When one has been engaging in a risky sport for a long period of time, one tends to either not think about the danger at all (like when you're riding an old familiar trail) or dismiss it as acceptable risk (as when you're riding a particularly treacherous trail).  Of course, you know people who have been injured and maybe even know of someone who has been killed, but secretly you believe that you are immune to serious injury because you're either more careful or more skilled than the unfortunate ones.  Intellectually, you know it's not true, but it's the only way you can continue to enjoy the sport.

Then suddenly, your fragile bubble of naivete is burst when news reaches you of a friend's terrible accident.  You are forced to reevaluate what is an acceptable risk.  How much is that thrill worth?

I didn't know him well, had only ridden with him maybe a couple of times, but he was a close friend of a long time cycling buddy of mine.  Riding a familiar and easy trail, this experienced rider broke his neck and now lies in a hospital bed.  Perhaps he will survive, maybe not. 

It brings new meaning to my favorite saying, "What's the worst that can happen?" which is meant to imply that at worst you will get a little dirty and bruised, Dog forbid, break a bone.  I never visualize living the rest of my life without the use of my limbs when I employ that phrase, just before plunging over the edge of some steep-ass descent. 

When another acquaintance was killed by a mountain lion, it seemed like such an isolated, rare occurrence that I never considered that particular danger as one that warranted concern.  I still feel safe enough riding alone though I try to be alert.  Tales of inexperienced cyclists suffering injury and even death, don't trouble me much.  But when an accomplished, sensible rider, near my own age, meets with such an unthinkable fate, it shakes my confidence.

So, the question is:  Do I quit the sport that has quite literally been the greatest joy of my life?  I think not.  What kind of life do we have if we live it constrained by fear? 

It makes sense to manage risk sensibly.  I don't text message while driving because there's no payoff that is tempting enough to risk killing someone else.  Similarly, I don't drink and drive because that would put other people's lives in danger.  Mountain biking affords so many benefits and endangers mostly myself. 

So, I make my choice with eyes wide shut.  If I bite the big one, know that it was totally worth it.  I hope Roland feels the same.

Back in the days when we were gonzo abusive mountain bikers, we used to do a Wednesday night ride.  Some called it the Wednesday Nite Races because it always escalated into a race.  Even though we split into three groups, the Fast, the Half Fast and the Impulse Speed, there was still a strong spirit of competition within each group.

New riders would come out to test their mettle against the legendary (at least in our own minds) Rutriders.  The young men almost always assumed they could hang with the old wolves in the pack and would go off with the Fast group only to get dropped a few miles out.  If they stayed on the trail, they would be picked up by the Half Fast group but sometimes they would lose their way and wind up making their way back to the meeting spot alone.  Most of the time they made it back in one piece. 

I generally led the Half Fast group and Rita coached the more realistic newbies in the Impulse Speed group.  Sometimes the boys we swept up came back week after week, building up stamina, until they could hang on to the wheels of the big boys, but many more found it too humiliating to suffer being beat up by a bunch of old women and never returned.

One warm summer evening we rode Upper and Lower Workout, two trails that run parallel, but one gains more elevation then drops back to meet the other.  There was an unusual number of tarantulas on the trail and we had to be very careful not to run over the slow moving spiders.  Fortunately we all had powerful lights mounted on our handlebars and our helmets so we could see far enough ahead to avoid them. 

We were scrambling up the last steep climb out of the wash, up to the highway, when I spotted a kitten peering out of the bushes, his big yellow eyes glowing in my head lights.  When I got off my bike I discovered there were two of them.  They scampered playfully around our wheels, attacking each other with mock ferocity, completely oblivious to their peril. 

I knew they wouldn't survive the night if left in the wild (coyotes would have them for a snack before dawn) and if they did, they would face dehydration the next day.  At the time I had three cats at home and certainly didn't need another, much less two, but feeling I had no choice, I scooped them up.  Geoff rode off down the trail with a promise that he would come back to pick me up in his truck, leaving me to hang on to two squirming bundles of energy.

Mike, the most tender hearted, cat lover, was amused and delighted to see me bring these destructive little beasts into our home.  I swore I would find homes for them and forbid him to name them.  And so, they were called Gray Kitty and Other Gray Kitty until such time as their new staff would find more imaginative names for them.

It took about a day for us to get too attached to them to consider parting with them but we continued to offer them to all of our friends, knowing they would decline.  I don't know if we have ever openly acknowledged that they are a legitimate part of our family and they are still known as Gray and Other.

This is Other.

And this is his evil twin, Gray Kitty.

And then there were five:  Studley Dude, Handsome Harold, Butchie, Gray and his brother, Other.

