The Two-wheel Botanist

Chapter #1 - The First Mile

"The plan" was to hunt, fish, gather wild foods, and ride around the country on a mountain bicycle. What could go wrong with that? The following passages describe some of the more precarious situations that occurred on those biking adventures.

Earth is a fascinating place to explore, but it's also a dangerous place. The life we lead is our journey through a segment of infinity, and the decisions we make represent the pathway we choose. For about 10 years, all my transportation was on foot or bicycle, hence my nickname "The Two-wheel Botanist." These may not be the most popular modes of transportation in the Industrial Age, but they are the most cost-effective, health-conscious, and eco-friendly. During those 10 years, I did several extended treks, primarily in the southwestern United States. Each one endured several months and spanned thousands of miles.

The desert is where I accepted the challenges associated with non-motorized travel. The searing temperatures and scarcity of water add a real element of danger to exploring that region. Dry climates are considered to be more comfortable than humid climates, but don't expect this to apply when temperatures are like an oven. The first ride was a workout like no other. My strength as a biker was insufficient to manage the mountain gradients. Walking the uphill sections didn't build much confidence, but there was no other way. The human body either adapts to new situations or breaks, whichever comes first. After a few hard weeks, most of the paved roads ascending the mountains were no longer a problem and learning the ways of the wilderness became a motivating force. The first miles were tough, but the pathway was enchanting.

The initial "Trek 1994" through central Arizona was of short duration due to cash problems, but it inspired a clear vision of my future. There's only one way to be truly free, and that way is by hunting and gathering. Mastering the art of survival was the vision I had on that first trek across the southwestern terrain. Gathering wild foods is an excellent way to reduce grocery bills, but gathering enough to survive on is easier said than done. Ultimately, there is enough food in the wild for anyone determined enough to follow that ancient way, but the wild is rapidly disappearing. "Trek 1994" instilled the strength and confidence I needed to handle the demands of the toughest terrain.

Subsequent treks occurred in 1996, 1998, 2000, and 2002, all the even-numbered years of my decade on a bicycle. The longest trek was "Trek 1996," which formed an intricate triangular pattern throughout the Southwest, and then crossed the United States in an eastward direction. The total distance for that ride was over 7,000 miles. "Trek 1998" was in the opposite direction, a westward route arching deep into the South and zigzagging over a low section of the Continental Divide in New Mexico. "Trek 2000" was also a westward route across the United States, but it followed a more northern trajectory through the Heartland. It then veered southward "over" Colorado and eventually descended into the Sonoran Desert. Bicycle riders go over rather than through Colorado. Automobile drivers just go through. If you ever try riding a bicycle in Colorado, you'll know what I mean. "Trek 2000" was the first one in winter, a season that most bikers avoid for obvious reasons. "Trek 2002" explored the state of Michigan, and then resumed in southern Utah during February of the following year. "Trek 2009" doesn't officially qualify as a trek since it was in a car, but most of my field research on edible plants resulted from short hikes made possible by driving to remote areas scattered across the Southwest. Almost everyday from 2009 to 2012 I did short hikes into various areas to search for wild foods. Hiking and biking always made me feel more connected to the land than other modes of transportation.

So what is it like being out there on a mountain bicycle? Mountain biking is a workout, and there's no end to the sweating. It's like being marinated in sweat. Riding conditions are almost never ideal, equipment inevitably fails, and the great outdoors isn't always so great. It can get a little wild out there. Despite the drawbacks, hiking and biking are a lot of fun.

Chapter #2 - Experiences with the Equipment

"Welcome to the Southwest"

At first, the welcome sign at the Arizona state line seemed like a gracious invitation to the Grand Canyon State, but no less than 50 yards away a situation was waiting for the right moment to strike. Crossing a state line always feels good and inspires a sense of accomplishment when traveling via mountain bicycle. Welcome signs can be over 400 miles apart in the western states, so it's nice to see one. I was traveling west on U.S. Route 70, which crosses into Arizona near the small towns of Duncan and Franklin. Off in the distance, the Peloncillo Mountains rose into the skyline. Perhaps those mountains were cursed, or perhaps it was a moment of bad luck. Whichever it was, a swift jab suddenly struck without warning like a fang piercing flesh! Fortunately, it wasn't a rattlesnake and my body wasn't the target, but it nearly incapacitated my mode of transportation. Waiting on the road for a hapless rubber tire was a monstrous thorn. The thing was huge! It was bigger than Bigfoot! Seriously though, it was about 3 inches long and razor sharp. I thought I saw thorns before, but apparently I didn't until I saw those that Arizona had to offer.

Thorn-resistant tires are imperative in the Southwest, but even these tires have limitations. A thorn that size was probably from a Russian olive tree, and wouldn't have much trouble going through a car tire. It effortlessly sliced through the top of my tire, then promptly pierced the so-called bullet-proof liner, secondary reinforcement, and thorn-resistant inner tube. Afterward, it carved an exit hole out the side of my poor tire! The tire was flat within seconds, but that was only the beginning of the problem.

Patches work fine for pinholes, but these looked more like bullet holes than pinholes! At the time, I didn't know about the limitations of patches and I assumed the patches would hold. I'm not sure why I still assume that anything sold in stores is going to work properly. That must be a consequence of faith. I used a pair of pliers to pull out the monstrous thorn. The thorn stubbornly resisted the effort, but I won the wrestling match. Adhering a couple of patches and re-inflating the tire didn't take very long. The procedure is a familiar routine. Except this time, it failed to heal the wound. Stronger medicine was needed. As I pumped up the tire, the patches failed, which created a more challenging problem. I needed bigger patches, better glue, or a new inner tube, none of which were available at the moment. The spare tube that was available was already perforated with numerous pinholes, but at least it was fixable. Fortunately, I had enough patches to cover all the holes in the spare, and the patches held until I could obtain a replacement, and another spare! This welcome to Arizona was about what I should have expected considering the terrain.

"The Peloncillo Mountains"

The Black Hills National Backcountry Byway, locally known as the Old Safford Road, crosses the Peloncillo Mountains in southeastern Arizona. It was once the main road linking the mining areas of Clifton and Morenci to the agricultural areas around Safford. There's a bridge and a permanent source of water where this byway crosses the Gila River. The byway is unpaved and winds through miles of desert scenery. It's not particularly rough, and except for one persistent problem, it's reasonably easy to navigate on a mountain bicycle.

The Peloncillo Mountains provide the perfect habitat for a menacing little plant called puncture-vine (Tribulus terrestris). Colonies of this plant produce notorious seeds with stiff, sturdy, razor sharp spikes branching out in every direction, somewhat like miniature caltrops. The spikes average about 4-11 mm from tip to tip, thicker than most bicycle tires. The devilish seeds have an eerie resemblance to goat skulls and easily puncture rubber tires, especially bicycle tires that haven't been adequately reinforced. Car tires are too thick to be affected. Devising a solution wasn't so easy, and strangely none of the suggestions offered at bike shops were of much help. Usually, bike shops have solutions for just about everything regarding bikes. Nearly every bicyclist who has ridden in the Southwest has bad memories of these plants.

Being prepared is important, and I thought I was prepared for the Black Hills Byway. I stocked up on food and water at a convenience store in Clifton before starting the byway. I carry patch kits and spare inner tubes, which have always been sufficient in the past. Everything seemed to be in proper order. Although there was a highway paralleling the byway, I prefer roads with less traffic. The desert scenery along the byway was sparsely covered with dull green shrubs, mainly creosote, barberry, and condalia. Various buckwheats and plantains could be found closer to the ground. A narrow ribbon of lush green trees grew where the byway crossed the Gila River. From the river to the mountain pass proved to be challenging, but not because of the incline. I barely made it up that hill with air in my tires. At the time, I was using "self healing" inner tubes, which are inner tubes filled with a glue-like liquid that coagulates upon exposure to air, thus sealing off any holes. The concept is brilliant, but as I discovered the hard way, it doesn't really work. Some people swear the tubes are effective, but I'm convinced that the tubes are a waste of money. The Peloncillo Mountains, and many areas of the Southwest, are literally carpeted with puncture-vine seeds. It wasn't long before they flattened both of my "self healing" inner tubes. Soon afterwards, both replacement tubes were also flat, so I had to rely upon patches, but the number of holes greatly exceeded the number of patches. I was losing the battle, and defeat appeared imminent. It wasn't long before all the patches were gone. There was nothing else to rely upon, and I was only at the pass, barely halfway done with the byway.

There was a picnic table at the pass, so I stopped there to have dinner while watching a beautiful sunset. I established camp about a mile beyond the pass, and I knew that campsite would be the final resting place for my battered tires. They were perforated with holes. There must have been 70 or 80 of those cursed seeds stuck in the tires. I left them in place to keep the holes plugged, but air still escaped. Just to reach the pass, I had to pump up the tires every half mile. I knew they would be flat when I woke up the following morning, and I also knew there was no chance they would hold air. A situation was brewing.

The tires weren't the only piece of equipment affected by those annoying seeds. They compromised the floor of my tent as well. I used a leafy mesquite branch as a broom to sweep the ground clear of puncture-vine seeds before setting up my tent, but a few seeds still managed to elude my makeshift broom and pierce the bottom of my formerly waterproof tent. Not only did the seeds go through the tent, they also went through my legs as I sat down in the tent! I remember cursing out loud at that point and having to get rid of the last remaining seeds by hand in the dark.

The closest place with more patch kits and inner tubes was about 25 miles away in Safford, where I was already heading. Except now I was heading there without air in my tires! Without air pressure, tires won't stay on rims, so I removed both tires. Riding a bicycle without tires can ruin the rims, or so they say. Since the route took longer than intended and more energy than intended, I ran out of water, and the temperature was getting hot. I didn't plan on camping in the Peloncillo Mountains that night. It just happened that way due to all the time spent fixing flats. About the only good news was that I wouldn't have to spend any more time fixing flats now that all the patches and inner tubes were gone! Even though that doesn't really qualify as good news, it's important to be optimistic. Since I had to walk the bike for 10 miles to reach the main highway, I sure didn't miss any scenery! After reaching the highway, I was extremely thirsty. It was past lunchtime and still 15 miles to Safford. The 15 miles would require about 5 hours to walk, but only about 1 hour to bike. I needed water sooner rather than later, but was that need worth sacrificing the rims? I asked myself, "How bad do you really need those rims?" I know that riding a bicycle on the rims is a bad idea, especially aluminum rims, but does that really ruin them? The rims in question were old, warped, dented, and in need of replacement anyway. Why not try testing them to see if they can handle the pavement? Given the current situation, the test sounded like a good idea! Perhaps they won't be ground into oblivion? How would I know without testing them?

The highway leading into Safford was fairly new and exceptionally smooth. However, without tires to absorb shock, hitting the smallest pebble feels like a major impact. The rims proved to be much tougher than I thought, and endured the 15 miles to town. They were slightly damaged, but still worked fine. On the road into town, I passed another bicycle tourist traveling in the opposite direction. I was kind of hoping that nobody would see my bike in such deplorable condition, but it was too late to avoid embarrassment. So, I just smiled and acted like everything was perfectly normal. Of course, the painfully loud noise of the rims grinding on the pavement that could be heard from a quarter mile away was a sure sign of something seriously not normal. It was immediately obvious that something had gone terribly wrong. Nobody rides a bicycle on the rims! That's just unheard of! It was bound to be the centerpiece of the conversation. Soon I was explaining the events that led up to this undignified predicament. The new acquaintance was understanding, sympathetic, and beginning to tremble with fear about the road ahead of him. He already experienced a couple flat tires recently, and seeing the condition that my bicycle was in was like a sign of impending doom. I recommended staying on the main road unless he was prepared to deal with those seeds. He took the advice in earnest as we departed.

Upon arrival in Safford, I immediately sought the nearest bike shop for more patch kits and inner tubes. The rims didn't need to be replaced, but they didn't exactly have a showroom look either! After the ordeal, I decided to try a more radical solution by switching to solid inner tubes, which are inner tubes that don't contain air and therefore never need to be pumped up. What I didn't know about prior to the switch were all the problems associated with solid tubes, and that led to the next passage called "No More Flat Tires."

"No More Flat Tires"

After a record number of flat tires in the Peloncillo Mountains, a more radical strategy for preventing the problem was obviously needed. One strategy was solid inner tubes, which are indeed solid and incapable of going flat. The idea sounded good, almost too good to be true, but do solid inner tubes really work?

Bicycle shops rarely sell solid inner tubes, but I never heard a good argument against the tubes. Shop owners and managers always seemed suspiciously uninformative about the topic, as if they didn't want me to buy the solid inner tubes because that would end the need for regular inner tubes and patch kits. Was there something they weren't telling me? Are solid tubes bad for business by reducing profits? That was the impression I got, but the shops do have some good reasons for avoiding the product.

Imagine trying to put a tire that's already pumped up onto a rim. If that's too hard to imagine, just trust me, it's nearly impossible. They say there's the right size sledgehammer for every job, but I don't usually carry a sledgehammer in my tool kit. After an hour of fighting and a few swear words, I managed to secure everything in place. The rim was bent and gouged in several places during the process, and this is after it was already battered from the previous hell mission. I was determined to try out those solid inner tubes, but that was no way to treat a poor rim. I'm usually not so hard on my equipment. Once everything was secure, I thought all my tire problems were solved. The new tires were invincible. Instead of swerving away from broken glass like a wimp, I steered right into it and ground it back into sand! Nothing could flatten my tires! I started looking for things to run over, and I thought it might be fashionable to have my tires pierced! Other bikers would envy my tires studded with cactus thorns or railroad spikes. Although the tires were impervious to flats, they made the bicycle difficult to pedal by creating drag, lots of drag, almost as much as going uphill. They also made the bicycle difficult to steer because they didn't fit tightly on the rims. Nobody at the bike shops seemed to be aware of these dynamics.

The tread on mountain bike tires typically lasts for 1,500 to 2,000 miles, but not when using solid inner tubes. After switching to solid inner tubes, my tires were bald in just 300 miles, which was about 2 weeks after installing them. At that rate, the system was way too expensive and way too difficult to maintain, so I went back to regular inner tubes and cringing at the sight of sharp objects.

The best solution appears to be multiple layers of reinforcements and extra thick inner tubes. Basically like having a tire inside of a tire. My bicycle tires are as thick as automobile tires. The layering system is effective, but not absolutely effective, against puncture-vine seeds, broken glass, thorns, barbed wire, and other road debris. I almost never get flats anymore with this homemade system, and the tread lasts for its expected lifespan. The drawback is that the tires are fairly heavy compared to ordinary tires, but that's better than the alternative.

