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Before we did "it," we never doubted that we would. Now that we have, we can hardly believe we did.
The explanation of those statements is that we are Al and Louie, husband and wife. "It" is our 22 month, 18,000 mile bicycle trip.
Many of our acquaintances believe that how we were able to begin the trip at ages 48 and 37 is a bigger accomplishment than the trip itself. Out of respect for their views we will start there.
We were married in 1973 and, as part of a pre-nuptial agreement, spent a three week honeymoon touring Europe by automobile. This experience taught us two things: 1) we both love to travel and 2) faster isn't better. Covering eight countries in three weeks may look impressive in your passport, but if one doesn't take time to savor the people and places they are visiting, the experience is not only incomplete but the memories become a blur and quickly fade. Our desire to both travel more and enjoy it posed a problem. How to feed and clothe ourselves? Neither of us had a rich uncle to provide an immediate solution, so our alternative was a long range remedy.
It was really very simple. When Louie finished grad school in 1975 she was hired by DuPont. Thanks to her masters degree in Computer Sciences and practical work experience she received a starting salary comparable to Al's. This posed a question as well as an answer. What to do with the extra money? We were living comfortably on what Al made. Fancy cars, jewelry or expensive clothes were not our style. The solution was obvious -- put the money in the bank. For the next fifteen years we lived on one salary, saving and investing the other one. Simple in principal but not always easy. The temptation to dip into the extra money was frequently there, but the dream of escaping the rat race was always much stronger.
The ingredient that made our plan a true adventure was that we decided to do it by bicycle. This would allow us to enjoy our travels at a much slower pace, while easing the budget as well. We kept our imaginations fired by periodic bicycle rides, which we extended from a few hours or days to infinity. Our original plan was to work and fantasize for ten years, then retire in 1985. In 1975 you could live on ten thousand dollars a year and interest rates were over ten percent, so our simple economics said that saving ten thousand a year, for ten years, we would have one hundred thousand and that we would have ten thousand a year to live on. Of course, none of this remained true, but we did save enough money to fulfill our plans even with our departure date postponed by the following events.
In 1982, Xerox, Al's employer offered him the opportunity to relocate to London, England. Much to the local management's surprise, Al accepted. Their surprise was due to his previous refusal of many other assignments that had led many to believe, "he'll never leave Philly." His regional manager called him in to find out why. Asking Al, "We offered you California, New York and D.C. and you always said 'no', why did you say yes this time?" He replied smilingly, "You never said London before."
The decision was not really that easy. We were half way to our goal, had friends and relatives in the area and many social activities. But most of all, Louie would have to give up her job, meaning we didn't have that double income and we would have to delay our plans. An agonizing weekend followed that offer. We could think of a good reason to stay for every one to go. A long written list was coming out very even when Al had an inspiration. He wrote "one hundred weekends in Europe" on the page. Louie read it, smiled and said, "When do we leave?" (The original assignment was for two years, we stayed for four).
In 1984 our plans were effected by a much sadder event. Al's first wife died, increasing the level of our responsibility to his two sons. Doug, the younger, eventually came to live with us, an event, which, at first, was totally disruptive. Having a seventeen year old in anyone's house can be difficult. But when he's there against his will and has a built-in resentment toward you, it's much worse. After the initial turmoil subsided, the last two years were both enjoyable and rewarding. None of us regret or would wish to change any of it. So Doug's graduation from high school and enrollment in an out-of-state tech school became the deciding factor as to when we would leave.
The last thing to effect our plans was Xerox's offer of a voluntary redundancy -- they pay you to leave. The offer was extended to all employees in Al's category of employment. In Al's case it meant nine months pay and benefits. The problem was we didn't plan to leave until July '89 and the offer had to be accepted by April '88. "I'll be working twelve months for three months pay," Al bemoaned. "I don't want to be a consultant, but I'll have to do something." Finally, after much discussion and the guarantee of employment from a consulting firm, Al submitted his application. Now came the hard part -- telling his boss. After explaining that he was leaving to ride a bicycle around the world and not seeking employment elsewhere, Al was relieved to hear his boss say "I wouldn't believe this from anyone else, but in your case I do. However, you'll have to explain it to Norb." Norb was the president of the division, and often called upon Al for customer relations problems. Once again the story was received with admiration and belief. Norb's comments were even more gratifying, "So, if I understand you correctly, you really don't want to leave until next year. If I can arrange for your termination to be delayed till then, will you stay?" Al didn't hesitate to say "yes." All of a sudden everything just got a lot simpler. Al was allowed to spend the next year doing the job he enjoyed with no concerns about pretending to seek promotions or salary increases, a very relaxing situation. Also, since his co-workers knew he was leaving and the circumstances behind why, he had a special position as a confidant and advisor. Al picked March 31, 1989 as his final day, that provided four weeks vacation pay and a full year's profit-sharing to increase the retirement fund. His co-workers rented a brew pub for the night and held one of the biggest and best going away parties in history. A large banner with a picture of a bike rider riding into the sunset bore the inscription "May the wind be at your back." When asked why Louie wasn't in the picture, Al saved the artists any embarrassment by saying "She's over the next hill in front of me."
Louie's departure was not so easy. Her employer had the reputation of having a negative attitude toward departing employees, such as rescinding salary increases and withholding education payments. So, she was forced to labor under a cloud of secrecy and, as more and more people became aware of Al's situation, it became more difficult to conceal. It got to the point that she had to accept a supervisory position (without salary increase) for the last six months she worked, or else confess to her real future. Finally, in June, she gave her notice and had an equally fond, if not grandiose, farewell.
In June, Doug graduated. He would soon be on his own in another state at tech school. He and his older brother Scott, who had come to California for the big event, (they had finally managed to get Al to the sunshine state) helped us to empty the house, sadly parting with an awful lot of our past.
July fifth, 1989. Like most things you wait a long time for, when they finally happen, it takes a while for the reality to set in. This was one of those times. We had traveled the first 25 miles of our journey many times. The bike path between Torrance and Pacific Palisades had been a major part of our training program, coupled with rides in the more demanding hills of the Palos Verde peninsula and weekend trips to other parts of California. We felt physically prepared for what lay ahead.
The logistical side of things had been managed by Louie. She read volumes of information on bicycles, camping equipment, diet and routes. This research and the patience to wait for the selected items to go on sale enabled us to assemble the necessary gear.
In the beginning of June, we loaded the bikes to simulate the 40 to 50 pounds of stuff we would be required to carry on the trip. This period of time allowed us to become accustomed to the behavior of the bikes and ourselves under actual conditions. Rather than put our clothing and real food in to the panniers, or saddle bags, we approximated the load by filling them with National Geographics. This was very appropriate since many of our dreams had been fueled by articles in this wonderful periodical. While taking such rides, we were often embarrassed when other bike riders would enthusiastically ask "where are you headed?" We then had to reply, "Nowhere yet, just training."
No more excuses from now on. It was for real. As we stood at the top of our driveway, Louie straddled Nellie, her one of a kind touring bike purchased in London after her other bike had been stolen. The English mechanic had taken a Saracen frame and outfitted it with his idea of what a road bike should be. Louie found that the gear ratios were unacceptable and with the help of a computer simulation program designed her own eighteen gear combination. The morning sun reflected off the still new blue panniers which blended with the frame, accessories and shirt she wore. Al was riding a Trek 520, which he had personalized against the protests of the bicycle purists with mountain bike handlebars. In 1989 this was considered a sacrilege by the racing bar crowd. But as of this writing, straight bars are in and drops are out. Proving that people really do want to see where they are headed. It also provides better control, rather important when you have twenty pounds of stuff on your front wheel panniers, which in Al's case were red and matched his accessories and shirt. The different colors proved to be much more than a fashion statement. With eight packs floating around it made finding your own gear much easier.
Without fanfare and no one to bid farewell, Doug was at work, we rolled down the drive and followed the familiar route toward the bike path. Our first scheduled stop (one of only a few on our itinerary) was only six miles away at the Manhattan Beach pier. Before we even got that far our first incident occurred. While cleaning out the fridge, Al discovered a bottle of sparkling mineral water. Not wanting to waste it on Doug, who would only consume coke, Al dumped it into one of his two water bottles, the one mounted atop his handlebars for easy access. Each rider had three water bottle racks, two for water and one for fuel to supply the Peak One camp stove carried along with the pots and pans by Al. On the way down a steep hill toward the beach, as he bent forward to improve his aerodynamics, Al heard a loud "kapow" and his face was sprayed with water, the pressure from the shaken mineral water had blown the top off his water bottle. No harm done but a portent of things to come.
Our rendezvous at the pier was to be our official send off. A group of Louie's friends from work came down to say good-bye. After some talk, photographs and inspections of our bikes, we waved "adios" and headed up the bike path, toward our first day's destination, Malibu.
We meant our first day to be an easy one, in case we encountered any difficulty. We didn't expect any, but it has been said, "prepare for the worst and hope for the best." We had taken lots of precautions, having the bikes completely overhauled. We even had special touring wheels built, replacing the standard 32 spoke rims with 36 on the front wheels and 48 on the rear. The wheels were made with Phil Wood hubs, used on tandem bicycles. This doesn't mean much to the average person, but to bicycle fanatics it means the best. All this was done to prevent broken spokes, the tourist's nightmare. The normal wheel is not designed to carry the heavy weight we were carrying and if you should break one spoke the possibility of breaking more increases dramatically. One can ride with one broken spoke and maybe even two, but with three the wobble becomes so bad it's impossible to keep your bike on the road. Replacing a front spoke is fairly easy, but a rear spoke is almost impossible to do, outside of a workshop, because it requires the removal of the gear cluster. And, of course, you know which spokes are most likely to break. There are physical reasons for this, but Murphy's law has something to do with it also.
Despite all the preparations, less than 20 miles from home, Al's bike started making a rubbing sound and the further we rode the worse it sounded. We found a bike shop in Marina Del Rey and asked for assistance. The proprietor was quick to offer help and tightened the pedal crank. Once more we were on the road, but the noise persisted and the pedals became more difficult to turn until, finally, they would not make a complete revolution, causing Al to propel the bike by making a backward and forward motion. This would not do and we assumed it was something very serious and probably very expensive. Vision of buying a new bike flashed through Al's mind. Consulting the bicycle yellow pages, a reference book we had obtained from Bikecentennial magazine, we located a bicycle shop which was only two miles off our planned course. The only problem was, it was up-hill, and back and forth pedaling wouldn't make it. So, Al shamefully pushed his bike up the hill enduring the taunts of some young boys who assumed he was too weak to pedal. Louie rode ahead to insure the shop was open and able to provide help. The owner was waiting for Al when he arrived. He listened to the explanation of the problem and shook his head. "I've never heard of anything like that, bring it in." Al removed all four panniers, the three water bottles, tire pump, sleeping bag, air mattress and tool bag. Then delivered the bike to the mechanic anticipating the worst. Placing the bike on his work pedestal he examined the bike and quickly broke into a smile, picked up an allen wrench, made a few turns and the pedals magically spun freely. He motioned for Al to come see what he had done. The culprit was one of the bolts that held the smaller of the three chain rings in place. It had come loose and eventually worked it's way out so that it rubbed up against the pedal crank and finally prevented it from turning all together. Al was both mortified and thankful. This guy, like the one in the first shop, refused payment, probably thinking if we couldn't get through the first day of our trip without problems we would need lots of help. These courtesies were not unusual, when you become a real tourist you go through a metamorphosis from the average guy in the neighborhood, who has to make an appointment three weeks in advance and pay dearly for the service to becoming a celebrity who is living everyone else's dreams. You roll up to the door, they have never seen you before and will likely never see you again. But one look at the bags and camping gear and you move to the head of the list. The work is done quickly courteously and if they take payment it's usually discounted or they throw in something extra. All you need do in return is tell them of your adventure so for a short while they can live your dream with you. It really renews your faith in mankind.
Finally, after all that, we broke the barrier of our training runs leaving the bike path behind and traveling on the fabled California Route 1, The Pacific Coast Highway. we were now truly on our way. But not for long, Malibu is only a few miles down the road. We arrived at the beautiful home of Mike and Donna Sedgwick. Despite a very steep hill and the disdainful looks of their neighbors who obviously felt we were not up to their standards. Little did they know that we were the guests of honor at a beach party attended this time by Al's friends from Xerox. Our first day had been a lot more eventful than planned and unlike any other we were likely to have. Who could have imagined almost failing to complete our first days objective? Sleeping in an exclusive seaside house was a lot plusher than what lay ahead. But hopefully the days would be less traumatic.
During the party the night before one of our friends re-quoted the preceding toast. His request came true as we left Malibu a southerly breeze pushed us along at a steady 16 mph. The Pacific was on our left with the morning sun reflecting off it's cobalt surface. Our progress was so rapid that we arrived at Leo Carillo State Beach (named for the actor who played Pancho in the original Cisco Kid series) before 11 AM. A little too early to stop for the day. So we decided to have coffee and then push on to Carpenteria just south of Santa Barbara. Making the coffee was educational. We had spent weeks planning who would carry what and where it should go. Al had the kitchen which consisted of the stove, pot and pan, knives, forks, spoons and so forth, plus the permanent food stuffs; coffee, tea, creamer, salt and pepper. This would eventually grow to include rice, bread and peanut butter. When Al discovered he had to unload both rear panniers just to make coffee he realized a reshuffling was in order. Throughout the trip we would experience periods of consistent packing but then something would occur and we would have to more things around once more. This after using a scale to insure the packs were equally loaded.
With the caffeine to drive us we headed on continuing to make great time. We were less than ten miles from Carpenteria when Louie's bike stopped moving forward, she hadn't stopped pedaling just moving forward, her chain had broken. This unlike a broken spoke can be easily remedied, among the tools which Louie carried was a chain tool. Louie quickly removed the broken link and reassembled the chain a little shorter but still serviceable. She would buy a new one in Carpenteria.
We arrived at the campground where we would spend the night in the fashion we would soon get used to along the Pacific bike route, a hiker biker campsite. This route is one of the most popular bike route in the world and in conjunction with the 1976 bicentennial California and Oregon established these sites especially for bike riders and back packers. No reservations required or taken, maximum stay two nights and a fee of two dollars per person. It was with a true feeling of adventure that we erected our big green tent for the first time on this trip. We had been erecting it for 15 years, but this time was special. We had discussed buying a new back packers tent but weren't sure what we needed. Plus being frugal people, couldn't see throwing away a usable tent; it weighed only eight ounces more than the newer models and was much larger. It looked out of place in the middle of all the modern 3'x4'x6.5' cocoons used by most riders. While looking at it's 7'x7'x7' size one of our new found riding friends called it "the green motel". We liked the name and still remember it fondly.
Our camping companions that night were not hiker bikers. One was a hobo who cooked his fried eggs on a trash fire and a couple who parked their car down the road and walked in thus saving part of the camping fee. Unfortunately this kind of behavior is causing California to close some hiker biker spots, putting an unfair burden on the folks they were meant to serve. Regardless we slept very well -- pedaling 69 miles will do that to you.
Cycling the Pacific Coast is so popular there is a book by that name which gives you a mile by mile description of the route telling you where to camp, buy groceries, lists the elevation changes and local attractions. Published in 1982, it was still fairly accurate in 1989, it was written going north to south. We, however, were traveling the other way, which was not only opposite to the book but the prevailing winds and most of the other tourists we were to meet. The tail wind we had on the first day was not to be with us for very long. The author of the book went to great pains to point out that anyone considering the Pacific coast should start in the north and proceed south. Constant reminders of this were hurled at us by riders in the form of "You're going the wrong way! Are you stupid or something?" to which we replied "Oh, did they move Canada?" Most of the riders were doing a time limited ride from three weeks to two months. Normally taking public transport to and from their start and end points. We on the other hand had no fixed limit to the length of our trip. So had simply started from where we were. All of the above leads us to the point that when following the directions in the book left was right and visa versa, well most of the time. This morning would prove to be one of the exceptions.
We loaded up while eating our breakfast of granola bars and coffee, a routine with which we would become very familiar, and started out. We had barely left the campground when the directions didn't make any sense. We had arrived at an off ramp of the interstate highway with no place to go even if we were allowed on the interstate, which we weren't. As we stood on the side of the road twisting and turning the map trying to figure out what went wrong a very friendly local pulled up in his pickup truck and offered to help. "You want to go over by the rail road tracks. They ride bikes there all the time; no traffic to worry about." With this he drove off. Our map did not mention railroad tracks, but dutifully Al walked toward the tracks. When he encountered a muddy gully he returned and advised Louie he didn't believe it was a good idea. We started back down the road but here came our friend in the pickup "No, no," he hollered, "Back that way. Once you get over the ditch you'll be fine." To add support to his argument a young boy came happily across the ditch on his mountain bike. With this as evidence we turned back and started through the ditch as Louie approached the opposite side she slipped and her bike fell on top of her, the chain leaving a greasy gash on her knee. The first aid kit was put to it's initial use and amazingly was easy to find. After a quick conference with band aid in place and keeping a wary eye out for our friend we went back the way we had come, looked the opposite way and found our way back on course. Louie had a little pain but we arrived at Gaviota state park with no further difficulty.
That evening we shared the campground with another hobo and our first real bike tourist. A professor from Oregon who not only told us about the road ahead but everything you wanted to know about apples. Did you know that calcium is what makes apples crunchy? All of his research is done to improve the amount of calcium in apples.
He also provided us with evidence that all of our preparation was not in vain. The day before he had broken three spokes on his rear wheel and even though he carried the tools and spokes to do the repairs he was unable to get the job done. He calculated it would have required a six foot steel pipe and a vise, things not readily carried on a bicycle. In the course of our trip neither of us broke a spoke on our original wheels.
We were about to leave the coast and head inland; it seems the military has better use for the coast line here than people do, such is life. To get inland we had to cross the headlands. Our next door neighbor for three years Richard Cox was sure we would never get up the hill at Gaviota. We know that we did, we felt the strain, yet we never saw the hill. The explanation for this is that when we awoke that morning, the area was shrouded in fog. "It's just low lying," said Al, "as soon as we start the climb we'll be out of it. Our motel reservation is only good until six o'clock. We have enough time, but we need to move." Yes this may disappoint some purists but we did stay at motels on some occasions. This was one planned in advance, during our stay in London we had become infected with the English diseases of good beer and Wimbledon. San Luis Obispo, our stop for the day, was home to a small brewery and Spike's, a bar featuring over 100 different beers from around the world. In addition, Sunday was due to be the Men's Finals day at Wimbledon. So after only four days on the road we were treating ourselves to a night indoors, and a late start on Sunday. But our first problem was to get there.
Or should we have said our ultimate problem. As we left the campground the road went up immediately and the fog stayed with us. A wide shoulder provided a reasonable surface to ride on, so staying to the far right we pedaled along in low gear, the white curb line as our guide disappearing into the mist twenty feet in front of us. At the top, the fog started to evaporate and we were soon moving along in clear skies, making good time over rolling terrain. After three hours we reached a junction where the route numbers did not match the ones in the book. After much deliberation the decision was made to play it safe and follow Route 1, two hours later arriving in the small town of Guadalupe very hot, very tired and hungry. A farmer who sold us some peaches and nectarines also provided the information that we had ridden twenty miles out of our way and still had thirty to go. Route 1 was not the safe decision as Guadalupe was not on the bicycle route. The farmer could not believe his eyes as two of the largest peaches you can imagine disappeared down our throats, followed by two equally large nectarines. Having refreshed our bodies and shocked our brains we gathered ourselves and continued. By the time we got back to the coast at Pismo Beach exhaustion had set in and doubts about reaching SLO started to creep in. Another huge inland hill lay between the two towns. Some food from a convenience store and a nap restored some energy and an off shore breeze provided some assistance with the ascent. Finding the motel on the south side of town was a big relief.
Following much needed showers and a night on the town, with good beer and food, we were treated to the result of the English weather postponing the Ladies' Final to Sunday. So, we got to watch it as well as the men's.
As promised we got a late start on Sunday, came back to the coast and started on the most famous part of the Pacific Coast route. From Morro Bay, dominated by the huge black rock ("morro" is Spanish for rock), to Monterey, Route 1 literally hugs the coast twisting and turning along the cliffs with another majestic view around each turn. Although the bulk of the commercial traffic takes the inland route, the roadway is narrow and plenty of cars and RV's provide the likelihood that some sightseer won't see you. Sunday, of course, especially if the day is bright and sunny, which it was, is a very popular day to cruise this stretch of road or drive home from the weekend. We were content to make it only as far as San Simeon. We pulled off Route 1 at the first campground entrance we saw and were very surprised to see a campground full sign at an empty campground. Since it was now late in the afternoon, everyone had probably gone home and the sign was left over from Saturday night. The next campground was over forty miles away, not a likely solution. Up went the tent and we settled in figuring a ranger would show up sooner or later. He turned up sooner. The green state park truck pulled up and a very friendly ranger said, "You folks look comfortable." -- "Sure are" -- "Sorry, but you'll have to move. This is the overflow area, the main campground is a mile up the road. Take your time, but you can't stay here." Then he was gone as quickly as he had arrived.
This was an occasion to learn an important lesson, that there is only one way to load the bikes. After some futile attempts to not fold the tent and not stuff the sleeping bags into their stuff sacks, we repacked as if it was the beginning of the day and moved to the main campground, where the hiker-biker area and showers were. Not all hiker-biker sites are the same. Some camps provide a table and fire place for each site, while others make it more communal, which was the case here. You could have all the grass you wished for, however, there were only two tables to be shared by however many riders showed up. Upon our arrival three riders were already occupying the site, two young Germans and a guy who looked older than Al. This was a surprise since most people thought 48 was pretty old to be touring. The Germans seemed pretty possessive of their table having spread gear from one end of it to the other. Wayne Mallard, who was 50, was very happy to share the other table and became our companion for the night. A table is a must for bike riders. It not only provides a place to sit and eat but a place to lean and lock your bicycle (touring bikes don't have kickstands -- too heavy).
Wayne had ridden all the way from New Mexico and was on his way to Seattle. He was going North! Another crazy person. For us he became a familiar person on the road and in the campgrounds for the next few weeks. The atmosphere was very cordial and the evening was spent exchanging plans and information as the giraffe and zebras grazed above us on the grounds of Hearst Castle; it was an amazing spot. If that shocked you or you think it's a joke, you obviously are unaware of Randolph Hearst, Patty's grandfather, who had a private menagerie which remained in place when the castle was given to the state.
The ride from San Simeon to Santa Cruz was pretty and uneventful, spending one night at a national forest campground called Kirk Creek, arriving so early that the south bound riders were still there, as they awaited the winds to pick up, while northbound folks started out early (7 am) to beat them.
And the only difficulty getting into Big Sur state park the following day was stopping the bikes -- the entrance is located halfway down a steep hill. The heavily loaded bicycles seemed to be enjoying the speedy decent and wanted to keep going. We coasted along the loop road into our camping area and halted immediately. A group of deer surrounded a lone camper at his table amongst the shady Ponderosa Pines. Such an enchanting site. As we approached cautiously we realized the man was Wayne. He had pedaled straight through from San Simeon in one day and was now taking a day off to recover. Sadly, the deer decided to leave us humans to catch up on our travels.
Big Sur has a daunting reputation for it's poetic natural beauty. It was nice but no better than much of this coast and not as spectacular as others. The ride to Carmel and past Pebble beach was testimony to this.
Monterey was another scheduled motel night, so we could spend a day at the aquarium one of the best in the world. Long lines had prevented a visit on a previous stay in Monterey, and we were determined to see it this time. Mission accomplished, being first in a line that never materialized allowed plenty of time to view the fantastic collection of sea animals displayed in natural environments, especially the funny, adorable sea otters. Cannery Row of John Steinbeck fame is now a touristy shopping center next to the Aquarium.
Santa Cruz was another motel night, "getting soft" you say, not really, an old friend of Louie's was waiting there and no campsites existed close to town. A few hours in a brew pub followed by a ride on a roller coaster made for a different kind of evening.
So far the trip up the coast had lived up to all expectations: beautiful views around each curve as well as another steep hill. The weather had been mild and the threatened head winds moderate. Leaving Santa Cruz behind, never imagining it would be devastated by an earthquake in just a few weeks, the sun was shining and all was well, so much so that Al was prompted to say, "This is what it's all about." Within minutes of this uttering, the winds picked up, clouds rolled in, the temperature dropped and we spent the next five hours with our heads downs struggling to make headway. The 50 miles to Half Moon Bay were a real trial, and how a place with such a romantic name could be so miserable is unbelievable. Wayne was there and he claimed the head winds were 25 miles an hour, our legs would not argue. The wind and misty fog continued into the evening making it very chilly. So after a very rare steak dinner (the fire couldn't overcome the cold wind), there was nothing to do but crawl into the tent and sleeping bags to stay warm. It was July 14 in sunny California and we were freezing. Please forgive this much misused quote by Mark Twain, "The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco." Enough said.
Leaving Half Moon Bay was worse than arriving. The Pacific, which had sparkled at the beginning of the journey, was now a grey foreboding source of wind and chilled moisture. The only option was head down and pedal; progress slowed to less than ten miles per hour. Finally, after what seemed forever and with a sense of relief, the roadway turned right away from the coast and out of the wind, heading into San Francisco. The famous steep hills were a welcome change. The question was often asked, "How will you handle the hills?" And the answer was, "Not a problem -- hills always have a summit and when you reach it the next part is usually down hill. The wind is what you grow to hate -- it never stops and has a demoralizing effect. Your eyes tell you the terrain is flat, but your legs belie the fact and the wind howling past your ears makes for a less than fun day."
Approaching the Golden Gate Bridge renewed Louie's fear of being blown off into the bay. She had heard stories that someone had their contacts sucked out of their eyes by the fierce winds while crossing the bridge. She had sworn from the beginning she was walking her bike to prevent being blown away. However, the difference in the weather at the bridge and beyond was remarkable. The sun was shining the breeze was light without a sign of fog. It was a Saturday and the parking area at the base of the bridge was filled with bike riders and pedestrians eagerly preparing to cross the bridge on one of the two pathways provided for these activities, one side for each pursuit. Watching the scores of weekend riders, some appearing barely able to ride around the block casually crossing the bridge, convinced Louie she could risk the crossing, which was a pleasant pedal, and the glide into the beautiful harbor at Sausalito was tremendous. What a difference rounding a corner of the coast can make!
That night's stop was at Samuel P. Taylor State Park, the oldest in California. Once again Wayne was there talking to a group of cyclists. Surprisingly, they were a family: husband and wife with two little girls. They were temporarily homeless traveling south to a new job. The oldest girl was about 11 and rode her own bike. But the youngest, who was five or six, rode in a covered bicycle trailer pulled by her father. She was supplied with coloring books and crayons and apparently spent the days happily bouncing along behind her dad. It seemed a reckless thing to be doing The roadways in this part of California are far less than wide and have little or no paved shoulders. Add to it a constant flow of log trucks and RV's whizzing along a few inches away and you get the picture. Putting yourself at risk is one thing, but a five year old child has no say in the matter.
It was during this discussion that a park ranger arrived, asking for Al. Once he identified himself, she delivered a message along with a telephone number asking him to call Fred Sigmund. This was not a total surprise, Fred a friend and business associate lives nearby. An earlier attempt to reach him had resulted in leaving a message on his machine. Our expectations were low in his chance of finding us, let alone the difficulty he would have to go through. How did he know a park ranger would hand deliver a phone message to us? His resourcefulness resulted in a very pleasant Mexican dinner shared by Fred, his wife, and two hungry bike riders (paid for by Fred's employers, an obvious business expense). The added weight of the couple cans of beef stew not eaten that night was an easily accepted burden.
The next day's ride to Bodega Bay was a return to the coast, with the wind and fog awaiting us. Heading north was becoming a real challenge. As mentioned, the quality and location of hiker biker campsites vary from campground to campground. Whoever picked the site at Bodega Bay must have hated bike riders. The entrance was like quicksand! Everyone that arrived got stuck and was forced to drag their bikes into the site. Which was very crowded that night; Wayne was there and five or six south-bound riders, who were not traveling together, however, they had shared several campsites, so were familiar with each other. When they learned we were heading North they started into a series of criticisms all heard before. "What, are you crazy? You're going the wrong way! We average 20 miles per hour. You must have a hero complex..." and so on. The reply was the standard, "You can't get to Canada going south." The conversations were lively and the exchange of jibes and information continued until after dark, when everyone all got to watch two owls in the trees overhead. When it became time to turn in Wayne approached and announced, "I'm turning back in the morning and returning to Frisco. I'll take a train to Seattle then pedal back down to cover the same ground -- this wind is just to much." The harassment from the other riders had obviously found its mark. He, like most of the other riders didn't have a destination other than to complete the ride. His goal was to cover the Pacific Coast and it didn't matter in which direction he did it. His frustration certainly made the night a lot gloomier. The three of us had shared a lot together and it wasn't encouraging to see our comrade quit.
At departure time in the morning we made a point of going over to bid Wayne farewell only to find out he had changed his mind. "I was tired last night, this is MY adventure and I'll finish as planned." His statement made everybody feel good.
That night at Gualala County Campground he almost regretted his decision for a raccoon snuck into his panniers and ate half a dozen buns he had bought for his breakfast.
By then the daily grind had taken on a repetitive pattern. Unlike the stretch from Morro Bay to Monterey where the road way had elevated bridges to cross the many rivers finding their way to the Pacific. Here the bridges were a little above sea level resulting in a high speed downhill climaxing in a sharp horse shoe curve followed immediately by a long strenuous uphill. The curves were tight enough that a cyclist was forced to brake at the bottom losing any momentum that might have helped on the upward climb. Normally a good rider could attack a hill driving part way up before down shifting. But with a loaded bike it was if someone threw an anchor out as you started up. A popular shifting pattern was 18-14-5-3 and on the long ascents first gear was a real possibility. You try not to use first gear because once you do there is nothing left.
At last we were going to take a day off! Two and a half weeks of daily riding will wear anyone down and, naturally, there's a brew pub in Fort Bragg where we would spend our extra day. After a peaceful evening of good beer and conversation with the very friendly bartender and having slept well, it was laundry time. One of the decisions made when planning to pack was proving impractical. The plan was to take only three pairs of underwear: one to wear, one ready to wear and one drying. It's summer and this is sunny California, right? Well, the cold and fog had lengthened the drying process and damp underwear is not comfortable. So when it was laundry time, everything not being worn was washed.
As Al started to pedal off from the laundromat his gears slipped and no matter what the adjustment or cajoling nothing would make them work. The lower and upper chainrings worked fine but the middle one would not. Luckily there was a bike shop in town, the last one for over 100 miles. The mechanic was quick and eager to help. He did, however, require payment: $150.00 to replace the chain ring, chain and rear cluster. The proper chain ring was not available and a three day wait for the correct one to arrive from San Francisco was not on. So Al's bike had a lot of low gears but very few middle gears, which did not suit his cruising pace, but better than unusable high gears. The mountains of the Pacific Coast had claimed another victim.
One of the reasons for the day off was to rest up for our ascent of Leggett. From the very beginning of the trip one of the major taunts from the south-bound riders was, "You haven't done Leggett yet, we're glad that's over." It was made to sound like Mount Everest, when in fact it was a 2,200 ft. hill. But it was the highest point on the Pacific Coast route. So we wanted to be prepared. We had no reason to dawdle the morning of departure, a campsite nearby had experienced a skunk attack during the night and the air was ripe with the after effects. Not unusual since the local tourist steam train is called "The Skunk Railway".
Either our anticipation was greater than the task, or the northbound grade is more gradual or the south-bound riders were real wimps, whichever one was the answer we found ourselves at Standish Hickey State Park located at the northern base still looking for the mountain. Our only problem was having to use our stiff legs from not pedaling on the long steep descent to scurry up a short steep slope into the campground.
Wayne, who had arrived the day before and was taking one of his frequent days off, agreed with that assessment. He also relayed information about river otters swimming in the stream below. An enthusiastic trip down to the river resulted in disappointment, the otters were gone.
During the evening chat Al mentioned that he got very tired everyday and it was getting worse.
"How much do you eat?" asked Wayne.
"As much as I always have," says Al.
"Did you always ride a bicycle five hours a day?"
"No," Al answered.
"You're burning 2,000 to 3,000 calories a day, you need to replace them."
"What's the best thing to eat?"
"Carbohydrates: bread, rice, pasta and potatoes."
From that conversation and personal experience we adjusted our diets to match the level of activity. Our daily diet included: a granola bar with peanut butter, four pieces of fruit, two hearty sandwiches, a quart of milk, a bag of pretzels or chips, and a dinner heavy on starches all washed down with three or four beers when available. With all this intake Al's weight dropped from 175 to 160 pounds. To net it out, if you want to eat a lot, ride a bike 50 miles every day.
Unbeknown to the three of us, this would be the last time for a communal get together. The frequent encounters had never been planned, but had become an expected event. From that point on timing kept us apart. Eventually we contacted Wayne and learned that he reached Seattle successfully, took a ferry to Vancouver and returned to his new home in California. His wife had changed jobs and moved while he was on adventure. Things like this happen in war, but on a bike trip?
One of the things that happen on long bike rides is you have a lot of time to think. Especially on long uphill grades. You put the bike in a low comfortable gear (comfortable being relative to agonizing) and pedal, it doesn't take much concentration to move your feet and guide the bike at six miles per hour. While climbing Leggett Al had lots of time to think. It was 11:15 on a Thursday, if he was still working his next accomplishment would be getting to noon and then the end of the day, and ultimately the end of the week. During his last few years of work thanks to the bureaucracy of a big company it seemed he was unable to achieve objectives because of dependence on someone else. Today it was Al versus Leggett. He would achieve his objective.
Our confidence to continue north was rewarded, upon entering the Redwood forests and The Avenue Of The Giants, the wind ceased. Nothing could blow through these guys, tall and majestic towering over everything. The Sequoia's are considered the biggest trees in the world, that is because they are so wide; the Redwoods are much taller. It hurts the neck to lean back and attempt to see the treetops. The trees create a peaceful, almost fairy tale environment -- fantastic. The distance for the day was short, for camping under the giants could not be missed.
The hiker-biker spot at Humboldt is separated from the main campground. It's five miles north in a special grove of Redwoods, a beautiful setting, the only shortcoming is that the showers are back at the main campground. Is it worth a ten mile bike ride to take a shower and how will you feel after the ride back? The trees didn't seem to mind, so you can guess what happened.
After a wash down under the pump (brrrrr), Al walked down the road to buy some groceries. While at the store he learned what snobs some bike tourists are. Two riders were having a conversation about the route. Al walked over to share the information. Normally if he had been on his loaded bike, they would have invited him to join in. But since he was walking and dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, they assumed he was a normal person. After standing there for several minutes waiting to be recognized, he sensed the other two were purposely ignoring him. So he gave up and went about his business, now realizing he had exhibited similar behavior. Although such an attitude is not really nice, it is understandable. Bicycle tourists are some of the most popular people in the world. It was almost impossible to stop for groceries or even at a traffic light and not have someone start up a conversation. People are drawn to them, seeing in their trip an adventure and wishing to share in it. The contact can be very pleasant, but the questions are always the same and can become boring. For example: How much do you carry? How far do you go? Where are you going? Besides, younger riders tended to be self centered.
On his return to camp Al encountered a huge blackberry bush covered with huge ripe berries. His hands were full so he could only carry a few. But one look at the treasures and Louie was off with a pot filling it easily. A big bowl for dinner and one for breakfast was a great change from granola. The two riders from the store camped nearby. Did they get any berries? What do you think?
For the past week all the southbound riders have talked about the bear which inhabits the Prairie Creek Campground. It has visited the hiker-biker site almost every night. Stealing food and scaring quite a few campers. The news was received with mixed emotions, seeing a bear would be exciting, but having the tent slashed would be taking excitement a little too far. Louie really wanted to see the bear, even though seeing herds of elk was nothing to sneeze at. Prairie Creek has a resident herd of Roosevelt Elk which grazed peacefully in the field next to the campsite. They are free ranging but tend to stay close to the campground. The highway outside the park boundary is often congested with cars and RV's who's occupants are watching these majestic beasts.
One of the exhibits shown on a nature walk conducted by a park ranger, were chewed soft drink cans the victims of hungry bears, if they can eat through aluminum maybe we don't want to see one. The lecture included information on the waterways, salmon migration and the local flora and fauna. Did you know that elk eat their antlers after they've fallen off? Did you even know they fall off?
Despite not seeing the bear our food spent the night on a bear pole, which is a normal precaution in bear country. Food of course is the reason bears come in contact with humans. The bears normal diet is either fish or berries. Fish are only seasonal and hard to catch. And can you imagine how many berries it takes to fill a 1,000 pound bear? It's a lot easier to rip open a tent and enjoy a picnic lunch. The worst thing you can do is offer one a snack, a bear snack is measured in pounds. If you have a car you are told to keep your food in the car and many campgrounds provide bear boxes, which are steel and not easily opened by Ursus. Not having a car and no boxes being provided our food went up the pole which looked like a giant soccer goal made from logs. The cross piece being over 15 feet off the ground. Moving all of our food into one pannier and using our bike cable which is 13 feet of plastic covered steel cable and a clothes line we hoisted the bag into the air and tied it off where it spent a peaceful night so we could recover it for breakfast.
