Finding Home: A Journey into the Heart of America: 10/7/07

Sun and sky, wind and distance, the constant churning of my legs to carry me onward--my life is simple but often difficult. A single day carries me across the range of emotions. In the morning, I am strong, upbeat, ready for anything. By late afternoon, my energies fading, I struggle for the next mile and lament the wind that punishes my progress. It could not be otherwise, nor would I change it. The range of experience is the point. Still, some tailwinds would be nice, eh?

I left Salida on a chilly 35 deg. F. morning, the valley still in the shadows thrown by the ring of alpine peaks. My feet went numb quickly, but the rest of my person was happy in the newly acquired cold weather gear. Trey, his dad, Mike, and mom, Eloise, were great folks. Thanks for everything! But I could not stay, as much as I would have liked to set up house in that enchanted valley. My first work was about 1,800 feet of climbing to Ponchas Pass at 9,010 ft., my high point for the entire tour. I'll cross the Continental Divide down in Pie Town, NM, at a much lower point. The climb was a steady, methodical affair that went in a little over an hour. Then it was down into the unbelievable San Luis Valley, bordered on the east by the soaring wall of the Sangre de Cristo mountains. They take their name, legend has it, from a Conquistador of Old, an unfortunate bloke who found himself skewered by a goodly number of arrows cast by some disgruntled natives. In his last throes he cried, "Sangre de Cristo!" and expired, his own blood sanctifying the soil. Tough life when you come to take over the hood.

For over 100 miles, the road ran arrow straight and nearly level. Though I contested a slight headwind, I was a cycling god, just eating up the miles. The mountains and the stark plains gave me strength. I cranked up some scorching flamenco to ignite my cadence and burn the miles. Slashing guitars pushed me against the wind and the vanishing point of the horizon--eighty miles to the river town of Alamosa where I camped beside the Rio Grande.

Up the next morning, geese overhead and heavy fish breaking the dark, silent water, I packed and braced for the last miles of the valley. Most of the day I worked towards a dome hanging at the bottom of the southern sky like an island. Hours turned and slowly I reeled it in--Mt. San Antonio, a volcanic bulge of the earth, its creases and folds choked with aspen giving the mountain a hot yellow flow of living lava to remind us of its vulcan past. The winds picked up, first from the west, then head on from the south. The enormous land opened up and swallowed me whole, whisking away any sense of self importance, of ego. I didn't matter here. Stay humble, mate. You've got no choice anyway. Keep your head to the task. The miles will come.

Near the end, after fighting the good fight for 15 miles, I was strung out and needing to stop. I paused at one point and just hung my head over the top tube of the bike, gasping. Job on a bike. At Tres Piedras, my hoped-for resupply point, the store was closed. No problem. I always carry too much food anyway. I tanked up on water and headed east, towards Taos, and began my search for a camp. In just a mile I saw a rough track dropping off the main road. What's this? A disused dirt road that was once the principle line that led down to an abandoned bridge, rusted steel and exposed rebar, but stout enough for one recumbent cyclist and his load. At the far end, I found a flat spot and called it camp. During the night, coyotes howled, one barked outside my tent, and I heard its gallop as it raced across the bridge. A familiar? An avatar? The pulse of this narrow New Mexican arroyo.

Now I'm in Taos and a bit worried about where I'll spend the night. As a tourist area, options are limited and expensive, so I'll just have to head out of town and get into national forest land. So it goes. The mountains are alight with glowing aspens. The winds are cool, these mountain nights frosty. It's a good time to be on a bike.

Signing off for now. I'll have more time to expand when I have a layover in Santa Fe. The recumbent adventurer bids you farewell!

The Valley of Salida:

The climb to Ponchas Pass:

Yo, baby!

