the tale – page 7

DAY THIRTY FIVE – WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 04, 2009

(Furnace Creek to Stovepipe Wells – 24 miles)

Last night, I fell asleep to the sound of western fiddle music and singing. This morning, I awake to a less desirable resonance of air molecules.

The precise time I cannot say for sure, as I opted out of the societal practice of watch-wearing over twenty years ago, but since my body’s sleep cycle has been operating on the setting and rising of the sun for about five weeks now, my reckoning estimates it is about 1:00 AM. This will be confirmed later as the night turns to light, and by the ensuing activities I perform during that time.

Jack likes to eat, so on the evenings we have dined together, I tend to overindulge on my caloric intake. The pizza dinner I consumed six hours ago was no exception. It turned out Jack wasn’t all that hungry for some reason, so yours truly ended up eating a lion’s share of the huge pizza. It was either that or it would have been tossed out, and seeing as how my dad persistently taught me as a child never to waste food (something about starving people overseas), my duty was to see every last crumb disappear from that pizza pan, which it most assuredly did.

So here’s the scene: At one o’clock in the morning, a time when I should be in deep REM sleep, my mind comes to consciousness. I am receiving pressing physiological signals from my body that an immediate trip to the restroom over at the visitor center would be a wise investment of my time. Additionally, due to the warm temperatures in these parts, many people in trailers and motorhomes have their windows slightly or fully open.

The bedroom window of the trailer that is only five feet from my tent is open. The man inside is involuntarily exhibiting a prominent air inhalation impediment, to such a degree that I find myself focusing on it, and would likely not be able to return to a full sleep anytime soon.

First things first, however. The snoring can wait. I have to go!

On go my daytime clothes and boots, and off through the moonlit night I speed north. Darn, this distance hasn’t seemed such a long walk before. At this time of night, no one else is up, so I have the whole place to myself, which I definitely prefer anyway. This is a good time to think, so I contemplate my situation.

These trailers and motorhomes have become a steel city, tightly imprisoning my modest REI tent in what would otherwise be a tranquil setting. I have always been one to steer clear of over populated locales when in the backcountry, and this experience is further teaching this to me in spades. What happened to my lone nights out on the road, where my stealth tricycle camps were visited only be a rare wild critter now and then?

There’s no way I will get back to sleep with that man’s persistent guttural gasps slicing through the thin fabric of my tent like fingernails on a chalkboard. I could try making some noises to jar him into silence, but that is not worthy of my time.

The moon has just passed the full stage by one day. It is essentially bathing the desert landscape with a full beam of white light even tonight. The spherical cratered orb sits watchfully in the eastern half of the sky, not quite overhead at this early hour. Air temperature is pleasant and balmy, only faintly chilled, but not requiring a jacket for a quick walk to the men’s room. A month ago, I took a night trike ride from the tiny burg of Wilbur to Glide in Oregon. It was a satisfying experience despite the colder temperatures in the mountains. This night in Death Valley is much warmer.

I will strike out now!

On my walk back to the tent, I realize that stealth maneuvering will be essential in this restrictive situation. Sleeping people surround me. Jack is in his tent the other side of his Jeep, only feet away. Just like out of an Arnold Schwarzenegger action movie, I must covertly break down my camp and escape unobserved.

Fully awake, I stand and assess my camp in the shade provided by the huge tamarisk trees bordering my tent’s south edge. I am dark enough that I blend in, and only become obvious to the eye if I stand in the direct moonlight. On the other side of these trees is a small paved parking lot for the golf course, which has sections of moonlight on the asphalt.

Breaking down the tent where it stands is not a good idea. First, it sits in the dirt, and second, I am just too close to my neighbors to be making any noise whatsoever. I have to get all my gear over onto the little paved area. I will start with the trike and trailer, for they will make a handy place to set other gear. The paved area is only about thirty feet south, but the thickness of the trees and a downed log prohibit moving the trike directly there. I am able to step over the log, but lifting the trike over it while partially loaded will not work, and would make a lot of noise in the process.

My only solution is to silently walk the trike and trailer there, which requires me to make a large arc around Jack’s Jeep, his tent, and the monster motorhome on the other side of his tent, where there is an opening through which people can easily walk. I attach the trailer to the trike and begin pulling the ten-foot train by the trike’s front derailleur post. This is awkward and tedious on this sandy surface, as I must hunch over to reach the trike while walking backwards, but I creep along ever so slowly to avoid any sound that might give away my clandestine mission.

Silent passage indeed!

At long last, the trike and trailer are now sitting in the middle of the little parking area, but since no one will be here this early, I am not worried. The 5:00 AM lawn mowers won’t be in the area for another three hours or more. All that now sits at my campsite is my tent, still loaded with my sleeping bag and gear.

Gently, I slip back over the log, slowly unzip the tent, and ready all my gear for transport to the trike and trailer. Quietly, I take each piece over in several trips, and set it on the trailer top and recumbent trike seat. I work the six stakes, which have held my tent securely during the high winds, out of the ground. Fortunately, there is no wind tonight! Carrying them in my hands requires care, as the short aluminum spikes make sounds if struck together unthinkingly.

The snoring man, only six feet from me in the trailer, yet persists with his raucous breathing, and there is no sign of stirring from Jack’s tent. So far, so good. There is still plenty of moonlight left. I can sleep when I’m dead.

Right now, I have a goal to attain my freedom. The tent is empty, so I pick it up fully assembled and inaudibly carry it over the log and onto the pavement. The beauty of these modern tents is that they can readily be moved when necessary. Now, I break it down farther away from the sleepers, and on relatively clean pavement, which allows me to shake any dirt and twigs out of it that may have accumulated over the past weeks.

With the panniers fully loaded and now on the trike, and the trailer ready to go, I make one final stealth inspection of my camp to ensure that I have all the gear. Boldly, I affix a short note to Jack’s tent, letting him know of my plans:

TUESDAY, MID-NIGHT

JACK: WENT TO STOVEPIPE WELLS. WILL GET A ROOM AND CLEAN UP. SEE YOU THERE.

- STEVE

My little home for the past two weeks is now history. I am sad to see it go, but I eagerly anticipate my liberty from this stifling desert motorhome park. Crowds are not my cup of tea. I seek the wilderness ways of wandering. Even though I paid for another night, my serenity is worth more. I wonder what Gene, Wanda, and Bill will think if they notice my absence later this morning, although they are now so busy with the 49er festivities that they may not detect my tiny tent is missing from the sea of steel campers.

Atop my head goes the foreign legion styled cap that I wore to Badwater, for there is no traffic in Death Valley at night. The helmet is in my trunk. No jacket is necessary, as my pedaling will soon keep me sufficiently warm in the cool night air. There is no evidence that my midnight madness has affected anyone here. My mission is nearly complete as I enter the Q’s cockpit and noiselessly pedal out onto the highway.

Arnold would be proud.

I have been so mentally engaged in my covert activities that I even find myself checking my rearview mirrors as I pedal north from Furnace Creek, as if someone might actually attempt to stop and capture me. Circumstances reveal that success is now mine, as I glide silently northwest towards Stovepipe Wells, only 24 miles distant.

* * * * * * *

A trike pilot could not ask for better touring conditions. When I was visiting the visitor center after first getting up, I noticed the large outdoor thermometer the National Park Service has attached to the brick wall. It disclosed 62 degrees Fahrenheit … cool enough that vigorous pedaling feels great, but warm enough that there is no unpleasant chilling of my skin. The moon is so bright that I do not need my headlight to see the road ahead. I keep the blinking red LED lights illuminated to my rear in case a rare car happens to overtake me, as well as the retina-frying marine rescue strobe on the back of my trailer. Neither of these rear lights can I notice from my cockpit, unless I turn my head rearward to either side, in which case I can see the desert creosote bushes briefly illuminated by the strobe as it fires.