"What's so bad about a bald spot?"

This passage isn't about hair loss. The bald spot was a problem with my back tire that seemed to develop almost overnight. I first noticed the problem while eating lunch at a picnic area along Utah State Route 12 in the Dixie National Forest, which is a long way from any department store or bicycle shop. I noticed that a small section of my back tire was nearly worn through. I knew that once it wore through, the inner tube would pop like a balloon and the tire would be useless. There wasn't much time left before that scenario, probably just a few miles. Bicycle tires typically have nylon reinforcements, much like automobile tires are steel belted. The nylon reinforcements were already exposed and frayed, and there's no more tire below the strands of nylon. The bald spot was actually bulging from the pressure exerted by the inner tube. That's bad, very bad, and isn't supposed to happen, but it was happening.

Tires are rarely a problem, so I don't carry any spares. What I carry is inner tubes. This problem was unique, and couldn't be fixed with a simple patch or another inner tube. I never saw anything like it before, and I'm not entirely sure what caused it. All I knew was that the problem was serious, and that the inner tube could blow at any moment. I switched the front and back tires so that the bald spot would be on the front, since front tires wear at a slower rate. I also made sure that the multiple layers of tire reinforcements I use were properly centered, and hoped that the reinforcements would prevent the inner tube from bursting. Those changes were all I could do until reaching the town of Escalante about 30 miles away. After about 6 miles, the tire was breached and officially had no tread at the bald spot, so the spot was now a hole! Normally, once that happens, pressure forces the inner tube through the hole and a loud popping sound is heard. Miraculously, the reinforcements prevented that situation from occurring. The question then became, how long will the reinforcements hold?

The reinforcements proved to be far more successful than I anticipated. The tire seemed to be "working like new" despite the hole. So, after making another bad decision in life, I tried to get some more use out of it. Why fix something that's already fixed? Besides, it was Sunday and the stores were closed in Escalante, so I continued on, farther than I should have. Trying to get the maximum value out of a product makes good economic sense, but it's not always the best decision, especially when the product is a tire. After a few days, I passed through the towns of Kanab, Jacob Lake, and Cameron, which are hundreds of miles away. In fact, the last 2 towns aren't even in Utah. They're in northern Arizona. The hole gradually grew larger and larger over those few days, and now the reinforcements were bulging and going bald. By the time I reached Flagstaff, over 250 miles away from Escalante, the hole was the size of a quarter! I never should have ridden that far considering the condition of the tire, but at least Flagstaff had the replacement I was looking for.

"Breaking the Chains"

On my way to Petrified Forest National Park in the heart of the Painted Desert, everything was going fine, until the chain broke! There is only one way to fix a broken chain, and the procedure requires what's called a "chain tool." Without the tool, fixing a chain is basically impossible.

I never broke a chain before, so the event felt strange. Everything was working properly, and then suddenly there was no tension on the pedals. There was no difference between pedaling forward or backward. The chain fell off and the bicycle coasted for a short distance. It was obvious I wouldn't be going anywhere until the chain was fixed, unless the laws of physics changed. I walked back about 150 feet to recover the chain that was lying on the ground coiled like a rattlesnake basking in the sun.

Since I always carry a chain tool, the repair was easy. Re-linking a chain is a simple procedure, and only takes a minute or two. However, had I not had a chain tool that day, it would've been a long walk back to a bicycle shop, and I would've missed the magnificent Petrified Forest. I also would've been using a large number of swear words!

An interesting phenomenon that took me a while to finally believe was the fact that bicycle chains actually stretch. It took years before I was finally convinced. When I heard employees in bike shops talk of this "chain stretch," I assumed they were either trying to sell me a new chain or smoking something illegal. The first time my chain began to slip was in 1997 after the bike had traveled about 8,000 miles. It was the original chain. I couldn't apply any force to the pedals without the chain slipping. After inquiring about what might cause a problem like that, the bike shop employees recommended replacing the chain because it was probably "stretched." That sounded like the stupidest thing I ever heard. Whatever the truth was, something was definitely causing a serious slipping problem. I followed the recommendation and bought my first new chain hoping it would cure the problem. It didn't. In fact, it made the problem worse. The next time I went to the bike shop they asked me if I had a lot of miles on the bike. I knew I had a lot of miles, so I casually asked if 8,000 would be considered a lot. They were stunned and thought I was lying, but I wasn't lying. They asked to see the bike, so I wheeled it in. Again, they were stunned. After a quick look they said I needed a new "drive train." Whatever that was, it didn't sound cheap. When they pointed out the problem, I knew they were telling the truth. The chain was definitely part of the problem, but the main part was the badly worn teeth on the sprockets, which are collectively called the drive train. That fact was clearly visible. Grinding sprockets to that point requires riding a bicycle thousands of miles, and the employees knew that. They were impressed. A new drivetrain fixed the problem. However, I still didn't believe that chains stretch.

It wasn't until many years later, when I was proudly having my third drivetrain installed, that I finally believed that chains stretch. Wearing out a bicycle tire isn't that difficult, but wearing out metal components is a bit more challenging. It feels good to wear out a set of tires, because it proves that you rode a lot of miles. By the same reasoning, it feels even better to grind metal components into oblivion. It's like a badge of honor among bikers. I was at a bike shop in Parker, Arizona during the winter of 2004. The shop owner had a chain gauge, which is a tool made specifically for measuring chain length. I kindly asked him to measure my chain. As he tried to measure it, he paused for a moment then shifted his eyes towards me and said, "You must have been doing some serious riding because this chain is off my gauge." It was too long to even measure. He said he never saw a chain stretched that bad. He also said sprockets would last longer if I replaced chains more frequently, since most of the damage to sprockets occurs after chains stretch. I believed him, and I now replace the chain every time I replace the tires.

"Who needs a brake?"

My early days of hiking and biking were a time of memorable learning experiences. One such experience was a lesson about the natural limitations of brakes. Although it's important for a vehicle to have the ability to move, the ability to stop moving is even more important! I assumed that brake pads would wear out quickly, especially after blazing down the side of a mountain. The assumption eventually proved wrong, but I didn't know that at first. For all I knew, the brake pads would burn up in a cloud of smoke after descending the first mountain. Could they handle that much punishment? Will they be ground into oblivion? I honestly didn't know, so I brought extras and closely watched for signs of wear. The signs were never seen, but bicycle brakes do have other limitations.

Utah has some of the steepest roads I've ever seen. Signs warning of 10%, 12%, and even 16% gradients are not uncommon, especially in the Canyonlands, where there seems to be a cliff no matter which way you go. The Smithsonian Butte Road leading into Zion National Park is particularly rough and steep. Fortunately, I was going downhill, but even that was a problem. The road was simply too steep for my brakes. They could barely stop the bike! After nearly losing control a few times, I realized that the bike would have to be walked down. Imagine that, having to walk a bike downhill! Uphill I could understand, but downhill? It seemed unethical, like a violation of some bicycling code of honor. There was no other rational choice. It had to be walked. Otherwise, I'd be flying off the side of a cliff! The road was actually more at fault than the brakes. It was a dirt road and all the little rocks interfered with traction. Even when the brakes were fully applied, the wheels were still spinning and the bike wasn't slowing down, which is definitely not good! Apparently, there's a critical stress point at which brakes cease to function properly, and it's good to know that point! Of course, loading a bike down with piles of heavy luggage doesn't exactly ease the burden placed on brakes. Even walking down that road was difficult. The bike and I kept sliding thanks to the loose gravel and steep gradient, but we both made it down undamaged.

"The Fine Print"

Choosing the right equipment is an important part of preparing for any adventure. When I first started hiking and biking, I made a few wrong choices about equipment. One mistake in particular will be hard to forget because it concerned a vital piece of equipment—the tent. At the time, $30 dollars seemed reasonable for a good tent, and $100 dollars seemed outrageous. What I didn't realize was the difference in quality. Other than $70 dollars, the tents seemed to be the same. How different could they be?

Trial and error is a great teacher, and the $30 dollar tent I tried certainly proved to be an error. The tent worked fine for several weeks, but it had never been in the rain. The desert can go for months without rain, but it does rain there eventually. One day, as a steady rain was falling, I set up camp with my $30 dollar department store tent near one of the many creeks called Cottonwood Creek. This one in particular was in the Four Peaks Wilderness of central Arizona. I had no idea that rain would seep through the roof, walls, and floor. Despite the "water-resistant" claim on the package, the tent material certainly did not resist water. In fact, it hardly slowed the water down. Why would they even make tents like that? Obviously, I needed a new tent soon, preferably immediately, but that would have to wait until tomorrow when the stores opened. For now, night was approaching, rain was falling, and temperatures were dropping. I had to stay warm and dry, but it was not going to be easy, especially in that tent. I covered the floor with garbage bags to create a barrier between the encroaching water and my sleeping bag, but everything was soaked by morning.

I woke up early that morning because I was freezing. There was little chance of building a fire with wet wood, so I lit a candle for warmth. After breakfast, I rode into town to look for a real tent. Fortunately, the town happened to be a major city with several stores that sold tents. I definitely needed something better than what the department stores had to offer, so I checked out the selection at a few sporting goods stores. Staff members seemed helpful, informative, and honest. Of course, they're paid to seem that way. Apparently, there are big differences between the terms water-resistant, water-repellent, and waterproof, but I didn't know that until after this experience. How can a material be called water-resistant or water-repellent if it doesn't resist or repel water? Isn't that false advertising or fraud? I wonder how many products would be left on shelves if all products making false claims were removed? Four? Maybe five? Only "waterproof" materials will actually stop water. The other terms are meaningless. People who fall victim to these vague discrepancies in terminology, also known as the fine print, can be seen congregating around dryers at coin-operated laundries after camping in the rain! I know this because I was briefly among them. Since then, I've learned about the limitations of materials. If you plan on camping in the rain, be sure your tent fabric has a good-quality coating!

Another important issue that outdoor enthusiasts should know about before spending a stack of money concerns "moisture vapor transpiration" (MVT) fabrics, or the so called "waterproof breathable" fabrics. There are many different brand names, most of which are shamelessly overpriced. These fabrics have coatings that allegedly keep water out while allowing sweat to escape. It sounds like a good idea, but does it really work?

The theory behind this "state of the art technology" is based on the fact that sweat molecules are smaller than water molecules. Therefore, a porous material with holes in-between those two sizes will allow sweat to pass through while blocking water. The concept is brilliant, and technically it works. However, you still get soaked with sweat, so what's the point? Why spend money on high tech fabrics?

The answer is that MVT fabrics become a vital piece of equipment during cold rainstorms and snowstorms. The jackets are most effective between 20°F and 50°F. If it's any warmer, your own sweat will soak you, which defeats the purpose of the jacket. If it's any colder, snow won't melt into the jacket, so the jacket becomes unnecessary. Of course, they try not to tell you that at sporting goods stores. Instead, they try to scare you into buying the most expensive jacket by saying the cheaper ones fall apart faster, which is actually true. You definitely get what you pay for, so it's important to read the fine print. I carry a decent-quality rain jacket, and I understand its limitations. The trick is to avoid sweating, which isn't likely to happen when riding up the side of a mountain!

"Re-booting the System"

Although the title may sound computer related, the topic here is about actual boots. However, actual boots can be used to boot a stupid computer, all the way across a room if necessary! After 17 years of use, I suppose it's fair to say that I got my money out of those boots. I hate shopping for footwear, but it was time once again.

It was in beautiful Sierra Vista, Arizona when I "suddenly" realized that I needed new boots. The boots didn't have any tread. Actually, they didn't really have any soles either. It was kind of like walking barefoot, and you don't want to do that in "Cactus Country"! After all the thorns started coming through, I knew that meant the end for my beloved boots.

The stores had plenty of choices, but nothing seemed quite right. The combination of lightweight, rugged, stylish, and affordable was nowhere to be found. However, bulky, flimsy, dorky, and expensive choices abound. Why won't they just make something simple and basic and without flashing lights? What's next? Wireless boots that hook up to the Internet and send you emails stating how far you've walked? Finding a suitable pair wasn't easy, but I eventually found one that met all the criteria. I can only imagine the dreaded things they'll do to boots in the future when I'll need another pair. They'll probably have nuclear powered boots with air conditioning that do the walking for you. Of course, these supercharged, futuristic boots won't need any additional lighting compliments with all that radiation leakage creating a green glow to light the way. Who knows what the future will bring?

Chapter #3 - Experiences with the Terrain

"It's only a Hill"

There's nothing quite like trying to ride a bicycle up the side of a mountain. I still remember the first mountain I successfully climbed. I kept telling myself, "It's only a hill," as sweat was pouring off my forehead and every muscle in my body was aching. It's a lot of stress, both physical and psychological, but it's a healthy kind of stress. Since that first mountain, I've ascended hundreds of others. All the western states have enormous mountains, but the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California stand above them all. The highest point in the continental United States, Mount Whitney, is located in those mountains at a prominent 14,494 feet elevation.

The central valley of California is smoking hot during the summer, and it was the middle of summer when I briefly entered the region. The temperature was 105°F in Sonora, which is a small town lying at the base of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. I just came from Lake Tahoe, where it was much cooler, and I wasn't expecting it to be so hot down in the valley. Yosemite National Park was the next destination, and thankfully plenty of small towns were available along the way to replenish my water supply. I went through water reserves at an alarming rate, but I never ran out. Sonora is situated at approximately 2,000 feet elevation, and it was nothing but uphill after Sonora.

I followed California State Route 120, also called the Tioga Pass Road, to Yosemite National Park. The waterfalls of Yosemite are too incredible to describe with words. The place is a vision of paradise. The trails lead to crystal clear pools for wading in under a natural shower of falling water. It's very inspiring. Many lasting relationships have come together under these majestic waterfalls. Of course, that water has to fall from somewhere, and that's where I was heading.