His techniques are gentle and humane.  He works with the human desire to please.  He gets them to do his bidding without violence or intimidation.  He is the Human Whisperer.

Big Bob, the gentle giant in our herd of kitties, rules his subjects, human and feline alike, with a benevolence that makes us all join up. 

He's not very athletic and sometimes when he tries to jump up on something he doesn't make it and slides back down.  When it comes to fighting with the other cats, I doubt if he's very accomplished.  Nevertheless, he greets even the most scarred, belligerent tom cat like a welcome guest, going nose to nose as if to kiss him on the lips.  The tom is invariably nonplussed at this assertive yet non aggressive behavior and refrains from any kind of combative reaction. 

With the younger, neutered males he is regal and above playfulness but with Butchie, our female beauty he engages in games of tag that she finds exciting and a little scary.  He outweighs her by about 50%.

His most amazing ability is his understanding of the human mind.  He has Mike so well trained that with one expressive meow he can get Mike to put down his guitar, go to the kitchen and either open a can of cat food or let him out the back door, whichever he chooses.  He is amazed at Mike's intelligence and finds him very trainable.  I suspect he thinks I'm retarded because I'm not as quick to leave the computer to do his bidding.

He's not a tyrant, at least not since he knocked the lamp off the headboard onto my head.  I think he felt truly sorry for that.  Now, he stands at the foot of the bed and announces when he thinks we should get up to feed him.  He allows dissent and if we tell him to hush, he pads quietly away to wait.

He wasn't always this way.  When he first moved in with us he was very unhappy.  He skulked around the house, hissing at everybody and generally being disagreeable.  He had never had to share a house with other cats and didn't know how to establish his place in the hierarchy.  It didn't help that my dear Studley Dude was the same type of personality and had my backing as the head honcho.  But, after Studley Dude died, Bob ascended to the throne where he remains to this day.

Two things Mentone is known for:  Rocks and dogs.  There used to be a number of bumper stickers (remember when they were popular) touting the attributes of Mentone Beach.  The "Beach" part is actually a joke because Mentone is completely land locked.  It does sit on the banks of Mill Creek, a rocky tributary of the Santa Ana River.  Both flowed perennially when they were named but now flow only when their waters exceed the needs of the local water district.  Most of the time they are a broad swath of jumbled boulders and sand with a small trickle of surface water.

So back to the bumper stickers...my favorite one was "Damn the rocks, full speed ahead!"  It is still my mantra when careening down our rock garden, singletrack trails on mountain bikes.  Another sticker said "Beautify Mentone, take a rock to Redlands."  (Redlands is our hoity toity neighbor to the west where they have actual soil.) 

So, it was with some trepidation that I decided to plant a Satsuma Mandarin Orange tree in my back yard.  The man at the nursery said to dig a hole twice the size of the root ball and mix this magic soil that he sold me for only $5.99 with the backfill.  Having some experience with planting trees in this thinly covered wash bottom, I knew that by the time I got all the rocks out of the hole it was going to be considerably larger than twice as big.  I cut a hole in the sod three times as large as the 15 gallon pot and started to dig.

All went well for about the first sixteen inches.  There was nothing but nice clean sandy soil.  It smelled like dog shit but that's still an unsolved mystery.  At sixteen and a half inches my shovel struck granite.  I probed around seeking the edges of the rock, hoping to pry it loose and lift it out of the hole.  My heart sank as the perimeter grew larger and larger the deeper I excavated around it. 

Mike, who was building a cabinet in the garage, came out to check on my progress and couldn't resist pitching in.  He worked the pry bar around it and got it to wiggle just a little.  He went back to work, leaving me to continue excavating the smaller rocks that held the mother rock in place.

At last, when I had cleared around the monster, he came back with his manly man tools.  He rigged up a hoist (a huge ladder with two 2x4s clamped together on edge and a come along).  And after much finagling, he got that rock out of my hole. 

This is after I had backfilled the hole to fill in where the rock had been.

And this is my pretty little tree.

Before hitting the road we went for an exploratory hike up the slickrock ridge that overlooked Deer Creek on the east side.  There was cow poop everywhere and in the shady alcoves beneath the cliffs it was like a poop carpet.  We tried to stay on the slickrock to avoid it but ultimately had to walk along the stream to get back to camp.

The Poop

The entire area appears to be so overgrazed that it has turned into a sandy wasteland except for the canyon floor which gets flooded periodically.  The native grasses, which once held the sand banks in place, have been grazed off so there is nothing left to reseed.  I think that when ranchers run cattle on government land they are not as careful to protect it as if it were their own.  The Bureau of Land Management is obviously not keeping a close enough eye on how many cattle the ranchers are feeding on government land.