Deserts are magical places in the dark. I have grown up spending countless nights out in this Mojave region, and what I grew to love as a kid even now mesmerizes me as a 58 year old man. Words cannot serve justice to the feelings swirling inside my head, particularly this year when I am moving silently, only nine inches from the roadbed, in a vehicle like no other. This tricycle has proven to be a grand mode of travel, opening doors to fresh, never before known experiences that demand my continued vigorous participation. Not only is my body being well prepared for the centenarian years that lie ahead by pedaling instead of driving, but it is so completely fun to move down the road in this manner, while not contributing toxins in my wake.

I’m having a blast out here … all by myself!

Water offloading stops are not an issue at night. I can see that no car is coming for miles in these circumstances. Stretching my legs allows me to just stand motionless and totally appreciate the wild world around me. There are no sounds of internal combustion engines. There are no motorhomes and house trailers out here. This is indescribable freedom from the scourge of sprawling humanity that even finds its way into the depths of Death Valley on occasion.

My lowest gears are not needed on this ride. My net elevation gain from camp to Stovepipe Wells will be only about 200 feet over the course of 24 miles, which is nothing compared to what I’ve been through so far, and what is yet to come this Friday. I am easily able to maintain my midrange and highest gearing during the ride, thereby ensuring swift progress in the moonlight on Highway 190. As the night begins to wane, automobile traffic begins to appear, but I can count the total number of cars before sunrise on my two hands.

The highway is at least temporarily mine, and I ride in the middle of my lane as I did all the years I drove cars. As I round the bend where the road to Scotty’s Castle intersects this road, and begin my westerly leg towards Stovepipe, the eastern sky is lightening as the Earth rotates into the first stages of yet another day in eastern California.

Approaching the Devil’s Cornfield, the sun finally is illuminating Tucki Mountain, a gigantic landmark at the southern edge of Stovepipe Wells Village that is seen for miles in many directions. Arrowweed bushes abound on this vast stretch of ground, taking on the appearance of corn shocks. Soil erosion is a factor in their growth pattern. Ancient American Indians have used this plant to make arrow shafts, hence its unique name. Much of the cornfield is across from the sand dunes, south of Highway 190, east of Stovepipe Wells.

I can now clearly see my morning destination ahead, with 21 miles behind me and only about three miles to go. Bob Eichbaum was the fellow responsible for this little desert oasis, Death Valley’s first tourist resort, and built a toll road to it in 1926. The toll road was his idea of paying for the road’s construction, and then having a continued income stream in addition to his resort. He was one of the first to see the promise of tourist dollars, and capitalized on the idea. The location was originally called Bungalette City (Bungalow City by some). At a mid-park location, Stovepipe Wells affords great views of the nearby sand dunes, and is just a stone’s throw from Mosaic Canyon, Grotto Canyon, The Devil’s Cornfield, and Burned Wagons Point. It is also the stepping-off place for Cottonwood and Marble Canyons.

To my right are the Mesquite sand dunes, now bathed in early sunlight as the full moon yet hovers to the west above the northern Panamint Mountains. Mister moon and senior sun now share the sky. There is a fleeting pinkish aura about the mountains and dunes in this new day’s light, a phenomenon some folks call alpenglow. The swarm of tourists out here are missing all this majestic natural splendor, still securely asleep in their metal boxes.

I am happy to have made my Furnace Creek getaway under cover of darkness.

Mesquite Flat sand dunes are the ones most people see and associate with Death Valley National Park, although there are many more dunes elsewhere, some of which are quite a bit higher. These centrally located dunes are easy hiking for many visitors. Bob Eichbaum drove tourists around these dunes in the 1920s, and told them the tall tale of a lost whiskey shipment buried out in the dunes somewhere. Stashed ahead of time for the enactment, the driver would suddenly stop the tourist vehicle, jump out, and dig up a whiskey bottle, proclaiming they had found part of the lost shipment.

The source for all this sand is the surrounding mountains to the west and northwest. The Cottonwoods are the in the northern portion of the mighty Panamint Range. The sand grains in this dune field are quartz and feldspar, and began as much larger pieces of stone before erosive Aeolian Processes had their way with them. As rain in the mountains sends flash floods down canyons, rocks tumble along and are broken into smaller pieces. Over eons of time, rocks end up as small pebbles on the alluvial fans at the mouths of the canyons. Then, once the pebbles are finally ground tiny and granular enough, prevailing northwesterly winds pick them up and blow them out onto Mesquite Flat, where the dunes formed.

In as little as ten mile per hour winds, the tiny sand grains on the surface of the dunes take to flight, erasing footprints from earlier, and swirling around to create a never ending array of fresh forms, to the delight of visiting photographers who come out here in the mornings and evenings to capture impressive images. For many years, Easter sunrise services have been held on these dunes, a practice initiated by Mr. Eichbaum to spur early visitation in the 1920s.

* * * * * * *

At about 6:45 AM, I pedal past the sign that proclaims I am entering Stovepipe Wells. The elevation here is more or less sea level, depending on which hunk of ground one stands. I just passed through a highway construction zone, where workers are laying a paved parking area to more safely handle the multitude of yearly visitors who park along this highway to photograph the dune field. I waved to the guys, who smiled and waved back, probably having never seen an old desert rat riding a tricycle here at sunrise. I’d be willing to put money on it.

I’m going to splurge tonight and pop for a motel room to clean up and relax. I’ve been living on the ground long enough that such luxury sounds inviting right now. Rooms at the Stovepipe Wells Resort are modest and older, but clean and well-kept nonetheless. There are no televisions or telephones in the lower priced rooms, which is just fine with me. The desk clerk tells me that I cannot book for another couple of hours … something about how the computer system works. That’s all right however, as I am hungry and want some breakfast. I’ll keep my $100 in the wallet for the time being.

The motel, restaurant, and swimming pool are on the south side of the highway. Across the street are the general store, campground, and picnic tables. Visual inspection reveals a campground with large motorhomes, although not nearly as many as down in Furnace Creek. I am not into setting up my tent in a flat motorhome city again, where privacy is non-existent. Today is Wednesday. Tomorrow night I will be hanging out in a room that Jack has reserved, and then on Friday I will be pedaling out of this territory after my presentation, so joyfully I will not have to camp among the metallic giants any more on this expedition.

Pedaling across the pavement to the picnic tables, I notice that the general store is not yet open for business. I find a nice wooden table in the sun, which feels perfect this early. Later in the day however, I would be seeking shade. Out come my dining supplies from my small trailer, which I spread out with total abandon on the table. Having been eating atop my trailer for so long, it is pure luxury to have such a big expanse on which to eat … and to be able to sit down while doing so, no less.

While I eat, a couple of early risers walk past and briefly question me about the trike and my journey. I enjoy sharing my epic adventure with all who ask. It is clear that they are impressed with the whole idea of what I’m doing. They may think I’m crazy, but hey, they are talking to me all about it, so I have an audience, which is more than I can say for people who travel by conventional means. I stand out as unique in a sea of mediocrity. Yep, I guess I really am a wilderness rogue.

I am content to be eating my Nutty Nuggets outdoors with such spectacular scenery surrounding me. Who wants to eat inside a building with all this natural grandeur out here? The sky is clear. The air is calm. The temperature invites outdoor living. It doesn’t get much better than this after an invigorating 24 mile trike ride across the much maligned Death Valley. Others may fear this place, but it is deeply embedded into my systems.

After eating, I notice the stage by the swimming pool where I will be speaking the day after tomorrow. It has a sunshade on top, to keep the bright light out of the speaker’s eyes, but since my talk will be at a breakfast, I suspect that I best wear my trademark Aussie hat and sunglasses. I will be facing Tucki Mountain during my talk, with the Mesquite Flat sand dunes behind and to my left. Sure beats giving a presentation in some formal business setting! How could a presenter not be inspired by such imposing countryside?