The Tioga Pass was a hill like no other. The pass is at 9,995 feet elevation, which is close enough for me to call 10,000 feet. Carrying a full load, I can climb 1,000 feet per hour on gradients less than 9%, but gradients above 9% are nearly beyond my physical ability. Without a load, I can handle almost any gradient. The gradient has a strong influence on the climb. A 6% gradient ascends 1,000 feet in approximately 3 miles, while a 9% gradient ascends the same in only 2 miles. The average mountain pass requires about 2 to 3 hours to climb, and only about 10 to 15 minutes to descend. The Tioga Pass Road wasn't particularly steep, but it was unbelievably long. The road climbs uphill for over 60 miles, gaining a total of 8,000 feet elevation between Sonora and the pass. By comparison, the Grand Canyon is "only" 5,000 feet deep. It took all day to get up that hill, and half of the next day! None of the mountains in Colorado rivaled that climb, although many of the passes are higher. What matters is the change in elevation, not the elevation itself, and the Tioga Pass Road has quite a change in elevation! My whole body was aching after that climb. I rode the entire distance because walking a bike is against the rules. Although, I'll admit, there have been mountains that I couldn't ride up, and even a few that I couldn't ride down! I can climb almost any paved road. It's dirt roads that are a problem, mainly due to bumps and small rocks that break traction.

You can believe I was glad to reach that pass. When I saw the sign indicating the current elevation to be a mere 5 feet less than 10,000 feet, I kind of felt ripped off and like I needed to find a taller mountain! It really didn't matter at that point. The mountain air was cool, crisp, and clean, and there was one sweet downhill ahead! The length of the downhill was only a fraction of the uphill, about 11 miles, but the gradient was much steeper. Steep enough to enable speeds equivalent to motorized traffic! However, I don't ride that fast. In fact, I rarely exceed 35 mph because the bicycle and luggage become unstable and difficult to control at higher speeds. The 11 downhill miles to Mono Lake sure didn't take very long, and I still remember the agonizing cry of another biker coming up that incline.

"The Loneliest Road"

The long stretch of U.S. Route 50 across the state of Nevada is nicknamed, "The Loneliest Road in America." It took 8 days to ride the 440 miles after leaving the small town of Baker on the east side, and that's the short way across Nevada! I was glad to be in Baker because the previous services were 94 miles away! The Great Basin has some truly remote places. That's part of what makes it so great. Distances between towns are typically 60 to 90 miles, and that presents a potential problem for mountain bikers. If the weather or road conditions don't cooperate, those distances can be challenging. I usually carry enough food and water for 3 days. Carrying more of those vital supplies becomes difficult due to the weight and makes climbing up mountains nearly impossible. Fortunately, the weather cooperated and the distances were not a problem, so the ride across Nevada wasn't a traumatic experience.

The town of Baker lies at the base of the Snake Range, and serves as a gateway to Great Basin National Park. The Lehman Caves and 13,063 feet high Wheeler Peak are popular attractions at the park. There's a lot more than sagebrush in the region, but only for those who care to look. Nevada has about 350 natural hot springs, extensive cave systems, natural arches, marshes, hanging gardens, ghost towns, ancient ruins, petroglyphs, precious minerals, snow-capped mountains, and much more. I love the Great Basin, and I hope it's never ruined by "development." It's nice to see a place that nature has spent millions of years perfecting. The Lehman Caves were absolutely fascinating. I spent a few extra days at the park to do some hiking, but I didn't go all the way up to Wheeler Peak. The campground was located in a lush riparian area, which provided a pleasant contrast to the surrounding landscape. I made sure to re-supply in Baker before riding the 64 miles to Ely.

The trek across Nevada took place in May and included a total of 13 mountain passes. Most of the climbs were "only" about 2,000 feet, starting at 5,000 feet elevation and rising to about 7,000 feet. The segment from Ely to Eureka was 77 miles long and included 3 passes, one of which was called Little Antelope Summit. There were no services between those towns, and very few natural sources of water. Since it was nearly summertime, I wasn't expecting any snow, even up in the mountains. I always thought of Nevada as one of the warmer states, but the northern half is more like Canada than Mexico. A late season cold front brought a light snow to Little Antelope Summit, but I was prepared for it. The snow was barely able to cover the ground, and melted the next day.

The stretch of highway between Eureka and Austin was also void of services and included 3 mountain ranges that divided extensive valleys. The Monitor Valley offered an exceptionally beautiful scene. A group of 3 isolated thunderstorms was moving across the valley. The storms were all around me, yet somehow managed to avoid me. The storms created a number of rainbows arcing across the endless sky. As the sun was setting, a fan of light filtering through the clouds shined up into the evening sky. Sunbeams usually shine downward through the clouds, but they occasionally shine upward under the right conditions. The whole scene was spectacular, and I was glad to avoid the rain. I spent that night among the sagebrush and coyotes.

The small town of Austin is nicknamed, "The Loneliest Town on the Loneliest Road in America." Austin is in the middle of Nevada, and the nickname is appropriate. The whole town is built on the side of a mountain, so it tends to go by quickly when traveling westward via bicycle. Of course, traveling eastward isn't so expedient! From the Austin Summit Pass, a beautiful natural bridge of rock can be seen off in the distant Toiyabe Range. The Pony Express Trail once followed the same route through this area. Some of the old stations can still be seen at historical markers along U.S. 50 between Austin and Middlegate.

After leaving Austin, I wasn't expecting any services until reaching Fallon about 110 miles away, but there was a "café-bar-gas-motel-grocery-store" in Middlegate. It was about the only building in Middlegate. I didn't even see any houses, just vast plains of open country and this building at the intersection of two main highways out in the middle of nowhere. A hot, juicy hamburger, crispy fries, and icy cola sounded considerably better than the canned food and river water in my saddlebags, so I stopped in for lunch. Sometime during the course of lunch, a group of 6 mountain bikers just happened to stop in at the same place. What are the odds of that ever happening again in Middlegate? They were traveling eastward, opposite my direction, and making good time since the wind was in their favor. We all conversed for a while and traded exaggerations before departing.

The final stretch of U.S. 50 went through Fallon and the capital of Nevada, Carson City, where I branched off the lonely road towards Reno and Lake Tahoe. The Great Basin is an undiscovered land of incredible beauty. People who say there's nothing there are simply wrong.

"Spirit Ride"

Sometimes there's just not enough time in a day. I refer to rides that extend into the night, or beyond the 24 hours in a day, as "spirit rides." People often ask how many miles I can ride, but nobody ever asks how many hours I can ride. Occasionally, the distance between campgrounds, motels, or public lands is just too far to cross in one day or harsh weather conditions prevent me from reaching the intended destination, so I ride into the night. A few ambitious spirit rides lasted all night and well into the following day.

Arizona State Route 86 from Tucson to Ajo traverses the entire Tohono O'odham Indian Reservation. Most of the route is on reservation land, and therefore closed to camping without a permit. I'm not sure why it took so long to cross the reservation. It wasn't windy, mountainous, or particularly far, so I don't have any good excuses to explain why it took all night to reach the other side. However, I could make up a few excuses if necessary. It was those darn space aliens again! They can be a real menace. I heard they can shoot you halfway across the galaxy if you piss them off!

The town of Sells is located in the heart of the reservation, and it's not the kind of place that inspires a sense of peace and tranquility, especially with all the iron bars barricading everything. The grocery store was overrun by packs of hungry dogs begging for food just outside the doors. The police were involved with a civil disturbance, mainly a lot of yelling. Perhaps it was just the wrong day to be in Sells, but I was glad to leave that town.

It was long past nightfall when I arrived in Covered Wells. Unlike the day, the night was calm, peaceful, and mystifying. The air was moist and dew began to settle on my arms, clothing, equipment, and glasses. Only 2 cars passed by after midnight, so I had the road to myself, well, almost to myself. Several coyotes passed by! The moon reflected just enough light to see the lines on the road, but distant mountains and silhouettes of paloverde trees were barely visible. The night has a different feel. It's a different place, a place where the spirit is challenged. Riding all night pushes the body to extraordinary limits. Energy levels drop as sleep deprivation combines with delirium and exhaustion. At about 4:15 a.m. I finally made it across the reservation and found a spot to set up camp near the town of Why.

This spirit ride covered 107 miles in 21 hours, which averages about 5 mph excluding the 7 stops to eat. Biking has a way of causing hunger! Other spirit rides endured even longer. The longest one lasted 31 hours.

"Down in a Hole"

Challenging terrain provided me with a wealth of fond memories. It's hard to imagine some of the obstacles that bikers must overcome, and the agility necessary to overcome those obstacles. Automobile drivers don't have to jump over curbs or swerve around things like telephone poles, fire hydrants, sewer drains, logs, and boulders in the lane. Other than chuckholes and some occasional road debris, the lanes are generally free of obstacles.

One of the worst encounters with an obstacle happened in Anaheim, California on a busy 4-lane road. Edges of roads are usually rougher than the lanes where cars get to drive. The road in Anaheim wasn't terribly rough, but it was narrow and it had a nasty curb. I had to ride close to the curb to avoid traffic. Curbs make it difficult to pull off onto the shoulder should that become necessary, and that certainly became necessary!

Sometimes things just aren't made right. We've all experienced a design flaw, but the side of a busy road is the wrong place to experience such a flaw. Roads are designed to channel excess water into storm drains. Bikers ride over these drains on a regular basis. The drains are rarely a problem, assuming they have a cover! No biker would ever expect one with a cover to be a problem, because drain covers are designed to allow bicycles to pass over unencumbered, except in Anaheim.

Imagine a storm drain cover about 10 feet long by 1 foot wide. Now, imagine the bars of the cover running parallel to the road spaced wider apart than the average bicycle tire, and only 2 perpendicular crossbars. So in other words, the holes of the cover were 3 inches wide by 40 inches long, a perfect size for swallowing a bicycle tire. Now imagine cruising along on a bicycle and glancing down at a storm drain like that only a few inches away! It's too late to stop, and too late to swerve. Even if there was more time, there was a curb to the right and traffic to the left. The unexpected obstacle was also too far across to jump over. A collision was inevitable. I ride over storm drain covers all the time. Every biker does, so I didn't recognize the problem until it was too late. During that tragic moment of recognition lasting less than a second, I was stunned with disbelief. They wouldn't really design a cover like that would they? Could they really design something that badly? As the front tire sunk in, way in, my doubts were confirmed, yet the situation was still hard to believe. The front tire sunk down to the axle, and I knew what was about to happen next.

The bicycle came to an abrupt stop upon meeting the first crossbar. Of course, I was still cruising along! There's just no feeling quite like flying over the handlebars of a bike! Who says humans can't fly? Have they ever ridden a bike in Anaheim? About the only choice I had in the situation was deciding where to land! It wasn't a difficult choice. Naturally, I chose the shoulder instead of the lane, but I wasn't sure which way the bicycle was going to go. I didn't want it to tumble into the lane, so I tried pulling it towards me. Almost immediately, the bicycle flipped over. The wheels were pointing towards the sky as I was somersaulting through the air. The position seemed a little awkward, and I'm sure all the birds watching the maneuver were amused. Okay, so maybe humans can't fly, at least some of us try! Technically, landing is more of a problem than flying, and this flight was about to land. The bike and I landed on the shoulder relatively undamaged.

The sewer in Anaheim was probably my worst wipe out, but it was certainly not the only wipe out I recall. There was that time at Lake Tahoe when I hit a rut in the Saxon Trail and gracefully flew over the handlebars. That was probably the least painful flying lesson. There was that time when I accidentally turned the handlebars too much and jackknifed the bicycle. I met "Mr. Pavement" almost instantly on that occasion. There was also a stream crossing that didn't go so well, probably better to walk a bicycle in those places. Going too fast around turns is also inadvisable. I "paid a few dues" over the years.

"The Canyonlands"

No book about mountain biking would be complete without a chapter on the Canyonlands of northern Arizona and southern Utah. The Canyonlands are truly one of the most spectacular places in the United States. When I rode through the region in 1996, I visited several national parks and monuments. They were all places of incredible beauty, the kind of beauty that leaves you standing in awe before the miracle of creation. Words and pictures could never substitute for visiting the Canyonlands. Nothing tragic happened when I was there, so this passage is primarily a description of the terrain as seen from the perspective of a bicycle rider.

Grand Canyon National Park located in northern Arizona exemplifies how grand a canyon can be. Of course, it's also the worst example of soil erosion on earth! The roads and trails lead right to the edge of the rim, and the view is unbelievable. Sheer cliffs drop off into an abyss, and the eyes can see for miles. It's inspiring during all four seasons. I rode along the rim and stopped at all the viewpoints, but I didn't hike down into the canyon. After a few days, I departed the park following Route 64 east to Cameron, which was also impressive, especially where the Coconino Rim dropped off into the Little Colorado River.

Zion National Park in southwestern Utah was another spectacular place in the Canyonlands. It has the steepest and narrowest canyon I've ever seen. They call it the Zion Narrows. Parts of it have walls 1,000 feet high separated by merely 20 feet of riverbed. The "trail" leading into the narrows is basically the river, so expect a lot of crossings. The narrows are truly a dangerous place to be during flash floods, and access is justifiably restricted when rain moves into the area. Zion National Park has several miles of fantastic bicycle trails, but the best scenery is reserved for hikers.

Bryce Canyon National Park has thousands of towering pinnacles that geologists call hoodoos. Hiking trails weave through these majestic pinnacles. The park preserves a remarkable section of the Pink Cliffs. Despite the name, these cliffs are more reddish-brown than pink. The pinnacles are especially beautiful when sunrise and sunset cast a vivid glow across the surreal landscape.

The Burr Trail is a scenic back road in Utah beginning in Boulder Town and ending at the Bullfrog Marina on Lake Powell. The route traverses some of the most remote terrain in Utah and passes through Capitol Reef National Park, a place that Native Americans call "Land of the sleeping rainbow." The name refers to the colorful bands of rocks. The entire route was dirt and void of services. I knew it would be challenging. Fortunately, the surface was firm and many sections were downhill. I spent one night at Deer Creek a few miles east of Boulder Town, and did the remaining miles the following day. At the time, the Burr Trail was the longest dirt road I ever attempted. Dirt roads can cause serious problems for bikers if the surface isn't reasonably smooth and firm. If the surface is sandy, rocky, or muddy, a dirt road can be impassable. Energy and water requirements increase when the surface becomes rough, so bikers need to plan for that. Only 1 day was required to reach Bullfrog Marina, and no problems occurred along the way.

