Friday 28 December 2012

A deserted and dry Christmas

I can’t seem to get going?, I had said I wanted to be in Mexico for the end of the world, the end was drawing neigh and I was still in Denver and my ammunition of excuses not to leave was far from exhausted; replenished even, by the predicted blizzard snow storm on Wednesday.
I couldn’t leave before it came as my tires had not arrived; I fitted them whilst snowed into the garage. Wednesday evening alone in the house I could feel myself mentally preparing for the transition to road life. It’s hard to put my finger on any specific part of the transformation but I slept on the couch that night by the embers of the log burner and at first light I knew I would be leaving today. Well rather than lose face I knew I was going to try and leave today, outside the garage door snow had blown 8’’ deep and drifted across steep and winding drive way.
Feet down, I slithered to the dirt road; I know already I was committed. I could freeze here waiting for the thaw or carry on because there was no way I was going to make it back up again. It was my first trip with the bike loaded. Double soft saddle bags the smaller ones as tank bags the bigger ones as insufficient panniers. They were freely available and the saving was necessary. Baptism by ice for my virgin dual sport tires, which one of the 2 was this? The main road was packed snow, the first 7 miles I was not anticipating the journey to come, just extreme concentration, no wondering thoughts of destinations other then the fuel station. The first fill up, my boots already encrusted with snow. I could see the questions in the eyes of the man behind the till but he thought better than to ask and I had nothing but intentions to tell. On to town for some last minute supplies, I didn’t even bother to remove my tank bag of valuables, passport, money and big fat sealable camera. It was too cold to be weary to cold to thieve. Now to the highway and south, lots of soutnness is needed. The snowy white planes turned to their pre precipitation brown and soon only the Rocky Mountains on my right showed any signs of winter. ‘Well that was easy’ I thought. But I thought too soon. Temperature dropped again an in the town of Trinidad a name that suggested I should be able to feel my toes if not touch them, I needed a warm up. I asked the filling attended to recommend a restaurant, she did and I reluctantly took the recommendation back down the cobbled stone main street authentic and enhanced with extra slippery packed snow. The restaurant opens daily from 7 till 9, 7 days a week but closed today. I ended up in designer cafe where yummy mummies cooed over babies and don’t bat an eye at the price of the pretentious food. Pastry with something organic and inadequate wrapped inside and given a multi syllable name and multi figure price. I settled on a $4 hot chocolate it was as disappointing as a mother half my age and was cold before I got to the bottom of my wide diameter but shallow cup of regretful purchase. Feet still cold back on the bike. Let’s try more of that soutnness again. Into New Mexico I was hoping for a drop in altitude but I would have had to bare left for that to happen. I didn’t want diversions I wanted fast distance and a more direct route; I stayed on the highway, then the stupid southerly highway turned. I was riding into the sunset and then the red sky was on my left, what the fuck? I looked at the map in the tank bag but with my shades still on it was futile. I gained altitude, lost temperature, my heated waistcoat and grips had been doing there thing all day, resulting in me being able to ride all day. Now with the loss of light and a sense of heading back to the frozen north I was feeling the coldness like I was fully exposed. I was immersed in it, all encompassed, and willed the highway to turn through the next gap in the ridge that hid the last of the evening light from me. When it eventually did it was too late, I was frozen to the point of pain. Santa Fe was an hour beyond my extended discomfort zone. Off the highway and the first red light, I unclamped my fist from my left grip, removed my glove lifted my visor of misted short shivering breaths, and took off my shades, it’s still dark. The last 2 miles to a motel were not a pleasant delayed gratification but an agony of endurance, it would have been so much easier if I had a ground floor room and the card key had actually unlocked the door. The 2nd trip to reception did nothing to warm me up, ‘that's frustrating’ observed a bystander who innocence was questionable. The loaded sprint up and down the stairs didn’t get the blood flowing. It’s not a damp cold, not an in¬¬-your-bones crippling cold, just a blast, freeze-dried kind of cold and it didn’t last long once I closed the door on the night and let the heater rumble its way to thaw. My feet still cramped from the curling of my toes in a physically impossible attempt to retract them into my feet whilst the freezing air had turned the wind-chill in my Alpinestars to below bearable. They weren’t stars of this alpine environment. The next morning they still hurt but it was from strain rather than frost bite. More southness yesterday has to have been the worst day. I always said 2 cold days and I’ll be OK.
Down towards Roswell although I haven’t the slightest interest in aliens or UFO's. The windswept planes blew the snow across the road and the blue sky let the sun sparkle a million glistening crystals to pierce the scratched polarization of my Oakley’s, that were forced uncaringly into a pocket last night at a red light. I took the truck route to avoid downtown and any more red lights and the feeble displays of little green men. I was warming up, a blood red sunset as I entered Texas and I could switch off my waistcoat and stop for photos.