We went back to Hell’s Backbone Grill for breakfast.  Of note were the smashed sage, potato pancakes and oatmeal molasses bread with maple butter.  We shared the Backbone breakfast and a generous hunk of raspberry streusel with cream cheese.  I can’t wait to try these recipes when I get home!

Looking Back at Boulder

The section of highway from Boulder to Escalante is probably the most spectacularly scenic stretch of road in the country and perhaps the world.  It traverses a hump of sandstone between two deep drainages and is so narrow that in places the narrow road occupies the entire ridge. 

The Hogback

There is a sensation of flying when you look out on either side of the car because the canyon walls fall away so steeply.  Thankfully, there are plentiful turnouts so the driver can enjoy the views as well.

The View from the Road

Our route took us through the small town of Escalante which has blossomed with the tourist dollars being spent there since President Clinton created the Escalante National Monument.  The locals were incensed with his designation, bemoaning the potential loss of industrial jobs it represented.  From the looks of the prosperous little town, tourism has done more for the area than mining and ranching ever did.

Bryce Canyon Views

Everywhere we stopped, people expressed surprise and some admiration at the fact that we two old ladies are traveling alone.  I’m not sure why; this isn’t Afghanistan, after all.  While we have experienced some difficulties with the trailer, none have been insurmountable and have ultimately left us feeling empowered and confident. 

We stopped before the first tunnel in Zion National Park to hike the canyon overlook trail.  There were quite a number of people on the trail but because it weaves into every side canyon and alcove, they were rarely visible or even audible.

The Road into Zion

The Canyon Overview

Looking Back at the Overview from Below

We decided to eat in Springdale at the Bit & Spur before driving on to the Virgin River Gorge where we camped for the last night. 

We shared a mushroom-stuffed, poblano chili with goat cheese and a salad.  Dessert was a crème brulee topped brownie.  It was all good but paled by comparison to the meal at Helles (the pet name for Hell’s Backbone Grill).

It was still over ninety degrees in the gorge when we pulled into the campground at 7:30.  There were about five other campers in the park that held 75 spaces.  It was fairly quiet considering it was within view of the freeway. 

We picked a pull through site on the edge of the canyon, overlooking the river.  The folks in the next site probably wondered why we took the spot right next to them when there were seventy others available but they were friendly enough.  When we had trouble getting the trailer disconnected from the car they came over to see if they could help.  They were curious to see the inside of the Aliner as they were camping in a pop-up camper on a Tundra.  In fact, they were somewhat of a distraction as we tried to concentrate on getting the trailer leveled and tidied up.

There was ample daylight left for a hike down to the river.  The water was warm and flowing strongly after the thunder showers upriver.  I slipped out of my sundress and shoes for a leisurely dip to wash off the grunge of the road.  Oh my goodness, it felt wonderful!

We scrambled back up the hill to camp and sat outside, reading and writing, until the desert cooled down enough allow us to sleep inside.  Neither of us are fond of putting lethal chemicals on our skin so we had not packed any insect repellent and the local bug population thought we were most considerate.  A couple of bats policed the area for a short time but soon flew off having satiated their appetites long before making a dent in the population.  My computer screen was crawling with critters and so was our exposed skin. 

Dawn on the Virgin River 

Babs was already pretty bumpy from being the main course for the Escalante mosquito clan so the fresh welts hardly added to her discomfort.  I had been less appealing in Escalante but the Virgin River bugs weren’t so discriminating.  They bit my ass right through the lawn chair I was sitting in.  Note to self:  wear underwear when camping to avoid ass bites.

By the wee hours of the morning it had cooled down and I was finally able to fall asleep.  I was awakened before daylight, by the sound of someone walking around outside the trailer.  I raised myself up on one elbow to peek out the window and found an old man, on crutches, peering back at me.  He looked harmless enough so I went back to sleep.

Later, after dawn but before sunrise, I got up to go to the restroom, about seventy yards away.  The same man approached me.  He was curious about the Aliner and asked if he could see the inside.  By this time Babs was up so I invited him to look in.  He was nearly deaf but asked many questions to which I responded at the top of my lungs.  I don’t know how much he got but I’m sure our sleeping neighbors heard every word.

Because the traffic through Las Vegas is always horrible, we chose to bypass it by taking a little scenic byway that skirts the city to the South.  The road was under construction and for twelve miles it was intermittently gravel and rough pavement.  We had to wait a couple of times while a flag woman allowed traffic from the opposing direction through a one-lane section where a new bridges were under construction.  Babs asked if she had time to pee before the pilot car came through.  The flag woman said sure, besides there was nobody waiting behind us.  Babs squatted behind a nearby section of tee rail and the flag woman never batted an eyelash. 