Canyonlands National Park by Moab is a mecca for mountain bikers, and nearby Arches National Park is equally popular. The whole area is a labyrinth of canyons carved by centuries of erosion. Natural arches, narrow canyons, towering pinnacles, and other striking geological formations work together to form terrain like nowhere else on earth. The world famous Slickrock Trail lies just east of Moab. Slickrock is relatively smooth, flat, slippery rock that's somewhat like natural pavement, or at least that's how it's supposed to be. I wasn't very impressed with the trail. It was rougher than I estimated and laden with sand traps. Fortunately, the bicycle frame didn't crack and the rims didn't fold like a taco! The Canyonlands are a great place for star watching. I learned about the constellations lying on the slickrock at night. Slickrock can be dangerous due to natural pits. These pits can easily measure 10 to 30 feet deep, which is more than sufficient to trap a human. Escape would require mountain-climbing gear because slickrock offers nothing to hold on to. The first pit I encountered was at night when observing the stars. My flashlight barely illuminated the ground ahead, but I could tell that there was no ground ahead! So I stopped, and shined the flashlight into what appeared to be a giant hole.

When I returned to the spot the following day, I realized the danger I stumbled upon, a slickrock pit about 20 feet deep and partially filled with stagnant water. I was lucky to notice it in the dark. Despite the dangers, Moab and the surrounding area felt like a home, a place where bikers were actually welcomed instead of despised. I think it was the first place I ever had a feeling like that! Since most people prefer automobiles, businesses aren't very accommodating to bicycle riders. It's not like that in Moab. Businesses cater to bicycle riders in Moab instead of treating them like second-class citizens. I had many good experiences in the Canyonlands. Experiences that will always be with me. I recommend a visit whether hiking, biking, or driving.

"Mud Pit"

The setting was an unnamed forest road leading to the General George Crook National Recreation Trail during a steady rain about 10 miles west of Camp Verde, Arizona. The Verde Valley is huge. The downhill leading into it drops almost 3,000 feet, so I was expecting an easy ride. I was in a forest of pinyon and juniper trees desperately trying to reach the downhill section about 2 miles away, but the road was fighting every step I took. Even my own bicycle turned against me. It was a sad moment in the falling rain.

Rain has a very predictable affect on dirt roads. It turns nice, firm, easily passable dirt roads into mush. I knew that would happen after a steady rain, and I thought there was enough time to reach the downhill section, but I thought wrong. The ideal time for traveling was over. The road was now a mud pit. Mud stuck to the tires and then accumulated around the brakes, which effectively halted the bike. Soon, even though I was pushing the bike, the wheels were not spinning! Mud is a serious obstacle, even for motor vehicles equipped with 4-wheel drive. I could barely push the bike through the mess. I knew the downhill section would greatly assist the effort, but getting there seemed impossible. The road was only getting worse. I tried knocking off the mud, dragging the bike sideways, and even carrying the bike. Progress was painfully slow, but at least there was progress. Everything was covered with mud. Since traveling was so difficult, I thought about setting up camp right there among the soggy pinyons and junipers. However, I was determined to reach that downhill section, and the determination paid off.

The beginning of the downhill section was solid rock, and that stays hard no matter how wet it gets. There was also a perfect spot to camp on firm ground. The campsite was probably used by the original builders of the trail. A little stream flowed by the campsite. I used the stream to wash away the mud. I had plenty of supplies, so I rested there for a few days to let my aching muscles recover and to let the roads dry out. It was a good place to be stranded. After those few days, the roads became firm and passable once again.

"A Thorn in my Side"

The hillsides of the Rincon Mountains just east of Tucson, Arizona have an incredible diversity of cacti. The whole region is often called "Cactus Country." The terrain is a combination of rock and hard packed sand. Cacti love that kind of soil. Scraggly shrubs form impenetrable thickets, making off trail hiking a difficult task. Nearly everything in the area is either dull green or sandy brown (and covered with spines). Cacti can be dangerous plants. Their spines are capable of piercing rugged work boots, and tennis shoes are no match for cactus thorns.

It was sunset in the Rincon Mountains when I turned off the road to find a campsite. Weaving through the spiny shrubs proved to be difficult, especially the catclaw acacia shrubs that tend to grab and tear clothing. Everything was going reasonably fine until I stumbled on a loose rock. I nearly slipped and fell. I managed to maintain balance. However, in the process of maintaining balance, my right leg quickly shifted to a new position—a position already occupied by a prickly pear cactus! Ouch! Spines on prickly pear cacti are razor sharp and about 1 inch long. They had no trouble going through my clothing and into my leg. The event brought back memories of getting shots at the doctor's office. The initial shock was intense, and I knew that it was only the beginning of my troubles.

The prickly pear pad detached from the cactus and lodged itself in my leg! It hurt just to look at the chunk of cactus stuck in my leg! The spiny pads are flat and about the size of pancakes. Somewhere between all the swear words, I mustered the courage to pull it off. I knew that pulling it off would hurt worse than the initial shock, so the question was how to minimize that pain. The answer was to do it quickly, like yanking off a bandage. So, I took a deep breath, paused for a moment, and then let it rip! After a sharp rush of pain, the worst seemed to be over, at least until I looked down at my leg.

As planned, the pad was removed. However, all the spines remained in place. The spines were supposed to come out with the pad. They weren't supposed to remain in my legs. More swearing ensued as I reassessed my options, none of which were good options. Regrettably, the spines needed to be pulled out one by one. They weren't lodged very deep, but they were indeed lodged. I couldn't even pull them out with my fingers. The task required a pair of pliers. One by one, I pulled out the stubborn spines, with each pull followed by a sentence consisting primarily of swear words. For a few minutes I was speaking profanity like a second language! Afterwards, I washed, sterilized, and bandaged my "souvenir" from Cactus Country. The wounds eventually healed after a couple of weeks.

"Wild Foods"

One of the most interesting things about the American Southwest (at least to a botanist) is the flora endemic to the region. Much of the dominant flora provides valuable food to eat, but this great variety of food comes with a price. As an aspiring botanist, the pros and cons of these wild foods are important to understand. For anyone interested, I wrote a lengthy book called "The Botany of Survival: A Forager's Experience in the American Southwest" to help build that understanding. Wild foods are the reason I explore, and there's no place more interesting to me than the American Southwest.

Chapter #4 - Experiences with the Elements

"Slightly Breezy"

The Hurricane Cliffs stretch from northwestern Arizona to southwestern Utah. These cliffs are located about 40 miles west of where this passage actually happened, but I was heading in that direction and they build an appropriate setting. The ordeal started in Kanab, Utah, after a weather reporter on the radio said it would be "slightly breezy." Obviously, weather reporters can't always predict the weather with absolute certainty, but how far off base can they be? Wouldn't conditions where gusts of winds were exceeding 40 mph merit a phrase with a little more emphasis than "slightly breezy?" The gusts were knocking me off the road! The day started out as the weather reporter indicated, but it wasn't long before a steady wind was opposing my efforts. It took all my strength just to pedal in the easiest gear. I could barely make any forward progress. I never really dealt with wind until this ride. I was expecting an easy day since the weather was only going to be "slightly breezy." Instead, it was one of the toughest days ever.

West of Fredonia, Arizona Route 389 enters the Kaibab Paiute Indian Reservation. The area looks flat, but it's actually on a slight incline, which only added to the difficulties. The area is also treeless, so there's nothing to slow down any slight breezes. Tall grasses were flattened by the wind. It took 7 hours to complete those 22 miles, which works out to be my slowest average speed ever, a stunning 3.1 mph! I couldn't even pass someone walking down the street at that speed! I was planning to stop at the monument for an early lunch break, and to visit the place. However, I didn't arrive there until after dinnertime. The day was practically over, and I wasn't much farther from where I started that morning. Since it was getting late, I needed to find a place to set up camp. The surrounding area was all reservation land, and therefore illegal to camp on without a permit. Fortunately, there was a campground conveniently located at a casino right next to the monument.

Even though I found a place to camp, setting up camp under such windy conditions would not be possible. The campground didn't have any shrubs, trees, or walls to break the wind. I was hoping the wind would settle down after nightfall, as it often does. In the meantime, I took a walk through the monument to learn about its history. Afterwards, I actually tried gambling for the first time in my life. Gambling is essentially an error in judgment, but I actually won $2! That was before losing $6. It was the only "luck" I had all day. I walked in with $10, spent $2, won $4, and then lost $8, which is an overall loss of $6. The remaining $4 was spent more wisely, on a sandwich, fries, and drink. That was also the last time I ever tried gambling. I just don't see the thrill. Is there something exciting about losing money? The monument was much more interesting. There was an old house with a bridge going across a little spring-fed pond in the front yard, and a building where the residents once worked to make cheese. The monument was basically a historical marker rather than a vast expanse of pristine earth. Many of the national monuments out west are huge. A few are even bigger than some of the eastern states! However, Pipe Spring National Monument is comparatively small. The surrounding area was extensively used for raising cattle, and as usual there was great tension between the settlers and natives over the land. As I suspected, the wind settled down after nightfall, but even the night was "slightly breezy." I was eventually able to set up camp about 2 hours after nightfall, and the next day I rode to the Hurricane Cliffs.

"Debris Field"

The Painted Desert is a brush of artistic beauty on a canvas of desolation. In the heart of this desert lies a forest made of jewels. Signs of the past are all around, but plant life is rather scarce. Rock art sites, cliff dwellings, caves, and ancient ruins speak of a distant age. The Painted Desert is found in Arizona along the Little Colorado River. Summer thunderstorms raging across the expanse are among the most vivid memories I have of that region.

The plains south of Holbrook don't have many plants or shrubs taller than one foot, so these plains are a bad place to be during severe storms. It was the middle of the rainy season when a storm like no other was approaching. I set up camp early that day near the Washboard Wash to provide some shelter. Washes are usually more comfortable than surrounding areas, but I'd never camp directly in a wash with storms around, especially severe storms. I could see this storm coming from 50 miles away, so it wasn't a surprise. There was plenty of time to prepare, and plenty of rocks to secure the tent. For the moment, conditions were calm, but in the distance I could see a wall of dust arching to the clouds. I never saw a wall of dust like that before and I didn't know about the weather dynamics required to create such a phenomenon, but I was about to find out.

The wall of dust was intriguing and worth taking a picture of, but I couldn't get a good shot. I knew the storm would be rough, but I had no idea just how rough. I also didn't realize how fast it was moving until it blew across the last mile at about the same speed as traffic! The wind shear was unbelievable and promptly flattened my tent. Although the rocks held the tent securely, the wind stress was too much for the fabric. The tent had to be broken down immediately, but I needed it for shelter against the rain. Breaking it down would mean getting soaked, but there was no other choice. The tent was coming down one way or another. The wind made that decision. I took the support poles out to prevent the fabric from being torn, and used the tent like a tarp. That move saved the fabric, but it allowed water to enter the tent. Keeping dry in those conditions was not possible. Wet equipment doesn't retain heat as effectively as dry equipment. Fortunately, the night wasn't too cold and the soggy sleeping bag kept me warm enough. The storm persisted all night, but I managed to get some sleep. Everything was fine in the morning. I rode into Holbrook to dry everything off at a coin-operated laundry. More thunderstorms blew through the area over the next few days, but they were not as intense and they didn't cause any problems.

"White Sands"

The story of White Sands National Monument is one that every biker who enters New Mexico should know. The glistening white sands form the largest gypsum dunes in the world, about 40 miles across by 100 miles long. Wind sculpted the dunes, a predominantly southwestern wind that is still blowing today. I wasn't surprised to read a display in the visitor center explaining this weather dynamic and why the last 300 miles I just rode on a bicycle were so difficult. Wind is often a problem, but usually not that much of a problem. How could it be against me for 300 miles? Apparently, it normally blows that direction, so the bottom line for bikers is: don't travel southwest in New Mexico, unless you prefer to ride against the wind!

The mission to White Sands National Monument started in Nara Visa, a small town near the Texas-New Mexico state line. Nara Visa has 2 small convenience stores, and not much else. It was dark before I arrived. I stopped at one of the convenience stores to buy some fruit juice and inquire about campgrounds. Judging by the size of the town, I wasn't expecting it to have a campground. However, the cashier thought there was one and made a phone call to verify her suspicion. The line was busy, but she gave me directions. The place was only a couple blocks away. Of course, the town only had a couple blocks, so any place in town was only a couple blocks away! The directions led to what looked like a private residence. I couldn't distinguish any features typical of campgrounds in the darkness. A car backed out of the driveway and slowly headed towards me. I made a motion indicating that I wished to talk, and I believe they were going to stop anyway. I asked them for directions to the campground, and they said it was right here in front of us. We all went back to the house and had a short conversation while standing in the driveway. They remembered passing me near the state line over an hour ago and could hardly believe that it took me 90 minutes to go 6 miles. I told them I could hardly believe it either! The whole day was like that, about 44 miles in 11 hours thanks to the wind. They could tell I was exhausted. It was obvious. When I asked them how much a tent site would cost for the night, they seemed concerned and looked at me as if I was delirious. The wind was practically knocking us over and they couldn't imagine how it would be possible to camp in that kind of weather. To be honest, I wasn't really sure either. As it turned out, the good folks in Nara Visa had a better idea.

The better idea was a travel van with a comfortable bed inside, and that sure sounded more appealing than hard ground after a day of battling the wind. They let me stay for free, which was very kind and very appreciated. As if all that wasn't enough, the good folks in Nara Visa were intent upon running a heater and a light source to the van just in case it got too cold or I wanted to read or something. I explained that that wouldn't be necessary, and mentioned that I had a flashlight and plenty of warm clothing. Regardless, that van was going to be hooked up. Sometimes it's just better not to argue. They searched an old barn for enough extension cords to reach the van. After a few minutes, the van was loaded with all the amenities a biker could ever want (minus a hot tub). It's a good thing I did sleep in the van, because a severe hailstorm came through the area that night.

The mission continued through Tucumcari, Fort Sumner, Roswell, Mescalero, Alamogordo, and finally White Sands. No place on earth is quite like White Sands. The monument has a primitive campground on the dunes for people willing to hike in and brave the elements. The scenery is spectacular during the day and intriguing at night, especially when the moon is full. The landscape appears to be covered with snow, but it couldn't possibly be snow with temperatures so warm. Sparse vegetation stands in contrast to the firm dunes. Even at night, silhouettes of verbena and other plants stand against the moonlit dunes. There's just enough light to see at night, which is something that few people experience under natural conditions. The night was surreal and provided the opportunity to experience life as seen through the eyes of nocturnal animals.

All the memorable impressions of that first night at White Sands were overshadowed by a more pressing concern, powerful thunderstorms raging across the dunes. There was no way to anchor my tent in the sand. I was at the mercy of the downdrafts, and they were blowing with a vengeance. Rain was entering the tent, and lightning was a real concern. The thunderstorms were isolated, but intense. Several of them rolled through for the 3 days and 3 nights I spent on the dunes. The tent and I survived the adventure, and White Sands is a place I'll always remember.

Crossing the dunes on U.S. Route 70 took all day. When I finally made it to the other side, the military closed the road as a precaution for bombing practice! I learned of this during a short conversation with the sheriff who was parked along the road. Much of the area is a missile range, and that section of road is frequently closed. I asked what they would've done if I was still out there? The sheriff said they would've picked me up and given me a ride. Like a wise guy, I said something like, "Well darn, I guess I should have slept in this morning and got a late start!" He was amused because he knew how hard it must have been to get across the dunes fighting those headwinds. The region to the west of White Sands has a different weather dynamic, so I was glad the fight against the predominant wind was over.

"Baking on the Rocks"

Finding plants requires being at the right place at the right time. One of the hardest places to be at the right time is the desert in summer. The desire to photograph and write articles about edible plants drove me to some inhospitable regions. It's not real smart to ride a bicycle when the temperature exceeds 100°F, especially when carrying a heavy load uphill in a region without water! However, I had to see Organ-pipe Cactus National Monument in the summer. The monument is located in one of the hottest parts of the United States, southwestern Arizona. Organ-pipe cacti produce fruits that were once very important to people living in the Sonoran Desert, and I was determined to photograph those fruits!

The mission was for the challenge as well as the fruits. It required about 3 weeks round trip, and I wasn't sure if my body could handle the heat. The mission also required water, lots of water, at least 2 gallons per day. Adjustments to the system were necessary to accommodate the extra water, such as the addition of a backpack. I usually don't wear backpacks when riding because the weight causes discomfort. Anyplace below 3,000 feet is burning hot in the summer, while anyplace above 7,000 feet is relatively mild. Elevation influences temperature. Although I started out in high country, I wasn't naive about desert heat. The route into and out of the desert had to pass through several small towns for replenishing my water supply, because water wasn't available anywhere else. Riding in the afternoons would probably be impossible due to the heat. Frequent breaks and resting in shade would be imperative. Of course, that would require finding shade! Shade tends to be scarce in the desert. My body wasn't quite acclimated to the heat, but it's very good at dissipating heat and doesn't have much "extra insulation."

The mission began in July after descending from the highlands of central Arizona. The first 95 miles followed Arizona Route 87 to Phoenix and descended about 6,000 feet in elevation. The descent put me on the desert floor. My body soon adjusted to the heat, but true acclimation requires several weeks, even months. Desert heat is unbelievable. High temperatures exceed 100°F everyday throughout the summer. Wind is like a "giant hair dryer," and it's worse when there is no wind. Except during rainy seasons, the desert normally has "dry heat." Heat is more comfortable when humidity is low, but when temperatures exceed 100°F, this fact hardly makes a difference.

Extreme heat has profound affects on the body. The sensation of thirst never subsides, even right after drinking. The desire to eat is greatly reduced, since eating causes thirst. When eating eventually becomes necessary, only moist foods such as fruits and vegetables sound good. Energy levels decline to prevent overheating. Waste fluids exit through sweat rather than the usual means. Sleeping becomes difficult. Eventually, the body adapts to heat through adjustments in physiology, but those adjustments take time.

Shortly after slamming into the wall of heat was when I realized that riding into the desert in summer may not have been one of my better decisions. From Phoenix, I followed Maricopa Road to the town of Gila Bend, and then Route 85 to Ajo and Organ-pipe Cactus National Monument, stopping at every shady spot along the way (all two of them). People who live in the desert often accuse "snowbirds" of not being able to handle the heat. Snowbirds are people who live in the North, but stay in the desert during winter. Since this accusation implies that local residents can handle the heat, I was surprised to notice that not even one car or truck that passed me on Route 85 had the windows rolled down. Now, I realize that it was 112°F outside and certainly a good time for air conditioning, but I would think that at least one local resident would dare to brave the heat. Apparently, that wasn't the case, which left me with the impression that nobody can handle the heat.

Camping in the desert in summer has some unique problems. The sun heats rocks to temperatures much hotter than the air. Desert rocks become hot enough to bake on, and all that stored heat is released after the sun goes down. Before starting the desert mission, I assumed that nights would be tolerable, maybe even pleasant. I thought they would be a time of salvation from the heat, and a time of desperately needed rest. The truth is that I was wrong about those assumptions. I remember setting up camp in the Maricopa Mountains. When the sun finally set on the distant horizon, the air temperature was 117°F. I was covered with sweat, and never stopped drinking water. It seemed strange to drink so much water and never have "to go." Lying down in the tent that night felt like being slow roasted, and I was the turkey! The rocks released heat for hours. The tent never cooled off until the early hours of morning. The low temperature only fell to 93°F, and the sun came up early thanks to the longer days of summer. I normally prefer the longer days, but that preference no longer applies in the desert. Once the sun rises, the tent must be vacated. Sleeping is not an option because the morning sun heats the tent to unbearable temperatures, much like the greenhouse effect heats a car in a parking lot on a sunny day. There wasn't much time to sleep, which soon led to sleep deprivation and a loss of stamina. I wasn't expecting these problems.

The road leading to Organ-pipe Cactus National Monument passes through some fascinating landscape. The Crater Range is especially fascinating. The range is a miniature version of jagged spires colored in dark-chocolate brown. The landscape seems to be of a different planet. The nearby Ajo Range is even more incredible. Mount Ajo is the tallest peak within hundreds of square miles. It's popular with "peak baggers." These are people determined to climb every mountain peak in existence. The Ajo Range is very colorful. It's also very steep and covered with organ-pipe cacti. These cacti are common in Mexico, but they reach their northernmost point of distribution at the monument. They add an interesting character to the landscape that can't be found anywhere else in the United States.

Organ-pipe cacti are 10 to 15 feet tall with numerous, thick, thorny stems branching from a single point at ground level. They're very conspicuous and produce tennis-ball-size fruits. Eating the fruits on the monument is forbidden, but photographing them is still permissible. The photographs came out okay, but the cheap camera I was using at the time had a few shortcomings. Sand, dirt, dust, and laundry soap got into the camera and scratched the film. Fortunately, the scratches weren't too noticeable. I currently use a good-quality digital camera that's designed for macro (up close) photography, and does a much better job of photographing wild foods. After shooting the photographs, the goal of the mission was achieved, and it was time to get the hell out of there! Actually, I stayed at the monument for about a week.

Camping in the backcountry of Organ-pipe Cactus National Monument was equally as bad as camping in the Maricopa Mountains. I stayed in Senita Basin due to its close proximity (2 miles) to the drinking fountain at the visitor's center. The developed campground and most of the monument was empty, so I had the place to myself. One rule for camping in the backcountry requires campers to be at least half a mile away from roads or trails, and that rule makes relocating camp a difficult task without a good sense of direction. I carry a global positioning system (GPS) receiver, which is a portable electronic device that pinpoints latitude, longitude, and altitude to within about 20 feet. The receiver proved helpful for relocating camp at the monument. Towards the end of my stay, the air became more humid, which was a sign that summer rains were moving in. The extra humidity added a degree of discomfort that was almost unbearable. Fortunately, the mission was successful, and it was time to head to high country. The mission was worth all of the challenges, because challenges are what the sport of mountain biking is all about.

"The Drought"

The worst part about the lack of precipitation in the West is all the complaining about it. The region is supposed to be dry. That's why much of it is a desert. Native plants are well-adapted to droughts and wildfires, but you'll never hear that on the news. The majority of species can endure prolonged droughts and simply resprout after fires. All the various survival strategies they incorporate could fill a book. To be fair, prolonged droughts do strain everything in the region, but the drought was sure over when I decided to ride through.

The drought indeed ended, but it wasn't officially recognized as over. The first of many torrential downpours occurred in the Medicine Bow National Forest about 30 miles west of Cheyenne, Wyoming. It rained almost every afternoon from then on. As planned, I veered off to the south and went through "Colorful Colorado," which is a popular state with mountain bikers. I ran into 8 other mountain bikers my first day in Colorado. The route through the state included the following passes: Rabbit Ears, Schofield, Owl Creek, Red Mountain, and Coal Bank. Everything was going fine until reaching the town of Burns in the central part of the state. The place is really just a couple of houses rather than a town. Somehow, I lost my rain jacket around Burns, but I didn't realize that until reaching Dotsero about 20 miles away. I knew I would need that jacket sooner rather than later. Backtracking is against my rules, but a jacket is too valuable to leave behind. Backtracking the 20 miles took most of the day and proved to be disappointing. I never found the jacket, and I needed it that afternoon, for the "drought."

The next week of riding was through some of the most spectacular places in Colorado, beginning with Glenwood Canyon. I followed State Route 133 to a backway leading to Crested Butte, which is a mecca for mountain bikers. The backway crossed over Schofield Pass at 10,707 feet elevation. Surrounding mountains were considerably higher. The weather was consistent and predictable. Mornings were sunny. Afternoons were rainy. My system is effective against rain when it's set up or packed up, but not during the brief transition between those two states. Although that may not sound like much of a problem, think about how wet you are after "only 3 minutes" in the shower. Since I couldn't find a replacement jacket in the last town, I bought a couple of ponchos instead. Ponchos are basically "glorified garbage bags with hoods." They helped, but not much. Real garbage bags might have been more effective. I carry an umbrella, but it's useless in the wind, and it was definitely windy, almost "slightly breezy." I got soaked using those ponchos up on Schofield Pass. The tent also got soaked inside and out. The whole week proved to be an "impressive drought."

I was thrilled about the weather. There was even a $2,000 fine for anyone daring enough to have a campfire, which is one potentially expensive barbecue! Of course, that's assuming a campfire could even be started and maintained with such waterlogged wood. Does the U.S. Forest Service even watch weather reports? Half the state was flooded, yet still under drought status. Older folks disregard that nonsense and have campfires wherever and whenever they need to. While the ban was still in effect, I remember an old man having a campfire right along the main road coming out of Redstone. He could hardly have picked a more conspicuous place to barbecue a chicken dinner, but he didn't care. He said he was more worried about that bear returning to camp than the rangers. Did he say a bear? He showed me a new slingshot he bought the other day in case the bear returned. Did he say a slingshot? For a bear? Obviously, his mind must have been going. I didn't feel too comfortable about camping there, but it was the only place around that was flat and reasonably easy to get to. There were probably more sites up the road, and I do mean up the road, but they didn't include a free dinner. We both watched out for "company" and enjoyed a roasted chicken dinner under a light rain. There were no problems that night.

As suspected, replacing the rain jacket proved to be difficult. I'm not real particular about clothing. However, I only buy equipment that's going to work properly, and I know what to look for. The rain soaked me almost everyday in Colorado thanks to the "drought," but I eventually found a suitable jacket to replace the lost one.

"Is it safe to drink?"

Water needs to be purified before drinking, even crystal clear mountain spring water. The most effective way to accomplish this task is by boiling the water. Purification tablets are expensive and make water taste awful. Water filters are also expensive and often fail due to leakage. I always purify water by boiling it, and I've consumed water from hundreds of sources without illness. Waterborne microorganisms such as giardia can cause abdominal pain lasting for several months and requiring medical attention. Safe drinking water is not an issue to gamble on, but sometimes there's no choice.

Not all water is created equal. Mountain streams offer top-quality water, but water downstream from major cities is barely fit for consumption even after any amount of purification. Out West, the cattle industry has built an extraordinary number of catchments for storing rainwater. Virtually all streams, even the intermittent ones, have been diverted into catchments. These catchments contain some of the nastiest water imaginable. Supposedly, any water can be rendered safe to drink after boiling, unless it's polluted with industrial chemicals or naturally occurring poisons such as arsenic, sulfur, or cadmium. Boiling makes the water biologically safe, for the most part. Although these catchments are filled with pure rainwater and far from civilization, can the water be rendered safe to drink?

I always try to obtain my drinking water from mountain streams or municipal sources, but sometimes that's not an option. One day in the Canyonlands of southeastern Utah, specifically White Canyon along Route 95, I found myself thirsty and out of water. It was late in the evening and I needed water for dinner and for breakfast. The small town of Hite wasn't too far away, about 15 miles, but nothing would be open by the time I got there. The situation wasn't desperate, but I didn't want to skip dinner and breakfast due to a lack of water while standing on the edge of a reservoir filled with thousands of gallons of water. Of course, I didn't want to drink the water from the reservoir either, especially that reservoir. It looked bad. It was the color of coffee and had a noticeable aroma that reminded me of sewage. The area was heavily trampled by cattle and "well-fertilized." Normally, I wouldn't even consider drinking from a source like that, and I probably should have gone thirsty that night. Instead, I decided to purify just enough water to last until morning. As a precaution, I boiled it 3 times longer than usual, but would that be enough to make it safe to drink?

The water didn't just look bad, and taste bad, and smell bad. It actually felt bad too! It had a heavy texture slightly thicker than pure water. Fortunately, the flavor of dinner tended to dominate. After dinner, everything seemed okay, until about 2 hours later when something went seriously wrong in my stomach. There was discomfort and a feeling of nausea. The water made me sick, and I wasn't sure how bad things were going to get. The situation didn't look good. I began vomiting, which led to further dehydration, but I wasn't about to drink more water. There were also some "gastrointestinal anomalies" not worth mentioning. The worst of it all seemed to be over in about an hour, which is a good thing because the White Canyon is a long way from any hospitals.

The next morning, I woke up terribly thirsty and skipped breakfast, because eating food would only cause more thirst. The road to Hite had a slight downhill gradient, so at least the pedaling was easy. Once I arrived at Hite, I bought 2 gallons of purified water and enjoyed a late breakfast. Fortunately, no more symptoms of illness returned and everything was fine.

Chapter #5 - Experiences with the Wildlife

"A Buzz in the Cave"

The setting of this passage was high in the Sierra Ancha Mountains of central Arizona. The Sierra Ancha Mountains are a wild place, still free from the ravages of civilization. The area was logged and mined in the distant past, so plenty of old roads remain. While hiking one of those old roads, I came to an open mine shaft. The dangers of mine shafts are well known and constantly repeated, so I'll spare you the redundancy. I had never been in a real mine before, so I decided to take a look. I didn't pack a flashlight that day, since I was only planning on doing a short hike during daylight hours. It was a horizontal shaft, and the sunlight shined in for about 20 feet. I used a stick to make sure that the ground in front of me didn't suddenly shift to a vertical direction! I had no intention of going in very far, especially without a flashlight.

The "buzz in the cave" (mine shaft) wasn't from drinking whiskey! At the entrance, a bee buzzed by. The familiar sound had an interesting echo amplified by the shaft. I proceeded slowly, exercising great caution with every step. Old mine shafts really are dangerous, especially when you can't see what's in front of you! The main corridor was only 2 feet wide by 4 feet tall, so I had to walk hunchback style. At about ten feet inside, a couple more bees buzzed by, so I stopped for a moment. I thought there may have been a hive nearby, but there was no activity when I stopped. I waved my arm in the direction that I was about to travel. There was only silence, so it seemed safe to proceed, but it wasn't safe. The next step was the beginning of a new experience, and I don't mean a good experience. There was a hive, and I got a little too close. Before I finished that next step, a swarm of bees prepared for battle converged on my position. The silence was over.

I don't know how so many bees got so close so quick without me hearing them. As they all took flight, it sounded like an airplane was coming out of the cave. The noise sent a sharp chill rushing down my spine. I was scared, actually more like terrified. My body froze with fear. In less than a second after the sudden roar, I was praying they wouldn't attack. Every muscle in my body was tense. The Southwest is plagued by "killer bees" that are known to be highly aggressive. These African bees were introduced because they produce more honey per acre than native bees. African bees are yet another ecological disaster caused by greed. They rarely kill, but they do present a serious threat to hikers. Numerous people have been hospitalized. I was expecting to be critically wounded in the next few seconds.

Time stood still for a moment. The next 5 seconds seemed longer than a political speech. I'll never forget that buzzing sound. I was ready to run at Olympic speeds! However, running often prompts animals to attack because it's associated with prey. Only prey runs. I didn't want to trigger an attack, but if bees do attack, running is your best option. Bees protect their hives, when you're far enough away, they leave you alone. Somehow I managed to stay calm, cautiously turn around, and prudently exit the cave. The bees escorted me out of there like a team of bouncers throwing a troublemaker out of a bar. Bees attack as a last resort rather than a first option. I was out of the cave before those long 5 seconds were over, and wasted no time leaving the area.

The bees never attacked, not even a single sting. All the commotion was merely a warning, and one that only a fool would fail to heed. It was the first time I experienced a warning of that type, and hopefully the last time. Bees sometimes crash into a target without stinging it just prior to an assault, but none of them displayed that type of behavior. Instead, they just buzzed around my head with remarkable agility. The intimidating aerial display was more than sufficient enough to discourage my interest in the cave. I sensed that the bees somehow knew this and perceived me as an "easily managed problem," so there was no need to become violent. This experience actually strengthened my appreciation for bees, and for the ways in which they behave. Bees are friendlier than I previously thought, and respectfully mind their own business. Just don't get too close to their business!

"It's not a Chair"

Everybody makes mistakes, right? Well this mistake happened during the middle of "winter" just south of Needles, California, which is a place that doesn't experience winter in the traditional sense. It never snows in Needles, and the high temperatures average about 65°F in January. Plus, it's almost always sunny, which makes it feel more like summer. Locals say, "It's where the summer spends the winter." It's a great place to be in winter, especially for outdoor enthusiasts. Although it may not seem like winter to northern folks, a few reminders of the season can still be found: trees are bare, days are short, nights are chilly, and bugs are inactive. Actually, some bugs are active year-round, but winter is definitely the most peaceful season.

I was hiking about 5 miles south of town along the mighty Colorado River when I came to one of those yellow, diamond, warning signs frequently seen along roads to warn drivers about potential hazards, such as merging traffic or tanks crossing the roadway. Well this warning sign just had the word "apiaries" on it. At the time, I didn't know what that word meant, but I understood that it was a warning about something. The sign wasn't as intimidating as the one with the picture of a tank, but I heeded the warning. After hiking for a few hours, I came to a "trailside rest area" and decided to take a break. It was about time for lunch and the temperature was really warming up that afternoon, so the rest area couldn't have been at a more perfect place at a more perfect time. It even had an awning for shade. I remember taking off my heavy backpack and leaning it against one of the poles, then sitting down on a "white chair." It wasn't a very stylish chair, but I was glad to be sitting down for a short break. Something about the whole rest area didn't seem right. The awning was unusually small and the chair was basically just a crude box. I also noticed a padlock on the side of the chair, which is certainly a strange ornament for a piece of furniture, or at least most people would consider that a strange ornament. There was also a tiny hole in the side of the chair. After noticing a few bees coming out of the hole, I realized my mistake and the break was over. The entire break only lasted about 45 seconds. The "chair" was actually a beehive made for the commercial production of honey. These structures are called "apiaries." I was sitting on a beehive! Whoops! I can't believe I just did that! It's time to go!

I swear the structure looked like a trailside rest area. Fortunately, either the bees weren't too pissed off about the situation or they didn't want to chase me away in such "cold" weather. I'm assuming it was the weather. I'm also assuming that had it been summer, I wouldn't have made it to within 50 feet of the hive. At least I know what an apiary is now, and even more importantly, what one looks like! The day provided another one of those valuable learning experiences in life, one that I'm unlikely to forget about for quite some time!

"Yellow Rain"

Quartzsite is a small town in southwestern Arizona. It's located along a major freeway in one of the hottest parts of the Sonoran Desert. The town averages less than 3 inches of rainfall per year and becomes a tourist mecca in winter. I was fortunate enough to experience a gentle rain there, which may sound strange because rain is generally hated. The typical scene portrayed on television of people suffering from dehydration in a barren desert paints a perfect picture of Quartzsite. Except for the Colorado River, virtually no sources of water are found in the surrounding area. All the springs are dry, except for immediately after rainstorms. I experienced a different type of storm there. It wasn't raining "cats and dogs," but it was raining "yellow jackets," literally!

I was traveling south on Arizona Route 95 towards Yuma about 40 miles south of Quartzsite when a cloud of yellow jackets collided into me like a rain of terror falling from the sky. Imagine a storm of big, yellow raindrops with stingers! I was wearing a dress shirt unbuttoned down to the waste, with a gray tee shirt underneath. The loose fitting, nylon, "parachute" pants I typically wear have elastic bands at the ankles and at the waist, but the bands weren't tight enough to keep the bees out. Numerous collisions occurred within a few seconds. Running into clouds of flies, gnats, and mosquitoes is a common occurrence. My typical reaction is to swat the pests, and I almost began swatting before I realized what the nuisance was! I could feel the impacts from the collisions through my clothing, which sure felt strange. I've never had that feeling before. As I casually looked down, about 40 bees were crawling all over me. That's when a jolt of panic hit me like an electric shock! Every muscle in my body froze as the bicycle continued to coast through the swarm. The first words to come to mind were "oh shit!" Fortunately, the passing swarm was small and the bicycle coasted into a clearing. I pulled off the road and carefully got off the bike without making any sudden moves. I also made sure not to brush my legs against anything.

The bees were everywhere and seemed perfectly content to be there. They were under my shirt, in my hair, and even managed to crawl up my legs. Bees normally avoid humans, but these particular ones seemed to like the company, or the cotton shirt, or maybe the warmth. Whatever the reason, they didn't want to leave. They weren't acting aggressive, just a little stubborn. I took off my outer shirt, and carefully brushed them away from my face and hair. One by one, I gently pushed them away by nudging them with the back of my fingernail. I was tempted to just flick one, but that wouldn't have been nice and I didn't want to start a fight. The gentle nudge sufficiently motivated them to leave and rejoin the group. The progress was moving along without injury, but I wasn't sure how to remove the two bees that crawled up my legs without removing my pants!

I looked around to see if there was a way to handle the situation discreetly, but that wasn't an option. The area was flat, with a view for miles. There wasn't even a tree within sight. Traffic on Route 95 was fairly heavy that afternoon. I could just imagine all the comments from people driving by while trying to remedy that situation. The bees had to go. That wasn't an option. However, I didn't want to create a scene or get arrested for indecent exposure. I could just imagine explaining that situation to a police officer and the officer's likely response: "Oh really, a swarm of killer bees? I'll be sure to put that one in my report son, and you can try it on the judge later. Now get in the car you pervert." I tried rolling up the pant legs first, before resorting to more radical measures. Luckily, both bees came right out and flew away. The free show was over before it even started. Those were the last two bees, and thankfully none of them decided to sting. The storm had passed.

"The Fuzzy Drain"

This passage took place in the beautiful state of New Mexico. I was camping at a reasonably priced state park one night and getting ready to take a shower. I have bad vision, actually very bad. Without corrective lenses everything appears out of focus. I can see large objects, but small objects without much contrast are challenging to distinguish. Naturally, I don't wear my glasses in the shower. State parks usually have clean facilities and this park was fine. The tile floor of the shower room was shiny white and slippery from water. As I was crossing the floor half blind and completely naked, I noticed an out of focus blur on the tiles right next to the drain. At one footstep away, I still couldn't tell what it was, but I knew something was there. I assumed it was a piece of litter or maybe a small bar of soap. For some reason, I stopped and leaned over to identify the mysterious little blur. Without my glasses, everything beyond 8 inches away is out of focus. Most people can't even imagine that, but it's true. My vision is that bad. The little blur just a few inches away turned out to be a scorpion! I was startled and stood up so fast that I nearly slipped and fell on the little monster! However, I maintained balance, backed up, found my glasses, and put on a pair of hiking boots. Once armed with my hiking boots, I proceeded to rid the shower room of the intruder. Excluding pictures, that was the only scorpion I ever saw, and hopefully it'll be the last one I ever see. Scorpions are nocturnal, and effectively blend in with the scenery. I was lucky I saw it, especially being barefoot and without my glasses.

"Sequel to the Fuzzy Drain"

An experience with a centipede, similar to the scorpion encounter back in New Mexico, happened at one of those "economically priced" motels in downtown Phoenix, Arizona. Centipedes, especially the bigger ones, can move fast and inflict a painful sting. The motel didn't exactly look well kept. It was due for some improvements, such as a new shower drain, since the old one was missing. As I opened the moldy shower curtain, I saw a rather large centipede rush down the open drain. Naturally, that event lowered my opinion of the motel even lower. I was afraid the centipede would come back up to avoid drowning once I started the shower, so I scouted the room for a potential solution. On a rack about an arm's length away was a pure white towel that might possibly serve as a solution. The plan was to plug the drain with the towel and hope that the towel wouldn't get sucked down the drain! A shower drain is fairly wide and wouldn't have much trouble consuming a towel, and I didn't want to lose the towel during my visit. Otherwise, the motel would charge me for the missing towel, and they might have some questions about plumbing-related problems too! I could just imagine trying to explain that: "A missing towel? Ah no, I have no recollection of that. Could moths have eaten it? No? What about pack rats? I hear they walk off with all kinds of items. Maybe they needed some nesting material?" Fortunately, I didn't lose the towel, but it may never be white again. The drain was corroded and covered with nasty black gunk. You wouldn't want to drop the soap down there. I know you may never be able to use a towel in a motel room again after reading this. Sorry about that. I kept the drain plugged all night so the centipede wouldn't return, and everything was fine in the morning.

"Don't Tread on Me"

The Mazatzal Mountains are a spectacular place to hike. Contrary to local opinion, the name is pronounced exactly how it is spelled. It's an old Aztec word meaning "a place inhabited by deer." The meaning of this tongue-twisting name is certainly true, and deer aren't the only inhabitants of these mountains. The South Fork Trail ascends about 2,000 feet, and that's not even halfway to Mazatzal Peak. The first few miles of the trail aren't very steep and lead to an old stone cabin near the wilderness boundary. Not much of the cabin remains intact, except for a few sections of weathered walls and a fireplace. The ruins made a good picture. Something to remember the place, and it was a place that I certainly remember.

The cabin was built in a lush riparian area along a seasonally flowing stream. It was summer and the stream was dry. Most streams in the Southwest run dry in summer, or they're always dry. I was looking for a good angle to shoot the picture of the cabin, so I followed a side trail across the stream. I usually pay close attention to where I step to ensure a secure footing, but my attention was momentarily focused on more distant surroundings. The shot from across the dry stream wasn't quite right, so I started walking back to the original position. It was then that I spotted a rattlesnake coiled on the trail I just crossed! During a momentary jolt of panic, I was thinking to myself, "Well that's a good time to notice the snake, after nearly stepping on it!" Even to this day, I can't believe how close I was to it. My left foot was only 3 inches away, while my right foot passed directly over it, nearly kicking it in the head! The vibrations from walking woke it up, but it didn't seem angry. Of course, accidentally kicking it in the head would have woken it up in a bad mood! That was too close. I was lucky that time.

The stone cabin suddenly became less interesting with this new photo opportunity of grave danger awaiting my camera lens. I needed to get close enough, but not too close! My reflexes are quick, but I'm sure that rattlesnakes are quicker. Rattlesnakes are nocturnal, and it was the middle of the day. I think it was tired and just wanted me to go away. The snake was about 2 feet long and 1 inch thick. It laid there contently coiled as I snapped the picture at about 3 feet away. A few minutes later, another hiker and his wife walked up to the cabin. I warned them about the snake, but that made them want to take a closer look! The presence of 3 curious humans irritated the snake, so it assumed a striking position. We all quickly backed off simultaneously at that moment, and it slithered into a safer position under some big rocks. Of course, it was never really in any danger, and we had no intention of harming it.

This experience could have been much different. Rattlesnake bites are serious and require medical attention. The venom can incapacitate a human, and swelling can cause permanent tissue damage. I was 4 miles away from the nearest phone. I carry an extraction-type snakebite kit, but these kits generally do more harm than good. Rattlesnakes are an object of fear, and I frequently see them along roads. The old saying "don't tread on me" is darn good advice, and I was only 3 inches away from treading on certain agony.

"The Night Shift"

The setting of this passage is Lake Mead in August way back when it was still free to camp there. Lake Mead is located east of Las Vegas, Nevada. The area is hotter than hell in August. It wasn't a very smart time to be there, but at least it wasn't crowded. For the most part, rain doesn't get through my tent, so I wouldn't expect anything else to get through it either. I set up camp near the sandy shoreline, and I always make sure not to set up over holes of any size. The day was scorching hot, and even the night was hot enough to cause sweating. I slept on a cotton sheet wearing only a bathing suit. I was exhausted and didn't have much trouble falling asleep. However, the restful sleep didn't last very long.