But I’m not going to camp, not tonight, one more night of luxury, well for the price I paid I would have expected it but all I got was sleaze I walked to a truck stop, a once familiar part of my life. Impatient big diesels ticking over in line for the fuel pumps. I scurry between them like a rat round wheelie bins and into the fluorescent shop, for heat lamp dehydrated pizza and chicken wings of battery decent. This hotel never sleeps, doors bang all night, cars honk their affirmation they are remotely locked and loud voices move to slowly outside my door. It never seemingly ceases, and my dreams are distressing and unstable, ex’s and attractions I thought I’d forgotten about but it seems the file still exists, accessible in a subconscious sleep deprived night, alluring and dangerous. The world didn’t end last night, so much for my Mayan party; I was awake all night in a Motel 6 that felt like a Texas whore house. A new day a new beginning the next solstice is 182 days away. What did I miss out on last night apart from sleep? Other than birthdays I’ll party when I choose to, not when the calendar tells me to. I'm obstinate like that, but it avoids the crowds. I eeek out the morning waiting for the temperature to rise. As I take another load to my bike a ‘fellow biker’ asks of my destination, he has a Russian ‘girl pal’ with him, wants to ride Siberia, ‘have you ever?’ Well actually... he can’t believe me but the mention of Ullan Ude to his pillion and a map in my book removes all doubt. I can’t help it; I haven’t mentioned it for nearly 2 days. Well I’ll never see them again.
Mexican cleaners stand by their trolleys outside my door. Turns out I passed through a time zone and I'm an hour later then I thought. Onto a lonely road that leads to the international boarder.
800 miles and I can revert to fingerless gloves. I stop on a silent road to readjust my multiple layers of clothing, I've entered southness. The bike encrusted in salt, the luggage thrown on with numb fingers, all this can be rectified now, well soon. A nasty little town with over priced fuel and a shitty attitude to match, because there is no other choice. It has echoes of home, the place is called Marathon, I expect it will be changing to snickers sometime in the future. And then down to a national park, Big Bend, imaginatively named by the shape of its border with Mexico. I have to slow down now, now its warmer, I have to get back into road mode, remember it’s the journey, the moment the immersion. Slow it down and take it all in. $10 and I'm a tourist again. So I better go to the visitors centre I suppose, get the lay of the land. As I pull into the car park so does another bike, its Bob, Bob has been riding this park every winter for 19 years, he marks my map with the best off road trails and camp grounds and with that the transformation has occurred, I am synchronised again back in the rhythm of the road. Took 3 days and 1000 miles but now I'm right again. As I apply for my back country camping permit I'm told there is only 1 hour and 40 minutes of day light left, where did the day go? I wanted to eat in the lodge. Instead I get a frozen burrito from the fuel station. I don't have my glasses, how long do I put it in the microwave for? Long enough to buy a tin of ravioli, some water, and kettle chips, another healthy dinner awaits.
And I ride, off the road, on to the dirt, between the rocks, round the hills, to my individual desert camping spot, its perfect. Solitary, silent and I have a sunset to myself. Did the ranger who booked my back country permit read me? Who I was? My desired location? or did he just want me out of the way? Like a hostess seating me in a roadside restaurant, I don't care this is just what I was looking for.
You couldn’t create desert like this in your theme garden with cactus and succulents, tumble weed and the odd trace of a past civilization. Your B&Q sand would lap up to conifers or an interwoven fence, not infinite distance and daunting mountains of red rock, nothing is as authentic as nature. When the distant desert dusk fades behind the biggest mountains, a half moon casts me a shadow and now I'm ready, ready to stop and enjoy, enjoy not being on the road anymore. Utter silence, too few people witness this, the sound of the blood rushing in your ears. The sound of nothing else, no breeze, no crickets, no planes over head no distant traffic, just stillness. It can be scary, 360 degrees of land that has not been changed by modernization. The human mark is minimal, a single light 30 miles away is visible, actually it’s really annoying, bloody inconsiderate neighbours, and I may have to go have a word tomorrow. This place won an award for the darkest sky anywhere in the mainland US; strangely the trophy is quite bright. My camping stove had not been used in 11 months, it still has fuel in it, impressively it still has pressure too, I have forgotten the knack and the hairs on the back of my hand singe with a sickening smell. I boil water for tea, I don't fancy that ravioli now. I'm in my sleeping bag at 6.45 on a Saturday night, I don't care, there is no credibility here to lose, time and days are irrelevant out here. I just wonder what I’ll do for the 12 hours of darkness... sleep is what I did, undisturbed sleep. First light spans the horizon like a shallow rainbow outside my open tent, just where I anticipated it to appear, it’s hard to get perspective on it, could be a head light, or the top of an illuminated dome. But it’s just dawn, just the first evidence of it and its very exciting, to new to miss, to vast to view from my tent so I run up a hill to take it all in.
When the sun and hot chai has taken the chill away, blood, ink and thoughts flow more freely. As I write my diary I hear the rush or wind and look up to see it comes from the wings of an inquisitive crow as it glides over my head. It’s really quite loud before being replaced by the sound of silence.