There is time to kill now, so I sit and write in my journal, and then walk around and look at the stores, such as there are in this tiny wide spot in the road. Mid morning, people begin to congregate for one of the Death Valley 49er events to be held here today. It is a doggie dress-up contest, where proud “parents” showcase their canines wearing distinctive western clothing and costumes. I am not a dog person, even though I had a malamute while living in the remote Colorado high country years ago, so I just watch the preparations from a distance.

Well, as fate would have it, it seems I am not destined to remain independent right now. While sitting on the comfortable mesh seat of my recumbent speed machine, a humble man walks over with a pencil and paper in hand. Unlike what I have grown accustomed to, this fellow does not ask about my wheels or why I’m here. Instead, he begs my participation as a judge for the doggie costume contest. Seems that judges are hard to come by out in these secluded desert parts, and since I am just sitting here, apparently doing nothing but relaxing, I must be the perfect candidate.

How can I say no? After all, I have plenty of time on my hands between now and Friday morning, not to mention that I am also a presenter for this encampment, so it might reflect poorly upon me to opt out of this impending duty. Okay, so in keeping with the old west atmosphere ever-present  during this five-day extravaganza, I’ve been lassoed into being one of five judges for this noble undertaking, which is officially called the “Pampered Pet” contest.

I am seated only a few feet west of the resort’s swimming pool, but no shade is provided to the judges, so my hat will have to do. The warm sun penetrates my dark shirt, and there is no chance for chill. My doggie responsibility requires me to assess 15 dog entries as they are paraded before my eyes by their human parents, in wild costumes that include full western paraphernalia, a scuba suit, a park ranger outfit, jewels, and whatever other crazy notion sparked the imaginative minds of the owners. After this entourage, which is accompanied by the announcer telling the audience all the numerous details of each animal and why it is dressed this way or that, I must confer with my judge peers to determine winners in several categories.

We decide to seek tamarisk tree shade for our conference, as we tally our results, place the winners names in an envelope, and then hand it to the announcer. After an hour in the sun (it was a long contest), this shade feels good. Then it’s back out to our sunny judge’s table and the master of ceremonies begins to break the growing wave of anticipation that has overtaken the devoted audience and dog owners. These people really get into this!

As it turns out, the thoughtful organizers of this event don’t want anyone to feel that their dog and costume wasn’t up to snuff, so they have prizes for every dog here, in addition to the furry friends that were obviously the most popular. My fears of tomato lobbing in my direction have been unfounded, as everyone seems at peace with how it all ended.

Once my room has been obtained for the night, I wonder what I might do for the remainder of the day. It’s nearing noontime, so I’ll be wanting to do something rather than just sit around. There is no sign of Jack so far today, so he is probably out on some dirt backroad in his Jeep, taking in yet more sights that he has not seen. I left Furnace Creek a day earlier than expected, thereby cheating my Jeep driver out of another day of guided exploration. Maybe he’s fuming about being short changed. Who knows?

Sitting back on my trike seat again, under the shade of a tree near the front porch of the lodge at the highway’s edge, I contemplate potential daily activities. A very nice elderly lady walks up and asks if she might take my photograph on the trike. Now used to such requests, I smile and say sure. Pictures taken, she shows genuine interest in the tale of my journey, and continues asking many questions. There could be no better use of my time than to be an ambassador for trikedom, enlightening the motorized humans of this planet about the joys of three human-powered wheels. I never tire of such interactions, which will hopefully shed light on alternative methods of travel for a society that is entrenched in the status quo.

Writing in my journal in the increasing hubbub of daily activity, many motorhomes and trailers pass by on their way to Furnace Creek. I am very happy to be up here at Stovepipe rather than down there, 200 feet below. Stovepipe Wells is mild in comparison to Furnace Creek, which is the headquarters for all the main events. My talk will be given here. I am a newcomer to Death Valley authorship and this encampment, even though I’ve been a traveler out here since 1955. Accordingly, I suspect that the new guys are placed on the agenda 24 miles away from where the tried and true entertainers will be performing. This is fine with me, as a smaller crowd in my audience is preferable for my first time out.

Having inquired about my trek, and where I will be pedaling on Friday, one fellow tells me that the Towne Pass road is a 9% grade, whatever that technically means. His thrust is that it’s darn steep, and will really put me to the test with this load I’m pulling. To me, it is just one more of many mountain passes that I have crossed in the past 35 days. I’ll just put the trike in granny low and go. Mind control is the key.

A large crow is sitting atop a twenty foot pole on the other side of the road. These blackbirds are everywhere out here. He just flew away.

* * * * * * *

Just about the time I am pondering accessing my energy bar stash for some lunch grub, I spy two men and a woman walking across Highway 190 from the general store, seemingly intent on converging on my shady and highly desired location. Sure enough, these three folks come to rest all around my trike. They look like giants from my low vantage point. Trikes are most decidedly very low to the ground.

Wayne and Eileen Kading, along with their friend Terry Peterson make their acquaintances. These folks are so darn friendly that I am thinking that we may have already met somewhere around Furnace Creek, but no, this is the first time, verified by all their interest and questions. I’ve met so many people during my time here that I have a hard time remembering them all. Wayne and Eileen live in Anaheim, California, and Terry lives in Pollack Pines, California.

Terry says there are no sidewalks or street lights out in his neck of the woods, and he prefers to live out in the middle of a forest, far from the suburbs and crowds, for a life of peace and solitude. I tell him that those are exactly my own sentiments. Wayne asks more than once how I can ride this trike and trailer on the freeways. Interestingly, this is a common question that I have been asked by a number of people during my trip. People who drive cars all their lives apparently come to believe that freeways are a necessary path that all vehicles must take to go long distances, although I have come all this way on secondary backroads. It demonstrates to me the degree to which our society has been indoctrinated to automobiles and the roadways that support them.

By the third time Wayne asks the question, which I had answered before, Eileen smacks him hard on the shoulder and says: “Don’t you listen? He says he doesn’t ride on freeways!!”

Well anyway, these friendly folks are so spellbound by my story that they invite me to lunch at the resort’s old western restaurant. They want to hear more! Being one to rarely turn down food, I graciously accept and we head the 25 yards south to the café, which is a visual feast inside, all the way to the large wooden beamed hallways that simulate an old mine tunnel. I just leave my trike and trailer parked right next to the highway, full of my gear and with no lock. My fears of theft have long since diminished in the past five weeks, and with so many people milling around this place, it would take a truly daring criminal to abscond with my belongings. So many people gather around to look at the trike that a thief would find it difficult to steal without someone noticing.

At this point, if someone wants my dirty and perhaps odiferous gear, they can have it. There is always more where that came from. I am in desperate need of a modern digital camera anyway, and a theft would provide my perfect excuse to acquire one. I do take my small fanny pack containing my wallet with me though, so I can pay for my lunch.

Our lunch goes on for quite some time. We are all merrily eating and telling stories. This fare will cost me a few bucks, but the company is well worth the expense, and being able to forego my usual energy bar is a exclusive treat for a guy who lives on the road. By the time a couple of hours elapse, I swear I know everything about my new friends, and they know plenty about me. These are the kind of people who you just feel totally at home with right from the start. They could be family, and sometimes seem like it when Eileen balls out Wayne for some statement she doesn’t like.

Finally, our congenial waitress, whom Terry has questioned so much that we all know about her too, presents the bill. As I bring out my wallet to ante up, they all say that this is their treat, and I am to put my wallet away! Well, doesn’t that beat all? I get a great lunch with great people, am entertained for two hours, and it doesn’t end up costing me a penny. Riding a trike across the countryside certainly has its perks! As we part for the day, they all assure me that they will be in my audience this Friday morning to hear my further tales of Death Valley.