After seeing so much mind boggling, scenic splendor, I thought we could not be impressed but, this section of unspoiled desert and rugged mountains was nonetheless breathtaking.  Lake Mead shimmered off to the South while jagged peaks with blood-red outcrops brooded to the North.

At the end of this nearly deserted road, just before entering the town of Henderson, we took a short hike to view a wetland area.  I gathered that the river that flowed from the dam above, consisted mainly of treated sewage, but the riparian foliage found it satisfying enough to grow luxuriantly in this barren desert.

One last stop at the Mad Greek for lunch and the trip was all but over.  Babs and I took turns driving the last two hours as we both were travel weary.

Babs doing a yoga pose

Mom greeted us warmly, happy to see her cook, maid and gardener back home safe and sound.

We were on the road by 9:00, both of us feeling the a little blue about parting company with Tamera.  The drive was pleasant as the scenery was beyond spectacular.  The grades out of the Rocky Mountains were so steep that there were runaway truck ramps in several places.  We were speculating about the circumstances that would lead a driver to resort to one of those emergency measures when we spotted a truck mired in the gravel half way up one of the steepest ramps I have ever seen. 

The hapless driver was sitting beside it waiting for help to arrive.  We hoped the tow truck was equipped with clean underwear.

We arrived in Green River around 4:30 which seemed a bit early to stop but we were unsure of finding suitable camp sites farther down the road.  We set up the trailer in a very nice state campground, situated on the Colorado River.  It was 95 degrees in the shade and I fear I had lost my enthusiasm for camping and expressed my irritation by being hyper critical of everything Babs tried to do.  She drew me up short and I immediately regretted being such a grouch.

Knowing that a bike ride always cheers me up, I unloaded the bikes and headed out to explore the area. 

I found a dirt road south of town that offered a long gradual climb, just what I needed to work up some endorphins.  By the time I returned to camp I had regained my equanimity.

Tuesday
Green River to Boulder

Babs was still rather subdued in the morning so I followed her lead, trying not to irritate her with my normal prattle.  I made breakfast while she showered and we struck camp together. 

Turning off Interstate 70 onto State Highway 24, headed for Hanksville,

the scenery grew more spectacular with each passing mile.  I couldn’t contain myself and started gushing in my usual manner and soon we were both back in the spirit of the trip. 

We found that we could easily have camped at Goblin Valley, instead of stopping in Green River as it took only about an hour to get there.  The road is now paved all the way to the campground so it wouldn’t have been difficult to get there either.

We dropped down into Boulder right about noon, eagerly anticipating lunch at Hell’s Backbone Grill,

 a small but highly rated restaurant that has  been rated by Zagat and featured in Sunset Magazine.  The restaurant was closed, serving only breakfast and dinner.  We made reservations for dinner and descended the Burr Trail to Deer Creek campground.

Deer Creek has about six campsites all available on a first come first served basis.  The creek side campsites are sheltered by tall cottonwood trees and the sites on the other side of the road are nestled against the sandstone wall of the canyon.  Though there wasn’t a soul in camp, every site appeared to have been claimed, as evidenced by the yellow tags clipped to the post at each site and a few belongings left on the picnic tables.  One site had nothing in it so I examined the tag and found that it was expired. 

This was the only site that didn’t have a parking space where we could set up the trailer so we had to really work to maneuver it to where it didn’t stick out into the road.  While we were struggling one of the other campers pulled into camp.  She had the site with the best parking spot so I trotted over to ask her if she would consider trading with us.  She said she really liked the site she had and had gotten acquainted with her neighbors so she didn’t want to move.  She suggested that we reverse the direction of the trailer which would put the trailer on the most level part of the space.  We agreed, it was a brilliant solution.  Ironically, after we had gotten all set up, perilously close to the road, she decided to leave to stay with a new friend in Boulder.

Yesterday had been too hot to hike but today we woke up to clouds and cooler temperatures.  While we were leveling the trailer it started to rain.  It was beautiful!

The rain wasn’t serious, in fact, it was just a passing sprinkle.  We dug our hiking boots out of the bottom of the bag and put on long pants and long sleeves for protection from the bugs.  Rosalie, our neighbor in camp, generously offered some insect repellant but I prefer a few bites to lethal chemicals on my skin.  And, as the breeze picked up with the approaching squall, the insects gave up anyway. 