Gas station at the end of the universe:

Coffee house at the end of the universe:

This isn't Kansas, nope:

The big open and Mt. San Antonio:

Self-portrait while grunting:

My camp outside Taos:

An "Earthship" in a community of such places outside Taos:

A burley denizen of the road:

I keep everyone interested:

On the bridge across the Rio Grand Gorge:

Pueblo could be called the Bakersfield of Colorado, the coarse, often disrespected step child of the state. Everyone I'd talked to had warned me about the place. As I enjoyed cool riding and mild wind conditions on the way in from Ordway, I wondered what I would find. As I slipped onto Highway 50 and my final approach to the city, I observed another kind of town: prairie dog villages lining the road. The animals are basically like ground squirrels, squeaking and popping up and down out of their burrows. They've been known to create vast colonies and have often been poisoned by ranchers and used as target practice by varmint hunters. I found them quite amusing as they'd wiggle their stubby tails and dive headlong into holes in the ground. They would never let me get close enough for a picture, so you'll have to take my word for it.

On rolling into town, I found the descriptions I'd heard to be largely correct: rough, edgy, hoody. The downtown area was dead on this Sunday afternoon. I cut back and forth through the main district and enjoyed a couple of the sculptures on display, but it was not a place to linger. I headed for the park where I'd been told I could camp. After stocking up on food, I landed in the park and realized I had a problem: Sunday. No officials. I'd just have to stealth camp somewhere. On the far northern edge of the park, I found a dirt lot and baseball diamond. The other side of the field looked to be unregulated land. So I'd spend my night on a bluff overlooking the Arkansas river as it flooded over a dam. Not bad. I set up on the outside of the the fence enclosing the ball field. Mistake.

No tent, asleep under the dome of heaven, I was ripped into consciousness by the heavy machine gun splatter of large drops of water. Up, man! Quick! Go, go, GO! The sprinklers had come on, and, like an idiot, I had forgotten the camping axiom of cyclists in the West: If the grass is green, you are going to get hosed. Period. Fuming, sputtering, cursing, I grabbed my stuff and hurled it out of the soaking zone. Midnight. Thirty seven degrees and falling. Lovely. I reset my dampened pad and bag and crawled in. By morning, frost would cover all of my gear when I emerged into a 28 degree dawn. Hey, Mojo, let's get out of here.

The road to Canon City and my entrance to the Rockies was Highway 50 with wide shoulders and only moderate to light traffic. I was really hoping for a better night than Pueblo. I hit the lottery. After research and supplies, I headed out of town to gain access to a natural area and, the Holy Grail of wild campers, public land. I rode down a smooth double track, a bit steeply near the end, and pushed through a narrow gate--cyclists, equestrians, walkers only. In a moment, I was parked in a stand of bushy junipers surrounded by peaks, valleys, crags and views out over the town. Free at last! I did a happy dance and went about setting up camp. No tent, just bag out in the open--no sprinklers, cars, flood lights. Just me, the mountains and the stars. Blessed bivouac of the elite cyclo-tourist.

My freedom was at odds with much of the local population, however. Freemont county and the region around Canon City were home to thirteen state and federal penitentiaries, including a so-called SuperMax, a lock down for the worst of the worst. In one photograph I was able to include three prisons. This area had made the incarceration of criminals its financial foundation. I suspect crime is low in Canon City with so much evidence of where potential perps will land on every corner. The town even boasts of a prison museum, perhaps so would-be criminals can see how good convicts are treated today? I did not have time to view it as I needed to find a place to camp.

My long night passed quickly enough, spiced now and then by the yip yap howl of coyotes in the near distance. Sometime late, the wind picked up, and I burrowed more deeply into my bag. Out of the west. Hmmmm.... This didn't bode well for the next day's ride. I eventually crawled from my nylon cocoon into a blustery morning. I brewed up quickly and did a short hike into a nearby canyon, a cleft into the craggy walls to the west that led into a sandy arroyo decorated with large blocks of sandstone and flaming yellow cottonwoods. I so wanted to have Jodi and Django with me, the best of companions, to join me in exploration and exclamation. I took pictures and sauntered back to camp. I only had 45 miles to do--or did I?