My old friend Matt Jensen, whom I last saw out on the Oregon coast, mentioned to me on a number of occasions prior to this journey that there are people who eagerly help cyclists on long distance tours. He said I would meet some of these people on my trip. I told him that was unlikely because I was going to be riding on the most remote backroads I could find. Matt just smiled and reiterated that I would meet these folks one way or another. He calls them road angels. Wayne, Eileen, and Terry are three more road angels I have had the privilege to meet on the Death Valley Tricycle Expedition.

* * * * * * *

“What’s the nature of your infirmity?” are the words I hear off to my right as I am again seated on the trike, finishing up a few journal entries after lunch. I look up (you’re always looking up on a trike) to see another older woman sincerely interested that a man with some sort of handicap is still able to get himself around on his own. She moves around so she is facing me.

Matt also had told me that folks would believe me to be physically handicapped while on my trike. He said that since it resembles some odd sort of wheelchair that this thought comes to mind for many people, so much so that trikers in general are aware of this dynamic response. As this lady is standing over me, guru Matt’s teachings come to light yet again.

Time to have some fun!

I close my journal and stand up from my low recumbent seat. Next, I move away from my trike and jump as high into the air as I can. The lady watches all this with awe. Then, I say to her that physically I am fine, and if there is any handicap, it’s only in my head! To this, we both have a good laugh, and I launch into describing what this bizarre looking contraption is, why I’m on it, and where I’m going. She wants to know how I ride it on the freeways.

Life on a trike is always exciting, even when things are slow.

By glancing through the Death Valley 49ers program magazine, I notice that Ted Faye, a well known Death Valley film maker will be giving a presentation this afternoon right here in Stovepipe Wells. This is exciting for me, as I have a couple of his documentaries in my home video library. Now I will get to meet him in person. There’s no way I’m going to miss this. As a group of his fans awaits by the door to the room where he will be presenting, a 49er lady walks up and says he has been delayed, but is now scheduled to arrive at 2:30 PM today.

Ted finally shows up, and we all enthusiastically find a good seat. He is an interesting speaker, and knows a lot about regional history. Part of his presentation today is showing us his latest film, a documentary investigation into the lost trunk of William Robinson, an original Death Valley 1849er. Some people believe that a trunk found out here is a genuine artifact of this man, while others claim it to be a publicity-seeking hoax by the finder. Ted’s new film traces the evidence with interviews of key people. The movie leaves us all wondering, while drawing our own personal conclusions. His outstanding documentary brings forth further questions while it answers many. We may never know for sure if the trunk is genuine, but that’s just part of the mystique of this legendary land called Death Valley.

Towards evening, I call mom on a pay phone over at the general store using my calling card. I am charged a hefty fee for calling from a pay phone, but since no telephones are in the rooms, it’s either this or nothing. She picked up a rental truck from Hertz, a 2009 Ford F-150 extended cab, and will be leaving tomorrow with my sister to come to Death Valley for my talk.

The plan is that after I am all done riding the trike, we will load it in the bed of the truck and drive together down to her house, so that the three of us can celebrate her 82nd birthday, and also be a family for the Thanksgiving holiday. Thursday morning around 8:00 AM they will be hitting the road for a drive up to Stovepipe Wells of about 200 miles, give or take a hundred. I also tell her that I plan on riding the trike over Towne Pass Friday, and exiting the park on the west side. She wants me to just load it up after the Author’s Breakfast. I tell her that I didn’t come all this way only to miss the opportunity to pedal out of Death Valley under my own power.

It’s something I must do.

As the sun sets, it is apparent that Jack is spending another night at Furnace Creek somewhere. I wonder if he is still tenting with all the motorhomes by the fiddler’s stage, or if he high tailed it out of there to get a motel room. Time will tell the tale. He is scheduled to be here sometime tomorrow.

* * * * * * *

DAY THIRTY SIX – THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 05, 2009

(Stovepipe Wells Village – just hangin’ out)

Today will be a time of complete relaxation, although I suppose I’ve had plenty of relaxing days lately. The difference is that I won’t be going anywhere at all … no riding passenger in a Jeep, no exhilarating trike rides, no hiking. All I’ll be doing is just hanging around Stovepipe, waiting for mom and Willow to show up, perhaps as early as the lunch hour, and also waiting for Jack to pull in … who knows when.

I’ll get in some walking, but it will be minimal. Tomorrow is going to be a very demanding and busy day. It will start with the Author’s Breakfast and my presentation, and then be followed by riding the trike 17 miles to the summit of Towne Pass and down the other side into Panamint Valley, finishing up the expedition at the western park entrance in that valley. Those activities will more than make up for today’s sedentary choices. What I don’t do to extend my life today, I will do many times over tomorrow. A day of rest is good. A fellow named God is reported to have said so.

Jim Graves of the 49ers organization suggested a talk of between 30-45 minutes at the breakfast. I can probably manage that. Like most normal people, I get somewhat nervous at the thought of such things, but this talk doesn’t seem to be affecting me to any significant degree like one might suspect it would. This may be a result of three things.

First, I have been visiting here since I was four years old, and consequently have quite a bit of personal knowledge of the area. It helps to know what you’re talking about. Second, after living on the ground in a tent for a few weeks and pedaling a low rider trike a few hundred miles to get here, it’s as though anything else at this point is easy by comparison. What can an audience do to spook me now? And third, nobody here has ever seen one of these vehicles before, and since it will be parked right in front of my podium, I’ll likely have the people hooked and waiting to hear all about the ride. Based on how folks have responded to the trike thus far, I suspect that maybe my audience could be more interested in the journey here than my thoughts on Death Valley or my book.

Whatever the case, it will be a memorable experience for me.

I am sitting up on my bed in the motel room, a pillow behind my back, and a folded pillow under my heels to keep the feet slightly elevated. Check-out time isn’t for a while yet, so I figure to keep my feet up and relax, giving my battered Achilles tendons the final gift of rest before tomorrow’s demanding summit attempt. In seventeen miles, give or take some yardage one way or the other, the Q, trailer, and I will ascend 4,956 vertical feet, or an average elevation gain of 292 feet per mile, which is significant for someone pedaling a tricycle with a trailer. Of course, some portions will be steeper than others. Guess it won’t hurt to rest the old bod for a bit.

Maybe that’s another reason I’m not overly anxious about tomorrow’s talk. With Towne Pass on my mind, my mental resolve is so focused that the presentation becomes child’s play.

This motel room at Stovepipe Wells is very Spartan compared to the one I rented last month at the Diamond Lake Resort. Well, you say, I did opt for the cheapest room they have here. True enough, I did, to save a few bucks, but let’s consider the differences between Diamond Lake and here. This room costs me $100, whereas the Oregon room was only $59.59. This room has no television, whereas the Oregon room did. This room has no telephone, whereas the Oregon room did. This room has no clock, whereas the Oregon room did. Outside this room’s door, there is no snow or subfreezing temperatures, whereas outside the Oregon room’s door there were both. By comparison, this room is a very poor value, yet in reality, I do not really need a television, telephone, or clock. But I must walk to the front office to keep track of my check-out time.

Interesting how business models vary.

By staying in this room, I realize how out of touch I am with the natural world. I have no views of the moon and stars, no breeze, no howl of coyotes, no sounds of birds displacing air with their wings, no sunrise cloudburst, no creosote bushes, and no feeling of freedom in the wide open spaces. Next trip, I vow to do a better job of refraining from being inside. It takes time to pry oneself away from customs that have been psychologically imprinted since birth, namely, keeping huge shelters around our bodies much of our lives.

The Achilles tendons are doing pretty well now, and I am not worried about traversing Towne Pass tomorrow. My ankles are still swelling a bit if I sit around in shoes and do no physical activity. There is no ache or pain at all however, which is a good sign.

I take this morning’s breakfast lounging on my bed, a far cry from fixing my Nutty Nuggets on the trailer top at a roadside camp with air temperature low enough to make the fingers uncomfortably cold. Perhaps that has something to do with why people have evolved into building dwellers. After breakfast, I take a welcomed shower, maybe another reason why getting a room is not such a bad idea now and then. It sure feels nice to be clean.

* * * * * * *

Lunch comes and goes, and with it, a couple more of my energy bars have now taken their leave of my trailer’s food supply. Never hurts to pedal less weight up hills! Since nobody came knocking at my door inviting me to lunch, it was rather unceremonious today … hard for road angels to find me when I’m locked up and out of sight.

After checking out of the room, I decide to go have a seat out on the front deck of the resort, which is only about twenty feet from Highway 190. Might as well be out here when mom and sis arrive today. It will be easy for us all to spot each other with me out front. I am leaving my trike and gear parked back near the room. It’s out of my sight, but also out of sight of everyone else. Nobody wants a trike anyway.

I watch every Ford F-150 that comes by. In due course, my vigilance pays off, and as a desert stone colored pickup pulls in from the east, I recognize the two desert gals inside. The Desert Gypsy, also known as Teakettle Mama, is driving, and the wild wolf sister of mine is riding shotgun. The Teakettle Mama name comes from a few years back when I drove my mom all around Death Valley National Park’s dirt roads in my old Ford Bronco, and we stopped at Teakettle Junction in the Racetrack Valley to get a photograph of her at the world famous Teakettle Junction sign. She was only 78 years old then, just a youngster. We had a blast for four days in the desert backcountry.

Mom and Willow have a room for tonight at the Furnace Creek Ranch, which is 24 miles southeast of here, and over 200 feet lower in elevation. They would have been here in Stovepipe earlier, but they had to check in with the motel clerk, get their possessions squared away in the room, and say howdy to Jim Graves, the production chairman for this big event, as he was the guy who helped reserve the room for them. Therefore, after we spend time together and eat dinner, they have to drive back down there. Then tomorrow morning, they have to drive right back up here. Hmm, seems to conflict with my natural earthy tendencies.

Dinner tonight will be courtesy of my most ardent road angel. Mom insists on treating me and Jack to a feast at the cozy resort restaurant, and as always, I never argue with anyone who wants to feed me, especially when the next day brings a massive physical outlay. She wants to include Jack because of his continued help on this journey of mine. Without Jack, I might be dead right now. Well, maybe that’s being a little melodramatic, but he sure has been a welcomed addition to this tough expedition. Of course, without him, I would have been forced to do things totally without gasoline power, one of those inconvenient little goals I’ve set for myself for the rest of my life.

Life’s always a trade-off.

We just hang out and talk, visit the gift stores, and generally just enjoy being together again. We don’t see each other that often, although when I owned a car, I made it a point to drive to southern California at least once each year for a two week visit. This year, I rode a tricycle quite a bit of that distance, perhaps in training for future trips to see my humble family. To ride all the way on my own, without a Jack Backup, would be a tour of roughly 1,000 miles one way. Double that if I ride back. If I get my act together on how to ride this trike without injuring myself like this year, perhaps that will be doable.

Later in the afternoon, in pulls Jack. I introduce everyone, and all are thrilled to meet each other finally. Mom has conversed with Jack during my ride, but this is the first time they meet. We all accompany Jack to his room, where he offers a glass of wine to anyone willing to drink it. Willow takes him up on it. I decline, not wanting that dead-head feeling again like I had after our celebration dinner at the Wrangler Steakhouse a few days ago after I rode to Badwater. Nope, no more wine for this fellow during this lifetime!

And yes, I do mean it!

Jack tries to do a Badwater Or Bust blog update, but there is no wireless internet here. The wireless link in the customer lounge area is out for some reason. Guess all the expedition followers will have to wait a day or two until they hear from us again … builds the suspense! What happened to Steve now? My mom and sister are listening to some evening fiddle music by an event presenter.

Near the restaurant is the Badwater Saloon, which is where Ted Faye gave his presentation yesterday. Right outside the saloon is a cute little sign that says Fresh Drinkin’ Water, so folks will know that not all the water around here is bad. Up until a couple years ago, the tap water here at the resort was not recommended to drink for its bad taste, but apparently they have taken care of that issue now. Around the corner from Jack’s room is an old farm implement with three wheels. In my way of thinking, anything with three wheels is a friend of mine, so I have Willow take my photograph by this old time tricycle.

Now that Jack’s here, I walk back over to where my room was, get on the trusty Q yet once more, and pedal my ten foot train over to Jack’s new abode, where I park next to his Jeep for the night. Before tomorrow’s long day, I will have one more rest in a real bed.

All this taken care of, the four of us head over to the restaurant and pig out on the fine food. It is a grand time of friendship and camaraderie. Willow and mom are completely taken by Jack’s charm and humor. Dinner is punctuated with many laughs and much discussion. The food is excellent as usual. My three companions question my decision to ride over Towne Pass tomorrow. That’s tomorrow. For tonight, the motto is: eat, drink, and be merry!

After dinner, mom, Willow, and I walk across the street to the general store for some ice cream before they head on back to the overpopulated “city” of Furnace Creek. I get another blueberry ice cream bar, made by Blue Bunny, a company I had never heard of before Wayne, Eileen, and Terry introduced me to it yesterday after lunch. It’s excellent ice cream, and my last animal indulgence for this trip. Scout’s honor!

It’s dark now, and mom prefers not to drive after dark, but since it’s only 24 miles of country road, she’ll be fine. I tell her that she looks great in the truck. She says she actually enjoys driving it. Pickups have come a long way since the 1950s.

We bid each other adieu, and they head out. I chat with Jack at the Badwater Saloon a bit, and then hit the sack early. I have a busy day ahead of me. Jack arrives later this night, but I am sound asleep by the time he arrives. His day will be relatively easy tomorrow: just document everything with his 10 megapixel digital camera, drive his Jeep very slowly up Towne Pass, and make sure I don’t get into any more trouble.

His first two duties are easy. That third one though, may be the clincher.

* * * * * * *

DAY THIRTY SEVEN – FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 06, 2009

(Towne Pass – just a few rough miles)

My bed is next to the window, so as the earliest hints of dawn begin to break around the curtains, I begin the mental preparation for arising. Jack is still sound asleep over in his bed, having gotten in here much later than I did last night. I peak out the window. Another sunny and warm day is in the making. After slipping on my expedition clothing, I open the front door for a stretch and glance over towards the Mesquite sand dunes. This is beautiful territory indeed.

As I’m standing out here, a gal walks by with the familiar Death Valley 49ers button affixed to her tee shirt. We introduce ourselves. She is Dee Dee Ruhlow, the 1996 president of the Death Valley 49ers organization. She recognizes my name as this morning’s Stovepipe Wells presenter, and we share a little information about ourselves. Dee Dee then excuses herself, and I tell her I’ll see her later after breakfast.

My breakfast will be right here in the room, or perhaps out front on the covered stone porch in the morning sun. I’ll be eating Nutty Nuggets again, for that “all day” charge of calories, although I doubt they’ll last all day for this particular day. As an encampment presenter, I have a complimentary breakfast waiting for me come 8:00 AM at the Author’s Breakfast chuck wagon parked just to the west of the podium platform, but due to my bent for health mindset, I’ll likely pass today. Chicken fetus and pig muscle, washed down with cow milk and caffeine just doesn’t cut it for me anymore. My apologies for all you who still indulge in such animal cuisine, but I find that when I remove the euphemistic nomenclature, it helps me refrain from putting these items in my mouth. I used to eat loads of this food for forty-some years, so just consider me a reformed carnivore.

Brontosaurus instead of Tyrannosaurus Rex

I must admit though, the aroma that will soon be emanating from the chuck wagon near the stage will very likely test my resolve, especially when I see folks eating the eggs and bacon right in front of me. Regardless of my daily food choices, I still can enjoy these things on rare occasion. Yes, the Death Valley 49ers do indeed put on quite a fantastic feed!