This was to be our last day in California and it proved to be an eventful one. The Oregon state line was less than 50 miles away and would be the first major accomplishment of the trip. This time the reports from southbound riders were very encouraging, wide paved shoulders and smooth riding. The wide shoulders sounded most appealing. Northern California is not generous with the width of highway between the white edge marking and the end of the pavement, the area many motorists consider the bike lane. Legally, this is not the case in most states, a bike is entitled to ride in the operating lane because it is a vehicle. Of course challenging a log truck, RV or even a car is not a healthy situation. So most sane riders hug the shoulder as close as possible. Conflicts are still frequent with some motorist begrudging cyclists even the few inches required. And of course having great fun in shouting obscenities as they whisk by safe from retaliation. The wide shoulders beckoned, all that was required was to get there.
First there were two very steep hills, this was par for the course. What became a problem was the thick fog which lay in the valley between the two hills. Crossing the first summit was easy but as the roadway descended we were engulfed in fog, our glasses immediately misted over and visibility was zero. Louie, who wears her specs on a strap and only wears them for glare protection, slipped hers off and let them dangle on her chest. Al, on the other hand, had no strap and can't see worth a darn without glasses. Riding one handed with the bike doing 25 miles per hour and using the other hand to wipe his lenses. Some how we arrived at "The Trees Of Mystery." Talk about weird, here we were just surviving a scary and dangerous episode and the first thing we saw out of the fog was Paul Bunyon and Babe The Blue Ox, guarding the entrance to this hokey tourist trap. It was too dangerous to proceed, so refuge was taken in the coffee shop. While waiting for the fog to clear we were serenaded by Paul Bunyon inviting us to explore the mysteries across the road, the fog adding a surealness to the scene. Paul was driving us mad. The fog was worse if anything. Another cup of coffee was out of the question. Although we were not pressed for time, we decided to leave the safety of the coffee shop. Surely the fog would lift further up the hill. Where did you hear that before?
Five miles up the hill the fog got worse. As Al pedalled along he heard the distinctive noise of a log truck coming the other way (BRRRRUHHH). "He doesn't have his lights on," Al thought. As the truck passed Al could just make out the trucks headlights which were on! "If I can't see his lights he certainly can't see me!" Just then a side road appeared out of the mist, a beckoning haven. Al pulled over and waited for Louie, when she arrived he said, "this isn't fun. It's crazy! We could get killed!!" Louie, who was also shaken asked, "do you want to go back?" "No! We'll be in just as much danger. Let's wait here for the fog to lift. We can try to hitch a ride while we wait." Talk about optimism, here were two adults, two bicycles and over 100 pounds of gear hitchhiking on the side of a mountain in the fog. An hour and a half later the situation had not improved. While discussing the dilemma for the umpteenth time a pickup truck made a left hand turn into the road where we had been standing. After scrambling out of the way of the first vehicle to use the road, we were astounded when the driver offered us a ride. We're saved! This wonderful man and his wife were traveling up the mountain, saw us, but were unable to stop safely. So they crossed the mountain and came back for us. After hurriedly loading the bikes in the truck bed and squeezing into the back of the king cab, our benefactors transported us out of the valley of gloom into the sunshine on the other side, and then conducted a tour of Crescent City for our benefit. One Omission that we regret is failing to get their names and address. Her name might have been Arlene but that's as far as we remember. Expressing heaps of gratitude we mounted up and headed for Oregon. A few yards short of the line a rusted twisted bicycle lay in the ditch. Could this have been the end of someone else's dream? Regardless, we crossed into Oregon and as promised the shoulders got wider.
It had taken 19 days to cover 933 miles, not exactly fast but California had been conquered.
Our first night in Oregon was spent at Brooking State Park, probably the best hiker-biker spot yet. It even had hitching posts for our bikes, that is, posts with chains so that you could lean your bike against it and lock it up. The campground was pretty full with several groups of south bound riders and a lady with a dog who had just completed a walk of the entire coast line of Oregon. She had purchased a bag of California oranges at the state line and generously gave us some. We were just starting to enjoy her stories when her ride showed up and she left. It was very rewarding to meet someone who had achieved an objective and we would have loved to hear more.
A new group of riders arrived with news that Greg La Monde had won the Tour de France. This seemed to please everyone, except a group of Swiss, they were in a bad mood because the weather report was for strong winds from the south for the next few days. When they found out which direction we were headed, one of their party said, "You are going in the right direction." That was certainly a different story. But only time would tell. Who trusts the weather man?
The next day was a swift 50 mile trip to Humbug Mountain. The winds did come from the south. Hooray! About two hours after our arrival a young couple showed up completely exhausted. They had covered only 35 miles but the wind had been against them. They seemed to resent the fact that we were headed north and had an easy day. No room to gloat, the winds can be fickle. We might as well enjoy it while it lasted.
The Oregon coast line quickly took on a character of it's own instead of the beaches and cliffs of California which opened onto an unbroken view of the Pacific. The Oregon coast is dotted with sea stacks tall columns of rock 30 or 40 feet high, often with shrubs and trees growing precariously on their tops. They are former parts of the cliffs which for one reason or another did not erode at the same rate as the rest of the shore line. A unique and welcome change to our daily viewing.
The storm which was causing the southerlies caught up with us the next morning. Arising as usual at six a.m. we had gotten only half way through the loading process when it started to rain. Al was quick to grab his coffee, granola bar and book and dive back into the tent which had fortunately not been taken down. Louie was more reluctant but didn't feel like standing around in the rain. So she agreed to wait for a break in the weather. Finally around ten the break came and after quickly finishing up the packing we hit the road. The day remained overcast and damp with the threat of rain constant. Approaching the town of Bandon, Louie suggested stopping for lunch at a diner. This was very out of character and the first sign she wasn't feeling well. Lunch did not improve her situation and after climbing what was a small hill and seeing an advertisement for a cheap motel room, Louie suggested, "Let's stop for the night -- I've had enough."
As soon as we entered the room she went to bed, she was obviously sick. Louie is stubborn about admitting any weakness so Al was very concerned. Quickly unloading the packs and tossing them into the room, convinced she needed some additional aid, he prepared to go to a nearby mall and get something to help her. Going to his pack for a jacket and opening the top flap, he was greeted by a huge set of terrified brown eyes. A red squirrel was looking back at him. This discovery failed to raise Louie from the bed, another sure sign of her distress. The squirrel was reluctant to leave the pack and was even more resistant to vacate the room. It was very disoriented from being in the pack for at least four hours and absorbing a thirty mile bike ride, which for a human is tough enough let alone when you can see what's going on. Finally, the reluctant squirrel left and was last seen scurrying through the bushes. The mystery as to why he was in the pack in the first place was easy to solve -- it's where the peanut butter was stored. The squirrel had left some small presents behind, but they were easily cleaned up.
Louie later commented, "That squirrel was abandoned in Bandon," a sure sign of her recovery. You have to be feeling better to make a pun that bad.
After obtaining some cold remedies and lots of juice, Al played nurse and made sure Louie stayed warm and got a good nights sleep. Increasing Bandon's squirrel population was enough of a contribution to the local habitat.
Much to our relief Louie was fully recovered by the next morning and we covered 50 miles to Umpqua State Beach with no difficulties.
The following day, July 28, is Louie's birthday and a special treat was planned, a visit to Sea Lion Cave. A tourist place, but in a natural setting in the cliffs over looking the Pacific. Care had been taken not to disturb the area, except for the construction of an elevator to convey visitors the 100 feet down to the cave. Upon entering the cave all one can hear is the bellowing of sea lions -- and the smell of fish is omnipotent. The cave, which opens onto the ocean, is the natural home to a large group of Pacific Sea Lions. They seem not intimidated by the presence of human beings. Several other animals, mainly birds, visit the cave. Our favorites were pigeon guillamots, which continually flew in and out of the cave. What's captivating is their bright red feet, which make them look like their wearing galoshes and gives them a comical appearance.
Since it was a special day we stayed in a motel in Yachats, pronounced "ya HOTS." We were always in need of clean clothes, especially today. Naturally, we took advantage of the laundromat next door. No brew pub, however; actually only one bar, which incredibly was not open when we walked past at three, four and five p.m. "Maybe they're on vacation?" At six O'clock, all dressed for dinner at the fancy seafood restaurant, we walked past the bar which was full of people. Our fish dinner was disappointing and expensive. Where were all those smelt this town in famous for? The annual smelt run is its one claim to fame each summer. It was still light outside, so we stopped in the bar for an after dinner drink, ordering two draught beers. The barman held up a 10 ounce glass and said "this is 50 cents" then held up a 60 ounce pitcher "this is a dollar 75." "Then make that a pitcher, please," was the only possible reply. While in conversation with our neighbor at the bar we learned the following. Les the barman was the 70+ year old owner and only employee of the bar. He opened at 6 p.m. six days a week, if he felt like it. He tolerated no noise and sold cheap beer. This country needs more places like that.
Like most of this part of the world the conversations were about logging and the hated spotted owl which represented all that was wrong with everyone's life. Wishing to leave town in one piece we remained mute and enjoyed the beer.
Yachats was only a few miles behind us when it started to mizzle, which is an English term for a very fine drizzle. With no place to take shelter, the only choice was to push on, arriving at Devil's Lake State Park totally soaked and covered with mud, the log trucks having done a good job of laying a thick layer on the highway. Bicycles are very adept at removing anything from the road surface and spraying it on to it's rider. This was not as bad as the time we followed a herd of cattle down a wet country road in England. The rest is left to your imagination. Having done laundry just the day before it was hard to believe, but it would have to be done again, not wanting to start the next day in muddy damp clothes. "The laundromat is just up the road," said the ranger. "There's a brew pub at that end of town," said Louie, "Let's walk." The laundromat was two miles away and the brew pub another two. After peddling fifty miles in the rain, we wound up taking an eight mile hike. Lincoln City, Oregon is the skinniest town in the U.S., seven miles long and two blocks wide. It was "happy hour" at the pub. The biggest entertainment was the off duty bartender making a fool of himself on his birthday by having a drink consisting of as many different beers as would fit in one glass. The pub featured over 20 different beers and the barman was well on his way to oblivion when we left.
The tent was barely up at Nehalmi State Park, when the rain started. Dinner was cooked during a break in the storm, but had to be eaten in the tent, when the rains resumed.
Things were definitely dubious the next morning but we decided to take a chance, not wanting to spend another night in a very wet campground.
Around eight thirty the skies opened causing a quick dash to get us to the south end of the resort town of Cannon Beach. A quick dash is a relative term, eight minutes rather than ten to cover two miles. Leaving the bikes under a building's overhang and donning ponchos, we set off in search of coffee and a dry place to hide. After searching for several minutes and not finding a coffee shop, and then wondering if people in this town used restaurants, we stopped a police cruiser and asked directions. He was just in town for a few days and didn't know where to find a place to get coffee. When cops can't find coffee you know your in trouble. A swank looking hotel, which would not normally be our first choice, finally appeared. Upon entering and starting to remove the wet ponchos, we were confronted by the manager, who demanded to know what we wanted. "Coffee," Al said wondering if it was a custom not yet invented here. The manager quickly showed us to a corner table out of site of the other patrons. He was probably hoping this treatment would cause us to leave sooner. Fooled him! We stayed for over an hour.
The rain was still pelting down and the thought of spending the night in Cannon Beach became a real possibility. Walking further north revealed the tourist part of town with coffee shops and restaurants everywhere. There were also some motels and guest houses, most with "no vacancy" signs outside. The one with a vacancy was 40 dollars, way over our planned budget. The clerk was sure it was the only available room in town. Saying "we'll think about it," we ventured outside again to be greeted by a fresh onslaught of rain now accompanied by strong winds, soaking our feet and chilling us to the bone. It was a nice room with a kitchen, at least the expense of a restaurant meal was avoided. The heater provided a good place to dry clothes; we didn't want to visit the laundromat yet again. Washington is supposed to be the wet state -- what will it be like when we get there?
One of Cannon Beaches attractions is The Haystack a very large example of the previously mentioned sea stacks. At low tide you can walk around it's base.
The next day was one of the prettiest rides of the trip. If you are ever traveling on the coast of Oregon don't miss Five Capes Road and if looking for a place to camp Cape Lookout State Park is a must. The approach from the south is breath taking. It's a hard 500 foot climb to a promontory over looking the capes; the beaches and waves seem to go on forever. The waves are small but keep coming one after another. Taking in the view, it was an excellent time to take a rest and feed our senses. Then it was a gentle coast in to the state park and hiker-biker campsite, which is located in an enchanted forest. The park has a marvelous rain forest nature trail and the biker spots are in the middle of it. Trees and vines of all types abound with decaying logs and moss creating their own Eco-system. After lunch we wandered through the nature trail fascinated by what was there. Do you know what a nurse log is? It's a fallen tree which has decomposed and is serving as a source of nourishment for young trees. The surprising result is naturally germinated trees growing in a straight line which follows the form of the nurse log. Upon returning to the site our love of nature was strained. Two ravens were happily eating most of a loaf of bread carelessly left out. Rangers constantly exhort campers not to feed the wildlife. Sometimes it's difficult not to since the animals believe in self-service. This would not be the last encounter with wily picnickers.
Later, a very tired bike rider arrived. He was from Long Beach, California, only 15 miles from our starting point. He too wanted to bike the coast in one direction, so chose to fly to Seattle to take advantage of the prevailing winds, which weren't. This caused him to be very distraught over his present situation. He constantly looked at the sky and cursed the clouds as they sped northward. Silence seemed the best answer, while trying to suppress our big grins and secretly keeping our fingers crossed that conditions would not change.
Oregon has a lot of bridges: iron ones, stone ones, some that open, some with sidewalks and some without. Louie hated all of them, which forced us to walk the bikes over several. But the last one was the longest -- it stretches over four miles from Astoria Oregon across the Columbia River to Washington. Approaching it from the west it seemed to get longer and longer. Some riders detour inland to avoid this monster. But strangely Louie had planned the route knowing it was here, although at the base of the bridge she may have had second thoughts. After paying the toll we rode up to the top of the arch which is on the Oregon side of the river. It is built this way to allow large ships passage without having to raise the bridge. This would permit a good rolling start down to the flat section which is only a few feet above the water. At the top we were met by a flag woman, there was work on the bridge and cars were only being allowed one way. While waiting to go we were approached by the flag lady. She advised, "I'll hold you guys until last then give you as much time as I can before releasing the next bunch of cars." After thanking her for the consideration we got half way across before the cars caught up with us, it was still a little tense while avoiding the road debris with the cars whizzing by at 60 MPH. When we finally reached Washington it was time for a break. After some Gatorade and a banana it was time to set off, only to discover that Al had a flat tire. He must not have avoided all of the junk. What would have happened if it had happened on the bridge? Let's not think about it.
The night was spent at Fort Canby terminus of the Lewis and Clark expedition. Washington does not have hiker-biker campsites, they do however have primitive sites which are only three dollars a site so as long as you have a partner or two it's cheaper. Showers, however, are 25 cents, so you need some quarters.
We had developed a strange attitude toward the bikes. They were for transporting us from one place to another, not for riding around casually. So once we got to camp, we walked (remember Lincoln city?). Once again the visit to the Lewis and Clark museum was made on foot, it was two miles from the campsite. So when a sudden thunder storm broke out half way back we got soaked.
Louie wanted a fire to cook some meat for dinner. Upon inquiring about fire wood we were told, "get some off the beach." Bike tarp in hand we scoured the beach and gathered up a pile of twisted bleached limbs, which made a nice blaze. That's why they call it primitive.
At this point in our travels there was a choice of paths to follow, the longer rain forest route, which winds around Puget Sound, or the shorter inland one. The words shorter and rain were decisive in the decision. (The rain forest was visited by camper van in 1992.)
The anticipation of reaching Canada, the shorter route and the easy going on the wide paved shoulders over rolling terrain made our time in Washington pass quickly. The threatened horrible weather never materialized and the only bad thing was narrowly avoided. Al was happily gliding along on a paved shoulder when an RV pulled along side. Just as they approached a curve some internal instinct warned him and he hit the brakes hard just before the RV cleanly and without conscience cut off the entire shoulder up to the guard rail -- right where he would have been. All bike riders agree that the big noisy log trucks with their supercharged engines and jake brakes scare the heck out of you, but the weekend RV'er who thinks he's still driving his sub-compact will kill you. The guy in the RV probably never realized he almost killed somebody.
On Bainbridge island a visit to one of Louie's old work buddies was followed by a campsite with a spectacular view of Mount Rainier. The local community was involved in a rather strange law suit. Some holiday houses had been built on a very narrow spit of land. They looked very picturesque with water on both sides. Further down the coast someone had built a dike to prevent his beach from washing away, this interrupted a natural flow of sand which had kept the spit revitalized. Who's problem is it? It was a silly place to build those houses anyway, people can seem pretty arrogant toward nature at times but she always winds up showing them who's boss.
Two other things that are different in Washington: like New Jersey, there is no self service gas; and if you buy beer it must be in a bag when you leave the store. I guess a six pack might offend someone.
The time went by so fast we were a little surprised to find ourselves at the Port Angeles ferry terminal booking our tickets to Victoria B.C. We had completed the first leg of our journey! Covering 1,595 miles in a little over a month and were about to leave the country. It was a big deal to us! However, we could sense that no one else knew or cared, we were just two more passengers on the ferry.
We landed in Victoria on a beautiful afternoon, found a motel and explored the most English city in North America. After enjoying the sights we had a great meal at an English style pub.
Following the winding coast road up the east side of the island found us at Royal Oaks Campground. The manager was showing a large group of Japanese businessmen around the grounds and it appeared the campground was for sale. This would be a shame because campgrounds around Victoria are scarce and the Japanese tend to build golf courses not campgrounds. The evening was spent with another touring family, this one cycling each on his own. Mom and dad carried all the gear but the two young boys pedaled their own bikes. The big family interest was speed skating, the boys were hoping to compete at the national level. The first competition of the season was scheduled for the following week with the Olympics as a goal. This was very exciting talking to some one who actually had a chance to compete at such a level.
Later, the group was joined by another person about to set off on an exciting adventure. He was a young man on a motorcycle about to leave on a two year stint in the Peace Corps. This interested us deeply, for once some one else left us envious.
The next morning was spent touring Butchart Gardens, a sprawling botanical collection consisting of plants and flowers from all over the world. Seeing an otter swimming in a spectacular fountain was neat, even though it was not part of the scheduled show.
That night was the first at the provincial park outside the town of Sidney, which was located close to the ferry from Vancouver. This was a convenient place to meet Carolyn, a Canadian friend we gained while living in England; she now lived near Vancouver. She was coming over to join us for a few days. Since she was coming in a car the bikes would spend three days chained to a tree. We hope they enjoyed the rest; it was a funny feeling not getting on them each morning.
The next day, Carolyn was scheduled on the one o'clock ferry -- she wasn't on it. Neither was she on the two, three or four o'clock. She told us to look for her orange VW beetle. Red, yellow, and brown ones came by, but no orange bugs. Finally an orange VW pulled into the parking lot in front of the ferry office. As we rushed toward it a blonde woman climbed out and headed into the terminal, this brought us to a halt. Carolyn had brown hair. Deciding not to miss a chance we resumed the approach to the building. But the woman had disappeared. Starting away from the terminal convinced she wasn't coming, we heard someone calling us. It was Carolyn! She had forgotten to tell us she had changed her hair color.
The next three days were spent being driven around the island and seeing it with the help of a native, which always increases the enjoyment of a tour. Carolyn and Louie spent each night talking until the wee hours, an activity not joined in by Al, who found it very strange to go to bed before his wife, and also awake each morning with an additional woman in the Green Motel.
After three days it was time to get going again. Carolyn, who had spent five hours waiting to get on the ferry on her way over, not realizing that half of Vancouver had decided to come to the island, managed to get on the same ferry as we did. Once across the straits we enjoyed the 30 mile ride to Langley where Carolyn lived. Our legs and the bikes seemed happy to be active again.
During our stay in Langley we had a funny experience. Carolyn asked, "Would you like to go out for a beer?" Of course, we said, "Yes." What we didn't know was her "local" was outside the country. It may sound funny, especially in 1989, but the cost of many things (mainly alcohol and gasoline) were so high in Canada, that it was cheaper to drive to the U.S. There were probably only two non-Canadians in the bar, which accepted Canadian currency primarily and then U.S. dollars second (actually, you had to tell them you wanted to pay in U.S. currency so that they could recalculate the bill).
After our initial goal had been met of biking the Pacific Coast within the time frame and costs expected, we girded ourselves with our well-earned confidence to meet the challenge of the next phase of our journey. We no longer relied on a book to tell us where to find groceries or what roads to travel and where to camp; we were on our own to discover these things for ourselves. The next stage of the trip would begin with a train ride. It was August and summer ends quickly in the frozen north. However, we would be in the Canadian Rockies at the "perfect" time of year. Our travel plans would get us in and out of the region in time to explore this gorgeous hunk of wilderness forming the geological boundary between BC and Alberta before winter threatened. We were excited, Louie especially, because she wanted Al to see the brilliant red reflections off the mountains just as she remembered them from a childhood camping trip. Upon entering the Vancouver train station and beginning to find our bearing we were approached by a friendly young woman in a Canadian Railways uniform. "Follow me." One look at the bikes and she knew where we were headed. In the freight office she provided two bicycle boxes and checked all our gear. The cost for the bikes was 10 dollars, not bad.
Carolyn showed up for a farewell (never goodbye) drink and off we went to Jasper, located at the northern end of the Icefields Parkway. Louie had reserved a sleeping compartment and two very polite young ladies from New Brunswick were very courteous as they made up the bunks that night. CRW gets many of it's employees from New Brunswick, it's one of the few employment opportunities in that province.
A torrential down pour was waiting in Jasper, this caused an immediate change in plans. Which had been to pedal out to the first campground that afternoon. We got soaked just retrieving our stuff from the train platform. The railroad staff parked a large cart out in the rain and made no attempt to help any of the passengers or to protect their belongings. All the courtesy had been left on the train.
Things soon got worse. Louie obtained a list of rooming houses from tourist info and the search for a room commenced. This became a frustrating and aggravating experience. The rain continued to pour down. Even with our ponchos on we were soaked and so were our feet. At several houses on the list, some with vacancy signs clearly displayed, we heard the following: "I don't take hikers," "You're wet," and "Not today." Upon seeing us, one guy just flipped his sign over to "no vacancy" and slammed the door in our faces. Finally, a young couple welcomed us, helped put the bikes undercover and gave us a hot cup of tea. If not for them Jasper would rank as the worst place we ever visited. All the Canucks, who love to pick on Americans because of our discrimination problems, shouldn't be so smug -- they don't treat wet people very well. And it was their rain.
There has always been disagreement on the exact route of the parkway, Louie contending it went to Glacier National Park in the U.S., Al believing it was the road from Jasper to Banff. Since the latter is the way we went that's what will be described. No matter who is right it is one of the most spectacular and beautiful roads in North America. Commercial vehicles are banned and the wide paved shoulders make complete the bicycle rider's dream. Almost too much so, because there are normally hundreds of riders on the parkway. Some in groups of up to 50. Some of them carried gear. Some didn't. Most were part of a tour group and the load depended on the cost of the tour, the higher the price the less you carried. Some groups slept in hotels and others in tents. They were all nice people, yet it was pretty unnerving having 20 people descend on a peaceful campground. One could get envious watching them enjoy their hors d'oeuvres and wine before settling down to a chef prepared meal. It all means that if you are any kind of bike rider looking for a way to spend a week or so, there are tours for everyone. Or you could emulate us, load up and do it on your own. The total distance is only 200 miles and there are ample campgrounds or lodges, but not many grocery stores. Our host in Jasper had advised us there were no stores until the Columbia Icefield. We would have to carry plenty of food. This was a new experience. Stores are fairly common along the Pacific Coast. High-priced at times, but available. A health food store in town provided lots of dried fruits and nuts to be nibbled on the way and freeze-dried dinners were expensive but light.
Thus provisioned we left Jasper on a bright sunny morning and were treated to a herd of elk crossing the highway less than five miles after starting out. One of the beauties of the parkway is the opportunity to stop at any or all of the numerous interpretive pull-overs along the way featuring natural, geologic and historic sights, thus making for a leisurely pace, which was thoroughly enjoyable after the sometimes frantic Pacific Coast. Having anticipated this, the schedule was for short days. This was important not only to allow time for the sights but to get used to the elevation, Jasper is at 4000 feet and at two points the parkway is around 7000. Taking the train had prevented a gradual acclimation for the thinner air.
Sunwapta Falls was reached early, but not before the rain. The campgrounds along the route are provincial parks, providing not only campsites but cooking shelters with wood burning stoves and a large supply of wood. Louie started a fire to ward off the cold, even though it was August, and dry out our wet clothes once more. Before the evening was over the shelter was full of about 15 people trying to stay warm and dry. The ranger came by to collect the money and remind everyone that there was no sleeping allowed in the shelter. This disappointed a couple from Texas who had been planning on it. They had been traveling for over a year and were on their way home to earn some money in order to start out again. We would share several campgrounds with them in the week ahead.
Starting out in the morning Al's knee wasn't happy. Every rise in terrain caused it to ache. He tried shifting his seat and pedaling with a different motion, but the pain persisted. His main worry was Sunwapta Pass, at just under 7000 feet, requiring a hard half hour climb. There was a campground before the pass providing the option to stop early, but that would mean stretching the food supply an extra day. The cold and strenuous riding required a good supply of calories. We would soon have to make a choice even if it were the undesirable one. Taking a break for a cup of coffee providing time to think and to rest Al's knee, we uncovered another nuisance of the trek from there to Lake Louise. All the water would have to be boiled due to the presence of giardia in the water supplies. This is a real pain if all you have is a one burner stove and limited fuel supply. After the coffee and applying some BenGay to the achy knee Al decided to go for it.
Within a few minutes the roadway started to climb and we ground our way up "the mountain" (Louie finally allowing the use of that word, up until then everything had been a hill). Despite or perhaps because of the pain in his knee, Al rode steadily leaving Louie behind while catching and passing part of a large school group. At the summit, the school riders who had already completed the climb were cheering their school mates on. As Al approached they cheered him also, he continued on as the unladen youngsters stopped to be served lunch. When Louie at last caught up to Al at the top she asked between pants, "I thought your knee hurt?" "It does, I wanted to get that over as soon as possible." At least it was some excuse for having left her behind.
Finally arriving at the Columbia Icefields Campground it was a struggle to keep the squirrels, marmots and Clark's Nutcracker's (jay like birds) out of our food supply. The animals couldn't read the do not feed signs and were very persistent in their attempts to get a free meal. Climbing on the table and trying to snatch pieces of food as we ate.
It was then time to go in search of the glacier and the store. The glacier was easy, it was this huge white and blue thing flowing like a river down from the mountains. The idea was to go for a walk on this never ending ice rink, Louie really enjoyed it but after slipping and aggravating his already tender knee Al withdrew to enjoy the spectacle from a safer distance. An ice pack would have helped but a million tons was too much.
The grocery store was another story, finding it wasn't too hard but getting the necessary supplies was. It wasn't a grocery but a novelty store; the only food was candy bars. Once again local intelligence had done us in. There was, however, a restaurant. Well, dinner would be a little more elegant than usual. Wrong! The place was crumby looking and the over-priced fish and chips were terribly dry and greasy. The next location of a store was also further than we had thought. This would mean skipping breakfast and a very light lunch. To make matters worse Louie was having trouble breathing, a reaction to the thin air at the higher elevation, helping to explain why she was lagging behind. Hopefully a good night's rest would help her as well as Al's strained knee. But, before this, the little food still remaining would have to go up the bear pole.
In the morning things got worse -- a squirrel had climbed the pole and chewed thru the pannier containing the supplies and helped it's self to the food. The situation was now critical, and just when you need some friendly sympathy a ranger criticized us for putting the pack too high on the bear pole. "You should always leave it five or six feet below the crossbar," he chastised, "that way the squirrels won't jump down on it because they can't get back up." Don't you just love people who know the answer after the fact. When the now daily rain storm stopped we set off.
The highlight of the day was a moose on the side of the road, our first in the wild. Arriving at the next designated campground after three o'clock our problems continued. It was closed! There had been a flood and the campground would not be open until the following year. Faced with this problem we both vaguely remembered someone mentioning a closed campground. But foolishly had not paid it much attention.
This called for a staff meeting, the next camping spot was still 16 miles further on and would probably be full by the time we got there. Louie was still a little short of breath and we were hungry. There was a store four miles ahead at a crossroads. The plan started out as this: Al, whose knee felt fine, would speed ahead for the campground bypassing the store. Louie would stop at the store to buy food and catchup at the campground. Al took off feeling like a pony express rider, the road was a downgrade and he was able to maintain a fast pace of 16 to 18 miles per hour. By the time he reached the crossroads he was beginning to flag, the elevation doesn't allow for overexertion. The motel sign behind the store appeared as a beacon of rescue. Making a command decision he diverted to the motel office and entered inquiring "how much is a room?" "72 dollars," Al calculated that this was $50 American, way too much. His tired legs and sweaty body which hadn't had a shower in three days plus his empty tummy, entered the argument. It was still a lot of money. "We have an all-you-can-eat buffet for eight dollars," offered the desk clerk. "The ayes have it," thought Al, or was it his stomach. As he left the reception he spotted Louie heading his way en route to the store. "She'll have a fit," he thought. She raised her hand in an interrogative way, Al raised his hand containing the key and received a smile and a thumbs up in return. "How much?" "50 bucks U.S." "Oh well, we can take two showers." After taking the first one the restaurant staff were treated to the sight of having their buffet devastated. Was that four or five desserts??
The decision to stop at Saskatchewan River Crossing proved to be a good one. From the motel the highway rose steadily for the next twelve miles to the Cirrus Campground. It was a strenuous climb for well rested legs and would have been brutal the night before. At Bow Summit we reached 7000 feet, the highest point on the parkway and the highest for us so far. A short walk from a parking lot led us to the Emerald Lake overview. On the way it started to snow and we were harassed by mosquitos, they must wear long johns in this part of the world. The lake was a beautiful turquoise. The coloration is caused by the glacial flour, small bits of pulverized rock suspended in the water, reflecting the sun.
Appropriately, that night's campground was called Mosquito Creek, but it rained so hard there were none. After our antics of dodging raindrops to get from tent to shelter and back it was a comical diversion to watch the squirrels trying to bound along the ground back into the trees avoiding the tall wet grass. One squirrel leapt so high and hard it bounced off a tree trunk right back into a thick soggy stand of grass. What do squirrels mutter at times like these? The couple from Texas were also there along with a girl from Australia. They made a deal with the ranger to sleep in the shelter in return for cleaning the fire place.
The short ride to Lake Louise the following day was inspired by thoughts of fresh muffins. All the way from Jasper riders had raved about the quality and price of the baked goods available at the small bakery in the shopping centre. But first we had to negotiate the mud blocking the path to the campground; the rain had turned the dirt road into a quagmire. The only way in was to drag the bikes around it through the trees getting the spokes full of pine needles. Leaving the bikes at camp we walked to the bakery only to find the Texans holding court surrounded by several other riders. They had left early that morning saying they were in a hurry to get to Glacier National Park in the U.S. "We thought you would be bathing in Radium Hot Springs by now?" asked Al. "Got stuck into the coffee and sweet rolls," was said around bites of danish. Lunch for us was pizza and dinner was sausage rolls and then cinnamon buns for breakfast. The bakery lived up to it's reputation.
Lake Louise was a real culture shock, it's the most touristy place in western Canada. After spending many nights among backpackers and bicycle riders who were forced to go days without showering, it was something to be surrounded by people who wouldn't dare go 20 feet from the parking lot. The Lake itself is breath taking with Victoria Glacier in the background and the mountains protecting its flanks. On a sunny day the mountains reflect from the cool glacier fed lake. But this day dark clouds hung from the peaks and rain splattered on it's surface, scattering the bus-borne tourists and causing a forest of umbrellas to sprout along the banks. Weather-hardened bikers barely noticed the difference.
Johnston Canyon is the last campground on the parkway and the only one with showers, not counting the free cold ones mother nature had provided us every day. The main attraction here is the waterfall which is located up the canyon. A catwalk, which clings to the side of the canyon, provides a passage enabling one to penetrate what would otherwise be an inaccessible place. A unique lateral turn rewards the hiker who follows the path to its end. The rushing water contained in the canyon is funnelled down to a point where it meets a solid stone barrier. With no place else to go it makes a 90 degree turn and proceeds laterally across the rock face until it finds an opening and then plunges down finally coming to rest in the splash pool many feet below. With time the persistent flow will pound its way through the rock but it will take centuries to do so. The sight of nature doing its thing was worth the soaking we got from the inevitable rain storm that caught us on the way back. The last night on the parkway was as soggy as the previous six.
It was only 20 more miles to Banff, and after one more rain shower the sun came out and it turned into a beautiful afternoon. Once again finding a room was a trial involving traipsing all over town, at least it was dry. Banff is a mecca for outdoor people and was once a gateway to the wilderness. It is still a gateway but is now trendy. Instead of trappers and miners dressed in flannel and buckskin you find yuppies dressed in nylon and polyester. The only room available was managed by a crazy lady who insisted on checking the room every few minutes to make sure you weren't breaking any of her long list of rules which included not putting toilet paper in the toilet. The place stank! No wonder it was the only place available. We spent all of our time out of the room and never saw the moose who supposedly came at night to eat all her flowers. The parkway was behind us and we missed the solitude of the forest, but dry is nice.
Canada is a beautiful wide open country; however, spending months crossing the flat prairies of Saskatchewan and Manitoba on a bicycle wasn't appealing to us. Thus we had decided to take the train. We boarded with a bag of food and a fist full of claim checks. Unlike Vancouver, where the staff helped us pack the bikes efficiently, at Banff we had to unload everything from the bikes and check each item separately, it didn't cost anymore but the baggage man would not allow anything in the bicycle boxes except the bikes. So we checked six panniers, two bikes, two sleeping bags and two air mattresses. Retaining two panniers for our personal needs on the two and a half day journey. This would be one of the last regularly scheduled trans-Canada trains to run. The service was greatly reduced shortly after this trip.
We had a sleeper, but during the day we were allowed to sit in the domed observation car and watch the scenery. However, as mentioned, it was pretty flat and featureless. At the rest stop in Calgary we took a walk. Although careful to return just in time to catch the train, we were scolded by the conductor, "We won't wait for you if your late." We had no intention of missing the train.
At Winnipeg there was a longer rest stop. Louie went off to book a room in Toronto and Al to buy some beer. As a precaution we agreed that if one of us was late the other would board the train and expect the tardy one to catch a plane. It sounded silly but an hour later it started to make sense. Al had a difficult time finding a place to buy beer; Manitoba has very strict laws. When he exited a large old hotel he must have left from a different door than the one he entered by because he walked in the opposite direction from the train station. It was 10 minutes before the scheduled departure time when he realized his blunder. He turned and started retracing his steps trying to walk as quickly as possible while carrying a 12 pack of bottled beer. Wearing a sweat shirt over his tee shirt he soon was sweating profusely. Attempts to hitch a ride proved fruitless and all of the cabs just passed him by. A policeman ignored his plea and a couple disreputable looking guys were eyeing the 12 pack, which Al was tempted to ditch, but figured if he missed the train he would drown his sorrows. Finally arriving at the station 20 minutes late he was delighted and surprised to find Louie and everyone else from the train still waiting. CRW was living up to it's reputation of running unreliably late. A brief time later the passengers were called and as we approached the gate a young railway agent said, "you can't take that on board." One look at Al's face and he amended that to, "the crew may not let you have that beer." On the contrary, they offered to get us some ice! We never left the train again until it arrived in Toronto six hours late. When another passenger complained to a porter, he responded, "you're lucky -- last week we were 12 hours late." And they wonder why no one rides the trains.
It was a great way to see that part of the world. The vastness and never ending sky are beautiful and the woods, lakes and browsing deer of Ontario are a cavalcade of one picturesque spot after another.