That’s the sound before we messed it all up, this is a still land, and it can still be found. I don't think I want to leave it for a while. If I had demons they would surely come out to play in a place like this, but I don't, nothing to bad seems to be surfacing. The occasional embarrassing memory, recollection, released from suppression and the song in my head gets spontaneously sung out loud to repress the recounting and cringing. I ride, deciding an unattended tent in this deserted area is safe but not secure I take the trails and my valuables take a pounding, lap tops and SLR’s were not designed for this battering but better broken in my possession than taken in full working order in my absents.
Miles of uninhabited deserted desert roads, then the paved road leads to the tourist sites; I suppose I better have a look and stock up at the all you can eat salad bar. The calling to my silent wilderness is deafening and I happily leave humanity behind. The indecision of the road is back; at my camp tonight my quandary is am I hungry? No. Do I want to carry the ravioli on the bike? No. Do I have an answer to this ridicules dilemma? I could stay another night. I suppose I better see what I'm missing is there somewhere better I could be? How can this satisfaction stay if I don't prove to myself I've found the best of the desert? When I relocate to the a river camping spot, the bike is now hanging like a Christmas tree with gifts of cold weather clothes, it’s not an pretty site, I need to work on this.
This evening the bond with my bike began. We ride up to nearly 6000 feet, its cold but the west side of the park I discover is the most popular for a reason, it’s by far the most scenic. I light is going and it’s a long way back, well 40 miles, every ride out is a minimum of 70 miles the place is so vast and the scenery so stimulation the distances disappear in a constant stream of thoughts and sights. However these 40 miles back I will feel every one of them now the temperature has dropped. However its one of those rare occasions when you warm up as you ride. I drop 4000 feet and the sky ahead is pink, the formations silhouetted against the sky, I have no luggage and the road is smooth and empty, the wind is warm so is the road and the tyres. I lean it more than I've had the opportunity to before it’s quite possibly the best Christmas Eve ride ever. I sing a Bruce Dickenson song out loud even my voice sounds good this evening.
I meet the neighbours, this popular river location means I have to share with 2 others. They live in there camper full time, in the evening they invite me for Xmas eve ordurvs. It’s good to have a little company, keeps the weirdness away, well I try my hardest. They have, they tell me 4 levels of protection, air horn, car alarm, mace and level 4 is a machete. I consider mine, a Swiss army knife with multiple torturing devices from toothpick to corkscrew never underestimate the pain of tweaking tweezers, yeah be afraid, ya better run on home to ya mama if ya know what’s good for ya. And the ravioli lives to see another day. Christmas day perhaps. There is a reason people like me stay in a desert this time of year. I bloody hate Christmas. Hate summer heat and no one minds, dislike autumn leaves and it’s just fine, moan about November rain and people empathise but say you can’t stand Christmas and all you get is ‘bah humbug’ well there ain’t no humbugging out here, ha. So it would seem there is nothing significant that appeals to my being on this date. But deny it as I try, I still have some obligations and have to go to a place of reception. The park of the recreational vehicles. And the chatter of their inhabitants. It’s not my favourite environment. I have to sit in the laundry room to charge batteries and get Wi-Fi. Spinning machines with warn bearings screech they dilapidated displeasure and still the inhabitants talk above the noise. Children scream as they are taken to the showers, and my tranquil existence has been infiltrated and eradicated. Replaced with resentment and repulsion. I leave with loathing for everything, people, location and date. I go ride some trails but the water falls off my bike. I go back to my tent but take the wrong road, where did my satisfaction go. I doze in the sun, calm, I need calm. But some inherent instinct is telling me to do something significant with this day. I ride, unaware that my destination was the lodge, for the all you can eat dinner. It was awful, based solely on indulging Americans in their shallow need for quantity over quality and the unignorable conversations that penetrate my foul mood match the offerings, bland and unnecessarily excessive. I hear a lot but no one is saying anything. The two redeeming features of the meal are the stolen creamers for me morning chai and the use of a porcelain toilet. So this is Christmas. The night is cold, my water freezes, my dawn climb rewards me with a beautiful sunrise but the chill in my hands is saying more southness is needed it’s time to go to Mexico.
One more day of discovering canyons the sides of which divide countries, it would be all the more impressive in the right light, in warmer times and with better ambiance. But the domestic row of a family on the vista trail echoes off the walls, all this yelling just for a photo, and what memories will that photo bring. I take a different path, I always have.
I come across an old forgotten dwelling which once housed a family who would no doubt say all I've experienced here is nothing compared to the lives they lived here. Before there was an all you can eat salad bar, entry charges and convenient paving to vista points. But the silence remains the same (most of the time). Back at camp I run over hills to photograph another stunning sunset.
I'm getting in touch with the beauty of the desert, the plants and occasional wildlife. I could spend more time here but it’s too cold for comfort again tonight. It’s time for the ravioli and no desert.
I think I feel the need for a taco and cerveza its been a very dry week.