While I was outside talking with Dee Dee, Jack got up, and he is now in the shower. I readily polish off a bowl of nuggets and whatever else I think might feed my brain well so that I can speak intelligently for whomever comes to see me. I’m not really a speaker, but since I want to start building up a little retirement income (emphasis on the word little) to supplement the meager $975 I’ll be getting each month beginning in a couple of years, I can’t afford to pass up the opportunity to talk about my book when asked. If I’m lucky, maybe my name will become somewhat synonymous with Death Valley, and the book sale royalties will eventually allow me to live comfortably on the fringes in my older ages.

My life has been one of following my passions, not of following the money. Most folks seem to follow the latter, and so end up with sizable incomes once they leave the nine-to-five grind. Had I chosen that path when I used to live in southern California back in the seventies, I could now be a retired Los Angeles County sheriff’s officer or administrator like a few colleagues with whom I still keep in touch. One friend retired recently as an LASD Captain, and is now raking in around 75 grand for just staying alive and breathing. Not a bad haul, I suppose.

Am I sorry for the alternative paths I’ve chosen? Owning a gym? Doing digital graphic design? Driving a school bus? Teaching kids? Selling real estate? Not at all. In fact, I have had experiences that most of those I know have never had, and may never have. My only loss is more income than I could probably use, given my modest lifestyle. Not having the financial freedom is sometimes difficult, but then when I realize that my philosophies have developed in ways that see past the money mirage, I am grateful.

Money, power, and greed destroy many a man and woman, bringing early death through stress and poor lifestyle choices. I am not a follower any more. I am not out to impress anyone. Nor am I a consumer, despite what my governments call me. I am a citizen of the Earth, a naturalist who strives to live in harmony with my environment, happy to help those who know me. The older I get, the more I get rid of. I will be content with a small yurt in the forest one day, not far from a small town, where I can pedal my trike for groceries. I’ll have no television, radio, and maybe even no telephone. This laptop computer will eventually go away. I will live simply and greet each new day humbly.

The wild outdoors is my world.

But for now, I maintain my Death Valley blog, publicize my book, and prepare for my dreams that lie ahead. And today’s Author’s Breakfast is one more stepping stone in that direction, a direction of independence from the machine of societal mediocrity. I eagerly chart my own path.

* * * * * * *

I am ready to head on over to the breakfast area. Jack tells me I have about an hour before it starts, but I might as well be over there meeting folks and relaxing in their company than hanging out here in the room getting nervous about the whole thing. I have a mountain to climb today, and that is my ultimate focus.

As I pedal up into the breakfast area, which is the resort parking area that has been barricaded to allow for several rows of tables and chairs instead of cars, there is still room to pedal the trike and trailer through the narrow pedestrian entryway. There are a couple of western singers with their guitars getting ready for their presentation, which will be music while people eat their breakfasts. I park my rig right under the elevated stage, so it will be immediately in front of me during my talk. That will get everyone’s attention.

During the course of the next hour, I visit with a number of Death Valley enthusiasts, including three gals I met last week at the Furnace Creek Ranch swimming pool. As I was leaving after taking a shower, they were in the pool and started chatting with me, and today they have driven up from Furnace Creek to eat and listen to my tales. Donna Marschall from Kelseyville, California, Mary Ann Herman from Sanger, California, and Sandy Bucknell from Modesto, California are a lot of fun to be around. Last week at the pool, they just started talking to me like they already knew me. They looked familiar, but I didn’t know why at the time.

As they talk to me this morning, it all becomes clear in my dried out mind. The day I rode the trike up to Zabriskie Point with Paul Gareau, Donna was there and met me, but I was so scattered at the time, what with Paul and many other people gathering around us for questions, that I had forgotten. At the pool last week, Donna wanted her friends to meet me too. They were pretty amazed that I had chosen to ride a trike on this trip, even though I got a ride a portion of the way from Jack.

These three ladies belong to the Cross Country Gypsies RV Club, and have been coming to Death Valley for 15 years, since 1994. Their group spends a couple of weeks here each year. They are eager to hear what I have to say. I am most definitely not used to people gathering to hear my thoughts. Wonder if my next “profession” should be that of an orator of some kind.

Not!

Candace Lieber, the assistant to David Blacker of the Death Valley Natural History Association, arrives and sets up a table to the side of the stage as the singers are singing and folks are beginning to eat. Then, she brings several boxes to the table and starts unloading multiple copies of my Death Valley Book Of Knowledge for the audience members to purchase, either now or after I talk. She and I have emailed during the course of the last year, but today we meet in person.

I am happy and humbled to see my book displayed here, and even more so when a few folks come over and start buying the books. Once purchased, the make their way to me for an autograph! Wow, here I am just a normal sort of guy (okay, not so normal … I ride a trike), and I am being asked for my autograph. This new experience is one of those unique aspects of my rogue lifestyle that I was typing about a few paragraphs back. How does one put a price on such things? Even if I never amount to much as an author, at least the temporary spotlight was one heck of a thrill ride. Had I remained in the 9-5 mill, this never would have happened.

The singers are wrapping up their final song before my introduction. They are scheduled to sing again after my lungs stop spewing out words. I walk over and gulp down a final glass of water, and then fill it up again to have at the podium. One last trip to the men’s room should hold me over for a while.

Jim Graves steps on stage in his western outfit and gives his introduction of me. Like in the 49er program notes, he tells the folks to ask how I got here. This trike is my ace in the hole! People are eating this stuff up. They love the bizarre. They didn’t come way out here in the middle of nowhere today to be entertained by the status quo. They want things done differently, just like anyone associated with Death Valley has felt through time. This place is as far from ordinary as you can get, and so go the people who make this place a temporary home.

I will give them what they want.

Now I am standing on the stage, with my Aussie hat, polarized sun glasses, and a copy of my book. Jim hands the podium over to me. The audience claps. One hundred fifty eyeballs are silently looking at my two eyeballs. I wish I could silently pass right out of here and begin pedaling, but that’s not going to happen yet. They are waiting to be entertained. Problem is, I’m not an entertainer.

But I am a guy with a lot more Death Valley experiences than most of these folks will ever have, so I have an edge. I have written two Death Valley books, so I am considered by many to be a Death Valley expert. Prior to this trip, a number of people back home assumed I would have a speech all typed out on paper, to which I could refer as I spoke. Heck, that really would make me nervous. I prefer to wing it, to be myself. I have an idea of how I want to progress with this presentation, and that’s enough for me.

Basically, there are three parts of the talk. First, I tell a little story about a couple in the 1940s who came here on a Harley Davidson motorcycle. I tell how their son later accompanies them as a wee lad to Furnace Creek. I tell this story in the third person and really doll it up, giving no clue as to this little boy’s identity. I figure that the audience will figure it out, but then when I finally wrap up part one of my talk by telling that the little boy was me, I hear a collective intake of breath from the crowd. Hmm, not too bad so far.

Probably no one in this audience has yet read my new 720 page book, so I figure they might like to hear a few samples from it. After all, that’s why I’m here. So, for part two of my presentation, I read selected excerpts from the introductory material. This is important, because when I write a book, I take considerable time to ensure that everything is phrased in ways that flow well into the mind of a reader, ways that have a dramatic effect on one’s imagination. If my off-the-cuff speaking comes up short, hopefully my finely tuned written material will do the trick. This portion of the talk is not so personal though, as I am just reading, and not so animated as I was with the little boy story, but it seems to come off well.

The final third of my talk centers around the topic that everyone has been wanting to hear from me ever since my arrival a couple weeks ago: The TRIKE. Oh, the joy of my trike! Not only is it an absolute blast to ride, but it provides endless fodder for discussion anywhere I go on it. It may be my imagination, but it seems like this audience is really getting into my three wheeled story. I started out on a tricycle in the 1950s, and I have returned to a tricycle in the 2000s, albeit a machine that is light years ahead of my first trike.

I explain about the wheels being reversed from what they are used to. I tell why I abandoned my car and now ride a trike. I provide brief glimpses into the highlights of the journey here from my coastal Oregon home. No one is getting up to leave. I continue by telling how I managed to ride the trike without going on the freeways. I could keep going on and on, but it occurs to me that I still want to get up Towne Pass and down the other side while the sun is up, so I wrap things up with telling them where I’m going now.

With my sincere thanks to these folks for attending my talk, a generous applause flows across the air to my ears. I exit the stage, but things are not over yet.

A line of people forms at my trike as folks purchase my book. Jack is off to the side with his 10 megapixel camera getting it all recorded for the blog. Now the book signings begin, and I am in no rush to hurry through it. This has never happened to me before, and may never happen again. I have one life to live, so I am going to enjoy every second of this, right here and now.

I sign quite a few in front of the stage, but once the two singers with their guitars begin warming up for round two of their ballads, the large speakers prove too much for our ears. Being a solver of problems, I quickly get in the trike and ride it over to the other side of the stage area, and then continue. The line follows me. I feel like the Pied Piper. After a while, things slow down finally, and I am ready to head out.

Jack tells me that my talk lasted one hour, from 8:30 to 9:30 AM, and that my signing lasted a half hour, up to the current time of 10:00 AM. Seventy-five people were in attendance, not bad considering that this is Stovepipe Wells and not Furnace Creek. Had I spoken down there, the attendees would have numbered far more. Today was perfect for me though … more intimate and relaxing. Candace Lieber tells me that $480 in sales was taken in by the Death Valley Natural History Association since she arrived here shortly before I began talking.

The pressure is now off. Time to trike.

* * * * * * *

By 10:15 AM, I’m off once again on the trike, actively participating in the final leg of this Death Valley Tricycle Expedition. This is it. Once over the top of the monstrous pass that lies before me, and down the other side to the DVNP entrance in the Panamint Valley, it will be over. Things are bitter sweet. It’s always rewarding to meet one’s objectives, but then again, I hate to stop pedaling. I have invested so much psychological energy into this trip since back in May that the thought that it’s almost over is kind of sad for me.

Seventeen miles of uphill separate me from the heady thrill ride of a lifetime. This is a steep pass on both sides. Any cyclist at the top going in either direction down will indeed learn the true meaning of very serious speed on a human-powered cycle, whether it be two wheels or three. There is no denying it, even automobile drivers find this pass intimidating. The side I will be going down is even steeper than the side I am now starting to ride up. I’ll get my hide up to the top as fast as I can because I want to see the grand spectacle of the Panamint Valley as I rocket down out of the park.

I suspect it will be mid to late afternoon by the time I go down the other side. Sunsets and sunrises are the prettiest times out here, so it should time out well. Seventeen miles is nothing normally. I did the 24 from Furnace Creek to Stovepipe Wells in about three hours. This is a steep grade as it crests over the spine of the northern Panamint Range, but my load is lighter than it has ever been now, so I hope to make decent time. Six hours should do it, putting me at the summit around 4:30 PM, with enough daylight to easily reach my destination for trip’s end.

Looking at the road ahead can be discouraging at times. It is so darn long and straight at the beginning, but I am on my middle chainring, keeping up a good pace. As long as I can stay in this gear range, for most of the way, I’ll meet my expectations. At the 1,000 foot mark, Jack is taking my photograph, with Stovepipe Wells now a tiny white speck on the desert floor below.

There is no shortage of heat. The sun, although mild by summer standards, takes it performance toll when pedaling up this steep grade. I freely perspire, and freely do I also suck up new water from my water bladder tube that comes over my left shoulder, for water on the go. Behind my recumbent seat on the left side, I have mounted a Camelbak hydration system in a Fastbak pouch, which allows easy access to water anytime. The Radical Lowracer panniers keep the water supply in the shade. All of this is behind and under my left arm. I also have two BPA free water bottles mounted on the frame between my legs. Water will be no problem today though, for I have two vehicles with plenty of supply that are tracking my progress. My success is practically guaranteed.

This grade is not quite as steep as my ride up to Artist’s Palette on October 30th, but that ride was short, with uphills totaling approximately one-fourth the distance of today’s elevation gain. That ride required my lowest gears on nearly all the uphills. So far, I’m still in midrange today.

Up ahead, there is a noticeable bend in the road, where it goes from a predominantly westerly direction to more southwesterly bearing. I spin into this corner with great enthusiasm of maintaining my momentum, and it seems that I can do no wrong. Before long however, this second stretch of road ups the ante on my efforts. A shift is made down on my rear cassette. Then another, until finally I am at the lowest point that the middle chainring can handle. My next shift will require changing to the smallest front chainring. Valiantly I attempt to maintain this speed as long as I can, but eventually, despite my best efforts, it is now clear that low range gearing is necessary.

By shifting onto the small 24-tooth chainring from the 36-tooth middle ring, I can now upshift my rear cassette a few notches, into the middle of the nine sprockets. This involves my right hand directing the cable to move the rear derailleur into a position that drops the 14-foot long chain down from the largest rear sprocket. In the rear, the largest sprocket is used for going the slowest, while in the front, the largest chainring is used for going the fastest. Here is the combo: front/small and rear/large means ultra slow going. Front/large and rear/small means ultra fast going.

I have little names for all this gearing stuff that work well in my particular brain. Low/low and low/mid are for the uphills. Mid/low, mid/mid, and mid/high are for gradual hills. High/mid and high/high are for flats and downhills. The reason there is no low/high or high/low is because there is no need to have these extremes, which put undue stress on the chain transmission system, because the full range of nine gears in the midrange chainring overlaps these unused extremes. After a lot of riding, this concept becomes clearer.

Even though I am eating bars and drinking water like there is no tomorrow, I am still unable to remain exclusively in the low/mid gearing. The farther I go, the more often I am forced to remain in the low/low gearing. Eventually, low/low becomes my reality this early afternoon, and only on the slightest of what appears to be very brief downhills am I able to upshift towards a low/mid gearing. They look like short downhill sections of maybe twenty yards, but they are not by any means downhill. It’s all one grand deception of my mind. These occasional teasers are still uphills, but due to the extent of this overall grade, they only appear to be going down. Reality is closer to something like this: instead of a grade of 6-9 percent, these sections may only be 3-5 percent.

It’s a strange feeling when your mind says you can really speed up for a ways, but your body says no way. Regardless, when one of these lesser grades comes along, I still eek out every last bit of speed I can. My sister Willow has opted to walk along behind me for the last mile or two, and she has no problem keeping up! Gee, is this ever a humbling ride today.

By 1:45 PM, I pull into Emigrant Campground, sis hot on my heels … er, I mean trailer. It’s nearly two in the afternoon and I’m just over half way! I have been pedaling for three hours and a half, and only covered about nine miles of road. The math will reveal an average speed, but of course, it was significantly faster up to the first big curve.

There are shade trees here, along with a bathroom. Several tourists are chatting with mom and Jack about what I’m doing, and both of my supporters are eagerly telling them of my intrepid adventure. One fellow from Japan is here with his Japanese/American buddy, and wants his photo taken next to me (even though I’m sweating like a pig). We have to go through a translation mode with his friend, as the guy who wants the photo speaks no English. We’re all smiles and having a good time. They want the address to the blog so they can read all about the trip.

Slight doubts are beginning to creep into my mind now as to whether I can make the top before dark. The eternal optimist, I will give it my best shot. I want that ride down the other side so bad I can taste it. If it gets dark, I have a powerful headlight. Mom implores me to stop here and load up the trike. She is getting tired and wants to get home for some supper. She made similar request of me about three miles ago, but I forged ahead anyway. I tell her that I am only eight miles from the summit, way too close to stop now. The summit will be mine.