Locals run cattle in these canyons and they have established multiple paths along the creek, some next to the creek and some higher up the sandy banks.  We traveled down canyon, watching as the darkening clouds galloped in our direction.  As the thunder and lightning approached, we dropped off the rosy sand bench to a more protected trail next to the creek.  The cottonwood trees afforded some protection from the rain and the sandstone canyon walls deflected the wind.

We would have liked to explore the canyon further but we didn’t want to be late for our 6:00 dinner reservation so we returned to camp to dress for dinner.  In camp we got acquainted with Tom, a splendid specimen of a man.

Tom was well over six feet tall, broad shouldered, fair of face and had a thick mane of wavy graying hair.  He was from Oregon but his Oklahoma roots were evident in his light drawl.  He was traveling alone and invited us to join him at his campfire when we returned from dinner.  He was evidently quite confident in his attractiveness as he broke wind loudly and frequently without apology or embarrassment.  Perhaps that's a custom in Oklahoma because I've been to Oregon and didn't notice the practice there.

Dinner at Hell’s Backbone was everything I had hoped it would be.  The menu consisted of a few carefully crafted dishes, all interesting and organic.  We shared a dish called Moqui Mac, which our waitress described as mac and cheese for grownups.

The two ingredients that gave it its grownup flavor were roasted poblano chilis and red bell peppers.  It was so delicious that I immediately decided to buy the large, hard-covered book they offered for sale, which contains many of the recipes served there, along with a history of the restaurant. 

We started with a wonderful green salad that was served with the fluffiest, most flavorful biscuits I’ve ever tasted and finished the meal with some thick custard they described as chocolate-chili pot with whipped cream.  With two glasses of wine, our dinner cost about $60.  The total with the cookbook, tax and tip was just over $100 and we felt it was worth every penny.

We made it back to camp just before dark and carried our chairs over to Tom’s campsite.  Mike, who had the site across the road from ours, joined us with his big chocolate Labrador retriever, named Ishmael.  Rosalie came back to camp to let Tom know that she was moving up to Boulder where she had met a woman who had invited her to camp on her living room floor for a few days.  We gathered that Tom and Rosalie had been sharing a campsite for several days as they seemed very fond of each other.

When it grew too cold to enjoy the campfire conversation we retired to the Aliner and our down comforters.  During the night it got quite cold in the canyon and we were glad to be parked right next to the outhouse.  In the morning when the pit toilet warmed up we weren’t quite as happy with the proximity.

We arrived at Tamera’s house in Denver early in the afternoon, eager for some exercise.  She was happy to give us a bike tour of the bike path that follows Clear Creek.  In Southern California Clear Creek would be called a river but in these parts, where they actually have rivers, it takes a bit more to earn that title.  The spring thaw in the Rocky Mountains had the creek full to the brim and it babbled happily through the trees and picnic areas.  Babs and Tamera followed the paved path while I jumped off onto side tracks through the woods at every opportunity.  The singletrack paths weren’t technical so it was easy to meet up with them where the path reconnected with the paved trail.

By the time we got back to Tamera’s we were thinking about some dinner.  Her house is just a block away from a hillside park that overlooks the surrounding city so we walked through the park and then under the freeway to an area where there were several choices of restaurants.  I lobbied strongly for Thai food and the girls acquiesced.  It was typical of chain restaurant quality, not bad but nothing to write about.

We walked briskly back to Tamera’s cozy brick house where we sat at the dining room table until the wee hours, doing what we girls do best.

Sunday

I had planned to take a longer bike ride first thing in the morning but couldn’t tear myself away from the conversation.  After a leisurely cup of coffee, we headed out to Tamera’s favorite bagel shop.  She drove us around the neighborhood pointing out properties she owned, properties she managed, and properties she had managed in the past. 

Denver is a city of great charm.  Each neighborhood has a slightly different feel to it.  Some are populated with small brick homes, like Tamera’s, that were built by immigrant Italians.  As the old folks died the neighborhood changed.  Younger folks of more varied ethnicity (overwhelmingly white) infiltrated the formerly Italian neighborhood.  Most of the modest homes were neatly landscaped and maintained but there were a few who carried xerescaping to a new level, most notably Tamera's neighbor across the street.

Next on the tour was downtown Denver.  We were suitably impressed by the ornate old brick buildings and the sleek, modern high rise ones but most impressive was the beautiful Platte River that flows through the middle of town.  It was a sunny Sunday afternoon and the locals were enjoying the water and the parks along the river.  We stopped for a cocktail and some appetizers and then moseyed on to the Ann Taylor Loft store where I bought a new outfit and Babs bought a blouse.  I donned the new clothes and immediately felt mahvolous.  From there we went to Starbucks for tea and then on to REI to look for cycling shorts for Babs.