I'm generally a light sleeper, but that night I was sound asleep while the "night shift" was busy working. I slept through most of the shift, which was proceeding like a well-organized shipping and receiving operation. Sand is fairly comfortable to sleep on, but for some reason it began to feel more like lying on coarse gravel or bits of broken glass. The uncomfortable feeling woke me up, so I tossed and turned to find a softer position. The prickly feeling on my back didn't go away and oddly seemed to be moving, like sand falling off sweaty skin. While half awake and yawning, I laboriously located my glasses and flashlight to investigate the situation. Upon discovering the cause of the discomfort, a rush of adrenaline hit me like a home run swing! I wasn't tired anymore. In fact, I felt like I just finished about 10 cups of coffee and a couple shots of cola! That's a lot of energy for the middle of the night. Urgent matters tend to be motivating. The problem was that hundreds, or maybe thousands, of tiny red ants were inside my tent and biting my back, arms, legs, chest, and neck! I could understand why the ants were upset with me for rolling over them, but what did they expect for trespassing, stealing my food, and waking me up? Apparently, they expected me to leave and organized an attack! Ants are actually difficult to kill, but the "night shift" had just ended.

What a mess, there were ants everywhere, even inside the backpacks. I followed the assembly line back to the point of entry. I thought it would be near the zipper since that spot has a gap just big enough for ants to get through, but ants have never come through that gap. Instead, they were coming through an even smaller opening where the stitching pulled apart. The opening wasn't more than a millimeter wide. Rain didn't even come through it. Regardless, I closed this new "entrance" with a piece of duct tape to prevent further intrusions, and then resumed the battle. Of course, the ants didn't stand a chance, but wow did they have the numbers! I moved the backpacks to the picnic table and began going through each item. Most of the food was sufficiently sealed in plastic bags, but the ants were inseparable from the potato chips! It took over an hour to get rid of all the ants. The exposed parts of my body were fine, since the bites barely broke the skin. It wasn't the most enjoyable way to wake up, but it sure worked better than any alarm clock!

"Beware of the Author"

Dogs can be a real problem for hikers and bikers. Some dogs are friendly, but way too many behave aggressively. For this reason, and for the number of people injured by dogs, and for the unwillingness of dog owners to control their pets in public places, I support legislation outlawing the ownership of large dogs and other dangerous animals. Too many people are irresponsible with pets. I've had about 50 to 60 terrifying encounters with dogs, and all the encounters were unjustified. I've been bitten several times merely for traveling on public roads. Imagine screaming, yelling, barking, and threatening to bite a police officer. What do you think would happen? If a person behaved like that, they would be arrested and put in jail, as they should be for committing a felony. So why is it acceptable for dog owners to threaten innocent people by allowing their pets to behave like that? It's an injustice that goes unpunished, much like the abuse of women since the dawn of time. According to the National Center for Injury Prevention and Control, a federal agency that monitors hospital discharge statistics based on reports from state health departments, over 300,000 people in the United States are hospitalized by dogs every year. That's just the number of visits to emergency rooms for stitches and surgeries. The actual number of dog bites is estimated to be 4.7 million per year, which is around 2% of the U.S. population. Approximately 40% of the victims are children, and 15 to 20 people are killed by dogs every year. It's time to stop the violence and punish the dog owners.

"Man's Best Friend"

I remember riding to Powell Springs in hope of finding water. The springs are located at a campground up in the Black Hills of Prescott National Forest near the town of Cherry, Arizona. I didn't know that the springs had become a pile of wet mud as a result of inadequate rainfall until I arrived there and spoke with the campground host. Upon arrival, I was "greeted" by two aggressive dogs barking, snapping, and moving behind me. They instinctively attack from behind. The dogs belonged to the camp host and were obviously not on a leash. It's illegal for dogs to be unleashed in the national forests of Arizona. This law is clearly posted at campgrounds, including the one I was currently at. The Leash Law isn't complicated, and the campground hosts are responsible for honoring and enforcing it. Normally, I wouldn't even dare to approach a campsite. However, when there's a big, bold sign clearly printed with the words "campground host," the site should be safe enough to approach, except at Powell Springs.

I didn't appreciate being threatened, especially by dogs belonging to a campground host who knows they must be kept on a leash. The hosts are there to answer questions, collect fees, do minor work, and call for help if necessary. They're supposed to be the good guys, and in the past they've always been friendly. I needed water, and I was hoping the host would have some to sell. After the dogs nearly bit my legs, my first instinct was to start cussing and leave the area, but that didn't seem professional. So instead, I casually smiled and tolerated the threat. After a short conversation, drowned out by the sound of constant barking, the host graciously offered a couple liters of water at no charge, which was fortunate because the town of Cherry essentially had no services. The host and his family seemed like good people, and I believe they were good people. However, the dogs were out of control and acting very unfriendly, which seemed like a strange way for "man's best friend" to act. I didn't report the incidence, but probably should have. What's the point if it's only going to fall upon deaf ears? The Leash Law is never enforced at campgrounds, and probably never will be.

"He's a Friendly Dog"

One of the worst dog attacks happened at a campground called Seven Springs in central Arizona just north of Phoenix. I never saw the dog coming, and I didn't even know it was there until I felt its teeth in the back of my leg and it finally made a growling noise. I was walking along the main road that everybody used to drive to the campsites. As I passed a van parked in one of the sites, a large German shepherd ran towards me and decided to bite my leg for no good reason. The attack was over before I even moved. There was just one bite. It quickly swelled up and covered my leg in blood. I used my hand to temporarily stop the bleeding while swearing at the owner. I think the lady was more terrified than I was. She kept apologizing and almost started crying. The dog seemed to realize that it did something wrong. The owner said that the dog had its rabies shots and that, "He's a friendly dog that would never bite anybody." Of course, all dog owners say that. I believe my exact response was, "What the **** do you think it just did?" Whatever I said after that wouldn't pass for polite either. Maybe I was the first person that dog ever bit. After dressing the wound back at my campsite, it looked like stitches would be necessary. However, going against my better instinct, I chose to forgo the exorbitant cost of medical care. The wound definitely would've healed faster with stitches, but it eventually healed. I didn't press charges, even though I should have.

Dogs kill more humans than all other animals combined. No other animals are so violent towards humans, and dog owners need to be held accountable for that unnecessary violence, especially when children are the victims. Dog owners should be required to attend training classes prior to owning dogs, and owning large dogs needs to be outlawed. There are way too many attacks and that needs to stop.

"Fearless"

I remember riding down Speedway Boulevard in Tucson, Arizona one day when a pint-size poodle decided to pursue me. I was on the sidewalk, passing by a shopping plaza, when this homicidal poodle started charging towards me at full speed. I barely heard the obnoxious barking over the noise of rush hour traffic, but it was loud enough to determine the source. As I turned my head to assess the approaching situation whizzing across the parking lot, I thought to myself, "You've got to be kidding." A dog less than one twentieth of my size was moving in for the kill! I wasn't exactly worried, but I was a little annoyed and amazed at how violent even the smallest dogs behave. Since the dog obviously didn't live at the shopping plaza and I was nowhere near its owner, the situation couldn't have been about territory or protection. Was the poodle possessed or just unbelievably stupid? It nearly got run over by a truck in the parking lot. The owner was shouting, "come here," over and over and over and … during the whole scene, hence the need for leashes and training dog owners. As usual, the dog didn't listen. It was on the warpath. When it finally caught up, I had a chance to see the crazed look in its eyes. It was the look of pure rage. The dog was fearless, but it never had the opportunity to bite. It was simply too small and eventually gave up. Encounters like this one in Tucson prove that dogs of any size can turn violent at any moment for no good reason.

"Bad Road"

Readers skeptical of my portrayal of dog violence can simply take a walk or ride a bicycle down any country road in any state any time of the year. It won't be long before a dog poses a threat. Even major highways can be a problem. I was surprised to have any trouble with dogs along U.S. Route 64 in New Mexico between Shiprock and Farmington because people who live along busy roads usually have fences to prevent their dogs from wandering into traffic. That section of U.S. Route 64 is a 4-lane highway with wide shoulders and a median. Dogs have no fear, not even of big trucks moving at 80 mph down the highway. Although they have several keen senses, common sense is not one of them. Seven encounters occurred in just one hour along that stretch of highway. In every encounter, the dogs came out onto the highway and nearly caused an accident. Horns were blaring. Tires were screeching. Drivers were yelling. I was yelling. It was unbelievable. The dogs were oblivious to the traffic or too psychotic to care. This is a common problem with dogs in the country, but it usually doesn't happen along major highways. It's time for dog owners to be more responsible or lose the right to own dogs.

"Three Little Pigs"

I remember hearing stories about javelinas, which are also called peccaries. These animals are similar to wild pigs or boars. According to the stories, they all have long tusks and razor-sharp teeth that can rip a man to shreds. They travel in packs during the day or night, and have no sense of fear. Once they decide to charge, nothing can stop them, not even a fully loaded hunting rifle. Their vision is poor, but their sense of smell is remarkable. Their long snouts greatly enhance their ability to perceive even the faintest aroma. They're always hungry and eat just about everything, even spiny cactus pads! They don't feel pain, and their powerful jaws can easily crush bones. Even if the stories were a bit exaggerated, they still sounded like powerful animals.

The truth is javelinas are very powerful animals, but they're also very timid. They don't eat people. Everything else about the stories was actually true, except a hunting rifle will stop one. Of course, you better hope the rifle is fully loaded! The first time I encountered a group, I didn't know the truth about javelinas. All I knew was what I heard in the stories.

I remember camping among the saguaros near Picadilla Creek in central Arizona. It was early spring, and there was still water in the creek. I knew that javelinas inhabited the area, but I didn't know that central Arizona has more javelinas per square mile than just about anywhere else in the United States. Purifying water is a constant chore associated with camping. I use campfires to boil questionable water. Although this technique solves a lot of problems, it also creates a few. Smoke and ashes from the campfires tend to give the water a smoky flavor. The smoky flavor is unappealing, so I often add various herbal teas to improve the flavor. I only add one tea bag per gallon of water, so the tea is very dilute. However, it's enough to improve the flavor and lend the tea an enticing aroma. The water I purified from Picadilla Creek was flavored with raspberry tea. Although the tea was dilute, the raspberry aroma was delightful. Shortly after nightfall while sitting in the tent reviewing maps, I pulled the cap off the flavored water and took a drink. The fruity aroma filled the tent, and precisely at that badly timed moment, a pack of hungry javelinas happened to walk by! Keep in mind, all I knew about javelinas was from the stories I heard, and now a pack of them was standing right outside my tent! I don't keep food inside the tent, but I usually do have water inside. I remember the distinctive noises their hooves made on the rocks. Although other animals sound similar when walking, other animals don't make snorting sounds. The thin wall of nylon separating us didn't exactly offer a sense of security and the steak knife I was tightly grasping seemed woefully inadequate for the situation. At the moment, I needed a brick house or a cannon! The raspberry aroma undoubtedly caught their interest, and the aroma must have seemed intense considering their keen sense of smell. The question was, "What were they going to do next?"

Were they going to come through the tent? Was there going to be a fight? Did I even stand a chance? I honestly didn't know the answers or the best way to react. I knew the flimsy knife wouldn't be much help, but I held on to it anyway. I made a few manly noises to indicate my presence, but the javelinas didn't seem startled or intimidated. Other than for the noises, I sat quietly, waiting to strike at any intrusion. It was a tense moment that lasted for several minutes. Thankfully, there was no fight, and they didn't come through the tent. The javelinas decided not to pursue the interest and simply walked away. After they left, I suspended the jugs of water from a tree next to my food.

This encounter with javelinas happened in my early days of bicycle touring. Since then, I've learned that these animals will tear apart a tent to get at anything that smells like food, including toothpaste, dental floss, shampoo, candles, and scented garbage bags! Everything I now carry is either unscented or pine scented. It's also very important to keep anything that comes in contact with food, such as dishes, utensils, and cookware, outside the tent, even if these items are clean. The slightest little crumb of food is enough to attract javelinas, bears, field mice, and many other animals, so it's important to never eat inside a tent.

"It had these glowing eyes."

The setting was in Coronado National Forest just south of Sierra Vista, Arizona. It was the end of November and shortly after nightfall. Since I was still riding, that meant I didn't make it to the intended destination on time. I always try to have camp set up before nightfall. I was following a dirt road that led into the Huachuca Mountains, specifically Miller Canyon. Finding a campsite was difficult since everything was pitch black, well almost everything.

The flashlight I use is mounted on a headband, so both of my hands are free to do other things, like steer the bike! The road was badly torn up from being graded, so I had to push the bike through several sections. I was trying to get to the end of the road, since the trail I wanted to hike began there. As I was walking along, I turned my head to the side. The flashlight shined into the darkness. To my surprise, something close by reflected the light. Two green, glowing eyes were staring right at me! A stunning chill of fear pulsed through my body! As a child, I always hated seeing those glowing eyes in horror movies, so seeing a pair at night in real life was especially startling. Was it a mountain lion? A deer? Coyote? Bear? "Bigfoot!" Something else? I wasn't sure if I wanted to know. Whatever it was, it was big, so that ruled out a coyote. I glanced sideways several times to evaluate the situation. Whatever it was, it didn't stalk or purse me. Instead, it just remained still. "It" wasn't alone either. I soon spotted about 5 other pairs of glowing eyes nearby. Unlike the first pair, seeing the other eyes was actually a relief because bears and mountain lions are typically solitary. Deer and elk, on the other hand, travel in herds. The mysterious eyes reflecting the light were most likely a herd of deer, but I honestly didn't know and never will know. Despite the darkness, I was still able to find a campsite, and actually slept okay that night. The animals were not a problem and never approached my campsite.

The hiking trail leading into Miller Canyon was a strenuous climb. The Huachuca Mountains are huge and they have some very interesting flora, including madrones and New Mexican raspberries. I was glad to find and photograph these shrubs. It was way too late in the season for raspberries, but the madrones still had fruit. All southwestern madrones produce edible berries. Cooking the berries prior to consumption is a wise precaution because raw berries can cause nausea. Fresh berries are covered with bumpy red skins and filled with delicately crunchy seeds. The find was a good addition to my work on wild foods. I didn't hike all the way up to Miller Peak because I spent most of the day searching for plants. I found a few patches of scarlet sage in the area, as well as many other plants. I plan to return to the Huachuca Mountains in the future, preferably after Bigfoot left!