Arriving late wasn't a problem -- reclaiming all of our checked gear was. The baggage claim area was behind a wire screen where clerks would arbitrarily take checks from one of a sea of hands and go about searching through a mountain of luggage for the correct pieces. One look at the dozen checks in Al's hand and the clerks would select someone else's. It was like some kind of Roman circus. Finally, as the crowd dwindled, one of the clerks had no choice but to service Al. When Al told him to recheck the bikes onward to Windsor, he actually showed compassion. As he asked for another 20 dollars he softly mentioned, "You should have checked them all the way and it wouldn't have cost you again." However, our whole plan for Toronto dwindled with the light of day. Arriving in the dark put a damper on riding around Toronto. We also learned that the train we chose to take to Windsor would have meant that the bikes would have traveled separately aboard a later train. Being afraid to be away from the bikes for long, our stay was shortened on both ends.
Arriving in Windsor on time was important because our friend Dave Launt was to meet us there. When planning the trip we had inquired if he knew anyone in Detroit we could stay with (Dave lives in Portage, Michigan). He answered our question with another one.
"How are you crossing the river?" inquired Dave.
"Over the bridge," replied Al.
"No friends of mine are riding bicycles over that bridge and you wouldn't be allowed in the tunnel. I'll come get you and take you to Dick Adamowicz's."
The meeting was arranged for the border area. Upon arrival a female customs agent approached and asked, "are you looking for a guy named Dave?" After our concerned confirmation she relieved our worries, "he'll be back in half an hour". Dave was off buying beer. Does that sound like a friend of ours? When he arrived we crammed the bikes into the back of his van and headed into the tunnel, we wouldn't have wanted to ride through it anyway, and it was now raining so the bridge would have been a nightmare. Our meeting with Dick was at a brew pub (what a surprise). After a few beers the bikes were transferred from van to van and off we went to Toledo. We had crossed Michigan without pedalling once.
The two days in Toledo were a lot of fun. Dick is a native and gave us a tour of this old historic industrial city, including the old breweries. His wife Nancy doesn't say much, but when she does it's normally funny. Dick conveyed us to the eastern outskirts of town from where we set off for Cleveland.
It was great to be back on the bikes again and, thanks to a strong tail wind, Port Clinton State Park was an easy ride. Passing Camp Perry brought back some nostalgic memories for Al. He had spent a summer there during the national rifle matches in 1961. He didn't shoot, but did support the Marine Corps Team. As soon as we got to our campsite an older couple came over to offer us a soft drink. But before we could reply they spotted some beer strapped on the back of one of the bikes, and withdrew the offer. After thanking them for their kindness we agreed to have a talk about our trip after dinner, and then another couple came over to ask to listen. Once you get Al started, that's it. It was nice to be appreciated. However, in the middle of his dissertation nature found a way to shut up Al. A rather large skunk wandered into the campground and made a beeline toward the tent of our guests. It became a great study in human behavior as everyone sat there unable to think of a proper reaction. The young couple didn't want the skunk in their tent but didn't want to attract any attention either. When a second skunk joined the first one the situation became tense. We held our breathes for several minutes (and our noses), then the skunks moved off in search of better pickings. After retiring quickly to our own tent, Louie remembers hearing a skunk scratching from the outside, but sent it away with a hard thump of the hand to the taut wall of the tent. After realizing she was still holding her breath after an eternity of fear, she decided it was not the best way to get some sleep and exhaled. Gratefully, all in the campground awoke the next day to the relief of no odorous consequences performed by the marauders of the night.
As we exited the State Park the following morning a cyclist was circling on the access road, it was Bill the husband of the couple who had offered us the soft drinks the previous evening. He asked to join us for awhile and he and Al rode side by side until reaching the highway. The conversation was about riding, of course, and Al commented on the helmet mirror Bill was wearing and mentioned he had broken his handle bar mirror in Canada and missed having one. At the highway Bill waved goodbye and returned toward the park.
In the middle of a very long bridge, crossing the Sandusky River, a Chevy Blazer pulled up along side and insisted we stop. "What kind of nut is this," we thought. It was Bill again. He got out and gave Al his mirror, "you need this more than I do." Al had no choice but to accept it, as the Blazer was becoming a traffic hazard. He thanked Bill and watched him drive off. Once again we failed to get a full name and address, but this time there was an excuse.
The wind continued to push us on toward Cleveland. Bob and Jeanette Bendula, long time beer can collector friends, were expecting us. However, the wind felt so good we traveled beyond Lorain, where we had been told to call from. Pedaling until a highway sign forbid going any further we reluctantly called ahead. We were a day early. Bob was at work and Jeanette had just got off work. "I need some sleep, I'll pick you up in four hours." We did likewise curling up under a tree.
It was Labor Day weekend and we spent it garage sale-ing and flea marketing, which are Bob and Jeanette's passions and part of their livelihood. We, of course, couldn't buy anything, one of the benefits of traveling by bicycle -- no room!
On Labor Day the Bendulas dropped us off on the south side of Cleveland and we headed for Columbus. This is not an established bike route, but the only place for a beer can collector to be since it was time for The Beer Can Collectors of America to hold their annual CANvention. Being long time members of this organization, great care had been taken to include it on our itinerary. As we pedaled up to the Hyatt Hotel, headquarters for the canvention, unsure of the reception given to two bicyclists, we were shocked when the doorman, who looked like an Ohio State tackle, held the door wide so we could ride into the lobby and said with a smile, "Welcome to the Hyatt." Declining his offer to ride on in, we dismounted and walked the bikes to the front desk.
The bikes spent the next four days in the corner of the room that we shared as usual with Bob and Jeanette. Having the usual fun packed time of seeing friends, drinking beer and generally carrying on was a break from our previous two months and provided a great opportunity to socialize and be around old friends.
Back on the road. Probably being a few pounds heavier and getting caught in the rain forced us to seek a motel earlier than planned. The only one available was the worst place of the entire trip. The manager took advantage of the situation and charged an outrageous price for a crumby room with a lousy TV and peeling wallpaper.
Just outside Cincinnati as the country side became hilly for the first time since The Icefields Parkway, Al's bike started to groan whenever he put pressure on the pedals. Making it as far as Tim and Lori Thomas's and then with Lori's help locating a bike shop, the repairs once again were made very quickly, not cheaply, but at least there was no reason to change our schedule.
Another of the beer activities we are involved in is brewing, a skill learned in England. Tim, who had lived in California when we had, had purchased our brewery (five gallon) and moved it to Cincinnati, along with his family. Thus we had the pleasure of helping him make his first brew. But not get to help him drink it. In return he and Lori drove us over the Ohio River to Kentucky, where the journey resumed. The bikes had received a lot of rides in Ohio. A guy at the canvention criticized the taking of lifts and Al responded, "this trip is for fun, not a religious pilgrimage."
The 450 miles from Cincinnati to Memphis took nine days. The riding was pleasant over rolling terrain with the famous Kentucky blue grass and thorough bred horses providing much of the scenery. We passed by Fort Knox, through Louisville and many medium-sized communities. Encountering only one spot of bad weather and it was in the best place possible, Cave City. Who cares if it's raining when your underground in the world's largest cave. Mammoth Cave is not as pretty as many other caves because it lacks stalactites and stalagmites, but it certainly is huge. People have actually lived in its depths and it was once a T.B. hospital, not the best idea because most of the patients died.
During this part of the trip our mode of accommodation changed. It was mid-September. The days were getting shorter, the nights cooler and the few campgrounds that were open charged more than the Mom & Pop motels we stayed in. This detracted from the adventure of the trip, even if it was a lot more comfortable. The days took on a sameness and the three week break to fly to Philly and see our families and attend Al's nephew David's wedding was very welcomed. Leaving the bikes at a shop which promised to give them a much needed overhaul (we had covered 2750 miles) we headed home.
While in Philly we retrieved a few things forwarded from California: extra underwear, which was sorely needed, and a set of good clothes for us both to wear at the wedding. Our arrival for the wedding wasn't as warm as expected. Al's brother George and sister-in-law Marilyn were very involved making arrangements and understandably didn't have much time to entertain two wayward bicycle riders -- celebrity status didn't work here. But after we assumed responsibility for decorating the reception hall, they were thankful for the help, especially Al's new niece Birgit.
The three weeks back East had been filled with fun, family, food and friends. Probably too much food. Eating as much as we had during the past three months and not getting near as much exercise had softened us up. So it was with mixed emotion that we retrieved the bikes to continue our southern journey, that of crossing the state line into Mississippi, hoping to follow the mighty river all the way to New Orleans. This romantic idea was discarded after many frustrating miles. The riverbanks are giant green levees that block our view of the water. The endless fields of sugar cane weren't entertaining either. The secondary roads, which follow the river's course, twist and turn, increasing the distance traveled by about 100 percent. Green banks on the left, sugar cane on the right -- it was definitely not bicycle tourist country. The main roads are very deficient when it comes to shoulders and most of the locals regarded us as something very peculiar, causing Al to comment, "If a flying saucer landed in that field nobody would notice, they're too busy staring at us." For once, local intelligence helped. A town judge came straight out of a restaurant with his napkin still tucked under his chin to advise us of a safe route around a dangerous part of highway 60. The country was monotonously flat, testimony to the power of the Mississippi. Its flood plain stretches for miles and it's easy to tell where it ends. At Yazoo City the roadway rises quickly and all of a sudden we were in hill country. This was initially a relief from the cotton fields of the flat delta plains and the steady debilitating head wind. (The four days of boredom needed to be experienced, remembered, and never repeated. The only distractions were whether the catfish pond was on the left or right, and whether there was one or two. Oh yeah, there was also the crop-duster that methodically sprayed us every few minutes, over a half an hour period, as it continually criss-crossed our path.) As we said, climbing hills was a welcome change, until Al started experiencing chain problems. Whenever he would shift from the middle chain ring to the lower one, his chain would become stuck between the two rings. This resulted in a forced stop in the middle of a hill and at least a few minutes tugging on the chain to release it and sometimes requiring the loosening of the rings to extricate the chain. It always concluded with a pair of greasy hands and the occasional bloody knuckle. This was a new phenomenon and all the more bothersome since the bike shop in Memphis had charged a small fortune to tune the bikes. The mechanics had replaced the middle chain ring that had been installed way back in California with one containing the proper number of teeth. Once we would return to flat ground, but not until Louisiana, the shift would become unnecessary, meaning the problem was still lurking, waiting for the next hill to strike.
A few miles north of Jackson we discovered what has become one of our most favorite places. Among the red and blue lines on our map was a wiggly black line, which seemed to avoid most cities. It was labeled the Natchez Trace. "Al, what's a trace???" Louie asked. "I guess its a road that's hard to follow," was his brilliant reply. "Do you think we can ride on it?" "Let's find out; it can't be worse than this." What we found is one of the best kept secrets in the U.S. The Trace is a highway much like it's more famous relative the Blue Ridge Parkway. It is part of the National Park Service system. Commercial traffic is prohibited on most of it and there are frequent interpretive pull-offs along the way. It is planned to be 500 miles long, running from a little south of Nashville to Natchez. It follows a centuries old trail that has been used by Indians, pioneers, farmers and armies. It's historic significance dates back to the early 1800's when the farmers of the Ohio Valley would float their crops down the Ohio River to the Mississippi, and then on to the port cities Natchez or New Orleans. Here they would sell their crops, including the boat, which probably started out as a wagon, and then go home. A simple sounding situation until you put yourself in their place. Getting home meant walking for most men, horses were for the well-to-do. And not everyone along the trace was friendly -- the men heading north probably had money in their pockets. And how about the family back on the farm not knowing when or if the man would return? If not, what happened to him? No cell phones back then. A truly sobering experience, best visualized in the places where the path has been tramped down, sinking ten feet lower than the surrounding earth because of the thousands of men headed home. We promised ourselves to return some year to explore the entire trace. (We did.)
The development of the trace is an on going process. Presently it stops short of Jackson and picks up again on the other side of town. Spending the night in the small town of Clinton, we loaded up the next morning to continue south on the Trace. The approach road went to an interstate highway with a large "no bicycles" sign at the entrance. Circling to the opposite side there was a steep bank leading up to the trace but no entrance. The discussion on what to do went like this. "It's only half a mile on the interstate. What can they do to us?" "This is Mississippi. With our Yankee accents some redneck cop might decide to have fun or worse. Remember Mississippi burning?" Finally, pushing and dragging the bikes up the slippery slope, we gained access to the Trace. (In 1997 there was still no access at this point.)
Two days later, totally refreshed by the peace and beauty of the Trace, we reached it's terminus, the historic city of Natchez with its ante bellum mansions and old-time southern feeling. We skipped the carriage ride tour of town, taking the bikes for an exterior look at the mansions on the blue tour.
Crossing into Louisiana it started to pour. A small restaurant beckoned and it seemed an appropriate time for coffee. One hour later the time had passed, but not the rain. Step two is usually finding a laundry -- this time it was right next door. While watching our clothes spin around inside the dryer a young guy started up a conversation. He was very nice and spoke of many interesting places in the area. After a while a truck pulled up and he said, "Excuse me, I have to go back to prison." He was on a highway cleanup detail from the state penitentiary. The laundry done and the rain finally over we continued on.
The rain had brought with it a change in the seasonal weather. The temperature dropped to the mid-thirties and it did not feel like October in the deep south but December in the north. The wind, however, was now coming from the northwest making the southeast travel very easy and, except for the sugar cane, it would have been a breeze. It was harvest time in the surrounding sugar fields. Every kind of vehicle from tractor pulled carts to big dump trucks were hauling the cane to the mills. In their haste to get there they dropped a liberal number of stalks on the roadway, which provided a bone shaking obstacle course to navigate through (it was like riding over broom handles!). A sample of the cane tasted sweet, but is not good for the teeth, as several of the locals mouths testified.
New Orleans had always been a significant destination in the planning of the trip. Neither of us had ever visited the (???) on the Mississippi. Our motel was in Gretna on the opposite bank, meaning we rode the ferries back and forth to the city. Bourbon Street was a disappointment (too commercial), but the French Quarter and Lake Ponchatrain were not. Louie's old friend Dick Rogers and his new friend Trisha took us out for a sumptuous dinner (which made up for the disappointment of not getting any crawfish -- they are only in season in the spring). Leaving the "Big Easy" behind, the road leading us towards Texas was not as much fun. The shoulders of the highways, narrow two-lane roads, were covered with crushed oyster shells, a sure way to ruin a skinny bicycle tire. It also seemed that southern hospitality ended at the edge of the highway. Taunts and jeers were common and the novelty of our expedition gained us little respect. A weekend bike rider, who approached to give advice, mentioned that the swampy ground made road construction very expensive, thus the use of the shells. A plausible excuse but no reason for the abuse.
The end of the day in Franklin eventually provided a bright spot. The motel we chose was located several miles off the highway. It was shabby and run down like most of the places we stayed, but the price was right. Unable to find any other restaurant, we reluctantly decided to eat in the one with the same name as the motel. Normally, we avoid doing this since managing a motel and cooking are not the same set of skills. Realizing, as we entered the Billmar, that we were the only customers, our doubts increased. But our thoughts of leaving were interrupted by a cheerful lady with a delightful cajun accent that quickly made us comfortable. The homemade crawfish ettouffe was one of the best meals on the trip. She apologized that the crawdads had been frozen; however, she guaranteed that she and her husband had personally caught and prepared them. At the end of the meal, the husband emerged from the kitchen with freshly made bignets (spelling?) (cajun jelly donuts). While enjoying this treat we heard all about the restaurant, sugar cane and off-shore drilling. He was Bill and his brother was Marty. They had started the businesses together. Since then Marty had sold his half of the motel leaving the name the only thing in common. As the conversation continued our hosts got a shock when someone came in to order some food at nine o'clock. They normally close at eight but had forgotten to lock the door. They were enjoying the evening as much as we were. (In 1992 Franklin was struck by a severe hurricane and our vow to go back and see the area is still unfulfilled.)
As we approached the Texas border a new set of obstacles slowed our progress -- bridges. The first one was at Lake Charles. Following US-90 had provided a fairly safe path, I-10 paralleled the old highway and most of the heavy traffic used it. But, at the lake, the two highways merged and bicycles were prohibited. That really didn't matter, only a fool would try crossing that high busy bridge. The state police said it was okay to walk the bikes over and even that was not appealing. So we took a 12 mile detour through Jean Lafitte State Park, a more scenic route. Rejoining 90 on the other side of the lake proved unproductive. At the Sabine River, which is the border with Texas, there was another bridge nastier than the first one. A young man suggested going north to the town of Daisy where there was a small bridge and a motel, another 12 mile detour. It was amazing that in just that short distance the size of the bridge shrank from a behemoth hundreds of feet above the river to a tiny two lane level crossing with a trickle of water running under it. The bridge description was accurate, but there was no motel. Ten miles further on there was a small dingy motel, shabby even by our standards. A slovenly woman with two squalling kids showed us a tiny box with a bed in it. "Where is the T.V.?" "Oh we don't have any. Is it important?" "The World Series is on tonight." This didn't phase the woman and she seemed surprised when we declined her hospitality. About 12 miles down the road another small yet nicer looking motel appeared. This had to be it, our energy was really sagging. "Miss Millie isn't here right now," drawled an elderly lady sitting in a rocker. "And I don't think she has a vacancy anyway; most of her tenants are permanent." Or was she really saying, 'I don't want sweaty bicycle riders sharing my abode.' "Are there any other motels nearby?" The old lady immediately perked up and said, "Oh yes, just 10 miles, in Vidor." As we both groaned the lady showing some fear that we might stay, quickly queried, "That's not too far is it?" Not wanting to give the old bird a coronary we saddled up and headed off, but only as far as the next supermarket where a quart of Gatorade vanished in a few seconds. After five minutes of pedaling the glucose kicked in and Vidor was reached with no further stops. Finding a motel was easy and with a pizza and some beer we prepared to watch the Series. A game no one will ever forget because it never happened. It was the night of the San Francisco Quake. Instead of balls and strikes the world watched flames and smoke as the sports announcers became reporters. The effect on us was more personal having passed through the area just a few weeks before.
It was a Saturday when we got to Kountze, a small town near the Texas hill country, boyhood home of L.B.J. Sunday would be a day off for football watching. Louie, not one to be idle, decided to perform some bicycle maintenance. Al was inspired to do likewise and decided to look into his shifting problem. While in the process of disassembling the chainrings a large washer fell to the ground. "What the heck is this?" Upon removing the other bolts a series of washers were dislodged that had formed a space between the two rings. The mechanics in Memphis had installed the washers when they replaced the middle ring; the extra width was exactly what was causing the chain to slip between the two chainrings and jam. The expensive repairs had caused more of a problem than had existed in the first place. After verbally venting his anger toward the Memphis mechanics at a range of over a thousand miles, Al thought of Jim Reilly, who had been Louie's boss at DuPont and Al's customer. Whenever Al or his Xerox staff had requested to take the business's computer out of service to perform preventative maintenance, Jim would argue that it wasn't necessary by saying, "Why fix it if it isn't broken?." This was a perfect example, but without some maintenance you won't get very far.
After that episode our progress across East Texas was relatively easy, with the exception of a flat tire in the middle of a downpour just outside Cleveland. With just two miles left to cover, Al's rear tire went flat. Knowing his spare was in bad shape, having been unable to buy a replacement in the last few towns, he attempted to patch the tube that had just gone flat. Patching tubes was a skill that we had been improving upon since the beginning of the trip, though not in the rain. Bicycle tire patching glue is funny stuff -- you must let it dry before applying the patch and in the moisture saturated air it would not dry. After three attempts, Al installed the spare knowing he would have to change it again the next day, but hopefully in a dry spot. No sooner had we set off when the shoulder disappeared and the first big truck drove us off the road. Not wanting to repeat this scary experience we drug the bikes the last two soggy miles into town. Our feet and tires sinking deeper into the mud with each step. At least when we arrived at the motel, the wettest we would be on the whole trip, the manager was happy to see us and offered to put the bikes in a store room. This, plus a really excellent all-you-can-eat buffet brought a comfortable end to the day. Great ribs!
The towns in this part of Texas are not very well-known, but have names of more familiar towns like Paris, Fayetteville, Hampstead and Berlin. They all professed to have something special to offer, like the world's biggest Pecan, which is made out of cement, or a huge statue of a roadrunner, and museums containing old things from the late 1800's. How many pairs of buttoned shoes are there? In Flatonia they didn't have the world's largest pecan, but the trees behind the motel were loaded with the real thing and we spent the afternoon sitting under them reading and eating our fill. A bag full that we gathered provided snacks for a few more days. While there Louie called ahead to the Shiner Brewery to see if we could get a tour the following day as we rode through the area. "We give tours Monday to Thursday at 11 am," informed the secretary. The next day was a Friday, our luck of course, but after an explanation of our situation she agreed to give us a tour at 11 on Friday. Arriving at 10 o'clock seemed a little early but the very helpful secretary/tour guide spotted us out her window and ushered us right in. Because she worked at a brewery with only 30 employees she had to pull double duty. The tour was very nice and, when she discovered we knew more about brewing than she did, the tour quickly went to the hospitality room where an 82 year old retired brewery employee asked, "Bock or Pilsner?" a man of few but well chosen words. Before the bocks were finished, he was ready to fill them again. "This could become dangerous," thought Al as he finished it off. The other attraction in the hospitality room was the display of many newspaper articles about the brewery, most of them featuring our bartender. A couple more older men showed up and were buying their beer with wooden nickels. As retired employees they could buy these from the brewery, not one of the benefits Al got from Xerox. At noon the bartender announced, "Lunch time. Help yourself. See you at one." With this statement he left. Several of the current employees came in, actually did serve themselves and encouraged us to do the same. We still had at least 20 miles to cover and wanted to get there alive, so reluctantly headed off with a nice warm glow.
Our seemingly pointless wandering through The Lone Star State did have a defined destination, the XPLOR Computer Conference in San Antonio. The conference started on November fifth so there was time to kill. What are two scruffy bicycle riders going to do at a computer conference, you ask. Al was going to do what he had been doing for the past few years: speak about computer communications. During his career at Xerox one of his responsibilities was the interface between his employer and their customers. XPLOR originally stood for Xerox Printing Liaison ORganization, but after many other companies entered the electronic printing field the Xerox reference was dropped so it no longer means anything except "the printers user group." Each year they gather in a different locale to share information and be entertained by their vendors. There are many meetings and presentations during the four day get together. Al always made a few appearances for Xerox and had been asked to speak about communications in a generic sense. Either his talk was so good or they were still trying to figure out what he said, because they asked him to repeat it every year. When chairperson Patti Franklin asked him again for the 1989 show, Al told her, "I would love to, but not being a Xerox employee anymore I doubt they will pay for me to come." Patti was determined. So, she arranged for Al and Louie to attend for free and be put up in a nice hotel for four days. Not bad for one and a half hours work. Patti was also responsible for receiving our good clothes, which had been mailed from Philadelphia by Al's other sister-in-law Donna. Our appearances could have been labeled "fashions by mail." It hardly felt like work. It was a wonderful chance to meet old friends from all around the world and the social whirl of free drinks and food was more like a party. It was so much fun Al agreed to do it again in 1990. Those good clothes had another trip in store.
It wasn't all fun and games. While there we bought two new bicycles. Nothing wrong with the old ones, but the next few months would be spent in Mexico. The only advice we received besides, "Don't go!" was to take mountain bikes to deal with the rough roads. This came from the Texas couple encountered on the Icefields Parkway and was regarded as being reliable. After touring all the downtown bike shops of San Antonio, assisted by our friend and bike aficionado Mike Frane, Al worked a deal for two Diamondbacks. All agreed it would be smart to have identical bikes in case of problems in the wilds. In addition, because we bought two bikes, Al persuaded the salesman to take 25 dollars off each bike. While Al was earning his keep at the conference Mike and Louie went to a bike shop out of town. There they found a Bridgestone MB1 at what Mike said was a great price. So when next we met, Louie had a different bike and the discount Al had negotiated was gone. A decision not totally agreeable to both parties. But none-the-less we would pickup the bikes upon returning from Kansas after Thanksgiving.
That was still two weeks away so once again wandering around Texas was on the agenda; at least we picked a big place to do it in. This time our path would be a loop from San Antonio to Aransas Pass Wildlife Sanctuary, winter home of the endangered Whooping Crane, which is located on the Gulf Coast of Texas. The ride down was uneventful, finding plenty of low-cost low-class accommodation along the way. Knowing the motels cost as little as campgrounds, we figured: what's the problem with a few bugs? However, some of these places stretched that rational.
A nice breeze pushed us to the sanctuary. From the main viewing platform, with a little straining of the eyes through our binoculars, we could just make out three of the rare birds. While everyone else was fascinated to see them, a loud-mouthed guy came up on the platform and announced, "What's the big deal? There's a bunch of them right here." He was pointing at a group of pelicans swimming at the base of the platform.
A short while later we encountered our friend Diana Wintsch, a pleasant surprise, although not as odd as it might have seemed since it was her suggestion at the XPLOR meeting that prompted our visit. Diana had been one of Al's customer contacts at Xerox and was one of his biggest supporters. When she learned that Al was leaving the company via the voluntary redundancy, she approached a senior vice-president and suggested, "Give him a two year leave of absence so he can get this foolishness out of his system and then he can come back to work." Al appreciated the sentiment, but was happy nothing came of the suggestion. He still has a lot of foolishness in his system.
The next event at Aransas had a profound short term effect, a fast moving thunderstorm swept through the preserve, dropping little rain but packing very strong winds. The bad part was that the winds were now coming from the opposite direction, so the gentle tail wind of the morning became a howling head wind. Blades of grass were bent flat and forward motion was difficult at best. The small town of Tivoli (pronounced with a slow drawl as ty-VO-lee) was only 14 miles, but it took over two hours to get there and it was getting dark. It was with great relief that we took the last available room at the motel.
The highlight of the return trip to San Antonio was Goliad, site of the first defeat suffered by the Texans during their war of independence. An officer named Fallon was supposed to march his troops to the Alamo but dithered around and eventually surrendered to Santa Anna. He and his troops were then executed without ever firing a shot at the Mexicans. While taking the walking tour of town, we met the editor of the local paper, who interviewed us and promised to forward a copy of his story. We're still waiting for it.
Back in San Anton, we retrieved our bicycle rack from the post office where Al's son Scott had mailed it, and rented a car. With bikes in tow and all our stuff, we headed to Kansas for Thanksgiving dinner -- a long way for a drumstick.
After a truly old fashioned Thanksgiving in Kansas with all the Scott clan (Al's first wife's family), we returned to San Antonio to pick up our new bikes. We spent the afternoon installing our touring equipment and adjusting the seats and brakes.
"I don't like it, it's too small," complained Al.
"You'll get used to it," promised Louie.
One big difference on the mountain bikes was the absence of front panniers. We would not be camping in Mexico, so all the camping gear, including the sleeping bags, stayed in Kansas with our real bikes (as Al called the new ones toys). Whether leaving the bags behind was the right decision never has been decided. The bikes were, however, much lighter with less load and the absence of the panniers offering less wind resistance. This didn't matter initially because a strong tail wind pushed us southwest. But even these factors didn't seem to make the ride to Big Bend National Park feasible. There just weren't enough motels, possibly one every 70 to 90 miles. Then we learned that the train we planned to take from Ojinga, Mexico to Chihuahua carried only freight and the railroad bridge to Ojinga was the only way across the Rio Grande. We would have to return to Del Rio no matter which way we went. So using some discount coupons, we rented a car and avoided the desolate journey which would have concluded with an 80 mile ride up to the lodge at Big Bend.
Along the way we stopped at a state park which featured indian rock paintings and Judge Roy Beans house in Langtry. You may remember Paul Newman played the part in the movie. The real life story is probably as remarkable as the film.
Big Bend is smack on the Rio Grande, which is also the boundary of the park and the Mexican border. It features some of the biggest mountains in Texas (the one thing in Texas that isn't big is any of the mountains) and a lot of desert flora and fauna, including coyotes, road runners and cactus.
Returning to Del Rio and pedalling south, the winds continued favorably propelling us thru Eagle Pass and Carrizo Springs at a heady 16 miles per hour, the fastest 100 miles we would ever cover. If the wind had lasted one more day we would have reached Laredo easily; however, such was not the case. The wind turned 180 degrees and the 80 miles to Laredo was just too much. This part of Texas is total desert, no motels, stores or gas stations for many, many miles. After struggling to cover 50 miles we came upon a small, dilapidated, wind blown excuse for a store, the first building all day. The crusty old proprietor who was in the same shape as his store informed us there was nothing between us and Laredo except desert. There was however a place that rented hunter cabins 12 miles to the east. It was against all of our principals to go out of our way, but the wind was too much and going east would be a lot easier. It will be hard for someone who has never been through it, but when one reaches his limit, he can't really afford to push himself beyond it very often. Depleting the energy level too much may make recovery a lot harder. And pedaling a bicycle does require concentration. Thus, we headed east and immediately felt better, our legs appreciating the decision. Covering the 12 miles in an hour, we were definitely ready to quit.
Ensinal was a dusty town with a garage, small store and a taco stand. The cabins were behind the garage and operated by the mechanic. After asking if it was possible to get a ride into Laredo, and then declining the $40.00 offer, the grease monkey was reluctant to rent the room, stating we would have to wait a few hours until it was cleaned. He would have preferred the 40 bucks rather than the $15.00 he got for the room. We went to the grocery to get some nibbles and eventually got the key. The room was a shambles, empty soft drink cups under the bed and dust everywhere. As Al twisted the rabbit ears on the TV trying to get something besides Spanish, he spotted and killed the biggest cockroach he had ever seen, immediately regretting it since he was sure it would win a place in the Guinness book of records.
After a night's rest, the trip into Laredo was pretty easy, we even arrived in time to see the Sunday football games. We remained in Laredo a few days while Louie had some medical attention, managing to find a doctor who spoke English. The language in this part of the United States is Spanish (everyone comes to benefit from our way of life, but is it asking too much to have them learn the language?) There is a border, but it's hard to tell the difference once you have crossed it.
Eventually, we caught the "tourista" class train to Monterey. The train was very modern and clean with meals included. It was with some reluctance that we surrendered our bikes at the baggage claim office, praying we would see them again. The train arrived in Monterey at 9 P.M. and after paying a bribe to get our bikes back we discovered the hotel at the station was full, necessitating a 10 mile ride through the darkened streets of a large Mexican city. Because we never ride at night, feeling it is much too dangerous, there are no lights on our bikes. Finding our way in a strange city is always fraught with danger, but this was scary -- asking directions from kids who probably belonged to a street gang and being sent down one-way streets the wrong way -- it didn't bother them why should it bother us. Somehow, I'm not sure how, we found a very nice expensive motel and then had an equally expensive meal at a "cabrita" restaurant, the specialty is kid. The goat was good, but the frijoles charro were great. We skipped the number one delicacy, "head of goat."
The evening temperature had been very sultry with a strong warm wind. But by next morning the wind had turned to a frigid blast, dropping the temperature to just above freezing. We left the motel dressed in shorts and t-shirts. Riding into the center of town to find cheaper accommodation, we were chilled to the bone. Louie was determined to get a bargain room, and she did, it was six dollars. That was the good news. The room was on the fifth floor with no elevator, so the bikes had to be carried up the narrow stair case. Once they were in the room the only way into the bathroom was to crawl across the bed. But best of all, the building did not have a roof. Our room was on the top floor and a few feet above the ceiling on some scaffolding were some sheets of corrugated plastic, which flapped in the wind. Normally, Monterey is a warm place, so it might not be a big deal. But this unusual cold snap made our rom feel like a meat locker. As most tourists know, Mexico is the land of cheap blankets, and thankfully our room came with a real heavy one allowing us to survive the night. Our plan to cycle from Monterey to Saltillo was abandoned due to the freezing weather. We used the day to tour town, including the Mexican Baseball Hall of Fame, located at The Moctezuma Brewery. Then we caught a train to Mexico City. During the night we escaped to the warmer environs of central Mexico.
The intention to spend very little time in the capitol city was soon changed. Louie went to book a ticket to Vera Cruz only to learn that all trains out of Mexico City to any possible locations south, east, or west were full until the 28th of December. The next 10 days would be spent here in the capitol, including Christmas. A shill led us to a moderately priced hotel, which provided a safe place to leave the bikes. During the lead up to Christmas, we toured the area using the bikes as much as possible until our health began to suffer. Normally bike riding is a healthy activity. But not in a city of 10 million that has no environmental protection laws; even if they did, no one would obey them. When our lungs began to complain and our noses emitted black mucus riding was suspended.
We did however enjoy the holidays in a very different environment than we were accustomed to. The highlight was attending a "posada," a traditional Mexican pageant. The experience started when we followed a group of the players as they wandered through the night market advertising their show, eventually winding up on the steps of an ancient cathedral. The pageant was conducted in the courtyard before the massive doors of the church. It was all in Spanish but the story line was the battle between good and evil, therefore easy to follow. Sitting on the steps munching pumpkins seeds was a new way to spend Christmas Eve. Our other experiences in the D.F. of Mexico included many of the Aztec temples, very different Mexican cuisine and the enormous anthropology museum -- one could spend weeks there.
Finally the 28th arrived and we boarded the "primera" class train for the overnight trip to Vera Cruz, the first Spanish settlement in Mexico. We arrived the next morning, achy and tired, since there had been no sleeping compartments on the train. The bikes were retrieved without paying a bribe and we prepared to set off anxious to get going after our forced hiatus. However, our bodies weren't so anxious. And after a few attempts to find the road out of town and upon passing a restaurant filled with people eating, Al announced, "Breakfast." Chaining the bikes to a post, finding a table and using our best Spanish we ordered, "huevos rancheros y dos cafes con leche" (fried eggs and coffee with milk). Louie headed to find the ladies room and during her absence the waiter delivered two cups of very black coffee and quickly departed. The coffee was barely warm and the cups were only half full. Al tried vainly to catch the camarero's attention, and was still trying when Louie returned. "I said 'con leche,' right?" Al asked Louie for confirmation, which she quickly gave just as the waiter returned with the huevos. Al holding the cups aloft asked "con leche?" to which the man replied by taking his cup, which was actually a glass, and beating on it with a spoon. This apparently impolite gesture immediately produced a man carrying a pot of coffee in one hand and a steaming pot of milk in the other. He poured the milk into the glasses transforming the tepid liquid into a pleasant cup of smooth dark coffee. The coffee man was then summoned to another table and then another as the now noticeable clamor of spoon on cup permeated the restaurant. The coffee, eggs and tortillas propelled us down the coast to Boca del Rio (mouth of the river). The hotel was typical of those we would be staying at for the next few months: spartan, yet clean, and the agua caliente (hot water) was tepid at best. However, they were cheap and we could normally get a good comida corrida (cheap meal). There was no T.V. and, except for the occasional "Hey, you!" which was shouted rather derisively at us from people on the street, we heard very little English. Our Spanish was poor at best and many of the folks we encountered lost interest in trying to interpret what we were saying. If they didn't understand our first request, they would shrug, walk away and wait for us to leave. We were forced to leave more than one restaurant when it became obvious that we would not be served. Chicken became a common meal since it was the one thing they normally had that we knew the word for. From Boca del Rio we covered 40 miles to Alvarado, where we toured the small port full of rusting fishing boats and ate shrimp cocktails. On the next day we turned inland and encountered a strong head wind. We had not planned to spend the night in Lerdo de Tejada, but the smog of Mexico City had weakened our lungs and our energy had been sapped by the wind, so we found a dreary room where we would spend New Year's Eve. Much to our surprise, all of the restaurants and cantinas closed at 10 o'clock and we were barely able to get a miserable dinner of chicken and cold rice. When 1990 started we're not sure, since boredom had driven us to bed. Hoping to leave this dull place behind, we exited our room only to encounter a steady rain, so day two was spent much like the one before. Day three was just as unhappy while the rain continued. The end result was that the books we planned to use for entertainment during the next few weeks were exhausted in the first week. Finally, the weather permitted our escape and the next few days went by in a repetitive manner: riding on the narrow roads, seeing very little of interest and spending long hours waiting for the sun to come up so we could do it all over again. It was still over 700 kilometers to our intended destination, Merida, capital city of the Yucatan.
"This is the last place the highway and railway cross," said Louie. She was definitely sending a message and Al proved receptive. Between sheer boredom and the need to consult with a lawyer concerning a lawsuit in which Al was involved, we were led to seek a train in the ancient city of Coatzacoalcos.
Our plan had been to spend the night in Coatzacoalcos, take a shower and have a good night's sleep before boarding the train. As we rode into town, crossing over the tracks and seeing the station below, we decided to check the schedule. At the station a sign said the train was due to leave in two hours. We're here, let's go," suggested Louie. "I'd really like a shower," pleaded Al. "We'll get one in Merida," Louie offered. We soon learned that the second class train did not permit checked baggage, we would have to ship the bikes as freight. The freight manager guaranteed the bikes would be on the same train and arrive with us in the capital of the Yucatan. The staff were very helpful and because it was so cheap we shipped our panniers as well. Louie went to buy the tickets but was told they would not sell any tickets until the train arrived. Eventually a train pulled into the station, it consisted of an engine, two freight cars, a mail car and one passenger car. The passenger car was detached in front of the terminal and the engine and remaining cars pulled off to the freight area. Several people got off the car, but most remained aboard. The ticket office was now open and, with our 9,000 peso ($3.00) tickets in hand, we boarded the beat up passenger car. At first glance it appeared full with people eating all kinds of food, from oranges and tacos to chicken and rice dinners. As time would tell we reluctantly but wisely searched for two seats together, but were unable to find them. Approaching the man eating the above mentioned dinner, who appeared to be alone, we inquired if the seat next to him was vacant. Of course, this was done with poor Spanish and hand signals accompanied with smiles. He looked at us, mumbled something we didn't understand, threw the remains of his dinner out the window and left. Not understanding why he had done what he did didn't stop us from grabbing the now empty seats.
As time went on the train was reassembled. More people entered the car, which had been almost full when we got on. "They must be going to add another passenger car," predicted Al. There were several cars on a nearby track. Although they appeared derelict, so did the one we were on. Empty light sockets hung from the ceiling and there was more stuffing sticking out of the seats than remained in them. An hour after we boarded, the train pulled out of the station without an additional car, rather a lot of people and food stuffs. We held firmly to our prized seats.
A few miles later the train came to a grinding, shrieking halt and was assailed by food vendors; no one got off, but more passengers and produce boarded. This pattern would be repeated every few miles, the train spending more time in the stations than under way. After a while, Al needed to use the only rest room. It had probably never been cleaned; the filth and smell defy description. His visit resulted in a vow to eat or drink nothing the rest of the trip, hunger and thirst being a small penalty to pay. The "baño" (banyo) was off limits. As it grew dark the odyssey continued: more vendors, more food, more passengers -- including livestock. The train was passing through a tropical jungle, the air was hot and sticky with our clothes gluing themselves to our flesh. The level of garbage rose steadily. The other passengers ate constantly and deposited the peels, bones, napkins, plastic bags and straws on the floor, there being no receptacles for refuse (would they have used them anyway?). After fifteen hours, the level was ankle deep and rising.
A major contributor to the pile were plastic drink bags. One of the few things in Mexico that protects the environment is the high price of bottle deposits, often it matches the price of the drink. For this reason one never sees empty bottles along the roadway. To get around the problem of retrieving the purchased bottles, vendors put soft drinks in plastic bags containing a straw. This seemed like a fairly sanitary method of dispensing drinks, until we watched a young man blowing into the bags before pouring the drink into them. We crossed those off our list of things to try.
At one station there was more activity than usual. A guy in a seat across from us was getting off. Apparently he was paralyzed. Rather than empty the aisle to take him off, they hoisted him above everyone's head and handed him down the car. He was flat on his back and seemed to float out of the train.
Unbeknownst to Al several young Mexicans were leaning up against Louie and not being bashful about where they touched her. Knowing Al would get upset if she told him, Louie suffered silently. As the next day passed Al noticed some young men in the rear of the coach were speaking English. He approached them and learned they were from Idaho and had been on the train since Mexico City, forty hours ago. He managed to trade a book with them, receiving "Lady Chatterly's Lover," at least it was in English.
After what seemed an eternity , only 27 hours, we arrived in Merida. With great relief we vacated what we felt was a rolling dungeon, persuaded the man running the freight office he should give us our gear, even if it was Sunday, then found a hotel.
As we stood in the lobby checking-in, it began to rain, right in the middle of the lobby. The hotel was built around a courtyard and was open to the weather. By that time it didn't matter, all we wanted was to wash the filth of the train off us and renourish our minds and bodies. The pleasure of sitting in a amiable outside restaurant, now that the rain had abated, enjoying the food and a conversation with a young American about the Mexican fishing industry was extremely relaxing.
Next morning, fully refreshed, we went to "tourist information" in hopes of obtaining maps and brochures. As a way of introduction, Al told the agent, "We arrived on the train yesterday." With no further prompting, the man replied, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It's a disgrace that our trains are so terrible. I don't know why we can't have decent service." Obviously the train has a well deserved reputation. The man was very helpful and we spent five days and nights enjoying the area, which is still our favorite part of Mexico. We took bus trips to see some of the Mayan sites, like Chitzinitzen and rode our bikes to visit a "cenote," which is a deep pool once used by the Mayans for religious purposes. This one was very deep. An American we met claimed he had scuba dived to the bottom. We just went for a swim.
Also very enjoyable is the Merida night life. Every night the city hosts a different form of musical entertainment. The native dancing was especially nice, but we skipped out on the ballroom dancing, a little too fortyish.
We were now confronted with a dilemma. The lawyer had originally said that the insurance company would pay Al's air fare to L.A. so he could testify at the hearing. When Al phoned from Merida (the law office refusing to accept the charges for the call) he was informed they would not pay his air fare after all and he was required to appear at the hearing. The threat of insurance blackballing was only implied but clear. Our choices were varied but in reality there was only one way to go. We did not want to cycle all the way back to Mexico City, and the train was not an option, so we would have to fly and it wouldn't cost that much more to fly to L.A.
U.S. airlines normally supply bicycle boxes, sometimes even free. Mexican Airlines was not interested in providing any assistance, so we had to find our own. We walked the "avenidas" of Merida and finally found some cardboard at the street market. Just as we were about to start back to the hotel, the city was hit with a torrential downpour. It lasted only a few minutes, but when it ended the streets were flooded. Every intersection was a foot or more deep with brown water containing all kinds of gross flotsam. Traveling was very difficult when clutching our precious pieces of cardboard. The only safe place to cross a street was the middle of the block, causing the following: get to an intersection, walk halfway down the street cross and walk back up to the intersection. After repeating this scenario twenty times we arrived back at the hotel and packed our bikes. Finding a station wagon taxi which could take us and the bikes to the airport wasn't easy. Then upon arriving were told the bikes would have to be claimed and rechecked at Mexico City. This and having to pay airport taxes at both airports made us eager to get back to the U.S.
We arrived at LAX around nine O'clock p.m. on a rainy Saturday night with two disassembled bicycles and no hotel reservations. No one was expecting us. The time had been too short to write and we had already spent $60.00 calling the lawyers. Public phones do not exist in the Yucatan. One must go to a place called "Larga Distancia," where a woman with a stop watch charges you by the second for your call. Fortunately, Tom and Connie Heffner were at home and gracious enough to not only rescue us from the airport, but also put us up for a few days. Feeling we had abused their generosity enough we moved in with Pat and Neal Shapiro for the remainder of our stay.
Of course, the purpose for all this was the hearing over a traffic accident. The lawyer had set up a pre-hearing meeting at a nearby restaurant and had promised to take Al to the lawyers office where the hearing would take place. Louie dropped Al off at the restaurant using Tom's second car. After waiting for half an hour at the restaurant, Al received a call from the lawyer stating she would not be able to meet him and he should take a cab to the hearing. $12.00 later, Al arrived at the office of the arbitrator. When the other driver arrived he was wearing a neck brace. This was unreal! The accident had occurred three years ago and the guy had bumped his knee! Al's insurance would cover only $500,000 -- this looked like megabucks. This guy, a sleazy looking character, soon put part of Al's fears to rest when he pointed out that the neck brace had nothing to do with this case. It was from an on-the-job injury which was to be settled in another suit. It sure must be tough suing people for a living, you have to keep your injuries straight. It was now almost amusing: the guy was claiming to be a stunt man and that he had missed a chance for a role in a movie because of the accident. Only problem was his employment record showed he had worked part-time in a liquor store. The best news was he wanted only $30,000, which the insurance would cover even if he won. The lawyer also told Al that if for some crazy reason a jury awarded him a settlement above Al's coverage, Al would not be liable because the initial claim was covered. The bad news was that the lawyer felt it wasn't over yet, that whoever lost would appeal and it would probably last another year. "Well, I'll be in New Zealand by then and I'm not coming back," were Al's final words. About nine months later, Al received word that the suit had settled for $12,000.
With that and the Superbowl over, Tom provided yet another service by driving us to Palm Springs to resume our travels. From there we headed south past the Salton Sea and through the Imperial Valley, a hot dusty place even in February. We were traveling below sea level and made pretty good time. When the local highway intersected I-8 a large sign read "No Bicycles" but the map showed no other way to go east. "When we get to Arizona, which was still 50 miles further, we're allowed on interstates. We haven't seen a cop in days -- lets go for it." Another one of Al's brilliant suggestions. After about one mile a California Highway Patrolman pulled us over, there wasn't another car in sight and during the whole time he lectured us not one went by. The police have this strange idea that riding on an interstate with a four to six foot paved shoulder is dangerous, but riding on a two-laner without a shoulder is safe. No matter, he forced us to reverse course and follow the frontage road until it ended and then we were allowed to get on I-8, but only until the frontage road started again. Great logic! Al had hoped the stray pit bull that was wandering around the troopers legs would bite him. Despite some strong gusts of wind which blew great clouds of sand across the road and through our teeth, we made it to Yuma where we spent the night.
From the small town of Tacna where we spent the next night it was over 80 miles to Gila Bend, the next place to provide any shelter. The winds being their contrary selves decided to come from the east and after 20 miles we were already dragging. "This is terrible, I'm not sure I can make another 60." This from Louie usually the last to give up. Spying some campers at a rest stop, Al said, "Bet I can promote us a ride." Upon pedaling up to a man named Joe Sant, a Mormon from Idaho, Al was pleased to hear him ask. "How far do you travel in one day." One of the most frequent questions asked, but this time a great opening. "Well, funny you should ask, most days about 50 miles, but today it's over 80 to Gila Bend and this wind is terrible. We could sure use a ride." Joe being a kind man thought about it but shaking his head said. "Sorry we don't have room." Al returned to Louie and imparted the bad news, but before we could leave Joe came over and said. "If you don't mind splitting up, my friend and I can manage you both." Needless to say, we not only got a ride to Gila Bend but all the way to Ajo, our destination for the following day. They wanted to take us all the way to Organ Pipe National Monument, but we felt guilty as it was. Besides, the Ajo VFW was having a steak dinner that night, so we dined in style in this remote spot.
We did go to Organ Pipe the next day and continued our cactus lessons. Since the park is on the border, we slipped across and spent the night in Sonoita before returning the next day to Ajo, which is Spanish for garlic and home to one of the biggest copper mines in the U.S. As we left town on our way to Gila Bend, once again two campers pulled over in front of us. You guessed it, Joe and his friend offered us a lift. We declined the ride, but accepted a Book of Mormon and still remember them fondly.
The only interstate you can't ride on in Arizona is the bit between Tucson and Phoenix -- it is very busy. This creates a rather long detour, but we were rewarded with a visit to Casa Grande National Monument, the largest free standing adobe structure in the U.S. We got another cactus lesson from a female ranger from Philadelphia. Later, we followed the pioneer highway and stopped at Florence to spend the night. Braving the very cold temperatures and a stiff head wind, Louie was wilting and Al wasn't much better. We got to Red's cafe, which featured free chicken rice soup (donations accepted). Red told us we would soon be heading down hill and the wind would be at our backs. His predictions were as good as his soup, we were glad to have left a donation, and were soon sailing down hill at 20 MPH. Arriving on the Miracle Mile and facing a varied selection of motels. We skipped the no-tell, porno movie ones and settled into a very economical western motif inn. It was lucky we saved money that night because our next stop was at a condo that charged $70.00 a night. It had two TV's, a microwave and beds big enough to get lost in. We made the most of it, even having fun answering the phone in the bathroom.
Our love of interstates was dampened on the way to Nogales on I-19. Normally the engineers provide a rumble strip on the edge of interstates to warn drivers if they wander onto the shoulder. This is another reason we feel safer -- the rumble strip is between us and the cars. But the guy who designed I-19 had another idea: a diagonal trench running from the very edge of the roadbed to the edge of the operating lane leaving no smooth place for bicycles who are forced to ride over the bone crunching trenches or right on the edge of the highway with speeding cars inches away. After about an hour of this, Al suddenly could no longer keep up with Louie, something that hadn't happened since the beginning of the trip. "I must be tired, or sick." He was exhausted when we finally got to a motel for the night.
In the morning we crossed over to the Mexican side and purchased tickets for the primera class train to Matzatlan. We took the bikes to check-in, which Louie now called luggage trolleys. The station in Matzatlan is away from the water, so when we arrived the next morning we had a short ride to the tourist area, passing by the ferry terminal from where we planned to leave in two days. "Let's get the tickets and reservations today," another seemingly good idea from Louie. We paid for both our tickets and berth, it being important to get reservations if we wanted a berth, i.e. sleep, for the night crossing to La Paz.
In town we found a nice room at the south end overlooking the Sea of Cortez, enjoying barbecued chicken as the sun set.
During a bike tour of the promenade, which borders the beach, Al discovered he had two broken spokes on his rear wheel, the reason he had been so tired on the way to Nogales. A wobbling wheel rubs against the brakes just as if he had been pulling on the brake levers. The severed spokes were surely a gift from I-19's trenches. Being prepared was always foremost in our minds, carrying spokes and a cassette tool that is necessary to remove the rear gear cluster to replace a spoke. On the first attempt, the tool broke turning Louie's ears pink as Al announced his displeasure. We needed a bike shop, so Al approached a group of young men near a pickup truck and asked. "Donde es un mechanico bicicleta?" which he hoped meant 'Where is a bicycle mechanic?' "What's the matter?" Was the response in almost unaccented English. "Broken spokes." "Come with us." We loaded the two bikes in the back of the truck along with Al and two of the members of a Washington State based para-gliding team that spends half the year in the U.S. and the other in their home country. Louie got to ride in front with the other two members and was soon holding a giant pinata which we picked up on our way to the bike shop. The pinata was for one of their son's birthday. At the bike shop, our new friends explained what was needed to the mechanic and once they were sure we would be helped they bid us adios. The repairman was a marvel. His shop was a clutter of nuts, bolts and assorted parts. He had none of the fancy tools you see in modern bike shops, and from the look on his face, when he removed Al's gear cassette, had never seen a 21 gear bike before. But using a vise and a few simple tools he expertly replaced the spokes and balanced the wheel cutting and threading new spokes to the proper length in the process. He charged us the incredible price of two dollars for his labors; our luck with bicycle repairs continued.
In the morning we rode to the ferry terminal to continue our journey to La Paz, capitol of Baja Sur. Having paid for our tickets two days before we proceeded to the vehicle loading area expecting to load the bikes. One never knows when bicycles will be boarded: sometimes first, sometimes last, and other times in the middle. When Louie showed the load master our tickets, he vigorously shook his head and pointed toward the terminal. Did they want us to take the bikes on via the passenger gangway? We went there and were once again turned away. As usual Louie was being calm and Al was getting angry. Finally a bilingual passenger spoke to the ticket collector for us and learned, "Your tickets are for yesterday." Sure enough the tickets had the wrong date, the reservations for the berth, however, had the correct date. Off to the ticket counter to have the tickets changed. Finding the agent who had issued the tickets in the first place seemed like a good break. He remembered us and admitted the tickets should have been for today and then shocked us by saying, "You will have to buy new tickets, these are no good." "What? You made the mistake not us!" Arguing got us nowhere except that Louie was now angry also. Eventually facing the prospect of missing the ferry we bought new tickets. Our lesson for the day about Mexican culture was the customer is always wrong, especially if he's a gringo.
The crossing was far from worth the extra expense, the cabin was nice but no blankets or heat were provided. After spending a freezing night, we were rudely chucked out just in time to watch the sunrise. We, along with a bunch of truck drivers, sat around for the better part of an hour while some officials acted officiously. The ferry had gone from one state of Mexico to another but they acted as if we had come from another planet.
The port for La Paz is Pichilingue, 12 miles from town on a very hilly road, which is very busy when the ferry comes in. We learned a lesson that day: it is wiser to let the trucks go on ahead than be blown around as they roar by us enroute to their destinations. Having survived the highway, we eventually found a room in a great little hotel with an American desk clerk and an equally great restaurant. After a hot shower we went to eat. We chose the "comida corrida," a set menu changing every day and featuring excellent local cuisine at an economical price. Al had not felt well all day and had kept going because he had no other choice. As soon as he finished eating, instead of feeling better for the calorie boost, he felt worse. "I'm sick," he announced and went to bed for the next 24 hours. Louie provided what nourishment he needed and the hotel staff was very considerate being as quiet as possible when cleaning the adjoining rooms. They all seemed very pleased when he felt strong enough to go to dinner.
When we had checked into the hotel it was on the condition that we vacate after four days. It was carnival time in La Paz and all the rooms were reserved. Having no interest in the Mexican variation on Mardi Gras, this was not a problem. Cabo San Lucas and the California Grey Whales beckoned. Since our original plan of riding to Cabo and then taking a ferry to Puerto Vallarta wouldn't work because that ferry no longer operated, we would have to return to La Paz.
It was a great feeling to be back on the bikes and the 50 mile ride to Todos Santos was very enjoyable. We found a cheap room in a motel with no name, which was across the road from the Hotel California, where the price was much higher (and could we leave? ... apologies to The Eagles) The desk clerk back in La Paz had promised there would be whales nearby, so we rode as far as possible toward the beach. Then abandoned the bikes and walked the rest of the way, hoping this was not a wild goose chase. It was a wild whale chase! Just as the water came into view a whale stuck it's head out of the surf just a few feet from the shore. The next few minutes were spent telling each other which way to look. Whales were everywhere: breaching, spy hopping and generally playing in the ocean. Our objective coming here had been reached and exceeded and Cabo still lay ahead. The ballet continued and only the approaching dusk drove us off the beach.
Reaching Cabo the next day was anticlimactic to say the least. Tales of the sleepy fishing village and relaxing atmosphere were replaced by views of giant pink condos and half finished hotels. The arch which Cabo is famous for is no longer visible from the town itself, a hotel having been built on the spot where viewing was most accessible. The prices were high in all establishments and the service surly. Celebrating our wedding anniversary there was less than thrilling, so next morning we pushed east toward San Jose Del Cabo, which had the reputation of being more modern and less friendly. It was, but by chance on our way there Al spotted a small sign which said, "Cabanas for rent." After some spirited negotiations, the landlady agreed to rent one for a week for an amount equal to our weekly budget, now all we needed was free food. Shopping in the local markets and cooking in the cabana's kitchen wasn't free but made the stay very pleasant. We spent our mornings riding to either of the Cabos for shopping, our afternoons watching the whales perform until sunset and then watching the stars in the evening. Without the light pollution of a city it is amazing how many stars one can see just with binoculars. As the week drew to a close the whales seemed to be all moving in a westerly direction with a certain amount of urgency. There vacation was over, they were heading back to Alaska. We had caught the end of the season. Even Todos Santos was quiet, only one whale was there when we stopped on the way back, and he seemed in a hurry. (Nature note: the whales mate on their way north having had their babies in the Baja.)
La Paz was a disaster, it must have been some party! The streets were overflowing with trash and no one seemed interested in cleaning it up. Checking back into the same room, plans were made to board a different ferry crossing to Las Mochis and taking the Copper Canyon Train to Chihuahua. One necessary chore was laundry. Finding the Mexican style laundromat was easy, getting a machine to use wasn't. The staff at the laundry do wash for other people and have precedent over customers allowing only a few of the machines to be available at any one time. We managed to get the last available washer and sat quietly in the corner waiting for it to complete it's cycle while watching the war for dryers. A lot of hot Spanish going back and forth. Being the only gringos in the place, our chances seemed slim. And when a huge ugly Mexican woman entered and started shouting for people to empty their washers before the machine had even stopped, Al chickened out. As soon as the washer stopped he grabbed the clothes and headed back to the hotel. The railing on the balcony made a great clothes line.
The ferry from Matzatlan had been pretty nice much like the tourista class train. However, the ferry to Las Mochis was a lot like the segunda class, not as bad, but pretty poor. When booking the tickets we discovered there were no berths. They weren't all taken, there never were any. Hard to imagine an overnight ferry with no place to sleep. Yet, having no choice, we booked passage as well as a seat; the seats were extra. Arriving at the terminal early, not wanting to ride after dark, we had plenty of time to kill and were treated to a show of 1950's engineering. The ferry was a one way ship meaning everything had to be backed on. This took forever and, even though they started loading three hours early, the ferry was late in leaving. Worst of all was the elderly American driving a huge motor-home towing a car behind it. This would have been difficult at best, but the old guy didn't understand Spanish and with four or five Mexicans screaming directions it became hopeless. At last, a gringo from New Mexico acted as translator and then talked the loading crew into allowing the car to be driven on separately. Finally, the last truck was loaded and almost as the ferry backed out they allowed us to bring the bikes on board. The only place left was in front of a huge truck. After chaining the bikes to its bumper we headed to our assigned seats. The passenger cabin was a zoo, people everywhere. It took us awhile to persuade the locals sitting in our seats to move and we then discovered people sleeping under our feet. At least 10 of the passengers were babies and they took turns crying. After a completely sleepless night we arrived in the port of Topolabamba just as the sun came up. Due to the position of the harbor it rose over the water, which was a little disconcerting, especially to Louie, who relies on the sun to tell direction. We were waiting to exit the ferry as soon as possible fearing the driver of the truck might just pull out with the bikes still locked on his bumper. We did not, however, stay on the road long. We stopped for coffee to allow the trucks to go roaring down the road.
Upon arriving in Los Moches we stopped by a travel agent to book passage on the Copper Canyon Tourist train. All went well until we mentioned the bikes. This was a special train and did not take freight or express. We would have to ship the bikes from the freight office. Since we had planned to take a two day break in journey at a place called Creel, this was just as well. We wouldn't have to drag the bikes on and off and we had faith in the Mexican railroad's freight system to deliver them. It still would be strange to not see them for three days.
Very early the next morning we boarded the "Baranca del Cobre" special. This rail line, which runs through the canyon, is unique to the Mexican system. It was constructed in the late 1800's to connect Kansas City to the Pacific Ocean. It traverses some of the best scenery in Mexico and crosses a section of mountains that still has no roads and is inaccessible by car. The railway's working days are over, except for the daily tourist train, which is usually full. The tracks cross over gorges and ravines on very high wooden trellises that seem to totter as you proceed. And the sight of a hard hatted engineer observing your slow progress is not reassuring. This and the feeling Pancho Villa will come galloping around the next bend, gives an 1800's feel to the whole experience.
Our guide book said we should get off the train and spend some time in the mountains to really appreciate them, so we did, getting off in Creel, a small town high in the mountains at the beginning of the bus line. As the train stopped the detraining tourists were surrounded by kids directing us to Margarita's guest house. It had been recommended, so we followed along. Some of the group had reservations and we hoped there would be a room for us. Margarita's had started as a hostel catering to backpackers and economy tourists. It had dormitory style rooms which included breakfast and dinner at a very good price. The place was so successful that they were adding proper motel style rooms. We opted for one of these. Dinner was scheduled for six and when we entered the dinning area at five forty-five all the seats were occupied by young travelers, we were assured there would be a second sitting and there would be plenty of food. The kids usually showed up an hour ahead of time to grab some places. The second session featured a lot more gray hair than the first one. The meal consisted of a little meat in a brown gravy and all the beans and tortillas one would desire.
Breakfast was similar except the meat was replaced by an egg. Brochures readily available in the hostel featured several different tours of the surrounding area illustrating happy people traveling comfortably in modern mini vans. All toll, 14 people signed up for several different tours. At departure time we were informed the buses were all out of action but they would take us all on a combined tour. The vehicle of transport was one open bed pickup. Two elderly ladies rode in front with the driver and 12 of us held on for dear life in the rear. The driver nonchalantly forded streams, climbed gravelly hills, flew down steep escarpments and bounced us against each other. Occasionally he would stop, point at a rock and holler "King Kong," "The Pope," or some other name to describe a geological feature. Eventually we stopped at a small farm and were ushered into the kitchen where his cousin offered us coffee and tortillas. We refused and were not among those surprised to learn the coffee was not included in the tour. Finally the torture ended and we were miraculously delivered back to Margarita's. An unpleasant surprise was awaiting us. Upon checking-in we had not received a llave (key), being told that there was none. When the new rooms had been built, each came with two keys. Due to Margarita's hostel background they were not used to keys. The system they tried to install was that you hung your llave on a hook corresponding to your room when you were not in it and retrieved it when you wished to enter your room. The keys were normal house size with no ring or tag on it making it easy to forget you had it. The new rooms had been in use only two weeks and half the keys were missing, including both of the ones for our room. When we left in the morning, we had carefully left the door unlocked taking our valuables with us. The maid apparently had cleaned the room and then efficiently locked the door. We were locked out and there was no master key. Bill Havens, who we had made friends with on the train, thought this was real funny as he removed his key from the hook. He did help us discuss things with Margarita whose final decision was to send her smallest son up a ladder, break out the newly installed bathroom screen and wiggle through the tiny window which we had fortunately left open. The night was spent with long conversations about potential solutions to Margarita's llave problem.
Plans for a tour on the second day were cancelled by a snow storm and no one seemed upset. Bill and his wife Ann accompanied us on a walk around the town and surrounding country side. They were both from the southern tip of Texas and she had never seen snow before. So, it was fascinating to see a 40 year old woman experience something new and exciting to her, but was very normal for us. After a cup of coffee at a cafe we returned to the hostel. We had made sure our room was left unlocked and were tickled when Bill could not find his key, which he had dutifully hung on it's hook. "Donde esta mi llave?" (Where is my key?) he asked. All of the keys were gone. Margarita had sent her oldest son to Chihuahua to have copies made. "When will he return?" "Manana." The youngest son was now a professional at breaking in through the bathroom window and no one seemed concerned about the destruction of two brand new screens.
The four of us opted to take the bus rather than the train to Chihuahua the next day so as to arrive earlier in the day. It was Sunday and after a trip around town to find the other train station we learned the bikes could not be retrieved until Monday. The afternoon was spent on a walking tour which climaxed at Pancho Villa's house. The highlight was the car in which he had been killed. It looked more like metal Swiss cheese; his death was no accident.
After picking up the bikes at the freight office we pushed them the few feet to the baggage office and checked them in for the trip to Juarez. From there we rode across the border to El Paso and headed for tourist info. On our way there we were assaulted by 55 MPH winds coming from the west, the direction we intended to take. Asking the lady at the info office when the winds might lessen, she responded, "They have. They were 60 MPH yesterday and will be like this for another month." This information called for a rethink. Our intention was to ride west back to California where our house required some attention, then hire or borrow a car and retrieve our bikes from Kansas and resume our journey. Cycling the several hundred miles into this wind was not appealing. Some quick research uncovered Tourismo Rapido, an express bus that went from El Paso to L.A. in 15 hours. And for $36.00 we could take the bikes. We were the only non-Mexicans on the bus. Everyone else had just crossed the border and were on their way to Hollywood. Why they crossed over in El Paso and then traveled all the way to the coast puzzled us since a Mexican bus to Tijuana was probably cheaper. But it's very popular with two bus companies competing for the business. The journey was uneventful and we arrived in L.A. an hour early. Once again, the Heffners and Shapiro's provided us with accommodation and Tom lent us his car to fetch the bikes.
We were ready to start our second summer of riding. Al was delighted to leave his mountain bike behind and get back on his "real bike." Louie, however, much to Al's displeasure, stayed with her mountain bike furthering the difference in speed between us.
In case you're wondering what happened to the bike riding, we did cover over 500 miles while in Mexico, not a great amount, just what was necessary. The real riding was about to begin.
Our ride through the rockies started as far South and at as low an elevation as you can manage -- San Luis Rio Colorado, at the Mexican border, elevation zero. We got there by pedaling south from Hermosa Beach via San Diego and along the Mexican border passing through the towns of Tijuana, Tecate and Mexicali; not a recommended scenic route, but one of necessity. During the first week of April there is still snow in the mountain passes of California. We avoided them, but there was still one formidable obstacle in our path, "The Cantu Grade." In this instance it was a down hill rather than up hill challenge. On the way to Tecate we climbed above 3,000 feet and needed to get back to sea level at Mexicali. This all happened at once in a 24 km (15 mile) drop down a steep windy road. To make matters worse, the center of the road was an oily slick depression causing the trucks to hug the shoulders, nobody told them that was our spot. Tom Heffner had warned us about the grade, but we had learned to take what our friends said with a grain of salt. Then in a brew pub in San Diego a guy uttered the same caution, so we began to take it seriously. The grade is on the east side of the small town of Rumarosa. We had hoped to spend the night there and take on the grade in the morning when we were fresh. However, there was no accommodation in the tiny mountain town. After a lunch break and reading the large sign (in Spanish) which clearly warned about the perils that faced us, we took a deep breath and plunged down the incline. The view, whenever we had the guts to take it in, was spectacular. The road twisted and turned below us often disappearing and then reappearing far below to finally merge with the arrow straight highway over 2000 feet below. The advantage of fully loaded cycles holding the curves was greatly appreciated. The lower center of gravity helps the cornering, yet the weight tries to push you even faster. Somehow we had picked the right window of time to proceed. Most of the truckers must have been at lunch, because we encountered almost no traffic in our direction, all of it was coming the other way moving at a snails pace up the grade. We could feel the temperature rising as we descended to the desert floor and the original chill as we started down quickly vanished. The highway ran across the Northern end of "Laguna Salada," Mexico's version of Salt Lake. Mexicali was still 16 miles ahead and a small but imposing string of hills lay in front of us. Stopping at a road which ran toward the lake we discussed our alternatives. Al was in favor of pitching camp near the lake, while Louie wanted to push on. After deciding to head for Mexicali our decision was quickly over-turned. As Al lifted his bike back on to the road surface he drug the side of his tire against the sharp edge of the macadam, which was unusually high due to several resurfacings, he had pedaled just a few yards when the side wall of the tire blew out leaving him with a large repair job, which sapped both his energy and his enthusiasm to continue on.
Having noticed a large free standing wall which served as a landmark proclaiming the lake we decided to move behind it where we found a flat concrete platform ideal for tire repair work and eventually a campsite out of view from the highway. We awaited twilight to set up the tent in the soft sandy soil so as to remain inconspicuous as long as possible. A few hours after turning in our sleep was disrupted by a strong wind from the west which quickly pulled the tent pegs out of the sand and collapsed the west end of the tent. Al got out and by securing the guy lines to large rocks was able to right the tent and return to the sleeping bag. A few hours later the wind shifted 180 degrees and pulled out the pegs holding the east end of the tent in place. At this point we collapsed the whole tent and spent the rest of the night waiting for the sunrise. When after an eternity it finally arrived we quickly departed for Mexcali, where we found a motel and took showers and a nap. That afternoon Al bought a new tire from a roadside salesman for four dollars; it seemed like a real bargain.
After a restful night we proceeded to San Luis and crossed the border early the next morning. We were delayed by a customs agent who thought it was suspicious that Al had bought a tire while in Mexico. He instructed us to proceed to another inspection lane for additional processing. The agent there was nonplussed when we reported to her and with a shake of her head told us to proceed.
Yuma lies only 25 miles from San Luis. So after buying supplies and consulting with tourist info about camping between Yuma and Quartzite, and as it was still early in the day, we decided to push on. Tourist info had assured us we could camp anywhere along the road as long as it wasn't prohibited by signs, which meant anywhere except the Yuma Proving Grounds. The map showed this area as a small rectangle ending about 20 miles north of Yuma. We could ride that far and camp and be half way to Quartzite. Realizing we would be in the desert we purchased a gallon jug of water to enhance our supply. Al jury- rigged it on the back of his bike and we set off. On the way out of town the roadway crossed under I-10. As we whizzed down and around the underpass the jug slipped and Al heard a strange buzzing sound. The jug was rubbing against his tire and in the few seconds it took for him to stop a small hole was worn in the jug and it was now spurting water onto the highway. Since the hole was near the top of the jug we figured we had enough water to get to Quartzite.
Four hours and 45 minutes later we regretted that decision. We were still in the proving grounds which showed no signs of ending and most of our water was gone. The jug had leaked over half it's contents and the dry desert air had increased our intake dramatically. Just as we were getting desperate a border patrol inspection station appeared ahead. Much to our despair it was closed, but after snooping around Al discovered a water spigot in the rear of the trailer. Was it safe? After much discussion and sniffing and tasting we decided it must be O.K. So we filled our bottles and bellies then hit the road. Five miles later we encountered a road side rest with tables and chairs under a covered patio. There was also a large no camping sign. Deciding that the worst thing that could happen was spending the night in a nice comfortable jail we elected to spend the night. There had been no sign of police or official vehicles so we figured it would be safe if we waited to pitch the tent at sunset.
Al had just started to cook dinner when a motor-home and a fifth-wheel pickup truck pulled into the rest area. "This is our ride out of here," Al proclaimed. For once he was right. The pickup was driven by a woman and the motor-home her husband. They operated a fifth-wheel delivery service from their home in Oregon. They had completed a delivery to Phoenix and were returning to Oregon when they received a call to retrieve the motor-home of an elderly man who had become ill and flown back to Portland. When Al asked about a lift they were happy to accommodate us. Putting the bikes into the back of the pickup we set off for Quartzite where there was a campground. The camping there is run by the National Forest Service who has made very little improvement to the area. There are no facilities not even water. There were very few other campers present and we doubted there ever would be. We later learned that in the middle of winter over 100,000 people congregate there and hold a several month flea market, dealing mostly in gemstones.
Having survived that predicament, we continued our ascent of the Rockies passing through the towns of Harcuvar, Aquila and Congress. In 100 miles we had come from sea level to 2,000 feet of elevation, in the next 12 miles we would climb to 4,800 feet -- definitely a steep climb. In order to keep our morale up and stay in touch we devised the mile at a time approach. Arizona like many states has little green markers that signify each mile of a particular route, these were our targets. Every time Al reached one he would wait for Louie. We then had a drink of water or Gatorade and then pushed on to the next marker. At every other marker we would eat a piece of fruit. In this way we reached the town of Yarnell in a little over two hours. We were over 4,000 feet and would not descend below that level for the next three months.
Our next stop was Prescott. Al had been given the phone number of his cousin Marietta who lived there. He had not seen her in over ten years and she had no idea we were nearby, but we called her from Yarnell. When she realized who was on the phone, she said, "Come to dinner." Al laughed and told her that yes, it was only 35 miles away, but it would take us several hours to reach Prescott by bicycle. So, arrangements were made to meet the next day.
Only 35 miles! Prescott is at 5,500 feet but you must cross a 6,000 feet pass to get there. As we neared the summit Al's rear tire made a strange hissing sound, on close inspection he discovered the bead on his bargain tire had separated and had a large bulge on one side, it was only five more miles to Prescott, all down hill, a very cautious five miles. As we arrived safely at the bottom of the hill a car pulled over and a very excited woman sprang out and promptly fell on her rear end. "That's my cousin." Al chuckled. The night was very pleasant with Al and Marietta reviving their childhood memories. The next day, a sporting goods store enabled us to replace the tire and Al's sleeping bag that mysteriously disappeared in San Diego. We had managed with one, while down in the desert, but the mountains would be a different story. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Proceeding north thru Ashford and Williams we found ourselves approaching our first major objective of the year, "The Grand Canyon." The previous year at Al's retirement party (was it only a year ago?) we had placed a large map on the wall with our proposed route outlined. As Al explained the plan to our friend Tom Ziemba. Tom exclaimed, "You can't ride bikes to the Grand Canyon in April. It's at 7,000 feet. It will be snowing." Al was amused. "How do you know what it will be doing in a year?" As we approached the canyon the temperature was in the mid 60's, hardly snow weather. Our big concern was a campsite. Not all the campgrounds were open this early and the good weather might bring out lots of tourists. As we sped along at 10 to 15 mph camper after camper passed us on their way to the canyon. At the entrance we read the sign which explained which campgrounds were open and which ones filled, our options were limited to the main campground. We rode directly there and were delighted when the ranger said, "We always have room for bikers," and it was only $2.00 a piece.
After finding our site and setting up the tent we went off to see the canyon and check out the facilities. On our way in we had stopped for supplies not being sure we would find them in the national park. What a joke! The store at the canyon village is huge -- you can buy a boat there! We would not want for supplies. There are also many lectures and walks provided by the rangers; we would avail ourselves of many of these.
It was with some interest that we noticed two bike riders in a campsite near ours. They had the blondest hair you could imagine. We waved, but did not have a chance to speak to them. That night we all attended a ranger talk in the auditorium and managed to meet our neighbors. They were from Holland and were just finishing a two year tour of Europe, India, Australia and New Zealand. They were headed in the same direction we were. Their hair had been bleached by the sun from riding without helmets. Dutch people, who all ride bicycles, have utter disregard for helmets, believing they will never need one.
The next morning was cool and overcast. We planned a ride to Hermit's Rest, on the western edge of the canyon, with a stop at the mule corral on the way. The story goes that there are often hilarious scenes at the corral as the tourists prepare for their ride into the canyon. The time schedules at the canyon are often confusing. Arizona does not observe daylight savings time but the Navajo Nation and the National Park do. Some how this combination caused us to arrive an hour early, and there wasn't much doing. As we stood around in our shorts and tee shirts it grew progressively colder and the skies more threatening. Louie decided to ride the two miles back to the campsite and retrieve our long sleeved shirts, pants and ponchos. By the time she returned Al was shivering as the first snow flakes fell. As the muleteers descended into the canyon they were quickly covered with snow and we just as quickly beat a fast retreat toward the campground. The snow increased in intensity and was piling up on our ponchos. Al made a command decision and headed for the laundry room where we sat in front of the warmth giving dryers watching other peoples clothing spin around. Somewhere in California Tom was laughing. Upon leaving the laundry the snow had stopped, but we discovered the front of the tent had collapsed from the weight of the snow and been raided by rock squirrels that had slipped in through the front zipper.
Once again we attended the evening ranger talk in the auditorium; it was the warmest place around. The ranger drew a chuckle when he mentioned the unusually large crowd for his speech, noting that most of the attendees were from the campground. When he finished there was a noticeable reluctance to leave the hall, it was a very cold night.
Morning brought the sun and warmer temperatures. We were in the campsite devising methods to ward off the rock squirrels, when it started to hail. The hail was coming straight down and began to accumulate. We donned our ponchos and headed toward the canyon, hoping to see the canyon under rare conditions. As we approached the rim, tourists dressed in shorts and tee shirts were fleeing in the opposite direction. The weather at 7,000 feet can be fickle. In four days we saw every weather condition you could imagine; it was a great experience.
Departing the main village, we headed east following the rim toward Desert View, stopping along the way at the various overlooks provided by the park service. One of these featured the remains of an Anasazi indian village. Anasazi is the name given to the people who lived throughout this area before the Navajo arrived about 600 years ago. We learned this and other facts from Jack, a park service volunteer. He gave a tour and talk about the site. After he had finished, it was our turn to answer questions. He wanted to know all about our trip and eventually invited us to pitch our tent next to the trailer he shared with one of the rangers. Since the campground at Desert View was closed, we happily accepted the offer.
His roommate didn't seem too thrilled to see us but eventually warmed up and we spent an interesting evening learning about the park service. Mainly that it is very difficult to become a permanent ranger. Most of them are temporary and the park service wants to keep it that way. Pat, Jack's roommate, had been trying for several years and was about to give up.
As we were leaving the Grand Canyon area the following morning, we encountered two young Austrians. They passed us in their car and then stopped to take our pictures. The one taking the photos was a professional and was in the process of creating a photo book on the U.S.. We don't know if we made it into his book, but the picture he sent us was used on our Christmas card that year.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Our next major destination was Canyon de Chelly (canyon de shay) which was 200 miles to the east through the Navajo Nation. This meant long stretches of fairly barren country side twisting through the mesa country of Northeastern Arizona, which makes up the Navajo and Hopi reservations. There are few developed areas and little in the way of tourist accommodation. The wind and rain played games with us, sometimes pushing us along and then switching to blow in our faces. The last leg into the campground at the canyon was one of the latter. We had been pushed along by a tailwind for the first part of the day so elected to go all the way to the National Monument rather than go five miles out of our way to find a campground. We no sooner got underway when we were hit by a thunderstorm and not only got wet but the wind switched direction and we spent the next two hours with our heads down plowing into a very strong head wind. When we arrived our Dutch friends were already there. The story they had to tell about happenings in the park was not very pleasing. Because Canyon de Chelly is on Navajo land the park service only administers the facility, there is no charge for camping or touring the canyon. However, there is also no security. Anyone is free to enter the park at any time. Thefts from cars and camping sites are all too common. As we sat discussing this, pickup trucks filled with teenagers cruised through the campground with what appeared to be sinister intentions. The numerous signs advising you not to leave anything unattended did nothing to dispel concern.
We spent three nights at the park touring both legs of the canyon on different days. The geology and the ruins were very interesting but the constant concern for our belongings detracted from our enjoyment. Later we learned it is the only park where rangers carry guns full-time.
Our visit to Canyon de Chelly over, we faced a most imposing problem. In the direction we were going, which was northeast, there were no campgrounds or motels for over 100 miles. As we prepared to leave the wind was blowing from the south at about 15 MPH. "If it does this and then switches to the west like it has been, we'll be alright. I hope it blows a gale." Al wished. A wish he still regrets. Our course was mainly north for the first 70 miles and then east for 30 miles to a little town called Teec Nos Pos where we hoped to find a primitive campground. The first leg went fairly well except for a section where we had to go west. The wind was so strong from the south we were barely able to keep the bikes upright. At another point dust blew across the road so strongly that we had to wet handkerchiefs and wear them over our faces, looking like old-time stagecoach bandits. We were both tired when we arrived at the junction of the east bound highway. The wind, obedient to Al's wish, had switched and was roaring from the west. A long break and some food convinced us we could make it, attempts to hitch a ride having failed. Our progress over the rolling terrain was very rapid with the wind driving us in front of it. Only five miles from our destination and rolling down the face of a hill Al realized he was going over 40 MPH. He hit the brakes and his bike began to vibrate violently. His attempts to slow down were to no avail, as the bike continued to stagger across the highway seeming to have a mind of it's own. Finally, totally out of control, Al yelled to Louie and crashed. His left shoulder struck first and he rolled over twice. His helmeted head being snapped back against the roadbed both times. He came to rest in the center of the road with bicycle equipment strewn in every direction. Louie, who had halted her bike in a much more traditional method, was soon at his side. She was flooded with relief to see him rise and hobble to the edge of the road. Al lay down and did a quick physical inventory. His shoulders, knees, elbows and hips were all badly skinned. His left thumb was spouting blood and he had pulled a muscle in his back. "Stay there." Louie ordered as she went to help the motorists who had all pulled off the road to gather Al's equipment. It was a shock when she discovered Al next to her picking up some of his possessions. With the help of several people everything was assembled in a big heap on the side of the road. A guy with six kids in his car offered Al a ride, but be would be unable to take the gear. Then a lady driving a car that belonged to the local school board offered to take him to the Navajo clinic in Teec Pos Nos. He accepted and all his gear was piled into the trunk. The lady told Louie where the clinic was and left her to pedal her way there. In route the lady shocked Al by saying. "I hope they'll take you even though you're white." Fortunately her fears were unfounded and the two paramedics proceeded to clean the numerous abrasions and cuts, which dotted most of Al's body, and then apply liberal amounts of stinging antiseptic and then covering him with yards and yards of gauze and adhesive tape. During the process Al learned two things. The Navajo probably don't have a word for bleeding, because as they worked on him they kept up a constant string of conversation all in Navajo with the exception of the word bleeding, which they used all too frequently. At one point Al had to inform them he was going into shock when he felt himself getting cold and clammy, the first symptom of shock learned years before as a boy scout but never experienced before. It didn't seem to concern them and they proceeded to apply rolls of adhesive tape to all the skin they could find. That's the other thing Al learned: what happened to all that old- fashioned adhesive tape we used to use, the kind that wouldn't come off? We gave it to the indians! And these two were trying to use it all on the first white man they had in their clutches.
The next problem was where to spend the night. There were no campgrounds or motels in Teec Nos Pos. The closest were in Cortez, Colorado, 40 miles away. Al couldn't hope to ride even if his front wheel, which was the cause of his difficulty, didn't look like a pretzel. When he had hit the brakes, the torque must have bent the wheel, explaining why he couldn't gain control. And Louie, who had arrived while Al was being bandaged, certainly couldn't do another 40 miles. We were also a problem to the paramedics. They didn't want us around anymore. And since a storm, the source of the high winds, was bearing down on the area, they wanted to go home. Deciding the only way to get rid of us was to help us, they arranged a ride for Al in a pickup truck. The truck took him to Four Corners, the place where Arizona, Utah, Colorado and New Mexico all meet, five miles from the clinic. The ride was being given reluctantly and, when the truck pulled up, no effort was made to help Al load his gear into the back, not even lowering the tail gate. The driver stood by while Al painfully loaded his pile of possessions in the back and then hauled his bandaged covered body over the tailgate and collapsed. When they arrived at a service station, the driver remained in the cab while Al fought his pain and the fiercely blowing winds to unload his stuff. When he finally dropped to the ground the truck pulled off neither receiving or expecting a thank you. Louie, in the meantime, was pedaling her way to the service station. Al stood at the corner of the lot watching his gear slowly being beaten to pieces by the wind. Finally a friendly guy came from the station and said it would be all right if he moved into the service bay of the garage. He was in the process of moving his stuff when Louie arrived and helped finish the chore. The service station guys were much nicer and assured us we could get a ride to Cortez and asked drivers to help. Finally, after we had agreed to meet at a particular hotel in Cortez, assuming we wouldn't get a ride in the same car, Al was offered a ride in a van driven by two missionaries. As expected, they could only take one person and for once being a gentleman was not the thing to do. Shortly after the van left Four Corners the engine started to act up, refusing to accelerate up the hills and, of course, since this was Colorado, there were plenty of those. Al continually looked out the window to see if Louie, in some other vehicle, might pass them as the van struggled along, fearing she would get to the motel first and not know where he was. After an eternity they arrived at the motel and Al found himself standing outside the office with a pile of abused gear. He inquired about a room and was relieved to hear one was available. The young woman and her husband offered a room further off the road, if Al was willing to wait, but he wanted to lie down as soon as possible. He was given the key to the room next to the office and started the painful process of moving his things inside. After a few minutes, the young man came out and offered to help. Al got the idea his wife had shamed him into it. Finally in the room Al could now worry about Louie. Where was she? His trip had taken much longer than it should have and it was almost dark. Just as his apprehension was getting the better of him she showed up with her own story.
Shortly after Al left a couple in a pickup gave her a ride, the driver professing how he was glad to be back in Colorado. Louie wasn't sure, but she thought they were on the wrong road; it wasn't the one Al's ride had taken. But the guy said he knew his way around real well. Half an hour later, Louie saw a huge rock shaped like a ship and pointed it out to the diver. "That's Ship Rock. It's in New Mexico." He sheepishly admitted to taking the wrong road and immediately took the road to Cortez. Louie got a tour she really didn't want.
The weather report revealed that the winds had reached up to 40 MPH and heralded the arrival of a serious snow storm. Al's desire to lie down was thwarted by his body, there was no place free from scraped skin that would allow him to lie down, so he spent the next few nights sleeping with his head on the table. And then came the real pain. The medics had said to change the bandages in two days. Louie purchased gauze pads, modern adhesive tape and antiseptic. Then the excruciating experience of removing the WW II tape began. Louie tried to be gentle, but the tape liked the hair on Al's body so much it wouldn't let go. So, out of frustration, Al yanked some free, watching his skin go with it. It was decided to leave the bandages off and allow the wounds to heal. This meant that Al was naked for the next two days. By the fourth night he was able to lay down, using the bed he was paying for.
Louie located a bike shop. Fate smiled on us because it had only recently opened. We turned the bike over to their care, not worrying that parts would have to be ordered from Denver. Al was in no hurry.
By the weekend Al was able to wear clothes and get around fairly well. So we rented a car and took a tour of the San Juan Mountains. It was a spectacular trip, the late storm had coated the area with fresh clean snow and because the ski season was over everything was quiet the snow stretching out in an unbroken blanket, only animal tracks were visible. The sky was a clear blue and the sun was warm as we toured old mining towns and finally Mesa Verde, a major ruin, we were becoming Anasazi experts.
Eight days after the crash Al was fine except for the muscle pull, which only hurt when he mounted or dismounted his bike. His bike had been mostly restored, with a new wheel and front rack. His blood soaked riding gloves were added to the bike shops "Wall of Pain," a collection of mangled parts and accessories, a rather large collection for a newly opened shop. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
We took it easy the first two days wanting to give our bodies a chance to get over our involuntary break. However, after crossing into Utah, we were fooled into a very long day. The signs for Natural Bridge National Monument were misleading. They gave the distance to the turn off for the monument, omitting the additional eight miles to the site itself. This, and a very serious elevation change, made for a strenuous day. The 60 mile day had us back in stride quickly. Upon arriving at the campsite we were greeted by a "campground full" sign. Al's impassioned plea to the ranger brought a welcome response. "I Think there's one left. If you hurry, you might get it." Al told Louie to ride ahead and if an RV or camper came he would ride in the middle of the road to slow them down. This may sound a little over dramatic, but when you're real tired, your preservation instincts take over. There was no charge for camping, but there were only 10 sites, explaining the "full" sign so early in the year. We got the site, setup camp and headed to visitor info. While there we met Stina, a tall blonde, who was making a mountain bike tour of Utah. She was very glad to meet us, hoping to share our campsite, since she had just arrived. We were more than happy to have company and spent a good afternoon exchanging tales and information. Learning that one of our main sources of nutrition had a name, "Glop in a pot." This is what you get when you cook your entire meal in one pot, a necessity when all you have is a one- burner stove. The results are not always aesthetically pleasing, but they do fill you up. Stina disappointed us when we learned that she would not be touring the bridges the next day, rather pushing on and with 80 miles to cover couldn't spend the time or energy to do the 10 mile loop required to see the bridges. She, like ourselves, didn't know about the loop until she arrived. We had already decided to spend two nights and enjoy the three bridges the next day and even watch the sunset.
Our next challenge wasn't far away, "The Mokie Dugway". We had never heard of it until we met Stina, but several other people mentioned it assuming that was why we were there. We had planned to go that way, but didn't know what was in our path. When others spoke of it in tones like you would speak of the Abominable Snowman, we knew it was something to reckon with. As we left the monument and turned south toward Mexican Hat, a large sign confirmed our suspicions it read. "Warning: 20 miles ahead -- 10% grade -- six miles unpaved highway." Undaunted we proceed having little option if we wished to reach the North Rim of The Grand Canyon. It may surprise you that our concerns were for a descent not a climb. The top of the Mokie (or Moqui) overlooks one of the most spectacular views in the world, "The Valley of The Gods," host to many car commercials and cowboy movies. Standing at the top one can look almost straight down and watch the RV's wind their ways up the escarpment, disappearing for several minutes at a time before arriving at the top. The drivers would get out and stare back down, not quite believing what they had just done. Then they would look at us and shake their heads. For once Louie had the advantage. Her mountain bike was made for this kind of riding, while the narrow tires on Al's road bike would have little grip on the gravel surface. And since his Teec Nos Pos wounds had not fully healed, his confidence was a little shaky. Letting most of the air out of his tires and making sure to stop to admire the view, it turned out to be a great experience, arriving safely on the valley floor 1100 feet lower down. We continued on a 15 mph glide for the next 10 miles admiring all the buttes without a turn of the pedals, just a turn of the head. It was a moment to enjoy to its fullest with the wish of the valley gods that we do so. As we approached Mexican Hat, named for a rock formation, we turned west to head toward Monument Valley. Our old nemesis now blew strongly in our faces. We found a campsite next to a fence, giving respite from the gale. A evening tour of the San Juan River provided beautiful landscape and an aerial ballet performed by swallows as they gulped down their supper of insects.
The wind was still in our faces as we fought our way through Monument Valley making it difficult to enjoy the towering monoliths made famous in so many western movies. The wind battered us all the way and when we finally reached Kayenta, it was all we could do to keep the bikes moving forward. Our exhaustion made the outrageous price at the only motel a necessity, erecting the tent would be impossible.
One look at the flag pole across from the motel told us we had another day of strong winds in front of us. The flag was standing straight out as if it was starched that way, pointing to the east. Of course, we needed to go west. Our attempt to defy nature lasted only three miles. We had not recovered from the previous day; our energy level was very low.
"We can't stay here," Louie said.
"But we'll never make the 50 miles to Tuba City in this wind," Al responded.
Louie's silence was her confirmation and as a strong gust of wind almost blew us over, the deal was sealed. Returning to a service station we decided to try our luck at hitch-hiking. Louie rode over to the pumps and started inquiring if any motorist might give us a lift, while Al sat near the roadside sticking out his thumb. It didn't take long. A young school teacher driving a pickup saw Al and stopped. Louie who had been keeping an eye on Al quickly returned just as the young woman said, "I'm going to Page will that help?" Al's heart dropped. But Louie quickly said, "That's great." After we loaded the bikes Al asked, "Isn't that the wrong way?" "No," Louie answered. "It's 20 miles out of our original course but closer to the canyon. And we don't have to pedal." So instead of four or five hours of torture, we found a motel and watched the NBA playoffs.
The ride from Page to Marble Canyon was fairly easy. Once we turned north, the wind pushed us the last 20 miles. The bridge over the Colorado River at Marble Canyon is the only place to cross the canyon for well over two hundred miles. It is also the starting point for many rafting companies. We decided to stay at the motel rather than go five miles out of our way to a campground. Really getting soft. Hey? * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
As we left the next morning, one of the restaurant staff asked. "Where are you headed?" "Jacob Lake," was the reply. "Good luck, 4,000 foot climb," he hollered, shaking his head. "He must mean all the way to the rim," Al said. Louie just shrugged. We knew the rim was at 8,000 feet and we were now at 4,000, but figured the climb would be spread over two days. We were in for a shock. The terrain was almost flat as we paralleled the course of the river. The first 15 miles were easy and the sight of the Vermillion Cliffs were inspiring. We were beginning to wonder when we would start our ascent. We then encountered a solo bicycle tourist going the other way. He waved us down and, before we could say hello, he blurted. "Do you know what's in front of you?" "The Kaibab Plateau," we answered. "The worst climb I've ever made. 30 miles of 10% grades." He went on to moan about the difficulty he had encountered the day before, making it sound really tough. It was a little unnerving, since most riders brag about their accomplishments, and never admit to having a hard time. He was an older guy and may not have been prepared for the climb. We departed and in a short time saw the plateau rising abruptly before us. It's what makes the Grand Canyon so deep. To the south, the land rises slowly until you reach Congress, a climb we had already made. To the east, it drops off to where we were, and to the north, just beyond Jacob Lake, where we would spend the night, it drops off again toward Utah. The only access road is from the north, so we had to go in and out through Jacob Lake.
The eastbound rider had only exaggerated a little bit. The road started up and switch-backed it's way up the side of the plateau. We went into mile- at-a-time mode and slowly but confidently climbed to the top. As we entered Jacob Lake, the sign over the road read 7930 feet. We were skeptical we had just passed the highway department sign that read 7500 feet and knew we couldn't cover 430 feet that fast. However, it had been a tough day and we needed a rest.
The campground was a National Forest Service run affair with a store nearby. As expected, the prices were very high, so we shopped carefully. While there we met Betsy, the toughest solo rider we would meet. She was fairly short, but still loved to ride hills. She had spent the previous night at Marble Canyon, at the campground, so she had covered five more miles than we had and she intended to continue on to the canyon rim that day. Thinking about that made Al tired, so he left the woman to talk with Louie and returned to the campsite, preparing for dinner as a few squirrels and snowflakes visited. Louie learned that Betsy had left from northern California and traveled through Death Valley, the lowest paved road in the U.S. Betsy was headed toward Estes National Park, which has the highest paved through road in the U.S., at over 12,000 feet. She worked for R.E.I., an outdoor sporting goods store, a place where we had bought much of our gear. She was testing some equipment for them and they were assisting her with her trip. She, like us, did not believe the sign at the entrance to the town.
Our mutual suspicions were confirmed when, the next day, after three miles of steady uphill riding, we passed the 8,000 foot marker. A little bit further on we topped a summit and found ourselves passing small lakes and alpine meadows. Several deer crossed the road and we spotted several other small mammals. The abundance of wild life was not unexpected. We had timed our arrival for May 16, the day the tourist services on the north rim would open. The road had just been officially opened for the season the day before. About half way to the rim, at a small store, we found Betsy. She had covered only a few miles more the day before. When the snowflakes and cool air struck, she dove into the shelter of the wilderness to camp alongside the road. She was buying some coffee and donuts for her breakfast. We were among the first to arrive at the North Rim and the three of us shared the whole campground that night, including a bunch of deer.
Betsy left the next morning, which seemed like a long way to come for a one night stay. We had other plans, namely sighting the rare Kaibab Squirrel, which lives only on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. It is related to the Ebert Squirrel, which lives on the south rim. But the species have been separated for thousands of years by the canyon and the Kaibab variety has developed differently. Both animals are large with dark almost black fur and tufted, pointy ears. The striking difference is that the Kibab has a entirely white bottle brush tail. We had seen them on one of Marty Stouffer's wildlife shows and desperately wanted to see one in the wild. With this as our objective, we joined a wildlife walk. Many of the people on the walk had seen at least one of the squirrels during their visit and the ranger claimed to have seen three that morning. We felt very confident our goal would be realized, but our efforts were not rewarded. We saw all types of trees and learned all about other aspects of the canyon, but no white tails appeared. We went to places others had seen squirrels, still no luck. As evening approached we decided to take a shower not having had one for three days. Halfway to the showers Al discovered we had no soap so he hurried back to the campsite. As he neared the tent, there it was, white tail and all. He was only 50 feet from our tent eating peanuts being given to him by some picnickers. Normally this would have upset Al since it's against park rules and isn't good for the animals. But this time he would forgive them. His problem now was what to do about Louie. If he hollered to her he would surely scare the squirrel and he was afraid if he left so would the Kibab. Taking a real good look so he would remember all the details, he then raced off for Louie. His fears were not realized the supply of peanuts had not run out and the squirrel stayed in the area for some time, so we both got to enjoy it even when it went up a tree to leave. The squirrels dark body seemed to vanish into the tree but the brilliant bottle brush remained very visible, as if it had a life of it's own. It's normally that, way you never find what your searching for, it finds you. Next morning the squirrel returned to say good bye and we alerted a group of college students to it's presence and they were equally happy to share the experience.
We spent another night at Jacob Lake and then dove off the plateau back into Utah. After a night in Kanab we arrived at Zion National Park. The park itself is in a valley, but you must make a steep climb and pass through a tunnel before dropping into the valley. Bikes are not permitted through the tunnel, which is a narrow one way deal. Rangers posted at each end control the flow of traffic by means of a rock. The last driver in line is given a rock which he delivers to the ranger on the other end who then sends it back, real high tech stuff. The ranger also helped us get a ride through the tunnel. Few people could resist the request of the imposing green clad figure.
The ride from the other side of the tunnel down into the valley was not as easy. The road was a twisting turning snake and only partially paved with local red gravel, colorful, but not great for traction since it was used mainly on the curves. The car traffic came in bursts due to the tunnel control, so one second we were all alone and the next a steady stream of cars whizzed by all in a hurry to make up for the delay at the tunnel. A visit to the crowded tourist center made us realize that summer and more tourists were on the way. We bought some groceries at a small store located just outside the park, including a huge bag of popcorn.
One of Zion's major attractions is The Narrows, a gorge with a small stream flowing through it. At one point it is so narrow your shoulders almost touch both sides as you squeeze through. At least that's what the post cards show. In order to get to The Narrows you must walk in the stream over rocks and in freezing cold water. It requires a spare pair of shoes which we did not have, we would do it next time. (In 1995 we returned with spare shoes, only to find it closed due to a landslide. Maybe next time.)
We did see the hanging gardens, however, and were impressed. Many of the canyon walls are perpetually wet from seepage. This gives lichen and moss a chance to grow and flowers eventually take root in them providing a beautiful display hanging from the walls. You can also get a chilly shower while admiring the flowers. Many smart tourists take their umbrellas.
We cheated on our way out of the park hitching a ride with a ranger, not only through the tunnel, but from the bottom up. Two other riders had arranged for a ride through the tunnel and the ranger thought we were them as she started out to meet them at the tunnel. She picked us up and we passed the other two as they struggled up the steep hill. They would be late for their ride having underestimated the time it would take to pedal up. We hadn't and the ranger promised to wait for them. Our fresh legs had us halfway to Bryce by then.
It took us two days to reach Bryce Canyon having spent the intervening night at a very expensive KOA. Arriving at the national park entrance we received a little culture shock. While Louie made some purchases at a small shop an older gentleman came over to Al and asked about our trip. When Al told him, "We came from the North Rim and then Zion," the old guy replied, "Yeah, we were there this morning, your going to like Bryce." It was only noon and this guy had been to three national parks. We had taken a week and felt that the days in between the parks had helped us savor the unique qualities of each park. Of course, that had always been the driving force behind our whole adventure.
And Bryce certainly has some unique qualities. The pictures of pink sculptures featured in National Geographic and Sierra Club calendars can not convey the majesty of the place. It is truly a wonderland of nature. We spent three days there and very few moments passed when we didn't experience something new and exciting. This is not meant to be a travel book so we will not attempt to list all of the memorable things we saw, but of all we've seen it ranks as one of the very best.
While at Bryce we met several pairs of riders. One pair sticks out from the rest, Ed and Sara. He was her boyfriend's brother. We thought this to be very liberal minded since they shared the same tent. The explanation for this situation points out why so many riders find it difficult to find partners. Sara and a female friend had flown from Syracuse, N.Y. to Salt Lake planning a three week loop ride of Utah. After one week the friend had had enough and went home. Sara did not want to quit, but didn't want to go alone. So Ed, an in-between-jobs construction worker, volunteered to come out and join Sara. He was even riding the other woman's bike.
Another activity at Bryce was a ride to Rainbow Point, our first trip over 9,000 feet. Here we saw some Bristle Cone Pines, supposedly the oldest trees in the world. Their gnarled, twisted trunks survive in a truly harsh environment. This area is extremely cold, very windy and very dry. That they survive at all is remarkable and the fact that they have for thousands of years where most everything else won't is a miracle.
To make a point for those who like to keep things exact, Bryce is not a canyon but a basin. Canyon's are caused by rivers, Bryce was not. It was and still is being formed by constant freezing and thawing. As we learned on our first night, the temperature drops below freezing over 200 days a year. This causes what little moisture there is to expand in the cracks. Then because the basin is open, the sun warms it and causes the ice to melt and continue the process so Bryce changes noticeably from year to year. A Hoodoo you see this year may be gone next year or radically different. During the nights we were at Bryce (May 23-26), the overnight temperature was in the low 20's. We definitely snuggled. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Leaving was a real experience. Betsy, from the North Rim, had encouraged us to take the back way over Boulder Mountain rather than highway 89, the main tourist route. This took us from 8,000 feet to 5,000 feet at Escalante. This sounds like a real glide and it was for most of the ride. We left the park and headed down hill for about 15 miles, then made a gradual climb for about five miles and took a break. Louie had bought a book on riding in Utah. "The next three miles are a switch back and then it's all down hill," instructed the book. As we went up, the going got more and more difficult. Not only was it steep, but the roadway was in very poor condition. As Al struggled to keep his bicycle moving forward in first gear he glanced to his right and saw some crumbled highway. The switch back had collapsed! And they had replaced it with a straight piece of road, making the new gradient between 14 and 15 percent. The strain on riders and equipment was incredible. Finally reaching the summit we gazed over a gently descending landscape covering the next 20 miles. We barely needed to turn the pedals.
The campground at Escalante was rather limited, so we wound up renting a small cottage, which was really very nice. We were able to use the kitchen and had a really nice meal (using more than one pot!). While renting the place the landlady asked, "What did you think of the Blues?" "Blues?" "Yes, that hill about 20 miles back." Once again if a road has a name it's bad news.
It was Memorial Day weekend, the weather was warm and fair. Our schedule called for us to cross Boulder Mountain, which is 9400 feet, on Memorial Day. As we started the long slow climb the weather got progressively worse. Despite the exertion of pedaling in low gear, which normally provides all the heat you need, we got very cold, finally stopping to put on long-sleeved shirts. We kept looking forward to reaching the top and enjoying the view, the reward for all that hard work. Near the top it felt like it might rain, as if by design, the minute the sign marking the summit appeared it started to snow. Not gentle flakes but a driving storm. The air temperature dropped from the 40's to the 20's almost instantly. The wind picked up and the snow came at us sideways. We donned ponchos, but because the ground was still warm the roadway became a small stream with icy water splashing up from our tires, immediately soaking us. The visibility was poor and traction on the slick surface was precarious. Going down hill created a wind chill numbing our hands and faces. It was five miles to the nearest campground. When we got there most of the campers were pulling out -- who wants to spend Memorial Day in a blizzard? The only structure was a dry toilet. We both piled into the men's side and Al cooked some instant soup on top of the commode. We were very grateful for the air fresheners hanging from the ceiling, a rarity at NFS campgrounds. After our second bowl of soup we managed to minimize our shivering, although Louie's teeth wouldn't stop chattering. We were both experiencing the first stage of hypothermia. Some motorists wishing to use the toilet forced us from our shelter and pleas for a ride fell on deaf ears. A short break in the storm gave us a chance to erect the tent, climb inside, remove our wet clothes, put dry clothes on and crawl into our sleeping bags. It was noon and we stayed in the bags until six a.m. the following day. We didn't eat or drink, avoiding a potential trip outside, and Louie didn't even move a muscle trying to conserve energy. Awakening to a frozen world, the threat of another storm drove us to hastily break camp and head down the mountain. With another set of rain clouds approaching and no spare dry clothes, needless to say it was a motel night, one with a laundry.
While there Al learned he had become a grandfather. His son Scott and wife Rhonda had delivered a son named Landon. Countless failed attempts to send flowers using the heavily advertised 800 number furthered Al's hatred for the then new phone system. While in Escalante he had gotten extremely frustrated with the local long distance company, (is that an oxymoron?) when they told him he couldn't use his calling card or reverse the charges from that phone in Utah to Scott's phone in Kansas. This experience along with many others make us yearn for the good old days of Ma Bell.
Spring was having a hard time getting started. We did alright for two days, but when we awoke on May 31, it was snowing. At 10 o'clock, with half a foot of snow on the roof, we decided to tell the motel manager we wished to stay another day. "You can't, I've a wedding party booked and all rooms are reserved. You can stay till noon and then you must leave." She did help us get a reservation in Springville, 50 miles away. About 11 o'clock, the sun came out and we mounted up and headed off. Outside of town there was a long gradual slope, as we worked our way up, a small storm marched across a field straight at us. We pedaled as hard as we could but the storm caught us and began pelting us with hail, the stones pinging off our helmets. The sun shone at the top of the hill and we plowed on, finally reaching the top as the storm passed behind us. The sun raised our spirits but only until we started down the other side, the road was under repairs and the road bed was pure mud. This not only made the going difficult but passing cars sprayed us with icy yuk. Springville was a welcomed sight.
Before reaching Salt Lake we visited Timpanganos Cave and spent a delightful night at the state park in the canyon of the same name.
From Salt Lake we took a well deserved break leaving the bikes behind and renting a car so we could go meet our grandson. Hopefully the weather would be better when we returned.
Officially it was almost summer, June 13, when we returned to Salt Lake to resume our journey. But since we were still at higher elevations the nights were cold and there was plenty of snow on the mountain peaks. The pace was leisurely through Northern Utah and the southern tip of Idaho into Wyoming. A strong tailwind pushed us the 80 miles from Montpelier, Idaho to Alpine Junction, Wyoming in record time. Jackson Hole was very up market for us, so we didn't dally and were soon in the Grand Tetons and then Yellowstone National Parks. We had been looking forward to this for a long time. Al had never been to this part of the country, but for Louie it was a chance to relive a family trip she had made as a child. The next few weeks would be punctuated with. "I think we went this way," or "This doesn't look familiar," or "This is where my brother did ...." something or other.
Regardless of the different perspectives, we both loved it and spent over a week riding from campsite to campsite following the figure eight road system of Yellowstone. 1990 was the first year of a 10 year road repair/replacement project which was many years over due. The advent of motor homes and RVs had destroyed much of the road surface. Yellowstone has very severe weather, causing much of the park to be closed during the long winter. Road repair is only possible in the summer, which, of course, is when the roads are clogged with tourists. To facilitate this, the work was being done at night, one section at a time, each section taking a year. The section under repair was also banned to bicycles. The RVs tore it up and bikes get penalized. And, naturally, the road to Old Faithful was the first stretch under construction. We could not miss the main attraction, so we begged a ride from some young guys in a pickup. Piling ourselves and gear in the back we then hung on for dear life as the guy driving seemed intent on tossing us out. A little worse for the experience we arrived at Geyser Park and spent several hours trying to be at the right geyser at the right time. Schedules are posted for each eruption, but they are not exact and you can find yourself rushing from one end of the area to the other to catch sight of the next explosion of steam and water, provided you don't run into a buffalo. This is their home and the rangers make sure they are not bothered. If one buffalo wants to cross the walkway, 100's of tourists will be directed around it, which was the case the day we were there.
During the next week we met many bike riders all doing their version of bicycle touring. The largest group was Cycle America, an organized trip to cross the country. Only a few of the riders were going all the way, others joined in to do a state or two. Their gear was traveling by truck (Sagwagon) so they were covering about 70 miles a day. The objective was to cover ground not enjoy the scenery, spending less than two hours in Yellowstone seemed worse than our experience with the guy at Bryce. Our pace was much more rewarding.
At one campsite we met three guys from Pennsylvania and during a conversation discovered we had a mutual friend, Jon Eschinger, who worked at Bucknell University and had worked with Al at Xerox years before. Al gave them a note to deliver to Jon when they returned to Bucknell, where they were students.
Our rides within Yellowstone may have been short in distance but they were far from easy. Due to the parks location along the crest of the rockies we crossed the continental divide several times within the park boundaries. Of course, with so much to see, we stopped frequently to observe mud pots, geysers, hot springs, nesting eagles, bears, buffalo, elk and even a pair of beaver. After a visit to Yellowstone one never doubts why it was the first national park.
Our visit had been timed to beat the tourist rush, which starts around July 1. We had arrived none too soon, most of the campgrounds were full by noon each day. This fortunately was not a problem for us since Yellowstone has hiker/biker sites in each campground. At one, where a long queue of campers was being turned away, the camp host explained to one irate driver, "bike riders are our best campers; they're quiet and never make a mess." We could have told him that was because we're normally too tired to make any noise and don't carry anything we can't eat, but we took it as a compliment anyway.
During our stay we had hoped to see a moose or two, but so far we had been unsuccessful. We were in the campsite one day when it started to rain. After taking refuge in the tent for a while, Louie became restless, so as soon as the rain slackened, she went in search of fire wood. Within a few minutes she was back softly calling to Al to come out of the tent. When he stuck his head out he saw a huge moose gently browsing the young leaves of the nearby trees. He seemed oblivious to us and we silently followed him as he wandered through the campground. A young Dutch girl sat at a table reading a book, she was totally unaware of the moose. Louie carefully approached her and pointed to the moose, which was now right next to her tent. "Oh! He won't eat my tent, will he?" She exclaimed. The moose had no appetite for nylon.
The road out of Yellowstone, like most of the road within, was very steep and in poor condition. We settled into a slow steady pace and gradually rose up out of the basin, formed by an extinct volcano. A steady stream of RVs, motor homes and assorted campers flowed by in the opposite direction. Yellowstone would soon be wall to wall with people. We were reluctant to leave this wonderful place, but glad we wouldn't be part of the over-whelming mass of vacationers descending upon it. The struggle to preserve the wonders of nature and still provide access to millions of people is not an easy one. We don't envy the park service.
The next few days were spent following the gradual downstream terrain along the Shoshone River through the national forest of the same name. We stayed at NFS campgrounds and enjoyed peaceful isolation. We failed however to locate one of Louie's childhood memories, Horse Creek. Her family had camped there years before and she swore she knew where it was but never found it.
The last day of June found us in a town with the interesting name of Ten Sleeps, an Indian name which describes the distance from one major settlement to another: 10 days journey, thus ten sleeps. The coolness of the high mountains was behind us for now, because Ten Sleeps is situated at 4,000 feet near the base of the Big Horns. We had plenty of climbing to do in front of us to get over these mountains. Powder River Pass, which lay only 28 miles ahead, at 9,600 feet, would be the highest point of our entire odyssey. However, this 150 mile plain is baked under the sun. Arriving around noon, the temperature was already in the 90's. We needed to get a good night's rest before making that arduous climb the next day. Since the small campground had no shade and looked very hot and dusty, we opted for a motel. The air conditioner worked overtime just to keep the room bearable.
After a comfortable night's sleep we set out for the summit. As the mountain towered before us we shared a private joke. While camped in the town of Cody we asked a fellow about the terrain between there and the state line. "It's as flat as a table. You could roll a bowling ball from here to South Dakota." "What about the Big Horns?" "Oh yeah, except for them." Another example of local intelligence.
After the first mile the road started to rise at a constant six percent grade and with a stiff headwind we soon found ourselves in low gear slogging along at a depressing six mph. At one point we were on a switch back and the wind was at our backs. We accelerated to a heady seven mph! But this lasted for only a mile and we were all too soon back into the headwind. After four hours, we arrived at Lake View Campground run by the NFS. We were still eight miles from the summit, but our legs, shoulders and backsides had had enough. As we wheeled in and stopped at the self-registration station, a sign informed us "no water." This quickly dimmed our spirits. Our water was almost gone and we would certainly need more. Stopping to think things over at an empty site with a large wood pile, we met a guy who was in the process of moving the wood to his new site. Inquiring about the water he confirmed the well was contaminated, but he would give us some for now and take us with him when he went for more later. We thanked him and happily set up the tent. As we selected the proper place for it we couldn't help but noticing the number of wildflowers everywhere. There were Indian paint brush of several colors, columbine, locoweed, lupine, orchids and other we could not identify. A carpet of many colors spreading from our tent down to the shoreline. An inventory revealed at least 20 different types of blossoms, a scene which will remain with us forever.
The promised trip for water never happened, but by conserving what the friendly camper gave us we managed. Leaving at first light we discovered a bar with brightly lit beer signs hanging in the windows less than 100 yards from the campground. We had spent the previous day rationing what we drank when all the time a short walk away was all the liquid refreshment we could want. The rest of the ascent was fairly easy and when we reached the summit this time we were able to enjoy the view unlike our last trip above 9,000 feet at Boulder Mountain. The descent was sprinkled with some small hills so we kept our legs involved until we reached the final leg and glided into Buffalo feeling the temperature rise as we descended. The well shaded campground looked like a good place to spend an extra day and give our legs a rest.
Another two pair of bike tourists were also there heading in the other direction. The woman of one pair who ran a bike shop in Pennsylvania had taken a spill and her legs were covered with road rash. The sight of which brought back all too recent memories to Al, his own having just recently healed. The other two were an odd couple, two guys who were not friends. The older one was the brother of the younger guy's friend (got that?). They had flown to Boston from Chicago with plans to ride cross-country. They were not compatible. The age difference caused so many problems that when they approached Chicago, the older one quit. But after returning home he felt bad and met up with the other guy in Minnesota. The deal was that they did not ride or eat together, only share rooms or campsites. We don't know if they ever reached San Francisco or not.
In Gillette we enjoyed (as spectators) the Fourth of July celebration, including mud volleyball and fire hose duels. They like getting dirty in Gillette. It was also Wimbledon weekend, which required us to stay at a motel to watch the finals. If it was our second Wimbledon on our bike tour, it meant we had more than finished our first year and covered 9,300 miles so far. And when the motel owner lent us her Cadillac, it meant that we could visit Devil's Tower without having to pedal 50 miles out of the way
We had been traveling on U.S. Route 16, which in Wyoming had provided a narrow but adequate shoulder for us to ride on. At the South Dakota state line the shoulder ended, forcing us to ride on the roadway. We had traveled only a few miles and were nearing the top of a small hill, when the tranquility of a peaceful Sunday morning was shattered. A huge white pickup truck with wide dual rear wheels cut across our path and stopped blocking both lanes of the highway. The driver, leaving a woman and a young boy in the cab, swung open his door and amid cursing and threatening gestures screamed at us, "Get off the road!" His was not a new occurrence, there is definitely a sub-species of people who take great pleasure in harassing anyone they can, especially when they can do it from the safety of their car; bicycle riders offer them a tempting target. But this guy seemed incensed, and we didn't know why. The traffic was light and we always keep close to the edge of the road. He couldn't have been behind us for long and there was really no place for us to go. We realized he was serious and expected us to take the bikes into the ditch which was immediately adjacent to the road surface. Al, who in similar situations might lose his temper, calmly informed the crazed man that. "We have as much right to be on the road as you do." The guy then left his truck and started for us seemingly intent on attacking Al. "What? Like a car?" he snarled. "Yes," Al replied calmly. Traffic was beginning to back up in both directions. This lunatic, who was having a seizure because we had slowed him up was blocking two lanes of traffic. Al noticing the truck had Wyoming tags thought being in a different state might have an effect, so he said. "You're not in Wyoming, you know." "I own land in South Dakota!" So much for reasoning with a mad man. But after a few moments the guy shook his fist and shouted. "Get out of the country." Then drove off.
We were both shaken by this encounter. The guy's behavior was uncalled for and we felt if not for the presence of other motorists he would have attacked us. We were both afraid he might be waiting for us down the road. Every time a light or white colored vehicle approached we tensed up expecting the worst. It seemed that every other vehicle was a white pickup. It was with great relief that we pulled off the road at the KOA in Custer for the night.
We didn't ride through all of those states, but as we pedaled across the boring, dry, brown landscape of South Dakota, Al said, "If anybody asks if we went across those states tell them 'yes,' they're all the same just substitute corn for wheat." He probably wasn't being fair but after the majesty of the Rockies the central plains pale in comparison. Actually, South Dakota isn't as flat as the other states, it's western border contains the Black Hills, Mount Rushmore and The Badlands National Monuments. But once you leave those behind, you're in wheat country, and by July it is brown and dry. As if to intensify the boring landscape, we fought headwinds all across the state, and spent most of our time riding on the uneven, debris strewn shoulder of I-90. We averaged over 60 miles per day and it felt like 100. The attractions, in addition to the ones already mentioned were as follows. Wall Drug is the world's largest drug store, a fact you can't avoid since it is advertised every mile for hundreds of miles in every direction. It receives our award as the "World's Tackiest" attraction. There was also a huge car museum, and lastly, "The Corn Palace," a castle with grain glued all over it. It might have won our tackiest award but we managed to avoid it by swinging off I-90 and heading north to Pierre, pronounced "pier." We did take advantage of the free campground on the banks of the Platt River and spent two nights there.
It wouldn't be fair to not mention the more enjoyable parts of our visit. We thoroughly enjoyed the Badlands, a rugged piece of land that resembles the surface of a forbidden planet of dry strangely shaped rock formations. As we pedaled up and down the steep hills within the park we were presented with ever changing but starkly brutal scenes. These were accented by a brief but violent thunderstorm, which painted the rocks a brighter shade of gray and orange. That, contrasted with the sterility of Mount Rushmore, was refreshing after the presidents we had seen the day before. When we had outlined our trip it was one of the main points of our itinerary. But after all the natural phenomena we had recently witnessed, the obvious artificial nature of the monument and the unconcealed fact that it was created solely for the purpose of bringing tourists to the area, detracted from the experience.
After 500 miles of the plains we looked forward to the trees and lakes of Minnesota.
Our time in Minnesota started with a bang, several in fact. We had stopped at Hole In The Mountain State Park for the night. We were the only ones in the campground, which is also a ski center. Both the name of the park and the presence of a ski slope are deceiving. This is still part of the plains and we hadn't seen a mountain in weeks. The ski run was a small rise, which was only a few feet above the valley, which was the hole. But with all the snow they get in the winter one can find something to do with it. The campground attendant was very accommodating giving us brochures and tourist information. He also warned us there was a thunderstorm predicted. He promised to leave the chalet open and we were welcome to spend the night inside. We assured him we would be fine having survived many storms already.
About six pm the thunderheads gathered and the skies grew dark. We had pitched our tent in the center of a U-shaped group of evergreens, feeling this would shield us from the wind. We could hear the storm approaching as the time between flash and boom got closer and louder. The storm struck with a vengeance. The wind forced the back end of the tent inward and sucked the front end outward. The rain drove against the sides with unrelenting intensity. The months of sun and long years of service had taken their toll on the Green Motel. Water started to drip into the interior of the tent. The floor becoming wetter and wetter. We crouched on our thermarest mattresses and pulled all of our things into the center as the surrounding area became a lake and we were on an artificial island. The Green Motel stood strong and survived the storm still erect. However, we would be unable to spend the night in it without getting soaked. When the storm abated we ferried our belongings to the chalet, which had survived the storm little better than our tent. There were puddles everywhere and dripping water in many places. We sought out the driest area and spread our mattresses and sleeping bags. We left the motel standing so it could dry out and settled in for the night. About nine p.m. a second set of storms moved through the area and we were treated to a spectacular light show as the sky was full of natures fireworks.
The morning dawned bright and clear. The Green Motel stood damp but unbowed.
New Ulm would be one of the busiest days on our trip. For once we were in the right place at the right time. Usually we would arrive in a town the week before or the week after some local festival or event. But we arrived in New Ulm in the middle of the German Festival. After obtaining a campsite at the state park, we returned to town for the festival, drinking plenty of Schell's Dark Beer and eating enough bratwurst to wash the beer down. We listened to several different Bavarian bands, watched the ethnic dancers and went on a brewery tour for some sampling. Somewhere during the tour, the young lady realized that we both had more knowledge about brewing than the average tourist. She asked us for advice on what to say on a tour; our advice was good for a few more samples. Back to the festival for dinner and beverages and as darkness fell we pedaled back to the campground and slept very well.
Another busy and eventful day waited for us in the Twin Cities. We had three important things to accomplish: one, Al was having pain from a wisdom tooth; two, we had reluctantly agreed to replace the Green Motel; and three, we were going to apply to join the Peace Corps.
Using a phone book at a local library we located a dentist and then three sporting goods stores. The stores were all at the same intersection in Bloomington.
We arrived at what we thought was the location of the dentist and found a Mc Donald's. As Al searched the nearby streets, Louie asked a man in the Mc Donald's. He directed us to his dentist located in the vicinity and gave us his name to use as a reference. We found the office about 8:15 a.m. and were shocked when the receptionist said, "Sorry, the dentist can't see you until 8:45." We had been expecting, "See you in a week."
Not wanting to hang around the dentist's, Louie headed for the sporting goods stores to start evaluating tents. When the dentist took x-rays of the tooth, he announced, "You're going to leave that tooth in Minnesota." The tooth was removed and Al was on his way by 10:00. He met Louie at the sporting goods stores minus a tooth, with a dull ache and the picture of the tooth in his pocket.
The hunt for the tent was not as efficient. Never finding exactly the right one. But this was the only chance we would have for several weeks. Our course would be mainly in the boondocks. Finally, we settled on a North Face Aerohead, a four season tent with high wind resistance. It was warmer than required and the interior room was minuscule compared to the Green Motel. One should take weeks to pick out a tent, if you plan to live in it for several months. The kind we wanted could be ordered, but that would take several days, which meant hanging around Bloomington for a week, which wasn't in our plan. So we made an important decision we weren't satisfied with. Not having anyone to hand the Green Motel over to, it was with very sad farewells that the bag of nylon was interred in a trash barrel.
Our effort with the Peace Corps turned out to be even more dissatisfying. It was with high minded spirit and enthusiasm that we called the local office offering our services. They were not interested. We didn't live locally and they didn't want to handle our paper work. How can an international organization worry about where you live, when your volunteering to go anyplace in the world? Finally, we talked them in to mailing applications to our friend Dave Launt in Michigan, who we planned to see in a few weeks.
The most important objectives accomplished and having sadly disposed of the Green Motel, we prepared to make a fast exit through Minneapolis and St. Paul and cross into Wisconsin. This appeared to be easier said than done. There is a saying in Minnesota, "There are two seasons: winter and road repair." Attempting to go east in a straight line proved impossible, using an excellent city map we were constantly thwarted by road closures. These were not detours, just sudden road closures. They didn't bother to tell us how to get around the road work, that was left up to us. It was getting late, for us, to be riding and it didn't appear we were ever going to find our way to the Mississippi River, which one must cross to leave Minnesota. We were studying the map for the tenth time at an intersection again blocked to traffic, when a young boy riding a bike innocently asked, "Are you riding those bikes across Minnesota?" Al growled, "We're just trying to get out of Minnesota." He still regrets saying that.
About five o'clock we arrived in the small town of Stillwater, where a narrow bridge crosses the river into Wisconsin. The car traffic was bumper to bumper and it didn't look very appealing to cross in the middle of the evening rush hour. Al looked down the street, spied a small tavern and asked, "Buy you a beer?" Two beers later, and with little traffic to contend with, we finally escaped Minnesota. The first campground was still ten miles ahead and it was well after six 'clock. We had been riding on and off for over 12 hours and had covered over 75 miles. The campground turned out to be a tubing center. It had hundreds of sites, which would be crowded on the weekends. This was Monday night and the only other camper in the place was the security guard. Louie made a wise decision and rode off for supplies leaving a mentally and physically exhausted Al to put up the new tent for the first time. He had always hated the flexible type shock cord poles and this thing had four. It was with mortal fear that he popped them together knowing they would break. It was with great relief that he viewed their new home safely erected by the time Louie returned. A quick meal and we happily crawled into it for the night.
Having been on our own for several weeks some friendly companionship was in order. And since former Beer Can Collecting Club President, Chuck Schwend, and his wife Marietta had recently moved to Cable, Wisconsin, they were elected. A strong tailwind got us there a little earlier than arranged, so we stopped in a bar for a quick beer before calling for directions. Marietta sent her grandson Billy to guide us on his bicycle. Their home is located on a beautiful lake and Chuck has amassed a fleet of water craft: canoe, rowboat and a pontoon boat. We went for an evening cruise in the pontoon boat enjoying the sights and sounds of the great north woods, including a loon.
After supper we had a major disaster, well, Chuck's dog did. During their move from St. Louis, Leo, the family collie, had broken his front paw and it was still in a cast. While everyone was in the living room chatting away, Billy burst in shouting "Leo chewed through his cast." Sure enough, the cast was turning a bright red. Chuck quickly gathered up the dog and headed toward the car and Marietta headed for the phone to alert the vet of the emergency; the vet lives 20 miles away. We offered to go along, but Chuck felt it would be better to go alone since Leo would be excited by strangers. When they returned several hours later, Leo was wearing what could only be described as a lamp shade around his neck; this would prevent him from reaching the paw with his jaw and repeating the incident.
The last night in Wisconsin provided a potential disaster for us. We left Cable, headed north and turned right at Lake Superior and were aided by a tailwind. Arriving at a campground just short of the Michigan state line, just as it started to rain. As we erected the tent for only the third time we were shocked that when Al inserted one of the poles into it's brass grommet the grommet separated from the strap which attached it to the tent. This was bad since the grommets were what held the poles rigid and the tent up. The fly had similar grommets, so Al was able to get the pole in place, being extra careful with the next one he was devastated when it too separated. The language he then directed at the manufacturers was something he had learned in the Marines, not in church. How could a $300.00 tent fall apart the third time you used it? It was up and protected us from the rain, but it certainly would not last the rest of our trip. The Green Motel had cost $60.00 and served us well for 10 years. Was this it's revenge for leaving it in a Bloomington trash receptacle? Returning it to Minnesota was out of the question and we were about to enter the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, not a place to find a replacement; it was not a restful night.
The weather conditions continued blustery and after covering the 20 miles to Ironwood on Michigan's Upper Peninsula we opted to make it a short day. Because of the weather and the condition of our tent we stayed at a small motel. Louie optimistically set off to get the tent repaired. Al pessimistically wished her well, while continuing to curse North Face. Within an incredibly short period of time Louie was back and said, "The grommets will be replaced by four o'clock." "How much will it cost?" Al asked suspiciously, not believing their good luck, "Four dollars." By inquiring at a sporting goods store Louie learned that there was a small factory in town which made camping equipment and backpacks. They apologized for not being able to do it right away. We were just overjoyed that they could it at all. The uncertainty of how we would do the next part of our trip with a broken tent had dampened our spirits. But now there was cause to celebrate so we treated ourselves to pasties. A pasty is a half moon shaped pastry stuffed with meat and veggies. Originally they were made in Cornwall by the wives of Cornish miners for their lunch. The first ones had large fluted edges. The edge wasn't to be eaten, rather it served as a place for the miner's filthy hands to hold it while he ate without soiling his meal. Rats in cornish mines were very fat due to all the crusts they got to eat. Pasties are favorite pub grub in England where we discovered them. Cornish miners brought over to work the mines of the U.P. started the tradition of pasties and it is one of the few places in the U.S. you can get them. It was a real treat for us on a day that started out fairly dismally and wound up very well.
Friends had told us we would enjoy the U.P. and they were right. There are no big hills and the highway department provides nice paved shoulders to ride on and some of the best rest areas in the world. It is possible to visit the shores of three of the great lakes from the U.P. We managed two and think a ride around the perimeter of the whole peninsula might be a good idea. Our plans called for us to follow the Lake Superior coast to Pictured Rocks National Monument and then cut across the middle to Lake Michigan and follow it to the Mackinaw Bridge and then down the main land toward Ohio. We camped in state parks at Ontonagon, Baraga and Champion. They were all well-kept and provided what we needed. On the first of August we planned to stay at a private campground called Lake Gitchegoomee. Upon learning that the price would be $20.00 and the owner, ignoring our arguments that we shouldn't have to pay as much as an RV, we departed. This forced us to travel another 20 miles, which was why the guy thought he had us over a barrel. Being cheap and not wanting to feel ripped off we went to Christmas and the NFS campground. Feeling we deserved something special for our extra effort, Al offered to buy Louie a beer. So we soon found ourselves at Foggy's Bar, in the Reindeer Room (they also had a Rudolph's Lounge). Are you catching the theme? Well except for the names, it was like any other place in the U.P. A pitcher of Labatt's was very reasonable and it felt like we might be there awhile, all we needed was some friendly conversation. For those unfamiliar with the U.P., a word of explanation is in order. The people who inhabit this area year round are some pretty independent individuals. The weather is some of the coldest in the U.S. and they get bunches of snow. Flannel shirts and ski caps are normal attire and shaving is not an every day occurrence. Many UPers have little use for outsiders, so it would be up to us to break the ice. Unlike other places where the locals took the initiative. As we waited for an opportunity to make friends the door to the bar started to open inward and was suddenly pulled back from the outside. This happened twice more. Eventually, a big burley guy fitting the description already given, came in and ordered a beer. "What happened out there?" asked the bartender. "Oh, we had a disagreement." "Where is the other guy?" from another patron. "I don't know, he got in his truck and drove off." this from burley guy. "He probably went to get his gun," spoken with certainty by the patron. This did not seem to phase the big guy, but we finished our beer and went back to the peace and quiet of the woods. Could you imagine the headlines? "Bike riders slaughtered in Reindeer room."
We have always firmly believe that things happen in groups, not necessarily threes, but groups. Al had gone through four tires back in April for one reason or another. As we reached Marquette home of Northern Michigan University he had covered 3,000 miles without a flat. His rear tire however was worn down to the cords, so a college town should be a good place to buy a replacement. There were plenty of bike shops, but most of them carried only narrow racing tires. Al used a 1 3/8 inch tire on his rear wheel, a necessity on a heavily loaded bike. Finally, a mechanic in a bike repair shop came up with a Michelin fold up which he had been saving for a guy who hadn't come in for it. That evening Al replaced the rear tire, confident that he had stayed ahead of the problem. Next day, upon leaving Pictured Rocks National Monument, a place we later saw by kayak, his front tire went flat. Upon further examination he realized the side wall had a large gap in it. His only choice was to replace it with the tire he had removed from the rear wheel. There were no bike shops until the next day in Manistique, and then it turned out to be a brand new shop. The owner knew little about bike tires, but he did have a 1 1/4 inch tire which would work on the front, the load not being as heavy. Our scheduled stop for the day was Gulliver, only 10 miles further on, so the tire would be changed there. About one mile from Gulliver the front tire went flat. The sky looked like rain. Al told Louie. "Go ahead and get us a room, I'll only be a few minutes. Al quickly removed the old tire and tube replacing them with the just purchased tire and his last spare tube. After inflating the tire he laid the bike on it's side and bent over to check the wheel alignment. With his head only inches from the tire the tube exploded, the noise was deafening. All he could hear was a ringing sound as his ear drums vibrated, when the ringing stopped he could hear nothing. In a few minutes a motorist stopped to offer help, at least that's what Al thought he said being unable to hear him. Al just shook his head and waved the samaritan off. Gradually his hearing returned and he set about patching the original flat tube, the new one was ruined. The tube was proving difficult to patch, tire glue does not like moist air, besides, his patience was wearing thin. He had told Louie not to come back but was thankful that, as usual, she ignored him. By moving his front panniers to her now empty bike they managed to coax Al's soft front tire to the motel.
After lunch we set about straightening out the tire situation. The new tire would not seat properly on Al's heavy duty rim, so the old worn tire went back on again and after many attempts a patch stayed on the tube, it wasn't great but at least the bike would roll.
A trip to the local grocery store produced an encounter with a group of cross country bicycle riders. One was a young lady who reminded us of Betsy from the Grand Canyon, another was a guy who had just decided to go for a ride. He had none of the normal touring equipment. His gear was tied onto the heavy framed bike and included an iron skillet, a canvas tent, fishing poles strapped under the handlebars, etc. Then there was the couple riding the tandem towing a trailer containing their young child. It was late afternoon and the next campground was 40 miles further on. They were all tired but wanted to push on till dark. They were not traveling together, but just following the same route for the time being. The single guy was probably following the single gal, but wasn't making much head way.
In the morning we reassessed Al's tire situation: it was critical. But our only choice was to proceed. The next bike shop was in Lower Michigan and would require crossing the Mackinaw Bridge or "Big Mac," the world's longest suspension bridge, five miles long. Much to Louie's delight bicycles are prohibited on the bridge. The bridge authority will give riders a lift for a dollar. We happily paid the two bucks and the obliging driver dropped us at tourist information, where Louie secured some maps and camping info. Except for bike repairs, we were all set to cover the rest of the Wolverine State.
With the exception of the night we spent with the Schwends we had not been with any of our old friends for months and were both eager for a good old fashioned visit. With that in mind, the almost 300 miles to Gun Lake were covered in five days, arriving at our friend's, John McGuire's, house on a Friday. John is a fellow beer can collector and a member of our beer tasting club. Two days were spent with John getting to know his wife Linda and daughters. They are our kind of people. Linda jogs to a local restaurant and John drives there to eat breakfast with her. On Saturday we took John's boat across the lake and picked up a pizza for dinner. Watching John wade back to the boat with the pizzas gave new meaning to the phrase carry out.
Sunday morning Linda jogged, John drove and we pedaled to the restaurant. The McGuire's were holding a family reunion that day and had to hurry back to get ready, so we said goodbye at the restaurant. A rain storm caused us to delay our departure so we lingered over our coffee and when Linda returned two hours later to pick up some bread she found us still there. When she discovered a flat tire on her pickup she was happy we were there to help change it. The weather seemed to be clearing, so we assured her we would be fine and set off.
We had traveled only a few miles when it started to rain. We took shelter under a tree, but it was soon obvious we were going to get wet. Donning our ponchos off we went headed for Portage, home of another beer can-tasting friend. It was Dave Launt, the same person who had picked us up in Windsor, Ontario the year before. The rain continued and by the time we reached Dave's we were saturated. Having called him for final directions a few miles from town he was waiting for us with towels and dry newspaper to stuff in our shoes. Once dry and warm we retired to Dave's beer can room and attacked his newly acquired supply of Genny Cream Ale, which he had brought all the way from Syracuse, NY.
On Monday, Dave took us to the Kalamazoo brewery and then we met John for lunch. What had been an arduous journey for us was a quick ride for a motorist.
If your U.S. geography is any good you might guess that our next stop was Toledo, Ohio and beer buddy Dick Adamowicz and his wife Nancy. They were to have the distinction of hosting us for the second year in a row and our second visit was as good as the first. While there we received a call from Dave to tell us we had missed some of his beer. It is a fact that the long sought comradeship seemed to increase our capacity for beer.
Dick took us to the east side of Toledo where we planned to retrace our route of the previous year to Cleveland. We hoped to skip Sandusky this year since it took us 12 miles out of our way. The problem was that State Route 2 is a divided highway and bikes are prohibited, which is typical of bureaucratic thinking. We could use Rt 2 to cross the Sandusky River, since it is the only bridge, but not beyond. We had covered only two miles when two Ohio State Police stopped us and forced us to leave the nice wide shoulder of the freeway and travel on U.S. 6, which has no shoulder and takes us way out of our way. "It's for your own safety," they said. "Baloney!" said Al. "The speed limit is 55 on both roads and we're a lot safer on 2 that 6." Anyway, we got through Sandusky and got stuck in a grotty over-priced campground and listened to the thunder. We had promised to get a lot closer to Cleveland before calling Bob and Jeanette to come get us as they had the year before.
Cleveland may be the worst city to get in and out of on a bike. All of the decent roads don't permit bikes. But it was raining pretty hard by now and we weren't up to another drenching. It took a couple hours, but they did come get us. Our weekend with them was the dessert that completed our feast of friendship, at least for a while.
The original master plan called for taking a train from Cleveland to Newark N.J., needing to be there on September fifth for the beer can convention. Being two weeks ahead of that timetable allowed us plenty of time to pedal across our home state before proceeding to Newark. We were really looking forward to it. We both were born in Philadelphia, so our knowledge of the western end of the state was limited. We soon discovered it's very hilly. The mountains run more or less north to south so traveling west to east requires a lot of up and down. It was roughly about 15 miles to the top of a mountain and the same distance down the other side. And since the towns were mostly in the valleys, it was either 30 or 60 mile days. We opted for the shorter course, spending our nights in Greenville, Franklin, Clarion, DuBois, Philipsburg and so on. The campgrounds were scarce and it was pretty wet so we stayed in a few motels and took walking tours of the old towns, which had been the heart of America's industrial strength. Most have seen better days, but they were clean and the people friendly. After the bad experiences in Minnesota and South Dakota, we weren't sure of our reception and were delighted with the attitude of our fellow Pennsylvanians we met along the way. Being late August peaches were abundantly available and we stopped at roadside stands to load up on some juicy beauties. At one stop when the lady saw we were traveling on bikes she said, "No charge, you need these." And on another occasion an older gentleman picked out the biggest ones he had and charged us a quarter saying, "These are pretty ripe -- you need to eat them fast." We did!
As we neared Frackville the up and down cycle betrayed us. Having covered the normal 30 miles or so we were expecting the down hill glide into town to appear around each curve. It never happened. We pedaled and pedaled and kept going up and up. Finally at the 50 mile mark we passed a sign reading, "Welcome to Frackville the Mountain City." It certainly was right on top.
Once again, there was no campground, so we searched for a motel. As we were moving into our room a woman came up to us and started the normal conversation we were used to, asking all the usual questions. She was genuinely interested in our journey. A while later she knocked on our door and invited us to have dinner with she and her husband, free food is our favorite kind, and good company is always appreciated. Dinner was at a place called "Grandma's," it was supposed to be Pennsylvania Dutch Style. We all ordered the home made stew. We're not sure what was worse, the stew or the service. Everything was served at once: salad, stew and dessert, cluttering the too small table and allowing the watery stew to grow cold while we ate our salads. How two hungry bike riders were supposed to survive on the meager portions I, don't know. It wasn't like my grandma's. We did sit at the table for over an hour paying for our meals with conversation. It was very nice of our hosts and not their fault we left still hungry.
From Frackville it's less than 90 miles to Louie's folks' place in Line Lexington and a super hard day would have gotten us there. However, they weren't expecting us until the following day and arriving too tired for socializing would not have been the best way to show up. We spent the night only 30 miles from Louie's home and Louie was becoming charged with excitement. As the landmarks became more familiar her energy level kept increasing and Al had a hard time keeping up with her. As we followed the narrow twisting roads of Bucks County, Louie gave a running commentary of the local sights and her childhood experiences. At one point she turned to Al and said, "There's a real mean dog around the next bend." She then thought for a minute and added, "I guess that dog would be about 30 years old by now." He wasn't there, obviously, and we soon arrived at "The Farm," where we were lovingly welcomed and heartily fed.
Among the stacks of mail waiting for us was a response to our letter of complaint to North Face. It included a check to cover our motel bill in Ironwood, an explanation relating to the defect, and a offer to fix the tent for free. It seems the acid based dye used on the straps had not been properly rinsed causing the brass grommets to actually dissolve. We boxed the tent and enclosing a letter which told them we must have it back by September 20, sent it off. Of such simple acts great amounts of stress are created.
Over the years September has become our month to renew friendships and family ties. The fact that the beer can convention is always in September is the main reason and, not only our bike trip, but our vacations for several years were scheduled around it. After spending the Labor Day weekend with Louie's folks we headed for Newark, NJ. We were not crazy enough to pedal all the way to the hotel, which was just outside the Newark airport, but we did go as far as Chatham, home of our friend Diana Wintsch. Diana, you may remember, was a customer of Al's when he worked at Xerox and had met us at the Aransas Wildlife Preserve in Texas. She and Louie had become fast friends and she was kind enough to put us up for the night, store our bikes for the weekend, and give us a lift to the hotel, another in the long list of kindnesses shown to us during our travels.
The convention was crazier than ever, thanks to the host chapter from Newark. Chevy Chase and Dan Akroyd have nothing on these wild and crazy guys.
After our return trip to the Schultz house, we worked our way through familiar territory, which had gotten steeper in our absence. We didn't remember it being that difficult. Getting to the house of Al's brother, Richard, by car seemed easy, but it was a fair amount of huffing to get there on bicycle and we got delayed by a rain storm. It was a fast night of visiting with our goddaughter and nephews and enjoying a meal prepared by Rich's wife Donna. From King of Prussia it was another short but arduous ride to Pete and Linda Bittetti's in Havertown, followed by a great Italian meal. The ride to Cindy Heck's in Wilmington, DE was a lot easier, being mainly down hill towards the Delaware Bay. An afternoon lunch with Louie's friends from Dupont ran late, so we hitched a ride in the back of Bill Johnson's pickup so as not to be late for a meeting with our real estate manager. The one moment of the trip we will always regret is our arrival at Jay and Joell Malloy's house in Newark. We had left the bikes at a bike shop to have some work done so we showed up riding in the back of our real estate manager's huge black touring car. Jay had assembled the entire membership of the Blue Hen Chapter of beer can collectors and they were waiting on his front lawn expecting us to come pedalling up. Al had founded the chapter several years before and had been Benevolent Dictator (President) until we moved to England. Jay had succeeded Al, but refused to take the title saying, "There can be only one B.D." What makes this minor happening so distressful is, it was the last time we would ever see Jay, he died within a year and we still miss him. But our memory of the night despite the ribbing about showing up in a chauffeur driven car are still good.
Still heading south we crossed the Mason Dixon Line to spend a night with the Murray's in Elkton. Maggy, the youngest daughter, entertained us because State Senator Ethel had a political function to attend and Jack accompanied her.
From Elkton we discovered more unknown mountains on our way to Baltimore where we spent two nights with Mike and Dale Gehrmann, two more beer can collectors.
In D.C. we caught up with Barb Power, who had worked with Louie at DuPont. Barb had the dubious distinction of living through two different experiences with us. One was the arrival of our long lost tent, we obviously hadn't been camping for awhile. It was supposed to be waiting for us at Barb's, but it wasn't. A call to North Face located it in their mail room, where it had been for several days. We were about to embark on a very demanding and exciting part of our trip: The Skyline Drive and Blue Ridge Parkway. We needed our tent. The end result was an overnight air express, which barely arrived in time. At least that wound up as a net positive, even if it was stressful. The other scenerio was not, and it still upsets Al to think about it. Back in Minnesota, after much pleading, we had persuaded the Peace Corps to send us applications, which we received in Michigan. While traveling through Pennsylvania we spent several hours carefully filling out the very complicated documents supplying what we thought were very impressive lists of accomplishments and references. When we arrived at Barb's we received a message to contact the Peace Corps. Our emotions ran high, this would be our chance to help mankind and share our good fortune with others.
First of all, we were surprised that our applications were in California, about as far away as possible. The deadbeats in Minnesota wanted no part of processing our paper work so, since our last address was Torrance they shipped them of to L.A. The twerp from there informed us, in his words, "You're rejected. We have no need for people with computer experience." This was contrary to what we had heard on a radio show, the reason behind our inspiration to apply. During the radio interview we had listened with great interest as a young man just back from his tour said that there was a big need in Eastern Europe for volunteers with just such skills. Remember, this was 1990, the Berlin Wall had just come down and all the newly created democracies were just starting up. On the contrary, though, The interviewer in California said, "The Peace Corp only wants people to live in mud huts with no electricity or running water." With that kind of attitude, those people will be in mud huts forever.
Barb was a great hostess and helped us through two very stressful days, we're only sorry we didn't get to meet her husband Pete.
As the month of October started and the leaves began to turn we were ready for a long awaited ride on The Blue Ridge.
We had been introduced to the combined beauties of the Skyline Drive and Blue Ridge Parkway years before on a car trip, returning several times to visit different sections of the highway, which runs for over six hundred miles through Virginia and North Carolina. It's all administered by The National Park Service, but in some places the roadway is only as wide as the right of way. Riding this route had long been one of our ambitions and we were finally going to achieve it. But not without some unexpected difficulties from unexpected sources. Our first one occurred at the entrance way to the Shenandoah National Park, the beginning of The Skyline Drive. A sign giving information about the park announced that the campground at Mathews Arm was closed. We had planned to spend the first night there. The next campground was over 60 miles away and would require several steep ascents. After consulting with the ranger, we had a plan. We would obtain a back-country permit and camp on The Appalachian Trail, which runs along and sometimes crosses the drive. By the time we reached the visitor center, six very tough uphill miles from the entrance, we knew our tent would be pitched on the trail. The ranger issued us our permit and gave us a tip on a good place to camp with water nearby. There were some restrictions: we had to be at least a quarter mile off the highway and out of sight of the trail. It was in 1989 that two hikers were murdered on the trail raising the level of enforcement, the out of sight rule was for our own safety and this time we agreed. However, when we arrived at the recommended site, it was not as easy to comply. Dragging the loaded bikes a quarter mile over the narrow trail was a lot harder than it sounded. Finding a place out of sight was easy enough, the low profile of the new tent was an advantage over The Green Motel, but finding a level spot was impossible. By morning we were both scrunched into the bottom of the tent and were very happy to get up and be on our way. The first night of camping in over a month had not been a good one.
Our plan to take short riding days leaving time to explore and hike was a good one. The drive has many overviews and informative rest stops. At one of them the sign explains the purpose of the highway which was built in the 1930's by The Civilian Conservation Corps as part of FDR's public works projects. Louie's dad had been one of it's members. The roadway was not constructed to provide a means of getting from one place to another, rather it was constructed to show the beauties of The Shenandoah Valley, which is why it follows the ridge line not the valley floor. For those in a hurry, I-81 provides a four lane route to speed you on your way. The interstate provides for commercial vehicles, trucks, so that the fact they are prohibited on the drive should not be a problem, and it keeps the speed limit down to 35 mph. This was great for us, but the ups and downs took a lot of energy. After camping at Big Meadows and Loft Mountain nearing the end of the drive, we awoke to a cold rain with misty conditions making visibility pretty poor. We made the fast downhill run to the Waynesboro tourist center in pretty good shape. While there, we met another couple traveling the other direction, who had rain covers for their panniers. They kindly provided us with an address at which we could obtain these. The water resistance of ours had long since given up. After a long chat, we engrossed ourselves in park information. We received a very informative bike riders guide to The Blue Ridge Parkway. The chart portraying the profile of the Skyline Drive was really something, it gave a mile by mile description with all the elevation changes and degree of slope. After some calculations, Louie figured we would be climbing between 3,000-4,000 feet every day. Of course, we would be going down almost as much. The overall gain each day would be a few 100 feet. This information made the obstacles ahead of us very clear, but not any easier. The weather that had chased us off the ridge had worsened, so we decided to find a motel. The room came with a kitchen, so we could cook our own dinner. Al set off to buy some groceries hoping to beat the next cloud burst, he didn't and got so wet he never made it to the store returning to the room to get dry. Then the sun came out and Louie took a turn managing not to get wet.
As we started out on the Blue Ridge many of the towns and landmarks ended in the word "gap." In this part of the world, a gap refers to a low place in the mountains, a geographical feature that would be called a pass in other places. As described previously the Blue Ridge did not follow the gaps or valleys, but the ridge itself. So the parkway runs across the gaps. Whenever we approached a gap, it was a low point, which meant the next part of the road would be up, usually a long hard pedal. The further we went, the higher the gaps became, and, of course, the higher the summits. At one of the gaps we turned off to find a KOA campground located two miles off the parkway, in the tiny town of Vesuvius. The narrow country road plunged straight down at an incredible angle. Clutching our brakes as hard as possible we were just able to slow the bikes enough to turn into the campground. A fellow driving a huge fifth wheel camper was there complaining about the steepness of the hill, we were agreeing with him but were shocked to find out that he had come up the hill rather than down.
After lunch we were pleased to see a couple riding a tandem touring bike enter the campground. They introduced themselves as Chris and Julia Addington. He was from San Francisco and she from Christ Church, New Zealand. Their home was in New Zealand and Chris was showing Julia the U.S. by bicycle. They had started on the west coast and were following the Bicentennial Bike Route to D.C. They would be on the Blue Ridge only as far as Waynesboro. We felt they were missing a great opportunity by not following the Skyline Drive, but they were in a hurry to reach D.C. Nearing the end of a long trip will do that to you. A bit later another tourist showed up. He had been trying to catch up with Chris and Julia since reading some comments they had written in a youth hostel's visitor book. Much of our talk centered around the hill we were all going to climb in the morning. Chris claimed the five miles they had covered to get to the campground were the steepest they had encountered in their whole trip across the country, we felt the top two might be worse.
The trip back to the parkway was memorable. We left the campground in first gear and never shifted until we reached The Blue Ridge. The extra weight of the front panniers was the only thing keeping the front wheel on the ground. After the first mile, which took 15 minutes to cover, Al spotted a wide spot and pulled over to catch his breath. A lady emerged from a house and shouted, "You're almost there. Do you need any water?" Al thanked her and said he had plenty. It's possible people have collapsed in her driveway and she was probably happy he was still breathing. After that the rest of the day was supposed to be easy. It wasn't. As we coasted down a long stretch of road nearing the Otter Creek Campground, a huge hornet landed on Al's leg. It was the biggest stinging insect he had ever seen and he was frozen with fear. Louie agreed to its enormous size (about 1 1/2 inches just in body length). The bike was traveling at about 30 mph. Al kept his leg perfectly still afraid to disturb the hornet, which was curling in to a ball to protect itself from the increasing breeze. As it did so it's stinger emerged from its striped body, pointing directly at Al's leg. It appeared to be as big as a pencil point and the thought of the pain it would cause was probably worse than it actually would be. Louie eventually pedaled next to Al to see what was going on. "Persuade it off your leg," she volunteered. "I'm afraid of losing my balance and he still might sting me anyway." What was worse: falling over or getting stung? Al preferred neither. As the road leveled off and the bike slowed the hornet flew harmlessly away. As is normally the case it was probably more afraid than Al was.
It was with a feeling of relief we pulled into the campground, that feeling was soon dispelled by a sign which read "Campground Closed by order of The President." The area was full of angry people. It was a Saturday in the midst of the fall color season. How could the campground be closed? George Bush was having a budget fight with Congress and to punish them he closed down the government. Since it was a weekend, the only ones who suffered were people trying to use federal campgrounds and museums. I'm sure my congressman really felt the pain. And I was very happy when George lost the next election. But at that moment our concern was where were we going to spend the night and when were we going to be able to renew our travels on the parkway. A phone book showed a private campground about 20 miles off the parkway at Natural Bridge Station. We called to reserve a site, not wanting to leave anything to chance. And after pedaling over a mountain, we spent the night there, and the next two in the town of Troutville while waiting for the President and Congress to settle their affairs.
We were finally able to return to the parkway on Tuesday. We spent the night at Roanoke Mountain before heading to Rocky Knob some 50 miles further on. About halfway there, a gathering mist began to envelope the roadway, making the visibility increasingly worse, finally forcing us to pull off on a grassy spot next to the road. After waiting over an hour we discussed the possibility of camping where we were, not wanting to risk the narrow twisting highway in the fog. A light breeze came up, which improved the visibility enough for us to continue. We managed to arrive at the campground very tired and just ahead of a rain storm. Without hesitation we quickly erected the tent and piled inside. The rain continued and dinner was cooked in the men's room and eaten in the tent. A little later a guy named Bob invited us over to his pickup camper for a cup of tea. It wasn't very spacious but the tea was hot and we were more comfortable than in the tent. The next day was more of the same and when Bob left we had nowhere to take refuge. Day three was still cold, windy and rainy. Our food supply was very low. Everything was damp and it was a struggle to keep warm. We had passed a sign for a motel in Tuggle Gap two miles back down the road and decided to head that way. Two miles doesn't sound like much, but when you can't see more than 10 feet in front of you, it can be a very long 10 minutes. Two days there with little to do and a meager supply of expensive food had us raring to go when the sun finally came out, even though it was Sunday, at the height of the foliage season, and everyone else had the same idea. The peaceful empty road that we traveled during the week was jammed with cars, campers and motorhomes. By the time we reached Fancy Gap we had survived too many close calls to count. This convinced us to avoid the parkway on Sunday from then on. It was also a good excuse to stay in a motel and watch football.
After crossing into North Carolina, the weather and natural attractions made the following week the best of our Blue Ridge experience: the waterfalls at Linville and Crabtree Meadows, the majesty of Mount Mitchell (tallest mountain east of the Mississippi) and the climb to Craggy Dome, were all done in perfect autumn weather. The foliage had caught up with us and was getting better every day. Saturday brought us to Ashville, Congress and George Bush were still arguing and we feared another shutdown of the campgrounds. We wound up spending two days in a motel when it rained. Since our plan of cycling the entire parkway had been sabotaged by the government we were no longer compelled to complete the next section and thus elected to bypass the Mount Pisgah area and it's many tunnels. The parkway has over 30 tunnels, most of them in that region. We had passed through several already and, just like bridges, Louie hated them. Besides, doing 10 a day was a little more than necessary. Just because we skipped that portion of road doesn't mean it was easy. The climb back to the parkway from Maggie Valley was long and steep, our front wheels once again trying to rise off the road surface and the frames of the bikes groaning in protest at the strain we put upon them as well as ourselves. Upon reaching the parkway it was only a short ride to the Balsam Mountain turn off, which is not part of the Blue Ridge but a separate small area of Smokey Mountain National Park. It was out of character for us to be riding eight miles out of the way to camp, but Louie had read it was a great place to camp. At the turn off the sign clearly read "Balsam Mountain Campground -- 8 Miles." Up we pedaled to the very top of the mountain, where we encountered a chain across the road and a "campground closed" sign. What was this -- a government conspiracy? As Al argued for camping anyway, a maintenance worker awoke from his slumber and managed to climb out of his truck. "Campground closed," he drawled. "Since when?" Al growled. "Monday." "Would it be too much to ask to put a sign at the bottom of the mountain?" Al said with all the sarcasm he could muster. This of course fell on deaf ears. They could afford to have this guy sit in a truck all day telling people the campground was closed, but they couldn't put up a sign, which would have saved us a 16 mile detour. Having no choice, we rode back down the mountain, finished our trip on the parkway and entered the Smokey Mountain National Park proper. A stop at the visitor center to assure the Smokemont Campground was open and a short ride to the campground itself ended a longer than planned day. The staff was friendly and helpful, making a reservation for us at Elkmont on the other side of the mountain, convincing us we wouldn't get in without one, hiker/biker not existing here. A chilling rain the next day vetoed that well-made plan and forced us to cancel our reservation. This meant we couldn't stay at Elkmont because, the next day being Friday, it was totally booked. But first we had to survive Thursday. It rained all day and the temperature settled into the low 30's. Staying warm and dry was difficult.
Friday dawned crisp and clear. We bundled up, put socks over our hands and started the 13 mile ascent to the top of Old Smokey, over 5,000 feet high. This would surely warm us up. After about two hours of steady work, we witnessed a sight making it all worthwhile. The rain, which had fallen in the valley, fell as ice and snow near the summit. The red and golden trees were topped with a fluffy icing like snow and the limbs of bare trees glistened brightly with a coating of ice. The scene was magical and captivated all who were fortunate enough to see it. Our slow speed allowed us to enjoy the beauty fully. The long line of motorist however, having no place to pull over, just stopped in the middle of the road to gaze in wonder at what they saw. This, of course, caused more than some frustration on the part of the following traffic with impatient motorists using their horns to shatter the tranquility. At the top things got even worse. The road was covered with snow and vehicles coming from both directions were sliding and slipping on the icy surface. Rangers tried desperately to straighten up the mess, but drivers without snow tires or experience with snow conditions were unable to follow the directions of rangers or sate police from either North Carolina or Tennessee, the summit being the state line. To avoid the mayhem we dismounted and drug the bikes through the snow to an area just below the top which was clear and dry. Donning long pants and heavy shirts we started down the confusion at the top giving us a window of clear highway. Clear and cold the wind chill as we zoomed down was bone chilling, causing our fingers to grow numb and our teeth to chatter. The bikes seemed to vibrate not from the road surface but our shivering bodies. Stopping halfway down the 12 mile descent to sit in the sun did little to relieve our chill. And arriving in the sun bathed visitor center at the bottom did little more. Other visitors ambled in shorts and tee shirts while we still shivered fully clothed. The motels of Gatlinburg lay just outside the park and a warm shower beckoned. The touristy prices were high, but we were in bad shape, so we paid up and attempted to use up the motels hot water supply. Finally warm again, we had time to contemplate a very intriguing day -- the spectacular beauty of nature and the tackiness of Gatlinburg.
The following day marked the end of our Blue Ridge odyssey. We re-entered the park and rode along the Little River to Townsend. The ride would have been delightful, but the traffic was terrible. Due to the narrow winding road cars could not safely pass us and we would quickly have a string of cars behind us. Using the frequent pull-overs we managed to avoid any confrontations. Smokey Mountain National Park is the most visited park in the system, with 8,000,000 visitors and 3,000,000 cars passing through each year, most of those on the last weekend in October, and they all seemed to be following us. Spending the night at a private campground in Townsend would be our last camping night of the year. The clocks fell back an hour and the availability of campgrounds decreased quickly. We would stay in motels until January.
It was natural that after our summer in the rockies and autumn in the Blue Ridge the flat areas of Georgia, South Carolina and Florida would pale in comparison. We spent two months in the "Old South" keeping mainly to the coast. The cycling was easy and the weather normally kind to us. But the days took on a sameness and, except for the time spent with friends and relatives, it was a sequence of economical motel rooms and meals from supermarket delis.
After the Smokeys we headed for Nashville and the XPLOR convention. Al spoke there again and it was another renewal of old friendships and a lot of fun.
Crossing the last bit of mountains in Georgia, the terminus of the Appalachian Trail still crowned with spectacular autumn foliage, we were caught in a sudden cold snap, but once in "low country" of South Carolina it became smooth riding again. Our first stop of importance was at Hilton Head. It marked the official completion of our cross-country ride, not having set out just to cross the country, like many riders, it took us over seven months and 7,300 miles. We stayed with Tom and Dottie Nelligan while there. Margot, Tom's daughter, had worked with Al at Xerox and had brought her visiting father over to see our beer can collection in California. Tom had worked in the beer industry and had many interesting stories to tell. Their home is on one of the exclusive plantations, which make up much of Hilton Head. When we arrived at the security post, the guard was not very friendly. However, his sergeant quickly came to our rescue asking, "You the folks from California?" "Yes." "The Captain said it's O.K. to let them in." He told the guard. And gave us specific directions on how to find Tom's house. Later Tom told us that when he went to notify the security people of our arrival, they told him bicycles were not allowed to ride onto the plantation. There were cycle paths on the plantation but you couldn't get to them from outside. Tom persuaded them that since we had come so far, they should make an exception. I guess you know who won't be buying a house in Hilton Head.
Having declined the invitation to stay for Thanksgiving, not wanting to be a burden, we headed into Georgia. Savannah turned out to be a city we really liked and we've returned several times. The museum, the water front and all of the delightful city squares make it a charming place.
The next day was Thanksgiving and we picked one of the loneliest pieces of highway to be traveling on that day. Flat pine forests everywhere and not much else, after about 50 miles we found a motel with a restaurant and super market nearby. After checking into the motel we discovered that both the restaurant and market were closed and the convenience store had almost nothing in the form of food. It was a dismal Thanksgiving and we really regretted turning down the Nelligan's invitation.
While in Brunswick we took a ride out to St. Simons Island and visited the National Historic site at Old Fort Fredrica, which was the southern limit of British influence in North America. A battle fought against the Spanish nearby made it the Northern limit of their penetration.
After crossing into Florida we spent two days with Louie's aunt and uncle. Their home is right on the St. John's River and they were expecting Louie's folks to come sailing up in their home made catamaran. Being unable to determine their whereabouts we decided to push on, it turned out to be the right thing to do, they didn't show up for a week. St. Augustine turned out to be an enjoyable stop with a lot of the oldest sites in the U.S. to visit, including the Castillo, an old spanish fort still in good condition. It was off-season and the looming recession had motel rates very low, a situation we made good use of.
A brief stop with Jean and Floyd Adams, Al's sister-in-law Donna's parents, in Ormand Beach was followed by a ride down route A1A, which has some of the most expensive real estate in Florida. The mansions are truly grand with real ugly "keep out -- private property" signs. The grounds run in an unbroken line for miles denying us mortals even a peek at the ocean. But I guess if we all had millions we might do the same thing. No, I'm sure Louie wouldn't.
Another set of Louie's aunts and uncles provided a place to stay in Miami, as well as some honest and well meaning advice, which caused us to make a decision we're still not pleased with. Our plan was to cycle to Key West. Of course, pedaling 150 miles one way and returning back the same way ran against any bike rider's grain. So we were a little susceptible to their warnings about narrow causeways and fast drivers. Eventually they were persuasive and we rented a car to make the run to the furthest part of Florida, as well as Everglades National Park. In addition we drove to Jensen Beach, where Louie's folks had finally dropped anchor.
Back on the bikes we headed north and then across the state to the Gulf Coast where we spent the Christmas season with the Franceour's. Bob had been Al's boss for a month. We really know how to take advantage of relationships. And then the Greenblatt's, who provided a great Christmas Eve Italian dinner. Ron, who is jewish, was smart enough to marry Jo, a good Italian girl. We were made to work for our dinner though, helping move the biggest fish tank you ever saw. Ron was just starting a tropical fish business and was stocking a doctor's office. We had given Ron's address as our return on our Christmas greetings and Ron complained his mailbox was always full, but none of the mail was for him.
The highlight of our Gulf Coast trip was Homosassa Springs, seeing the manatees was really great. Then onto Gainesville for New years with two more beer can collectors, the Rogalski's. They provided us with room and entertainment, including a tour of Dale and Jan's miniature horse farm. The horses are miniature not the farm.
And finally to Kissimee where Al's cousin Gracie lived. Like his other cousins they had a lot of childhood memories to share. Once again, someone would get to share a very stressful experience with us.
It was a typical case of too much planning screwing up the works. Our next adventure was to be in New Zealand and then Australia. We had to have a visa for Australia before we could get on the plane in Orlando and the only place to get it from was New York. It was December when we arrived in Miami and had just enough time to obtain the visas, allowing three weeks turnaround and Holiday slowdowns. Being reluctant to lose track of our passports, we asked for help from the Miami Post Office. Between us we devised a foolproof scheme to get the job done. Buying two express mail envelopes, we mailed our passports in one of them and included the second with the address of the Orlando general delivery office on it. The clerk in Miami was sure they would be waiting in Orlando. On Friday, the fourth of January, we went to the post office and asked if there was any mail for us. There was a letter from our broker, but no visas/passports. Getting very nervous, our flight was on Tuesday the eighth, we queried the clerk again and explained our situation. "Oh, they probably got returned. We hold regular mail 30 days, but express only five." It was too late in the day to contact the Aussies, their office was closed. An attempt to change our flight resulted in, "Since your using frequent flyer miles, the next available seats are in March." We had made our reservations eight months ago. Would it be worth flying to New York? It was a long frustrating weekend. Our hands were tied but we couldn't help worrying. Monday finally arrived and a phone call to the Australian Consulate in New York confirmed they had our passports and were willing to send them out again if they had a pre-paid envelope. No amount of pleading would help and we had to have it done by noon. A call to UPS and FedEx got the same answer. We needed an account number to prepay for a shipment. Who had one? Al's brothers, who have their own businesses didn't. Would some Xerox person in New York? Nothing seemed to work. But then, we called our broker in California and persuaded her assistant to give us Prudential's corporate account number (an act her boss later said she could be fired for). Using the number and calling FedEx we made arrangements to have our passports picked up and received confirmation that they were. Our flight was at 11 a.m. and the package was due in at 8 a.m. We got confirmation at 8:30 and proceeded to the express counter. Al asked for our mail and the clerk said, "Sorry. It's not here." "Yes it is!" said Al as he started to climb over the counter to look for himself. "Oh, here it is." Her life had hung in the balance. Now all we had to do was check-in the boxed bikes. When the agent said, "That will be $200.00." Louie took over being the aggressor. "I checked. They told us $50.00." "That's the old domestic price." The stress of the weekend had us both about to burst and the agent must have sensed it. "I'll let you go for the new domestic price." So reluctantly we forked over $80.00. (Many airlines let you take bikes as luggage with no extra charge.)
Four airplanes and a day and a half later, we stumbled out of a plane in Auckland.
We arrived at Auckland suffering from jet lag, the loss of a day and two night's sleep. Our first chore was to reassemble our bikes and get through customs and immigration, where we learned that our initial free visas would only be good for three months, meaning we would have to apply for an extension after we had been there for a month or so. Well, that was something to worry about later. The Auckland airport is very small and only offers minimal services; it is also way outside town. Our cramped legs and fuzzy heads would have loved to find a campground, but there was none nearby. Louie's first priority was maps and a guide book, so we headed for a bike shop that sold both. Keeping to the left was not new to us (New Zealand uses the opposite side of the road than the U.S.), but we would have to keep reminding ourselves, especially at roundabouts (traffic circles). Our years in England had been our first experience with this, which gave us an advantage over others who had never done it before. New Zealand loses a few tourists every year when they forget what side of the road to drive on. The steep hills, however, were more of a surprise. Even in downtown there were those big lumps to cross and our legs had gotten lazy pedaling around Florida for a month. Finally, huffing and puffing, we got to the bike shop at the top of a hill. They had a wide selection of cycling books and we finally decided on one that covered both the North and South Islands. It contained both route and camping information. Immediately it was put to use finding the closest campground; we weren't in the mood to explore.
Campgrounds in New Zealand are called motor camps and we had heard great things about them. New Zealand camping is much different from camping in the U.S. Most campers use large multi-room tents or tow-behind caravans. One didn't see big RV's and seldom a camper van. Kiwi's (the accepted way of referring to New Zealanders) are also stationary campers, staying in the same place for months at a time. The main camping season starts the day after Christmas and runs through January. (Did that surprise you? It took a while for us to adjust. We were in the Southern Hemisphere so the seasons are reversed, meaning that when we arrived, in early January, it was summertime. The frequent posters of Santa in bathing trunks seemed very odd to us.) The facilities at motor camps are also very different from what we were used to. There are never any fireplaces and seldom picnic tables or chairs. The campsite is normally a flat piece of grass. That's the bad news. The good news is the kitchen. Unlike the States where dishwashing in public conveniences is considered a crime, the Kiwi's provide large sinks and copious amounts of hot water with which to wash dishes and another spot to wash clothes. All camps provide a place to cook food: either an oven, gas ring or maybe a microwave (I kid you not). The better camps have a game room and often a T.V. and a dining room. This all, however, was yet to come. Our first place provided only a minimum number of the essentials and the only place to sit was some steps, that is why this one was a big disappointment.
Finding a semi-flat spot, we set up the tent for the first time in three months. Our neighbors, not surprisingly, were also bike riders. From November to April New Zealand is the bicycle capitol of the world with riders from all over descending on this peaceful country of less than four million very friendly people. The neighbors were German, which is the rule rather than the exception, The majority of tourists in New Zealand are German speaking with many Swiss and Austrians mixed in with the true Germans. Most spoke good English and we made friends with many of them.
It was our first night camping, but since we were in town we treated ourselves to fish and chips, one of the many things that would reflect the strong English heritage of that part of the world.
After a good night's sleep, which cured the last of the jet lag, it was time to set off. Our itinerary was to head for the South Island first to take advantage of the summer weather there and then head north where it would be warmer longer. If you find that confusing, don't feel bad, Louie had a real hard time with the sun being in the north all the time and was continually getting disoriented.
The bicycle book had recommended taking the train to escape Auckland, but we opted to ride and after a few wrong turns found ourselves in the countryside straining to ride up the steep and roughly surfaced roads. Most of the roads are tar sealed, which means a layer of gravel is spread and rolled on the roadbed and then covered with an oily tar-like substance that hardens when dry. It's an economical way of paving, but the resulting surface is rougher than the asphalt on most U.S. roads. It took a few days to grow accustomed to it and then it seemed normal.
The highway meandered toward the west coast and we camped at places called Orere, Miranda and Morrinsville. Traveling in an English speaking country is always easier than one that isn't, but that doesn't mean you always understand the language. At the top of a hill leading to one of the motor camps we were stumped by a sign which read "WARNING -- JUDDER BARS". What the heck is a judder bar? Proceeding cautiously we soon encountered what we call speed bumps and the British call sleeping policemen. We are truly separated by a common language. We had been averaging about 40 miles per day, the hills keeping our average speed down to about 10 mph. But from Morrinsville to Teawamutu was only 35 miles and mostly downhill. So we arrived at about the same time a trio of young Germans were getting ready to leave. Our arrival coincided with that of a rain storm and was enough incentive for them to abandon their departure and crawl back in their tents. The rain quickly dissipated and we enjoyed a tour of local botanical gardens discovering that New Zealand has over 50 varieties of beech trees. These and a large amount of foreign species provided a delightful afternoon. Teawamutu is called "The city of roses" and we could see why.
Next stop was Waitomo (Do you find the mixture of Maori and English names as fascinating as we did?), home of some famous caves. The boat ride takes you through the cave where you witness the glow worms, tiny luminescent insects that hang from the cave ceiling. When the guide extinguishes the electric lights the worms provide an eerie aurora overhead. They are covered with a sticky substance, source of the illumination, which attracts and catches smaller insects, which they feed on. This is their larvae stage, in which they spend most of their lives. Their adult life is very short. They sprout wings and fly just long enough to mate and then die, being unable to eat since they have no mouths. Waitomo is one of the must see stops in New Zealand.
That afternoon provided us with a little drama. A German-speaking Swiss rider, all decked out in the most expensive gear, arrived and in a short while became very agitated. His girlfriend, who he was traveling with, had not shown up. "She doesn't speak English. She'll never find me." He was concerned because he had not waited for her at the turn off to the caves and was sure she had continued on. But then, of course, she could have broken down and be in the opposite direction. After an hour of fretting he called the police, who promptly came and took him off in search of her. We promised to keep an eye out for her. A short while later, they returned with the girl and her bike. She had been in a restaurant having a meal with some young German guys. It looked like the guy was now more upset about this than he was when she was lost.
At the camp we had a small reunion with many of the bike riders we had met previously. This would be an on going event. There are not that many roads in New Zealand. Most of our new friends were going blackwater tubing in the caves. We elected not to get wet and opted to take a bike ride out a spur road to see a natural bridge, cave and waterfall. Riding the bikes without any gear was a real treat, until we got caught in a downpour and got drenched. It continued to rain, but we were so wet it didn't matter, so on we went. The natural bridge was really special. Following the well built walkway, which had a chicken wire covering to prevent slipping, a necessary caution in this very wet place, we proceeded out onto the bridge. We were surprised when the rain seemed to stop. Looking up we realized there was another span above us, a true natural wonder, a double-decker natural bridge. The cave was small and cramped and by the time we reached the falls it was getting late and we were cold. The return trip was downhill and at least the ponchos reduced the windchill.
Arriving back at the camp we found all the young folks huddling in the kitchen. Upon entering Al said, "What's wrong with you guys? It's a great day for a ride." As this was said a puddle was forming at his feet. "We're too young for that," laughed a young German girl named Uli. She was traveling with a guy named Fritz. That exchange of comments was the beginning of a good friendship; we would share camp sites several times in the next few weeks.
As we set off toward the coast we had no idea that this would be one of those days that we would remember forever. Pedaling west, the wind got stronger and with even stronger gusts. Getting to Piu-Piu we were unable to find a campground or motel. The next 20 miles were uphill through a very narrow gorge; the wind was sure to be even stronger. As we watched the trees bend under the strength of the wind, a bus passed and pulled into the station a few yards up the road. We had been told that buses would take bicycles, so why not check it out? Upon reaching the bus a driver stuck his head out of the huge baggage compartment and asked, "Want a ride?" "How much?" we chorused. It was about 15 dollars so we agreed and then helped the driver shift his load around to make room for the bikes. Have I mentioned how friendly Kiwi's are? Could you imagine a bus driver in most places volunteering to do extra work to make room for you? As the bus proceeded through the gorge we passed several bike riders struggling up the steep roadway, which was under construction. We felt a little guilty for taking the easy way out, but not that guilty.
The bus set us down in the parking lot of a pub and since we hadn't been to a New Zealand pub yet we decided to give it a go. Upon entering the pub we could feel tension in the atmosphere. Everyone was gathered around the T.V. The barman approached keeping one eye on the set. Al asked, "What's up?" "The U.S. has attacked Iraq." Not knowing the local political attitudes, we weren't sure how this would effect our relationship with the natives. Hopefully, it wouldn't be "Yankee go home." As it turned out, they generally supported the effort and were more concerned that the U.S. would do the same for them if they were invaded. That may sound strange, but many Kiwi's fear that Indonesia, which has the fourth largest army in the world, has designs on their country. In addition, the U.S. and New Zealand had broken off diplomatic relations. New Zealand declared itself nuclear free and would not allow nuclear ships use of their ports and also claimed the right to inspect any ships entering their waters. The U.S. regarded this as an insult and quit talking to the Kiwi's. The one good thing to come out of that war was that, because New Zealand sent a load of medics to Iraq in support of Desert Storm, relations between the two countries had improved. George Bush accepted a phone call from the Prime Minister, re-opening the diplomatic channels.
Our day ended with a walk on the beach, which lead to our discovery of pipis, which are clams. We watched two locals digging for them and after helping them fill a pail of the succulent little creatures we found our own spot and dug some for our dinner. The beaches of New Zealand teem with clams and we supplemented our diet several times with them.
After passing through Irenui and New Plymouth we arrived in the town of Opunake, which has a great view of Mount Egmont, or Taranaki, the Maori name. As noted before the place names are divided between English and Maori, but the names give no indication as to the makeup of the town. Some Maori named towns have no Maori, and English named towns have a lot. The Maori are only a small percentage of the population and many of those are of mixed blood. This doesn't mean there are less Maori than before; there never were many of them. Opunake, however, did have a large native population and we were lucky enough to meet some of them. Lucky because we had planned to leave after only one night but got stuck in the rain and stayed an extra day. In order to break up the monotony of sitting in our tent, we took a walk to the local pub, where we met Lenny. He was a tall, dark-skinned man with long black wiry hair and matching beard. He heard our accents and came over to introduce himself telling us he was half Maori. Soon his lady friend Pee Wee joined us and we were eventually surrounded by Maori, who were very anxious to tell us all about themselves and their heritage. We were very willing listeners and it was with some regret that we excused ourselves to go back to the campsite. We had bought fresh lamb for dinner and needed to cook it that night. They made us promise to return. It was a half-hearted promise, but once dinner was finished we found ourselves with nothing to do, so back we went. Many of our original friends were still there and we were soon joined by others. When the pub closed at 10 p.m. (normal closing time in New Zealand) we thought we could return to camp but someone bought a case of beer and we were drug back to Adrienne's house. For once in our lives we didn't want any more beer, and were hoping to make a polite exit. While talking to Pee Wee we learned she was a teacher at the Maori Language School and got an invitation to visit the next morning. Using the early hour of the invitation as an excuse we managed to leave gracefully.
Even though we were a little worse for wear, we arrived at the school bright and early the next morning, Lenny and Pee Wee introduced us to the school superintendent. We were not permitted into the classrooms, they are restricted to Maori-speaking people only, but we were able to see some of the work done by the younger children, who had drawn pictures of objects and written the Maori words next to them. The tour over, we prepared to leave, but first Lenny had a surprise for Al. Lenny was the trainer of the local rugby football club and presented Al with a handsome navy blue sweater with the logo of the Coastal Cobras on it. Al was flabbergasted and vainly tried to think of something to give Lenny in return. Of course, we never carry anything extra on the bikes, so the best Al could do was give him his heart felt thanks. It is still one of Al's prized possessions.
From Opunake we continued south, the pattern of names continuing. A few miles outside Urenui we were surprised and delighted to see a sign advertising a micro-brewery. After avoiding a snarling, barking dog we found the brewer, who gave us a tour, a free sample and sold us a bottle to go. The unusual part of his business is that he sold beer by mail order. It seemed strange then, but it is now fairly popular in the U.S., state laws withstanding.
The Urenui campground was huge with large tents covering a wide area facing a black sand beach at the mouth of a river. Our assigned spot was near the river and we watched in awe as kids cavorted in the black sand and were coated with the volcano-produced lava granules. They looked filthy, but the sand vanished easily in the water. The shower stalls, however, suffered with the black stuff piling up and stopping the drains with black sludge.
After dinner the couple in the adjoining campsite invited us over for a glass of port; how civilized! We joined them and their daughter for a very long and enjoyable conversation learning many things from them and returning the favor. One amusing fact was their inability to comprehend living in a country with multiple time zones. The wife thought it to be disturbing. Louie was surprised when the discussion covered the fact that water going down a drain swirled in the opposite direction in the two hemisphere's both of the men were aware of this, but it took a lot of explaining to convince the women.
Our arrival in Lower Hutt marked the end of the North Island for now. It had taken two weeks to cover the 650 miles from Auckland.
The ferry ride across the Cook Straits was made on a brightly sunny, calm day. Stories of gale force winds and huge waves only served to make the day more peaceful. Dolphins played in our bow waves adding even more to the serenity. The participants of a speed boat race added a touch of excitement as some came dangerously close to the bow of the ship as it cut across the race course, the last one seeming to disappear beneath the ship in an effort to keep pace with the leaders. The trailing boats were forced to cut behind the ferry losing valuable time as they bounced across our wake.
It was only a short ride to the campground in Picton so we had an easy day. And were able to contact Chris and Julia Addington and confirm we had a place to stay when we reached Christchurch (remember them from the Blue Ridge?). On the way to Seden we crossed our first double decker single lane bridge. In this land of few people and fewer vehicles economy is used when building bridges. Many designs are used. Some lay railroad tracks on the same bed the cars drive on (guess who has the right of way?). The bridge we were about to cross had the tracks on an upper level and it would be possible to have a train running overhead as we crossed the span, a disquieting thought, but one we thankfully avoided; we also did not encounter any motor vehicles coming the other way.
At first glance the Seden campground did not look very promising with weeds growing all around the fence and some scruffy looking caravans. However, after the owner encouraged us to pick as many apricots as we wished from the burgeoning trees in the campground and we stewed them up, Uli and Fritz arrived just in time to share them with us. We hadn't seen them for some time and we had a good evening catching up on each others adventures.
The ride to Kikoura was one of the toughest we would make in N.Z.. It started with very steep hills and when the terrain finally leveled out we encountered very strong head winds which made progress painfully slow. Finally, at the 100 km mark the road turned inland and it felt as if a hand was pushing us along. Uli and Fritz camped next to us and we had begun looking forward to seeing them each night. Kikoura is a big tourist center with whale watching and nature trips being big attractions. Uli and Fritz wanted to go whale watching but since we had done that many times while living in California we opted for a nature walk instead. The road to the preserve got very steep and rocky, so we abandoned the bikes and proceeded on foot. Following the signs on the marked path we soon found ourselves struggling up steep muddy inclines slipping and sliding as we went. This was not a stroll in the park. The trees and plants were identified by small signs and we tried to capture the information in our minds. The only wildlife we saw were birds. Huge wood pigeons crashed through the trees at our approach and forest wrens stood in front of us on the path continually running on as if they were showing us the way. Our favorites were the fan tails, which hovered in front of us spreading their tails while observing the strange intruders of their domain. Seeing only birds in N.Z. is not unnatural, seeing mammals is. Before man arrived on these islands there were basically no mammals, the only exception being a species of bat. All the other inhabitants had feathers, which explains why kiwis, the birds, don't fly. They and some other species simply forgot how. With no predators to chase them, why bother? Of course, man brought many animals with him and all of a sudden the flightless birds had predators. Many species are already gone and it's going to be a tough battle to save others. It's very distressing, especially when one of the threatened birds is the countries national symbol. The only hope for many of them is a small island which has not been invaded by dogs, ferrets, weasels or the other creatures introduced by man.
The mammals we did encounter were of the human kind and it was a little embarrassing. Al had just remarked as to the difficulty of the path, when two older women in house dresses came toward us working their way uphill, one of them was using a cane. Those Kiwis are pretty tough folks.
The following morning was spent walking the cliffs and observing the sea lions, who populated the shore. Many warnings were posted to give them a wide berth, and we did, until a very large male appeared from the rocks in front of us and announced in loud barking roars that we were on his turf. We beat a hasty retreat.
Uli and Fritz were still waiting for their whale watching trip which had been postponed due to high seas. We assumed they would spend another day in Kikoura, but instead headed off for Cheviot, our next campground. As we neared our destination the winds suddenly increased in strength and we were happy to get into the shelter of the motor camp's kitchen. Here we met a Canadian girl heading in the opposite direction. As we chatted the wind blew our fully loaded bicycles, which had been leaning heavily against a table, clear over, breaking the visor on Louie's helmet. When we heard someone else arrive we were pleased and surprised to see it was our German friends. They had fought the winds all afternoon and had barely arrived before dark. Fritz used his recently learned English curse words to describe his views of the weather. After helping them set up their tent we all retreated to the kitchen. It was obvious they had struggled with the conditions so they could keep up with us. At this point the four of us had established a bond which we foolishly felt needed no formalizing. We had remained in touch without really trying and expected it to continue. Our luck ran out and we never saw them again; we had failed to exchange addresses or last names, an oversight we still regret.
Of course, we had known Chris and Julia for less than a day, but had gotten their address, which resulted in a very warm welcome treating us like old friends. Christchurch is a lovely town with a very pleasant city center where we visited the immigration office to apply for a visa extension. The passports would have to be left behind, but that was part of the plan: a return trip to Christchurch was on our schedule. Sunday was spent at a park concert and a visit to the Antarctic museum. Leaving the warm afternoon sunshine to enter a world of snow and ice seemed rather strange, but that is what many of the South Pole explorers did, using N.Z. as a base before heading south. Viewing the equipment necessary for such a trip and reading about some of the harrowing experiences put our adventure in perspective.
We weren't headed that far south, but the land below Christchurch does get a little intimidating. The population thins out and the winds and weather are bred from the polar seas. The first day out was an exception. The bright sun beating down through the hole in the ozone layer caused our skin, which had been tanned for months, to actually burn, especially Al's bald head, which was scorched through the opening in the top of his helmet designed to let in cool air. During the 1992 elections George Bush called the ozone folks "bozos" but he never was exposed to the rays of the sun in N.Z.. At 80 degrees you can burn in 13 minutes. At Rakaia Gorge we encountered some Germans fresh off the plane. They had left the snow and ice of Central Europe and landed in the middle of a N.Z. hot spell. The searing sun had forced them to ride in long pants and shirts, their white bodies having turned red in minutes. As we spoke with them and another couple, the winds began to pick up, eventually howling down the gorge. Hunkering down in our tent we hoped it would survive the onslaught. Summer had just ended. It began to rain and the air temperature really dropped as the heavy rain continued all night and into mid-morning. Experience said that once the rain stopped it would be safe to resume our travels, which we were anxious to do since there were no facilities at Rakaia. After traveling only a few miles the skies opened again and we were soaked, so much for experience. Luckily, we found a campground at a fairground which rented camper cabins, another Kiwi innovation. The cabin was only $10.00, dry and included a small electric heater, which we made use of.
At Peel Forest we shared the campground with a square dancing club, a pastime which is growing in popularity with the Kiwis. They couldn't believe that two americans didn't want to join in, believing that all yanks doe-se- doed. The sound of stomping feet went on into the night. When we broke camp, our guide book was left behind in the grass by mistake. This would be a handicap, but Louie managed by borrowing others and making notes from guides she read in book stores.
On the way toward Mount Cook we were forced to make a change in route. Louie's rear wheel started to fall apart. At least three of her spokes were breaking loose from the rim and others showed signs of stress. With some serious hills to climb on our way to the mountain this situation needed to be remedied first. There were no bike shops on our route, there was one in Timaru 50 miles to the south. Going there would make seeing Mount Cook dubious but the wheel was in bad shape. We managed to make Timaru by noon on a Saturday and the guys in the bike shop promised to have the wheel ready early Monday. So the weekend would be spent outside of Timaru which appeared to be a pretty boring place. While in the campground kitchen we talked with one of the permanent caravan people who lived there year round. When he heard our story he suggested we talk to another couple who also lived there. They offered to take us to see Mount Cook if we paid for the petrol (gas) it was more expensive than riding, but saved us a 200 mile round trip. It was a delightful Sunday. The driver took us to some other points of interest in a circular route, which included a lake side chapel and the Otago region, the driest part of N.Z.. But Mount Cook was stunning. It is only about 14,000 feet (Everest is 27,000), but because it stands alone, rising from sea level, it is one of the tallest mountains in the world. We read accounts of the bad weather and thought about how Hilary, a Kiwi himself, had climbed Everest before he ever managed to attain Mt. Cook's summit. The road leads right up to the ranger station and the mountain was always in view as we approached. It is frequently cloudy or misty, obscuring the summit, but our day was perfect.
Much to Al's skeptical surprise, the wheel was ready by 10 a.m., Monday morning and we were on our way before noon, arriving at our planned destination, which was only 20 miles further on. And when it rained on Tuesday, we awoke on Wednesday not very far from where we had been on Saturday, we hoped to make better progress from there.
Next stop was the very Scottish city of Dunedin. We were just in time foe their annual festival. The campground was crowded and we were forced to take a site under some clothes lines. The fair wasn't our primary aim -- penguins and albatross were, we did mention N.Z. was close to the South Pole. We booked a trip on a bus that included both bird sanctuaries and the "pop-up gun" which is in the middle of the albatross sanctuary and can't be avoided. The nesting site is the only one in N.Z. and is surrounded by a high fence to prevent people from stealing the eggs. If it wasn't for one guy, who actually lived at the site when the birds were resident, there would be no colony. Every year two birds would come lay their egg and some idiot would steal it. But because of one dedicated man, there is now a thriving community. It is well protected and the birds can be viewed only from a distance, making them look like big sea gulls. One of the keepers walked up to a nesting adult and then we realized the bird came up to his waist. They are huge, weighing 50 pounds and the chicks are heavier than their parents until they are fledged. The penguins we saw on the other hand were tiny. Both the fairy and blue variety are less than a foot tall. They build nests high on hills overlooking their preferred beach. When not swimming or waddling back and forth to the sea, they stand at attention looking out over the water. The babies are gray fluffy things that look like little dolls. We enjoyed the tour and were well satisfied with our visit. Even the pop-up gun, which was designed to come up to fire and drop down to be loaded; it was never fired in anger. Our return to the campground coincided with the beginning of a rain storm which lasted three days. By the end of the second day the ground was completely saturated with water, standing several inches deep around our tent. The festival was washed out and many people left early. The number of tents near us dwindled steadily and finally ours was the only one there. We soon learned that the others had all rented cabins and we soon joined them. Even after the rain stopped we were stuck as the police asked people to remain off the road until they had time to repair some of the damage caused by the floods. Some other campgrounds had to be evacuated due to rising water.
The weather was much better at Invercargil, the southern most city on the South Island. However, our visit was not without incident. While touring the magnificent royal gardens someone stole Al's riding gloves and tried to steal the speedometer off his bike. The expensive gloves had been a gift from Louie and it made Al angry. It was only luck that saved the speedometer, because it slides off easily, if you know what your doing.
Being as far south as we could go, we headed west toward Fiordland and New Zealand's famous "sounds." The wind had other ideas and it was a rough trip to Riverton, where we rented a caravan for the night, not wanting to listen to the howling wind all night. The 50 miles from Tuatapere to Manapouri were a nightmare. The wind threatened to blow us off our bikes and when Al had a flat it did nothing to improve his disposition. Once we got to the campground, a shower and some food made us feel a little better. A while later Meike, a young German girl we had met at Rakaia Gorge arrived. She had spent the night the same place we had, but in her tent. She looked worse than we had felt and used some un-ladylike words to describe the winds.
Manapouri is a center for touring Fiordland, which is a world heritage site occupying 5,000,000 acres in the south west corner of N.Z.. No one lives within it's boundaries. The first attraction was Doubtful Sound named by Captain Cook. It is actually not a sound but a fiord, the difference being that sounds are made by rivers and fiords by glaciers. The trip entailed a boat ride across Lake Manapouri, a bus ride to a hydro-electric power station, which once again is part of the tour whether you like it or not. We were back in the bus early, not being interested in power stations. If we could have found some of the beer cans specially made for the men that built the station in the 60's we would have been. But they had long since been cleaned up since the site is a preserve. We were shocked that some people had come just to see the power plant and not the sound. Different strokes for different folks. Finally, we boarded another boat for our tour of the sound, which was very unique, and learned about tree avalanches, an oddity of the fiords. There is no soil to speak of on the steep sides of the fiord, all the trees are growing on sheets or beds of moss. Their roots are anchored in the moss and eventually the weight of the trees pulls up a large swath of moss and trees slide down into the sound exposing the bare rock surface. Then the process starts over again with the same inevitable conclusion. The whole affair takes about 25 years.
After switching campsites to Te Anau we took the tour of Milford Sound (it's also a fiord) and were finally faced with the terror of N.Z. -- the sand fly. This terrible creature inhabits the West Coast of the South Island and is feared by all. No conversation with a veteran of the West Coast is complete with out mention of these monsters. They are about the size of large gnats and occur in vast swarms attacking any exposed skin. Their bite leaves an itchy welt ten times the size of the insect, and it irritates the victim for weeks. The defenses are plenty of clothing and Dimp, the Kiwi answer to Off. But, alas, nothing is perfect and even without the bite, they swarm in your face and make eating an unpleasant experience. We were told that only the female bites and then only to incubate her eggs. Whatever the case, no one who has dealt with them will ever forget them. And the large red blots on your skin act as a badge of identification as to where you've been.
The Milford cruise was much like the one at Doubtful with the addition of hanging valleys, which terminate many feet above the surface of the sound, and from which waterfalls flow directly into the sea. As the ship cruised in calm waters, bathed in sunshine, a snow squall raged on Mitre Peak thousands of feet above. Fortunately, sand flies do not fly over the water allowing everyone to enjoy the trip; they are, however, waiting at the dock.
On our way to Milford Sound we witnessed a rare occurrence -- birds stealing a car. As the bus paused allowing us to admire the view, two Kea's, or ground parrots, another of N.Z.'s flightless birds, had hopped onto the roof of a car belonging to two lady tourists and were preventing them from reentering the vehicle. Whenever the ladies would approach the birds would flap their wings driving the women back. We all thought it funny, but the tourists weren't laughing. Milford is also famous for it's trek, an established path that attracts thousands of "trampers" from all over the world. It was created to allow hikers, who are called trampers, to experience the beauty of Fiordland on foot. It is the most famous of N.Z.'s many tracks offering a variety of hikes to enthusiasts. Milford is so popular access is strictly controlled. The trip is four days -- no more no less. 40 free walkers (those not part of a guided tour) per day are allowed on the trek. There are three huts one, for each night. You must reach the correct one each night and leave the next day, no matter what the weather. Imagine this in one of the wettest places on earth. Plus, if you don't reach the end of the trek before the boat leaves at two o'clock, you're stranded overnight. None of the above appealed to us, so we headed for fruit country.
N.Z. has a very large fruit industry, much of it around the city of Queenstown. Many of the younger tourists work in the groves picking apples, peaches, nectarines, pears and nasi. If your not familiar with nasi, you may know them as Asian pears. They are a cross between apples and pears and invented in N.Z.. They taste like overly juicy pears, but have the consistency of apples, which is great for stuffing in the back of your bicycle shirt. All the fruit was cheap and we consumed large amounts. Our best food bargain, however, were potatoes. While sharing a campground in Kingston with the German girl Meike and her Swiss friend Marianne, Al discovered some potatoes growing wild along the bank of a small stream. Someone had probably dumped some peels in the area and the moist soil provided an ideal spot for them to grow. With Marianne's help we harvested about five pounds, cooking some for dinner and sharing the rest with the girls.
The ride into Queenstown was gorgeous. The roadway followed the shore of a lake with the lake on one side and The Remarkables, a unique rock formation on the opposite side. The reflection of the mountains was so clear on the surface of the lake we were sad to reach town. The town itself is a big tourist area. We did some shopping and camped outside of town.
Wanaka turned out to be the last time we would see Meike and Marianne, they arrived late in the afternoon after fighting a strong head wind. We spent a long time in the kitchen discussing our next day's activities. From Wanaka one must cross The Haast Pass, which has several long stretches of gravel road. Louie had fretted about it since the beginning of the trip, asking and getting conflicting advice. There were no facilities for over a hundred miles, which meant we would have to carry extra food with us. There was a bicycle ferry service run by a man with a special built trailer for bikes. Finally, after much to-ing and fro-ing we chickened out and called for reservations on the ferry. Meike was still unsure, but Marianne said she would ride it by herself. Next morning Meike came by to return our pot, which she had borrowed to cook the rest of their potatoes in. Neither she or Marianne carried any cooking utensils depending on the campground or others to supply them. She said she would rest for a day and join Marianne.
Feeling a little guilty, we loaded the bikes and headed over the pass, one of only three that cross over the spine of mountains running down the middle of the South Island. It was 60 miles to the other side. We passed a few riders on their own making the climb. They looked pretty grimy from the great clouds of dust created as cars drove past. Our driver provided a commentary on the history and flora of the area stopping several times to show us points of interest. Once he dropped us off it was still 30 miles to the unimproved campsite at Paringa, but it was easy compared to what we had avoided. For an unimproved campground it was real busy. By the time it got dark there were about 10 of us camped in the area by the lake. There was only one picnic table in the whole area and a German couple had staked it out and showed no signs of wishing to share it. After a while, one of them came over and asked if we had any spare spokes. Both of us carried extras and were willing to give him one, but he didn't know what size he needed. We offered him one of each size but then he said he didn't know how to install one. Of course it was on the back wheel gear side and no one had a gear puller. Al had watched the mechanic replace spokes on his mountain bike back in Matzatlan and thought he could do it, much to everyone's amazement he did it without removing the tire, a trick he had picked up in Mexico. He bent the spoke in order to get it past the gears, when he tightened it, it straightened itself out. He felt very proud. The Germans were astonished when he told them he had never done it before.
As night fell, and we tried to get some sleep, a possum had other ideas. N.Z. possums are not like the North American variety we are familiar with, they come from Australia and like all N.Z. mammals were introduced by man, in this case to provide raw material for the fur trade. It has a heavy coat and a long furry tail, looking more like a squirrel than a possum. There is no longer a market for possum fur and the varmints are having a population explosion. Estimates of their numbers run over 100 million. Everyone hates them and they have regular hunts to kill them in the thousands without making a dent in the population. Fruit growers are especially outspoken in their dislike. The possums have a habit of taking a bite from several pieces of fruit rather than eating a whole one. Right after we crawled into the tent we heard a disturbance near our bikes, which were leaning against a tree. Al went out and saw the huge eyes of the possum staring back at him. It made a weird laughing sound but didn't appear frightened. Al threw some pieces of wood at it and it scurried off. Al no sooner got back in the tent when he heard the creature calling from the bikes, it was then that Al remembered he had left some fruit in his helmet hanging from his bike. Al recovered the fruit and this made the possum angry and it made even more noise. We both got up and moved our bikes away from the trees into the center of the clearing. This seemed to discourage our unwanted visitor and with one final shrill scream it departed. In the morning we realized he'd stolen a peach.
How about a walk in the snow? Well not really snow, but ice. Fiords, you remember, were made by glaciers and there are still a few left. The toe of Fox Glacier was in the process of calving, huge blocks of ice splitting off the glacier face and starting their journey down stream, but melting before they got very far. We cheated following a guided tour up the face and onto the glacier itself. From there we stopped for the night at a place called the Forks run by a very strange character who was a puppet master. The decor of the cabin (he refused to let us camp even though there was plenty of room) was made up of puppets and pictures of his "world famous puppet opera," which we were sure he wanted to perform for us. We acted dumb and he finally left us alone. It was a restless night for both of us with visions of Stephen King or Chucky running through our dreams.
At Greymouth we headed back east toward Christchurch. This time we would take the Lewis pass, the middle of the three passes. It was as steep as the Haast but paved. After about 40 miles, having passed through Reefton and only a few miles short of the summit, we elected to camp at a hotel with a hot spring. Use of the spring was free to campers and our tired legs would sure enjoy it. Our first hint of trouble came as we erected the tent. Sand flies began to swarm in numbers worse than anything we had experience before. Hoping that the sulfuric smell from the spring would hold them off, we changed into swimming clothes and jumped in. The only place the flies didn't go was under water. They circled around our heads looking for any opening. The sulphorous smell didn't deter them; they probably can't smell. It was a race to leave the pool, get into the bath house, dried and dressed, before being chewed to bits. The hotel didn't mind us using the lobby, so we sat there reading and later enjoyed a restaurant meal rather than providing one for the flies.
The morning was right out of Alfred Hitchcock. As the sun came up and we awoke, we became aware of thousands of sand flies trying to push their way through the semi-transparent tenting material. They were between the rain fly and the tent just waiting for us to emerge. In the face of this horror we devised a plan of escape. Each of us was assigned a set of tasks and with true military precision we stumbled and fumbled out of the tent. Took it down in one large lump and carting it and the bikes fled to the hotel parking lot, which was relatively free of flies. It was then possible to safely pack our gear, have breakfast and hit the road.
Hamner Springs is the site of a very trendy hot spring, but we'd gotten softened up enough the night before. However, it would be the fourth and fortunately last time we would have something stolen. We had purchased a pound of potatoes and left them on top of the community refrigerator. Less than an hour later Al returned to the kitchen and noticed they were gone. After searching the area including the inside of the fridge he checked with the manager to see if the staff had removed them for some reason while cleaning. The manager was surprised and insured us none of her people had done it. The value wasn't much, but it was annoying and screwed up our dinner plans. Some days later we met a nice Kiwi lady we had camped near earlier. She was aware of the previous theft of Al's gloves and our insulated food bag, which had been full of food and stolen along with the food of other campers from a community fridge. She cheerfully asked, "You haven't had anything else stolen have you?" She was crestfallen when Al said, "Sorry, but we have." In an effort to save face the lady added. "I can't believe New Zealanders did it." "One of them was for sure," Al replied "It was a possum." This made her smile and Al felt better since she was trying to be nice.
From Hamner to Liethfield was a day of contrasts. Heading southwest we had a tail wind and covered the first 10 miles easily. Then we turned east and the road twisted and turned through some low hills. The wind, which was growing stronger, alternately came from different directions making the riding difficult and dangerous. By the time we reached the coast, which was an additional 40 miles, we were both pretty bushed. There were still 10 miles to go and the wind was coming out of the north directly into our faces. Al took the lead and Louie fell in behind staying close to take advantage of the draft. She tried to relieve Al several times, but her strength wasn't up to it. Finally after eight miles of pure torture we arrived at a small grocery. Two riders going the other way were already there. We had camped with them at Cromwell and had admired their homemade recumbent tandem bicycle. Of course they felt fine and were planning to cover another 50 miles. As Louie chatted, Al entered the store. He stood in the doorway trying to think of what he was doing there. He was so tired his mind had stalled. Finally he realized it was time to buy food and that's why he was there. Somehow he managed to select some things for dinner. The last two miles seemed like five, but eventually the day's riding was over. As Louie busied herself elsewhere, Al started to erect the tent. As he started to flex one of the four poles into position, it made a loud cracking noise as one of the sections split at a joining place. His despair was intensified by fatigue and he cursed himself for being careless. Upon closer inspection he found that the particular joint was shorter than the rest and didn't fit into it's socket properly, it had been only a matter of time before it split. The tent comes with a repair kit, which is a tube that covers the broken area and allows the tent to still be used. The plan was to buy a new pole in Christchurch. Al had his memories of that day and Louie remembers it as the evening we never stopped eating: snack, starter, dinner, snack.... Two very tired campers slept well that night.
Once again Chris and Julia were providing accommodation in Christchurch. Leaving the bikes behind we took the bus downtown. The primary objective was to buy a new tent pole. It was not to be. North Face does not market their tents in N.Z. and the poles are unique. The broken pole would be a pain the rest of the way, especially after a second one broke requiring some of Al's old time ingenuity, a fix that worked better than the factory supplied tube.
From Christchurch we planned to take the Alpine Express across Arthur's Pass, last of the three cross-island passes. It is strictly a tourist train leaving every morning and returning in the evening. Many passengers stay on the train for the whole round trip. Our plan was to get off at the pass, which is a national park, and spend the night. The bikes would have to travel straight through on their own. The night was spent at a youth hostel and Al was finally convinced the word youth didn't really mean anything anymore. Travelers of all ages use them all over the world. Before boarding the train the next afternoon we took a long walk in the national park identifying all the different trees.
When we retrieved the bikes in Greymouth, Louie discovered a surprise in her riding shoes, which had remained with the bikes -- a note from Meike and Marianne, they had passed through the station and recognized our bikes. We were delighted with the note, but would have preferred to see them. They had crossed the Haast and the only difficulty was a flat suffered by Meike and hiding from the sand flies. While at the campsite, we observed a Weka, one more of N.Z.'s flightless birds. It was rooting around in the gear of some young Japanese guys and seemed to be into their camera equipment. Al went into the kitchen and found a group of Japanese sitting at a table. They spoke no English so he motioned for them to follow him. He took them to the tent and showed them the bird still picking through some plastic bags. They thought it was very funny, laughed and headed back to the kitchen. They were the wrong Japanese, the bird finally wandered off.
Our arrival at Punakaiki (Pancake Rocks) just before high tide was a stroke of luck. The blow holes that provide a show of gushing water and loud booms are at their best at high tide. The entire area is made up of porous stratified rocks lying one on top of the other, thus the name pancake. It was another of Nature's free exhibitions.
The road continued along the West Coast passing through Westport, Murchison and Tapawera, ending at what was to be one of our favorite spots, Kai Teri Teri. It was Al's birthday and it was time for a rest; we stayed three days. The campground was ideally situated facing a small cove with a white sand beach. It was a great place, in spite of our initial encounter with the maintenance man. After being told to camp anywhere, we saw an unusual sight -- a picnic bench with a small square of grass just right for our tent. After erecting the tent we sat at the table in the sun reading and really feeling good about ourselves. Then, of course, something had to happen. A sour faced fellow driving a tractor pulled up and, with no attempt at courtesy, growled "You can't camp here, you're in the roadway." We looked around and by stretching our minds could see we were in sort of a right of way, but certainly not a road. Our hesitation caused the grouch to find more reason to displace us, "That table's not for sitting at." This rather absurd statement angered Al, who then shouted, "What's it for then?" This bit of intelligence seemed to escape the maintenance man so he reverted to his previous demand "You can't stay here." So we angrily gathered our gear and found a slot among the deserted caravans that probably wouldn't move for months. As we made a trip to the showers we stopped to watch two campers pitching a tent in our previous spot, but by night fall they had moved. Anyone could tell that that table wasn't for sitting at.
The campground was located on the edge of the Able Tasman National Park, maybe the most beautiful in N.Z.. A park operated tour boat offered a variety of excursions from a short drop off in the park to a total round trip. People had many ways of tramping this natural paradise, walking all the way in and out and camping in the park for several days or using the boat for some part of the trip. We opted to take a medium cruise and walk back for three hours and then catch the boat for a short trip that would terminate on the beach right in front of our campground. It was a great day and a perfect way for Al to turn 50.
In Nelson we stopped at the local brewery and obtained some of their products and a few brochures to share with our friends. We had hoped to fill our flagons but the brewery did not offer that service. What's a flagon you say? It is a two liter container normally made of plastic but sometimes glass, you would probably call it a bottle. But that doesn't sound as neat as "Fill your own flagon," which was the way we bought most of the beer we drank. Most pubs and off licenses (liquor stores) had a machine which dispensed beer. You would take your flagon, place it on the dispenser's platform, insert a small hose in the flagon and push the green button. Your flagon filled until the automatic flow stopped; there was a red button to stop the flow in emergencies. It was really neat. We used the same two flagons the whole time we were in N.Z., imagine how many bottles we saved.
The ride from Havelock to Picton was a marvelous farewell to the South Island. The back road, which had been recommended to us, climbed steeply for about two miles. It then leisurely wound it's way along the shore of Queen Charlotte Sound. An early morning mist shrouded the water below, at first, with just the peaks of rocks jutting up through it. It was a stark, yet beautiful back and white image. And then, as the sun melted the mist, the shapes above and along the water sparkled brightly with a slow emergence of color as the sun reflected off the water's surface. The entire spectacle was enjoyed with nary a pedal, as we coasted along the cliff side.
The return ferry crossing to Wellington was once again done in bright calm conditions. Stories of ferry boats being thrown from the water seemed highly unlikely, but the sea can be very dangerous in this area. It was not a disappointment that it wasn't.
A long hard unexpected steep ride lay between Lower Hutt and Masterton, where a much needed tire was purchased and mounted on Al's bike. The hard riding continued for a week as the road wound and twisted along a chain of mountains and volcanoes. Tired legs were finding it more difficult to meet the demands placed on them by the steep grades. So much so that when we saw a sign for a Gum Boot Festival in the town of Taihape, even though we had covered only 20 miles, we stopped to spend the night. At the campground we met Frank and Bretta from Holland. We hit it off and would spend the next two days together. They were traveling by car and planned to go to Australia about a month after we would go. A plan was made for us to leave them a note in the guest book, which resides on top of Ayer's Rock. (We kept the promise with some difficulty; they forgot to tell us how hard it is to get to the top of the Big Red Centre). They were nice enough to give us a ride to the festival, though none of us knew what a gum boot was let alone what you do at the festival. Gum boots are big rubber boots like the ones worn by fishermen and farmers. Everyone was wearing them, even some turkeys (in a shop window). There were the normal food stalls and craft shops with gum boot themes, but the main event was the gum boot throw, with a grand prize of a trip to Fiji. If you broke the record you could win $5,000. A TV celebrity was there to initiate the proceedings and people quickly queued up to pay 50 cents a piece to throw the boot. Louie and Frank gave it a try and neither is richer or any closer to Fiji. The whole thing was a laugh and a welcome break from our normal routine.
Three days later we were at Tongariro National Park, home of several active volcanoes. We got a spot at the campground and went to the visitors center to check out the activities. There were hikes of all varieties. A short one occupied our afternoon and a longer one to a waterfall took care of the next morning. We were in the midst of several volcanoes but couldn't see the peaks due to constant overcast. Our hope to scale one of the peaks was dashed by a continuing rain that kept everything foggy and wet. After waiting for two days with no break in sight, we decided to cut our losses and move on. The access road from the park to the main highway was only six kilometers long and down hill. It took just a few minutes to glide down to the highway where the sun shone brightly. Looking back, the mountain tops were still shrouded in mist and rain. As the mountains passed by steam vents poured smoke and ash into the sky, a sure sign of some restless activity below our feet.
On our way to Lake Taupo we stopped at the site of the last Maori resistance in N.Z.. Yes, it wasn't as peaceful as you're led to believe. There never was a general uprising or war but certain groups did put up a fight or two. Most of the Maori land was obtained through purchase or grant. However, it wasn't always clear that the seller or grantor had full right to do so. Of course, the Europeans always assumed they did. And when a few dispossessed people got mad, they were soon overwhelmed by troops -- Queen Victoria didn't mess around.
Lake Taupo is one of those places that challenges your imagination. Today it is a large almost round lake. The day we rode around it, it was very placid. 2,000 years ago it was a mountain. The lake bed is actually the caldera (crater) of a volcano that exploded around the first century. The estimates are that when it blew the amount of earth that was propelled into the atmosphere was 100 times that which was blown sky high by Mount Saint Helen's in 1980. If that doesn't astound you, read it again!
More thermal wonders awaited at Rotarua, the most famous tourist spot in N.Z.. Geysers, mud pots and all types of subterranean activity are found on a tour of the thermal area. Pretty neat, but we still like Yellowstone better; no buffalo in Rotarua.
Mount Maunganui didn't start off very well, but turned into a great stop over. At first, either because we were admiring the beautiful Norfolk Pines that line the water front or the strong wind blowing off the ocean discouraged us from riding in the right direction, we got lost and couldn't find the campground. There were two ugly trailer courts, but not the pretty motor camp we had been told about. After regrouping and trying again we found the right place, checked in and thought we were following the proper directions, even though the manager's heavily Kiwi accented English was hard to understand. The selected site was to the inland side of the mountain out of the wind. A visit to the facilities put us in a state of shock, three women were totally monopolizing the kitchen with big pots of food steaming away on the stove. It looked like they were getting ready to feed an army. Bad news, they were! Just at that moment about 40 adolescent girls appeared coming back from the beach. The ladies in the kitchen were their leaders and seemed more uncomfortable about us being there than we did. And we were real uncomfortable! Finally one of them asked, "Are you sure you're in the right part of the campground?" "We didn't know there was another part?" "Sure, it's over by the beach, and real nice." It wouldn't have had to be nice as long as it was away from all these giggling girls. It turned out to be a great spot, right along the shore, where we met an English cyclist with a smaller version of our tent. He told us all about the area including the salt water thermal baths, sometimes you wonder if N.Z. is going to boil over and melt the South Pole. Mount Maunganui isn't a real mountain, just a big hill with a great walking path to the top, which we took the next morning and enjoyed some wonderful views of the ocean, the islands and the harbour, which was full of ships, mostly Japanese, loaded with trees, not logs, but trees -- the branches were gone but that was all. Whole forests were being shipped to Japan and being paid for with used cars. Since N.Z. is a lightly industrialized nation it is forced to sell its resources to pay its way. And because they drive on the same side of the road as the Japanese, it is a great market to dump old Toyotas and Hondas. You can tell it isn't one of our favorite subjects. But we did enjoy the area and took a very relaxing thermal bath.
The extra day's rest was taken to prepare us for the Coromandel Peninsula, which contains the steepest hills in the country. It is also considered to have the best scenery. To traverse the entire peninsula would have taken several weeks and our time was growing short, so we made a small circuit of Waihi, Whangamatata and Tairua before boarding a bus in Thames, which carried us to Auckland (don't you just love those names). The summer was drawing to a close and most of the small resort towns were abandoned, leaving the beaches and views as advertised. But the thing Al will always remember isn't that nice. As we approached Whangamatata, pronounced Fongamatata in Maori, his front tire went soft. There were only three more kilometers to go, so he pumped it up hoping to make it to the campground. One kilometer later there was a loud bang as his rear tire blew out.The tire was worn through and the tube was ruined. Trying to push the bike the rest of the way was hopeless. So the bike had to be unloaded and one tube patched and the other tire replaced with a spare that had just been purchased. We'd had two flats on the same day before but never at the same time, a new record which can't be broken.
A quick night's stay in Auckland was followed by a bus ride to Kaitaia at the top of the North Island. Since there is only one highway, we had elected to pedal back to complete our kiwi tour. Staying at the Kaitaia youth hostel we met a nice group of people from many countries and of many ages. We all went on the tour of 90 Mile Beach that took us to the very northern tip of the island, where one can watch the coming together of the Pacific Ocean and Tasman Sea. Because of the differences in the tides, it was a spectacular performance with large waves colliding causing great spouts of water to leap into the air. 90 Mile Beach itself is not that long (more like 90 km) but it is very impressive. One can stand on the beach, which is over a mile wide at low tide, and look in both directions without seeing either end. The speeds obtained by the drivers as they race down the smooth hard packed sand is a little more exciting than some of us cared for, but all part of the experience. A stop at a huge sand dune provided a chance to scramble up and slide back down, real dry land skiing. The pipis we dug and the mushrooms gathered at the guide's secret meadow contributed to a harmonious group meal prepared back at the hostel.
It was time to head for Auckland for the last time, but we could still fit in a stop at Russell, located in the Bay of Islands, a mecca for sailors and wind surfers. Two bikes and riders was about all the small ferry could handle, but it was easier than the 30 mile ride around the cove to Russell, which isn't an island but a spit of land which curves out into the bay. The good news was the campground had a large kitchen with TV, because the bad news was it rained for four days. A planned sail boat trip never materialized and all we accomplished was a walk out to a famous flag pole located on the extreme end of a narrow point from which we could see Waitangi, site of the treaty signing which made the Maori subjects of Queen Victoria and added N.Z. to her empire. The wind did all it could to blow us off the point and if it hadn't been for a friendly kiwi giving us a ride, we would have been drenched by a cloud burst. Did I say summer was over?
Our last night of camping was at Whangarei Heads just north of the capital city. The most memorable thing about it was the world's most complicated toaster. Throughout our tour we had encountered all variety of toasters from the 1940's models, which required manually turning the bread, to one, two, four and eight slice pop-ups, which normally had a lesser number of working elements than slots. But this thing was amazingly involved. It was four feet long, the bread passed through the whole length and was dumped in a basket at the end. For the first several passes nothing seemed to happen, but that was because it was still warming up and the only way to keep it going was to pass the bread through again and again. It took 15 minutes to toast four slices. We would have quit, but another camper turned up with bread, so we stuck it out. If there had been 50 for breakfast it would have been real efficient, but any smaller number was a real waste. Thankfully N.Z. uses hydro power. For real efficiency you needed to see the kiwi hot water boiler that exists in every campground. It hung on the wall and looked like a standard hot water heater, pipes and all, except it had a spigot on the bottom and a pull chain on the side. To operate it, you first checked the gauge to insure you had enough water. It held several gallons and if you filled it, it would take several minutes to bring it to a boil. Filling was accomplished by means of a valve next to the gauge. You then pulled the chain, which started the heating element. When the water boiled the steam would cause the whistle to sound and you could then extract your cup or pot of water via the tap on the side. This process led to several different social behaviors. One was that everybody who entered the kitchen, especially in the morning, pulled the chain. So the breakfast period was punctuated with the shrill shriek of the whistle, which could become annoying, especially if it was one of those that would sound until someone gave it a punch. Then: to fill or not to fill? As mentioned, if you filled it up, the next person might have a long wait, but if you didn't there might not be enough water for the following person. And worse of all would be to take water when someone else had pulled the chain. Sharing a kitchen with several strangers from different social backgrounds was a never ending experience, some good and some not so pleasant.
The last day of April found us at the Auckland Airport freight terminal making arrangements to ship the bikes back to Los Angeles. Taking the bikes to Australia would be a burden. Because the distances are too great to comfortably cover by bike, we purchased one month bus passes and planned to tour the east side of Oz. Lugging the bikes around Oz would be loads of hassle. United Airlines wanted to charge us $400 to take the bikes back with us to the U.S., therefore it appeared it would be cheaper and less trouble to ship them air freight. (It wasn't, another of the many bad experiences we have had with shipping firms; there is always a hidden expense somewhere.) As we waited for the motel shuttle to pick us up and take us back for our last night in N.Z. Al wrote the last entry into his log book in which he had religiously recorded our daily mileage for almost two years. It was "END OF AN ERA."
The distance by bicycle is easy: 18,248.2 miles (Al did count them all). By train, bus, plane, car and boat, at least as much again. We visited four countries, 30 states, 30 U.S. national parks, 3 Canadian national parks and a few more in Mexico and New Zealand.
The number of tires and tubes worn out or ruined was about 12 a piece. We replaced two chains a piece, one wheel a piece, Al had two spokes replaced and his center chain ring twice. We lost one sleeping bag, one boot and one guide book. Al's gloves were stolen as was some food.
We met hundreds of people, the large majority of whom were very nice to us and often helped us.
If you remember that far back, the title of this work is "The farther you travel, the closer you get to yourself." So it seems fitting that we attempt to answer that question also. The narrative was written in a mix of first person plural and third person singular, which seemed to be the most appropriate way to share the story. However, this final part will be first person singular since we got closer in our own ways.
Actually, the first line of the story tells most of it . Louie gives me credit for the whole idea, but of course she did most of the planning and research to make it possible. But it was my dream and it came true. I have dreamt of being or doing many things, not unlike most people. Any sporting achievement from pro-sports to the Olympics was always high on the list. Our trip was an athletic achievement which has impressed many people and to finish it at age 50 was certainly something to be proud of. I cannot look at a map of North America or New Zealand and not feel good about what we did. In many ways the trip revitalized a confidence that the last few years of corporate life had eroded. After three years of frustration trying to accomplish different tasks only to be drug down by the apathy of others, I began to wonder whether it was me or the bureaucracy. But on my bike there was no one to get me over the next mountain but myself. And I (we) got over them constantly achieving and often exceeding the objective of the day, despite wind, rain, snow and mechanical problems. That restored my faith in me! And reenforced my love and admiration for Louie.
This story maybe the biggest change in my attitude toward things. Who would have imagined me as a writer? Certainly none of my English teachers or secretaries. But some where hidden inside of me was a strong desire to express myself by writing. The long hours of pedaling gave me a lot of time to think and I found myself, first "imaging" things and then almost unconsciously forming the thoughts into a story and when the story was complete, it seemed the only way to exorcise it from my brain was to put it on paper. As you may or may not know, this is not my first attempt nor my last. I now have a need to write and it has become a most fulfilling experience.
When we broke ties with the average life style, I believed we could live simply. "Look, Al, no keys! no car! no house! no mortgage, no car insurance, no telephone, no bills...." However, simplicity isn't all it cracks up to be. For example, washing clothes every day is simple. But, so is buying enough underwear to get through a week and then go to a laundromat. It's best to be able to do both because travel, weather, fate change everything. So now, are we "simplifying" or complicating our lives by carrying more clothes on our bikes? The same with eating: restaurant or cook our own? Why do we have to eat in a restaurant when we want to be independent? But, then why do we have to carry a kitchen with us and all the food stuffs as well when we could easily(?) stop along the way for a prepared meal? And then there is accommodation: tent vs. motel.
I continued exploring this Thoreau induced need to simplify (even he went into town to buy nails rather than make his own). The verb "to have" became identical to "to be responsible for." Having little meant being responsible for less. That's simple, right? Maybe, but not so desirable. Camping taught me that people live indoors for very good reasons. Having warm dry shelter is more of a necessity than I gave it credit for. Also, having friends is more of a blessing; at times I take these for granted (including my best friend riding by my side). Having good health is a major responsibility. A good night's sleep, a healthy appetite, the ability to just get out and explore are all results of "simply" keeping fit.
When I promised to write "my bit" for the book my mind was drowning in thoughts I wanted to share. What is it I have learned about myself? Well, here goes. First of all I was surprised to find that I haven't changed much; in character maybe a little, and attitudes yes and no. After all, if experience does not temper our outlook on things, what good is it? More surprisingly I discovered that I have an ego! This was a real shock. Me? Quiet easy going me? But, yes, I do catch myself forcing my will on others, especially Al, since he is my significant other and usually only companion. Next, what I found I love to do is scavenge: foraging mushrooms, berries, herbs as well as re-using cast off goods. I would love to learn more self-sufficiency, but is there some better way to do it other than what we are doing now? To go along with that, I enjoy physical activity more than mental activity. Not that I don't think at all, but being active entertains me in ways that other people get from their pastimes. I would like to be able to sit down and read, but I only do this if I'm physically tired or trapped in a waiting room, or if I'm researching our travels.
In response to, "Do I miss work?" the answer will always be the same, "I did that. Now I'm doing something else." And right now, that is travelling. It's true that it's nice to have bartering power, like money, and now that we don't work we can't just spend loads of money and then go make more. But the pressure of achieving a title or earning millions has at last gone right over my head. After all, for me "success" is my happiness and "wealth" is my health. Bicycle touring is an excellent means of being healthy and happy, but no one mode of travel is perfect. As we have proven, bicycle travel is efficient even when it comes to other forms of transport like bus, train, car, plane, boat, the bike can go along. However, in bad weather it is neither fun, safe, or healthy, which totally violates our triangle creed: If it's not fun, why do it? If you feel unsafe, then it's not fun. If it could easily injure you or make you ill, then it's not safe. But the biggest let down on our bike journey is the list of side-trips never made. If we were to ride 10 miles down a lane to look at something, it would mean another 10 miles back. And if there was no place to camp within 20 miles of there, then we would be planning a very long riding day with no time to enjoy what it was we wanted to see. Other side trips were missed because we would have to leave the bikes somewhere, hopefully safe, and then find a way back to them later. This doesn't sound difficult, but in reality it was at times and forced us to not consider other adventures at this time. Another frustration is not having information at your fingertips. I carry as much research material as I can, but it never includes things like, "What kind of tree is that?" or "Is this mushroom edible?" And then there's, "Hey, there was a neat festival here 2 days ago?" and "Why did we come here???" But the slogan goes something like, "Wherever you go, there you are," which we have translated to, "We're here, it's here, let's do it!" The "it" is what tends to evade us. These things added up to bike travel being a great way to travel, but not the perfect way. We are still searching for a better way, but are happy knowing we can enjoy trying lots of other options: camper van, canoeing, buses, planes... who knows what?
Our successful escape into homelessness plus completing the first leg of our journey along the Pacific Coast right on schedule was so satisfying that our life of travel really took off. The map we drew to show our friends what we planned to do for the next two years was also realized. By then, however, travelling strictly by bike was showing its limitations. We didn't need much more than we had, rather we needed better protection from rain, cold, animals, nasty areas of travel and bad weather. So, we bought a VW camper. It's perfect for us, except that now it, too, is more responsibility. But Alaska, Costa Rica, Scandinavia, Eastern Europe, Turkey, and Central Europe are all getting close inspection by bicycle with van as a home base. After our tour of Europe is completed, maybe we'll take the canoe trips. Maybe we'll park the van and travel around the world with backpacks reaching the other areas that are not readily accessible by van or bike. A big concern that cannot be conquered is that of the unknown. However, preparing for the worst and hoping for the best has gotten us through many beautiful, interesting, eye-opening areas of the world. Our ignorance keeps us away from many places as much as our sanity does. We listen more to what other travellers have to say about places we've never been. There is so much of everything to experience -- why not do it!