I'd been too casual about reading the map. ANOTHER cyclist's axiom: Read the map. Read the map. Read the map--duh. On leaving Canon City, I found that I had almost 60 miles to do. Jeez. Oh, and the day began with an 1100 ft. climb to a pass not indicated on the map--even after I read it. A long, slow grind too late in the morning meant I had to make steady time to get to Salida before too long. I was staying at Trey's place, a Warmshowers host most excellent.

After the summit, I enjoyed a long drop that I knew would be followed by more climbing: Canon City was at 5,200 ft., Salida at just over 7,000. I entered a wonderland--high, barren peaks over 14,000 ft. on the skyline, narrow, craggy canyons, the glittering Arkansas River cutting a meandering path down low. For mile upon mile, I drank in what I had so long desired. The fly in the ointment? For there is always the fly, no? Oh, yes, the winds kicked in, blowing steady and strong into my face. What would have merely been a strenuous day was turned into a real burn. I frequently faced the discouraging reality of shifting into my lowest gears for the slightest of grades. Traffic was light to moderate but comprised of too many trucks for my taste. In this area, at least, I was lucky. I passed river rafting company after company, all closed for the season. Each had a small fleet of buses for transporting riders up river. Consider the highway with dozens and dozens of buses running round trips, the usual truck and car traffic, and factor in what must be astronomical recreational traffic of trucks, fifth wheels and mega RV's, and cyclists would be well advised to stay away from June to September. In places, too, the shoulder is non-existent. I was blessed with a Tuesday afternoon in October--no skiing, no rafting, kids all back in school. Elite cyclo-tourist one, traffic zero. Well, almost. I was still annoyed and had to keep an eye out, but conditions on this road were far better than I had faced in some other places.

By noon I was needing a serious break and pulled over at a river access area and campground to make lunch. With a pained sigh, I realized I still had 40 miles to go. At least the beauty of the scenery took away much of my misery. If I were going to struggle, this was the place to do it. Each turn of the road revealed a new vista, a curve of the river, a new imposing crag breaking out of the steep juniper and pinyon pine covered sides of the canyon. As I progressed, I got closer and closer to the massive peaks I'd seen when first breaking the pass earlier. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen thousand feet, they heaved their mighty bulks into the clear October sky. Wind-scoured, barren-topped, the summits were only exposed stone, far above the region where trees could take hold. Even the hearty lichen would have trouble up there. I had troubles of my own down below. I'd have to come back some day and hike these majestic peaks.

I stopped for ice cream about twenty miles out of Salida. Treat yourself when you're feeling thrashed, I always say. I sat on a bench outside the store and looked up at an American flag snapping merrily in the breeze, such a happy, perky snap, snap, snap. Each snap a nail in the coffin of my energies. Gotta fight, Scotty boy. That's all there is to it. C'mon, Mojo, let's get that Mojo goin'. Back into wrestling mode, I headed out...only to find the winds stopped, a door shut on the west, and I was free, even, at times, getting a little assist. It must have been the ice cream. Whatever the cause, I was deeply grateful and cruised the remaining miles at a much faster, easier pace, realizing that the winds had been taking three to five miles per hour off my average speeds.

At Salida, the heart of the Rockies, I slipped into the old, classic part of town and found the bike shop Trey had recommended--Absolute Bikes. A fantastic staff greeted me like an old friend and I chatted some time with the crew until hunger overcame my convivial impulses. Must...have...food. No worries. Sidle next door to the Bongo Cafe, order large mixed green salad with balsamic vinegar dressing, a large bison burger, an "adult malted beverage recovering drink," as one of the bike shop blokes put it, and dig in. Life was perfect: Fine people, good food, grotesque volumes of hard exercise, what more do you need? I cleaned every crumb and drop of food from my plates and stepped out into the chill of the early evening. I needed to find Trey's place. I pedaled through the deepening shadows as the last rays of the sun glowed on the Sawatch range seven thousand feet above.

The photos are out of order, so sue me!

Downtown Salida: