from a narrow chin, prominent cheeks, eyes set wide as to cast their reach around the world and wavy hair that followed after the reach of her eyes. They had spent two summers, traveling across Montana and Wyoming in covered wagons. He was a farrier by trade, shoeing horses, the tools of a blacksmith. She now wrote, most famous for How to Shit in the Woods.
Their house a large barn, warm with yellow and purple flowers on the porch. Sweet well water. Filled with the tools and remnants of worthy living. Literature, straw hats, rough hewn beams, jars of tea, oats, and fruit, tree-trunk tables, journals, letters and a place to sit together. Cluttered perhaps, but not the tedious clutter that overwhelms you and pushes you out. Rather the soulful clutter of a vibrant mind, the rhythmic patter of an inviting heart, urging you to stay and feel.
According to Patrick, in nearly every spiritual worldview, the traveler is sacred. You never know who the traveler may be. A traveler is by nature weary, needing rest, and to be recovered. A traveler remembers gifts received, and reciprocates them to the world, as traveler and host may never meet again. And the host, then, the host is divine; firm, rooted, a central point that emanates and gravitates love. Keeping, covering, creating.
Such were the night and morning cast at Romany Forge.
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Patrick and Kathleen walked down from the foothills, after investigating a small pillar of smoke and a nearby osprey’s nest. They waved from a distance, and twilight's purple rays ran up the Sapphires, giving way to the long shadow of the Bitterroots. We waited, I on my lumbering oak tree of a bicycle. Before we even said hi, Patrick invited us to camp on the grass near the anvil house. We slept there, under the Perseid-filled sky.
Patrick had thrived over stage four throat cancer. Tall, lanky and robust, with the positive worldview of someone who has survived. Kathleen ran rivers, among a life of other vocations. Just as tall. Her face spread from a narrow chin, prominent cheeks, eyes set wide as to cast their reach around the world and wavy hair that followed after the reach of her eyes. They had spent two summers, traveling across Montana and Wyoming in covered wagons. He was a farrier by trade, shoeing horses, the tools of a blacksmith. She now wrote, most famous for How to Shit in the Woods.
Their house a large barn, warm with yellow and purple flowers on the porch. Sweet well water. Filled with the tools and remnants of worthy living. Literature, straw hats, rough hewn beams, jars of tea, oats, and fruit, tree-trunk tables, journals, letters and a place to sit together. Cluttered perhaps, but not the tedious clutter that overwhelms you and pushes you out. Rather the soulful clutter of a vibrant mind, the rhythmic patter of an inviting heart, urging you to stay and feel.
According to Patrick, in nearly every spiritual worldview, the traveler is sacred. You never know who the traveler may be. A traveler is by nature weary, needing rest, and to be recovered. A traveler remembers gifts received, and reciprocates them to the world, as traveler and host may never meet again. And the host, then, the host is divine; firm, rooted, a central point that emanates and gravitates love. Keeping, covering, creating.
Such were the night and morning cast at Romany Forge.
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Tuesday, August 19, 2008
The Preambulatory Notion
The following posts will reflect a few days of bicycle journey, taken prior to my transcontinental cycling relocation.
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