By this point in the trip, I was having far too much fun with my beautiful niece to take the time to make notes so the rest of the time in Denver is just a blur.  We ate and drank and gossiped away the evening. 

In the morning we collected all of our belongings that we had scattered all over Tamera's spotless house, loaded the trailer and RAV4, and bid a reluctant adieu to Tamera, her kitty and the friendly city of Denver.

I had hoped we could get an earlier start today so I jumped out of bed at the crack of dawn.  I had been awakened during the night by the sound of the horse’s hooves crunching in the gravel around the trailer and looked out to see the foal nosing through our things on the picnic table. 

I was the first person to use the camp showers for the day and the warm water was so slow in coming, I wasn’t sure there was any.  The faucet was the most extreme water saving device I have ever encountered.  The controls consisted of a single button (no option of temperature control) that when pushed, delivered a scant ten seconds of spray.  Standing in the predawn chill, I debated whether I really wanted to step into the tepid trickle.  I opted for a part sponge bath, part shower of very short duration.

While Babs went to the facilities, I made breakfast.  I’m never hungry early in the day but I forced down a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of orange juice knowing we wouldn’t want to stop to eat later.  While Babs put the finishing touches on her toilette and ate her steel cut oats, I went for a walk to find the horses.  They had moved down towards the lake and I harassed them with my camera for a couple of minutes.  Then I headed up the ridge where I had gotten a glimpse of a deep canyon with a lush riparian habitat.  

I passed a couple of porta potties at an open gate with a sign that identified the Piñon Canyon Campground.  I felt an urge to make a pit stop but dismissed it as I had already done my morning ablutions.  A couple of hundred yards farther up the hill I came upon another set of porta pots and as the urge had asserted itself more strongly, I decided to use it.  Knowing that what was to come would not be pretty, I was deterred by the empty paper dispenser.  I figured I could hold it a bit longer and continued up the ridge.  I relieved the mounting pressure by freeing a few carefully released air cubs as I searched desperately for a discrete place to part company  with the big brown bear that was now shaking the cage.

Finally, I selected a private spot between two piñon pines, dug a shallow cat hole, and opened the gate.  There was still the issue of tissue but at least there were a few rocks within reach.  As I pulled up my favorite forest green, velour sweat pants with the cute little star in the back, I was horrified to discover that there was a wet, brown stain.  Damn those air cubs!  Back to the so-called showers.

We were on the interstate by 9:00 as was another group of motorcyclists along with their support vehicles.  Babs reveled in the roar of their motors as they streamed past us, most of them helmetless.  We joined them for a pit stop at a casino gas station a few miles up the road where we chatted them up a bit. 

We reached Santa Fe hungry and ready for a break.  It took a bit of cruising to find a parking space for our rig in the old part of the city but eventually we spotted a row of parking meters where we could use two spaces.   Not fifty feet from where we parked we stumbled upon a tiny café boasting “creative cuisine”.  I deemed it perfect. 

When one of the staff noticed us perusing the dry erase menu boards he took us under his wing to explain our options.  One glimpse of the salad bar was enough to convince us that we need look no further.  In addition to a palette of colorful salads, there was poached salmon with some kind of luscious lemon butter sauce and risotto.  We shared a crème brulee, which was deemed the best in the world by the owner, and indeed it may have been the best I’ve ever had.

We had thirty minutes left on our meters so we made a quick walk through some of the historic section which was crammed with art galleries and other touristy shops.  It was lovely and we regretted that we had to move on down the road.

With the help of a considerate local woman we found the most direct route back to the freeway, having decided that Taos would be more of the same and we hadn’t the time to enjoy it properly.  We needed gas but assumed there would be stations aplenty near the Interstate.  The freeway onramp presented itself suddenly and there wasn’t a gas station in sight. 

Our options were to back track to Santa Fe or hope there would be fuel available in one of the little towns along the highway.  Loathe to give up a single mile, we took our chances and headed north.

The first exit had no services.  The next one indicated that we could find a gas station so we left the Interstate and found ourselves transported to a simpler time where everybody knows their neighbor.  The fuel gage was making demands more and more urgently as we meandered through the beautifully wooded hills with no sign of civilization.  Babs, who was driving and could see the fuel gage, became alarmed at the prospect of running out of gas.  I, on the other hand, have driven many miles with the idiot light, low fuel indicator lit.  Then when I filled up, found I still had several gallons in reserve, and so, I was not quite as concerned.  Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?  We had two perfectly good mountain bikes in the back of the RAV; we had two fully charged cell phones; we had plenty of daylight; we had food and water aplenty; and we had our kitchen and bedroom hitched to the back.  The very worst case scenario was that I would have to ride my totally bitchin Intense mountain bike several miles, through the most gorgeous countryside, in absolutely perfect weather, to where there was either a cell phone connection or a gas station.  Then we might have to wait in this idyllic setting for help to arrive, at which time we would meet a charming roadside assistance gentleman who would invite us back to his place for wine and a dip in his sparkling clean hot tub.  He would then insist that we stay overnight because were too tipsy to drive any further.  Evidently, the version Babs was envisioning read more like the script from Thelma & Louise.

 So, as we drove further and further away from the Interstate, and the gas gage dipped lower and lower, and Babs got tenser and tenser, I suggested that she pull over at the next roadside sign for any kind of local service and I would call the number to ask a local, “Where in the heck is the gas station?!?!”.  She stopped at a sign for a house for sale by owner.   Perfect!  I called the number and somewhat sheepishly explained our situation to the woman at the other end of the line.  Though she was in Montana, she assured us that if we drove another quarter of a mile, a scant 220 yards down the road, around the curve, we would find a gas station.  And so it was, a lovely Phillips 66 station with mini mart and a booth set up in the parking lot, where a woman was selling freshly made doughnuts.  I don’t normally eat doughnuts but under these circumstances, how could I not. 

She was selling mini doughnuts for twenty-five cents apiece.  I asked for one as I pulled out my change purse.  She said the first one was free.  I said I couldn’t take one for free when I wasn’t going to buy any more.  She insisted that she would stick by her policy, so I gratefully accepted one free, freshly deep-fried, mini doughnut coated with cinnamon sugar.  Can you imagine any better Karma?  Spared the inconvenience of running out of gas AND a free doughnut!

Back on the Interstate, the weather began to deteriorate.  The wind whipped up some ominous looking clouds and shook the RAV from side to side.  The Aliner, with its low profile, towed true and straight with nary a care for the gusty cross wind.  

Golden fields dotted with ink-black cattle glowed in patches of sunlight while the surrounding hills darkened under the clouds.  Small groups of antelope grazed near the highway fence, not mingling with the cows.  A string of pretty, Arab/Quarter mix type horses made their way purposefully toward the water hole, dun, gray, bay and black all in a line.  And the road coursed, mostly straight, over rolling hills, always climbing more than descending.

At Roton we left the freeway heading east to Sugarite Canyon State Park.  The first campground was crowded with modest RVs.  There was one space available with electricity but after conferring with a camper from Texas, we decided to proceed up canyon to Soda Pocket Campground.  We climbed a very steep gravel road for a mile and a half to a pristine campground with widely spaced sites.  Stands of scrub oak and wild-iris-dotted meadows separated the level campsites, each with a picnic table (some with covers) and a bear proof food storage box.

City slickers that we are, we were moderately concerned about the signs that warned against storing food in sleeping quarters.  I’ve heard tales of bears that did a great deal of damage to vehicles trying to get at the picnic basket inside.  The camp host came by to remind us that the gate to the camp was locked at night and to give us the combination to the lock in case of emergency so we asked him how serious the bear danger really was.  He assured us that there had been no sightings of bear yet this year and the worst story he knew of was of a bear that destroyed a half full gas can that was stored outside a travel trailer.   As a precaution, we stashed our most fragrant food, bananas, in the bear proof box outside, hoping it would distract any hungry beasts from the fridge and pantry in the Aliner.

Finally my neck and shoulder are feeling a little better and I was able to get out for a bike ride again.  Sally and I rode the wash trails yesterday, both of us a little rusty after such a long sabbatical from single track riding. 

Coming down the trail at a fairly good clip, Sally got a flat front tire coming into a rocky turn.  She managed to get the bike nearly stopped before losing control and going over the bars.  She called it an unplanned dismount, but she wound up on her ass in the rocks so I labeled it a crash. 

Today, Geoff and Rita, Gloria and I went up Lower Workout.  Geoff and Rita have been off the bikes for a few months due to Rita's emergency appendectomy and Geoff's family visiting from Ireland for a month.  I've been sedentary for almost as long with a crippling pain in my shoulder.  Gloria remains nimble as a goat but was still happy to have some riding companions for a change, even if they were slow. 

It was a lovely sunny morning with a cool breeze coming from the Pacific ocean.  We kept an eye out for snakes as this was perfect weather for them to be out and about. 