After eating several energy bars, a few boxes of raisins, and two V8 juices, I’m on my way yet again. The air is starting to cool a tad now and then when the sun is partially blocked by the massive mountains to my west. Eventually, I will be in the shade completely, but for now, it’s sporadic.

There is no timepiece on me or my trike. The Earth is rotating and hiding the sun more and more. Now I am in the shade. My sister has chosen to keep me company for a few more miles. She says she will walk with me all the way to the summit, knowing that my high speeds going down the other side will be a different story. Not long after the 4,000 foot marker, I turn on my tail light for safety. It is getting darker. I tell Willow that she must get into the truck with mom up ahead because it is getting too dangerous for her to be walking on Highway 190 at twilight. Traffic seems unusually heavy today in both directions, and it’s no place to be on foot in dark clothing with no lights or reflectors.

Willow agrees, and somewhere around 4,300 feet, I am on my own again. Around 4,400 feet, I feel it is necessary to turn on my headlight and strobe. The strobe fires right up. The headlight is dead … again. Even though the company claims 90 hours of runtime, this is the second set of batteries currently in my Cateye EL-530 headlight. Jack is about to pass me again in his Jeep. I flag him down by waving my left arm and pointing to the side of the road. He immediately stops and gives me new batteries for the 530. My Cateye LD1100 tail light is still on its first set of batteries from the start of the trip. It is living up to its claims. The strobe is on its second set, but seems strong enough tonight to make the final leg of the expedition.

Jack drives on. Darkness finally overtakes my slow moving tricycle. Were it not for my ultra bright lights and abundant reflective devices, I would now be invisible to traffic. Even now, in complete darkness, the cars slow and pass completely in the other lane. There is no cause for alarm. The extreme physical effort needed to make this grade now feels good as the night air is rapidly chilling. I am on the verge of considering a light jacket, but am still fine as long as I keep moving.

With no daylight to provide terrain clues as to my whereabouts, I have no definitive idea where I am on the mountain. I can only guess based on my experience up  here. It seems like I am getting close now. The curves are much tighter, which is what happens on this north side near the top. The two support vehicles play leapfrog with me on my climb. Sometimes when I pass mom and sis in the pickup, they stay parked with their headlights on to illuminate me for upcoming traffic. On Towne Pass, motorists generally keep the pedal to the metal to get up and over. Mom is clearly worried, but I have long since left that mindset behind on this journey.

Now it’s getting windy on top of all the climbing I’m doing, and the wind is coming from over the top, meaning that I am pedaling into a headwind. Although still a light wind, it is doing me no favors as it heads north. A National Park Service law enforcement ranger has passed me twice tonight in his Chevrolet Avalanche patrol vehicle. He must surely think I’ve lost my mind.

Up ahead, I notice two vehicles parked off the side of the road. I wonder if this is the summit. As I near, which takes what seems like eternity at this point, I can tell they are way off to the side. I know that this summit has an ultra wide parking area on top for cars to cool and people to stretch, so I hope this is where I can begin my descent.

Yes, it’s a large parking area all right, and both the F-150 and Jeep are parked here, far off towards the west side, with their engines running and headlights on so that I can see them clearly. I pull up to the first vehicle I meet, which is Jack’s Jeep. He rolls down the window. I ask him if this is the top.

He says yes!

I set the brakes on the Q and get up to stretch my legs. Mom’s truck is about 15 feet ahead. Jack tells me that it’s five minutes after six. Just in the minute I’ve been standing here, the wind, which is noticeably stronger at the summit, is really making me cold. After weeks of living out of my panniers, I know right where my down vest, polar fleece jacket, and rain/wind jacket are, and I waste no time putting them all on and fastening them completely. I also put on my polar fleece skullcap and heavy Shift Torrent motorcycle foul weather gloves. I can’t believe how cold it has become! It will be a cold ride going down into the Panamint Valley tonight, as I’ll be coasting all the way, expending little physical effort.

Jack, who didn’t bring a jacket at all, and is only wearing short pants and a short sleeve shirt, has his heater going in the Jeep, and has the window down only about half way so we can talk. He wasn’t expecting this turn of temperature. We had both figured I’d summit during daylight.

“There are fist sized rocks ahead in the road in several turns.” Jack tells me. He has done reconnaissance while I was making my slow headway tonight, and apparently enough rocks have fallen directly into the lane that he strongly feels that it would be very unsafe for me to continue. There is also a lot of traffic this Friday night, and Jack says that if I’m speeding down to the bottom and have to dodge these small rocks, I could end up crashing or hitting a car. The rocks pose no problem for automobiles, but could be disastrous for a speeding trike pilot at night.

Mom comes back to talk briefly in the cold wind. She has already heard Jack’s report. Everyone is tired. I am so bushed that I can feel the beginning stages of hypothermia coming on, even with all my heavy clothing. I’m actually shaking a little bit, but I doubt it’s noticeable to them in the dark. After giving me her opinion of what I should do, she high tails it back to the warmth of her cab.

I look Jack straight in the eyes. He has his interior dome light on. I ask what he thinks. Jack is a straight shooter. He tells me it’s finally time to call it a day. It’s just far too risky to go any farther under these conditions. I’m so wiped out that my judgment is probably impaired. To proceed now could put a bad ending on a good trip. It’s just not worth the prize of flying down this grade ahead of me. Nothing is that important.

For a moment, I consider all this. I know he’s right. My condition is deteriorating, and it wouldn’t take much to plunge me into a dangerous thermal regulation problem. I make my decision, and tell him we end it here.

Jack gets out and we wheel my trike over to mom’s truck. The wind is picking up even more as we begin the puzzle of getting it all in the bed for high speed transport to mom’s house in Apple Valley. I get my panniers inside the truck’s rear seat area, which is only a partial short seat, but enough for mom’s short legs. My sister will ride up front, for she is tall. All gear stowed at long last, Jack and I congratulate each other on our achievements, thank one another for the experiences, and we say farewell. He will spend another day or two in Death Valley. He turns the Jeep around and heads back down the 17 miles to Stovepipe.

It is so cold and I am so miserable, that all I can think about is getting into the truck. I will drive us home to mom’s. Willow had purchased a CD of one of the western singers she heard at the stage, and we listen to the songs on the way home. Partway down the grade into the pitch black Panamint Valley, I realize that there were no summit photographs taken. My old digital camera doesn’t do too well at night (at only 1.3 megapixels), but we are too far down and no one, including me, wants to go back up. We all forgot at the top. It just goes to show how minds dulled by tedium (Jack, Willow, and mom), as well as a mind dulled by extreme exhaustion (me), are not the best decision makers.

What a great shot that would have made, with me and the trike under the pass sign at night. Not only didn’t I get my ride down, but I didn’t even get to bring the moment at the top home in pictures. Oh well, this has been an expedition of a lifetime, and I am still very satisfied with how things turned out.

Down below and across the valley, we see the lights of the Panamint Springs Resort off in the distance. We turn a few miles short of that, and head south past Ballarat and over the next mountains into Trona. From there, we pass through Red Mountain, Kramer’s Junction (Four Corners for all you old timers), and then south to Victorville. Once in Apple Valley, we refuel the truck so we don’t have to do it tomorrow morning when mom and sis return it.

We pull into mom’s driveway, and she suggests unloading the truck in the morning. I just as soon get it done tonight. It only takes about five minutes. The trike is secure in the garage, and the panniers are placed in my guest room. Around 11:45 PM, my head finally hits the pillow. It has been one VERY long day …

I think I’ll sleep in late!

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And so, Steve, Tumbleweed, and the Q continue to flourish in the wilds of the Earth, ever opening new doors in their universe on their journey of life, while seeking the peace and solitude of a small yurt in the coastal woods. Of course, they lived happily ever after, never riding on any freeways.

THE END

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THIS IS A TALE NOW COMPLETE. THANKS FOR READING!

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