We were just nicely headed downhill, with me in the lead, on a wide single track when I spotted a snake stretched across the trail.  I was going too fast to stop so I bunny hopped over him.  In that split second decision, I didn't have time to consider the riders behind me but as soon as I was clear of the snake, I debated what to do. 

Should I stop and warn my fellow riders?  If I did that, would they stop right where the snake had been?  I decided that in mountain biking, it's each man for himself; it ain't no team sport.  So, I rode on a short distance then stopped to watch the drama unfold.  Rita came first and I saw her stop and start yelling to Gloria and Geoff who were behind her.  They stopped right about where I had seen the snake.

When they at last caught up with me, Rita breathlessly told me that she had run over the snake because she hadn't seen him soon enough to stop and she couldn't bunny hop on such short notice.  Geoff and Gloria never saw him because after having been run over, he got the hell out of Dodge.  Rita swore it was a Diamondback Rattler (I thought it looked like a gopher snake) and that he rattled at her.

Either way, it lent a bit of excitement to an otherwise fun but tame ride.

Thursday, May 14, 2009
Kingman, AZ to

Well before the sun cleared the ridge to the east, the birds were twittering in a chorus of happy voices in the trees around our camp.  I started a pot of coffee and went out to do some dust control a few yards away from camp.  Babs was sleeping peacefully so I busied myself as quietly as possible, which if you know her, was unnecessary.  When she awoke we opened the door to let the outdoors in and there was a handsome young buck, come for breakfast.  He acted like he would climb in the trailer with us if we had any oatmeal to spare but we didn’t invite him in.  Soon his little sister joined him and together they closely observed Babs doing her morning ablutions, examining her wash water and sniffing her toothbrush, still hopeful that breakfast would be forthcoming.

We got everything stowed and were headed down the hill about 10:00.  Again, I smelled an unfamiliar odor and suggested that we check the transmission fluid to be safe.  We came upon a grader with a flagman so I suggested we ask the flagman if it was logical to check the fluid.  He happily explained where it would be and how to check it.  He also gave us some driving tips for climbing and ascending while towing. 

We pulled off the road just a couple of hundred yards down the road to check it.  Of course, it took us a few minutes to figure it out and by the time we had assured ourselves it was fine, I looked up the road to see our friendly flagman hiking down the road to see if we needed assistance.  We waved and signaled “OK” and headed down the road.

The scenery along the 40 is as spectacular as it is varied.  The highway undulates through forests and across broad meadows, still green from spring rains.  The mountains give way to rolling, grassy, blonde plains.  Crossing into New Mexico there are dramatic cliffs of sandstone towering over the highway.  The locals have taken advantage of the picturesque setting by building trading posts, where they sell a variety of Indian arts, at the base of the cliff.  High above, perched on ledges, was a virtual diorama of local wild life.  Life sized figures of Indians, deer and a larger than life eagle were posed to attract the visitor’s eye. 

Road kill is abundant and even identifiable when traveling at our trailer-towing sedate pace.  Coyote, fox, rabbit, deer, all fall prey to the speeding traffic.  There was a huge elk lying in the brush a few yards off the pavement, still trying to get up but too badly injured to do more than raise her head.  She had probably been hit by a semi truck during the night because she would have totaled a passenger car.  I called the Department of Public Safety, which is Arizona’s highway patrol, to report her.  The dispatcher said she would dispatch someone to tend to her.  I’ve heard that injured animals are butchered and the meat is donated to charitable organizations.

Our main diversion from driving was a short hike in Walnut Canyon.  A beautiful visitor center perches on the rim of a deep canyon, the walls of which are pocked with ancient cliff dwellings and storage rooms.  There is a paved trail, which includes 185 stairs, which visitors can descend to view some of the cliff dwellings up close.  The trail did not descend all the way to the bottom of the canyon, which would have been disappointing except that the stream that once graced this canyon has long been siphoned off up river to satisfy the needs of Flagstaff.

Our second stop, albeit brief, was so quintessentially Route 66ish that we simply had to stop for a photo shoot.  In Holbrook, there is a motel that has been placed on the National Historic Register.  It is the Wigwam Motel where individual cabins have been built to resemble teepees.  Parked in front of each one was a vintage car.  Though the teepees looked neatly maintained, the old cars were not. 

We barely made it to our destination, Bluewater Lake State Park, before dusk.  The lake is a drought stricken reservoir but the campground was nonetheless appealing.  Even though it lacked the remote and isolated feel of our previous digs, it made up for it by offering electrical hook ups and showers.  A bucolic setting was created by a couple of horses with a nursing foal grazing freely around the camp.  The campground is graveyard quiet despite the fact that there are many more campers than we saw yesterday.