"Company for Dinner"

The Mazatzal Wilderness of central Arizona is truly a wild place. Much of the area is a cypress forest, mixed with oak, cedar, manzanita, and pinyon pine. Certain species of cypress are well adapted to arid climates, and the climate was definitely arid! I followed Mineral Creek Road to the edge of the wilderness, and set up camp on a ridge where two rivers began. The itinerary included a hike up North Peak Trail to search for wild foods, but the plans changed.

Shortly after the sun went down, I was writing a letter in my tent. As usual, the food I carry was hanging in a tree nearby. None of the trees in the area were very tall, but the food was high enough to be out of the reach of most animals. The wind was calm and the air had a peaceful silence, at least for a while. Camping in the woods far away from civilization can conjure up fears from deep within the human psyche. Most people have forgotten these fears thanks to the security of living in houses. The woods are a restless place at night. Small animals stir the leaves and step on twigs when searching for food. The sound of twigs snapping is a sure sign that something is nearby. Animals make a lot of strange noises. Most of the faint noises are of no concern. However, when a tree branch cracks in two and the sound echoes through the forest, something big is definitely nearby! A sound like that triggers an instinctive alarm. While writing that letter in my tent, the silence of the night was broken with the sound of large rocks tumbling in the distance. The sounds were gradually getting louder, so something was getting closer, something big! The sounds were from heavy rocks, not little pebbles. Something was coming up the dry creek. Whatever it was, it was alone and didn't have hooves. Animals with hooves, such as deer, elk, mule, goats, and javelinas, make a lot of noise when walking on rocks and tend to travel in groups. The animal approaching my camp was much more stealthy, like a bear or large cat. After coming up the ridge, it went straight to the tree where my food was hanging, which was about 30 feet away from my tent. There was only one kind of animal it could be.

I never encountered a bear before, so I wasn't quite sure how to react. You don't want to appear nervous, since that's a sign of weakness associated with prey. Of course, that's easier said than done when a hungry bear is about to tear your camp apart for a meal! My first attempt to sound brave was pathetic. The lack of intimidation in my voice was obvious. The bear wasn't convinced to leave, not even slightly convinced. It's hard to sound tough when you're trembling with fear. The bear must have sensed that initial fear and interpreted it as a sign of weakness, as well as an invitation to dinner. I soon took a more aggressive stance because I wasn't planning on having "company for dinner."

The bear was intimidated by my verbal display, but it wasn't going to leave without a meal. A single tree separated the bear and I, and the food was in the tree behind me. The bear didn't want a confrontation, and backed off every time I approached it. I chased it down the ridge to drive it away from the area, but it kept coming back to the food. Obviously, the bear was desperate, and soon it would have enough courage to challenge my authority. Had the bear confronted me in that manner, I would've simply let it have the food. Since the bear wasn't going to leave, I thought it would be a good idea for me to leave before it got pissed off. I didn't waste any time packing up camp, and I put the food in a separate backpack, an expendable backpack. Outrunning the bear was not a possibility, but I was reasonably sure that it wouldn't follow me. The assumption proved to be correct. The bear didn't follow me, and I established another camp about 8 miles away. There were no other problems that night, but the relocation canceled the plan to hike North Peak Trail.

Chapter #6 - Experiences with the People

"Sticks and Stones"

Luck wasn't with me one night in the Black Mountains east of Bullhead City, Arizona. The Black Mountains are steep, jagged, more brown than black, sparsely covered with vegetation, and loaded with gold. Growing conditions are too hot and too dry for most plants, but creosote shrubs, paloverde trees, cacti, and desert lavender thrive in the area. Public lands around Bullhead City are heavily polluted, and this unfortunate fact has little to do with tourism. Pollution in that area is primarily due to illegal dumping committed by small businesses trying to avoid the exorbitantly high cost of proper disposal at state-run facilities. It's a common problem on public lands. Residents and tourists also add to the litter problem, and gun enthusiasts frequently leave their distinctive marks: spent shell casings and perforated targets. That spot in the Black Mountains was covered, literally covered, with spent shotgun shells. Although the shells added some color to the dull-brown landscape, it wasn't a pretty site.

Everything about the area was harsh, including the characters I ran into. They pulled up in a white pickup truck very late in the night. The diesel engine idled for about 10 minutes as the punks decided what kind of trouble to cause. My tent was set up close to the road and my bike was chained to a rusty refrigerator. I generally avoid camping near roads, but other locations were less suitable. The punks made a U-turn and started to leave the area, but then decided to stop again about 50 yards away. The truck doors opened and closed. Footsteps approached. At that point, I got out of my sleeping bag and put my boots on. I was expecting a fight. It was fairly cold, so I also put my coat on. As I was getting ready to step "outside," a large rock crashed into the tent. Laughter and running soon followed the sound of tent fabric tearing. I shouted a stream of swear words including some that equated the punks to various parts of the human body. I was very provoking in the way I presented my responses, but then decided that may not be the wisest decision. The punks jumped back into the truck and sped away.

The rock tore a gaping hole in the tent. It was unlikely that the tent would ever be waterproof again. The roof was badly torn and one of the walls was damaged. The fabric could be sewn, but the repair would probably leak. Sealing fabrics isn't easy. Ants, flies, mosquitoes, and other bugs could now enter the tent. In fact, a raccoon could've walked through the new opening! The tent was badly wounded, possibly fatally wounded. At least no rain was in the area that night. I put some duct tape over the tear as a temporary fix. As suspected, the more permanent fix proved to be inadequate, especially during the rain. I eventually replaced the tent. Perhaps, I'll find some gold during my next visit to the Black Mountains to compensate for the loss.

"Target Practice"

This passage was done and over in a flash, or more like a bang. I was traveling north on Arizona State Route 87 one day when it sounded like a canon exploded behind me. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, so I knew it wasn't a thunderbolt. The deafening noise was caused by some jerk shooting a gun from a moving vehicle right behind me. The noise made me cringe and nearly lose control of the bike. I managed to stay in control and drift to the shoulder. I also managed to restrain the urge to "salute" the jerk with my middle finger. I believe the intent was to scare me rather than kill me. The car never slowed down, so there were no more problems that time.

A similar situation happened at a different place on a different day, so I've actually been shot at twice for riding a bicycle. Plus, I've had numerous cigarette butts flicked at me, and a bottle thrown at me. The bottle was thrown from a car moving at highway speeds, so it could have caused a serious injury. Road rage is a real problem. It doesn't take much to piss someone off. In fact, some people don't even like the idea of us all breathing the same air. I was on U.S. Route 54 near Jefferson City, Missouri when a bottle of pop went screaming by my front tire. I didn't find the stunt very amusing, and neither did the family driving behind the punks. I almost stopped to collect the bottle as evidence, but I didn't know which car it came from and I couldn't see the license plate number anyway. About 10 minutes later, a car pulled onto the shoulder and stopped ahead of me. I was hesitant to ride by the car and didn't know what to expect. Apparently, that family pursued the punks to obtain the license plate number and a description. The driver was a security guard and felt compelled to do something about the injustice by passing me that information and even offering to testify on my behalf. I was grateful, but relocating the evidence along the endless row of litter and trying to carry on a legal battle halfway across the country would've been difficult, so I didn't press charges. This experience showed me the good and bad in people.

"Craggy Wash"

About 6 miles north of Lake Havasu City, Arizona is a run-down campground called Craggy Wash. I've met all kinds of interesting people there, most of whom were traveling in recreational vehicles (RVs). The first time I was at Craggy Wash was in autumn of 2000 around Thanksgiving. A middle-aged woman named Donna traveling in a very expensive RV decided to bake cherry muffins for all the campers. I happened to be one of those campers and got a chance to meet Donna. I also met a number of other travelers that were part of an "RV community." In gratitude for the muffins, I prepared a chicken stir-fry for Donna and a few of her friends later that day. I've been a cook for a while, so the culinary endeavor was easy, except for the 6-mile ride into town to get the supplies. In gratitude for the stir-fry, I was invited to Thanksgiving dinner. At that point, I knew I was "out-gratituded." Whenever somebody does something nice for me I always try to return the favor, but how can you top a Thanksgiving dinner? Compared to the extravagant RVs these good folks wander across the countryside in, the dinner was rather basic: turkey loaf, instant potatoes, canned green beans, cranberry relish, carrot cake, pumpkin pie, and wine. Obviously, nobody in the group was very fond of cooking. The dinner was wonderful and it felt good to be among newfound friends on such a special day.

I met 4 groups of RV travelers at Craggy Wash that Thanksgiving Day. Coincidently, I met 3 of them at a different location hundreds of miles away. They were planning to rendezvous at Craggy Wash for Christmas and said I was welcome. I barely made it back in time for the Christmas rendezvous, but I finally rolled in just after sunset. I had a feeling the group was responsible for the decorated paloverde tree. Sure enough, they were having a "tree lighting." I arrived when they were about to plug in the string of colorful lights. There wasn't a spruce tree within a hundred miles, but that paloverde tree looked just as special. I'm sure the rangers wouldn't have been as thrilled about the scene, but Christmas wouldn't be right without a decorated tree. One of the ornaments was a hummingbird feeder. The "7-course" dinner was nice, but it wasn't exactly the traditional Christmas fare: hot dogs, buns, ketchup, mustard, relish, chips, and red wine. A few hummingbirds came to the feeders on Christmas Day. These agile little birds migrate into the region from Mexico to feed upon chuparosa and ocotillo flowers that begin to bloom in winter. The holiday season at Craggy Wash left me with a pleasant memory of that place.

"Native Ways"

The state of New Mexico is called, "The Land of Enchantment." The oldest traces of human culture in the Southwest are found in New Mexico. The history of the region began over 15,000 years ago with the emergence of nomadic hunters and gatherers. Even today, it's a land steeped in tradition and blessed with people who still believe in the native ways.

The Navajo Indian Reservation is a land of intriguing beauty. I rode through many places within that great land. The route here began in Gallop and headed due north towards the Chuska Mountains before turning east to Crownpoint and Chaco Canyon. The route was relatively flat, but it took much longer than expected. I remember pulling off the road during twilight to have some dinner about 5 miles west of Crownpoint. There were no picnic tables, no parks, and nothing but a barbed wire fence that went on for miles. I often eat sitting on the ground, so the dining arrangements were nothing unusual. Upon finishing dinner, some very kind people offered me a sandwich and a sports beverage. Although the gesture was badly timed, it was greatly appreciated. In the middle of thanking them several times, I mentioned that I had just finished dinner and didn't really need the sandwich or beverage, but they insisted. They said I'd be hungry again sometime, so save it for then. That made irrefutably good sense, so I chose not to refute. At first, I didn't realize that they actually bought the food just for me. They passed by earlier on their way to church and thought that I might still be there on the side of the road upon returning, so they brought food in case I was hungry. It was indeed a very kind thing to do.

The 3 of us had a short conversation. I mentioned that I was heading to Chaco Canyon, Jemez, and eventually to Taos, New Mexico. They were impressed and asked where I was planning to stay that night. After hearing that the destination was still about 10 miles away, they offered to let me stay at their place for the night. I could hardly believe it. First they offer dinner and then a comfortable room? Were these the nicest people on the planet or something? I offered to pay them, but they insisted that wouldn't be necessary. After hearing that, I knew for sure that they were the nicest people on the planet. Apparently, offering shelter to travelers is customary among the Navajo. I was hesitant to accept the offer at first, but these strangers genuinely seemed like good people. I'm sure they were hesitant as well. All of our first impressions proved to be right. The community where they lived was about 2 miles off the main road. The Navajo name for the place was difficult to pronounce, but it meant "the winding canyon." They led the way, but I set the pace. They had a beautiful home, and I was very thankful for the invitation. It was nice to sleep in a comfortable bed for a change, and it was nice to know that people still follow the native ways.

The north-central region of New Mexico has mountains that reach the sky. Of course, mountains that high don't exactly make it easy to ride a bicycle, but the ride to Taos was certainly worth the effort. The highest point in New Mexico is at 13,161 feet elevation in the Taos Mountains. The network of hiking and biking trails in the area is beyond imagination. Some of the best "single tracks" in the country are found around Taos. Single tracks are one-lane trails. They're less common than old jeep trails which are referred to as "double tracks." Mountain bikers live for single tracks, especially long, smooth, downhill single tracks, so the area felt like a home. The land, and its history, and its people were truly enchanting.

"Tumacacori"

People from the Southwest seem to have an obsession with chili peppers, but at least it's a healthy obsession. The peppers are native to tropical climates, but they grow sparsely in the southernmost parts of Arizona, including the Baboquivari and Tumacacori Mountains. As an aspiring botanist, I feel compelled to search for these wild treasures, regardless of how futile that search may be. The fiery fruits make a fine seasoning, and southwestern cuisine wouldn't be authentic without them.

I established a base camp in the Rock Corral Canyon about 2 miles west of Tumacacori. The canyon had an old dirt road that became a trail leading into the mountains. I hiked into the mountains to search for old plots where a chili company once cultivated the peppers. Unfortunately, I never found the plots, or even any peppers growing wild. However, I did find several other interesting wild foods including olives, condalias, amaranth, sugarberries, and hops. I photographed the wild foods in a natural setting and gathered a few samples for documentation.

As I was preparing the wild foods back at camp, a group of about 10 horseback riders passed by. Apparently, the trail was popular with ornery equestrian types. These folks were unbelievable. Galloping around, stirring up dust, causing a ruckus, I was starting to get agitated, and then it happened. Yeah you guessed it, one of the horses just had to "leave a pile of business" by my camp. Well that was the last straw. I hadn't forgotten about the joys of riding through Amish Country, where bicycle tires tend to fling up "stuff" lying on the road and having to swerve all the time to avoid the stuff. It's another one of those obstacles that bikers must contend with and automobile drivers have no idea about. It's also a good reason for having fenders. The most ornery one in the group immediately proceeded to pick a fight, but it wasn't a serious fight. In fact, it wasn't a fight at all, and these were some of the kindest people I ever met. I was just picking on them here, in case any of them happen to read these words. We all had a nice conversation lasting for about 20 minutes. I asked them if they saw any chili peppers growing out in the fields, or if they knew where any of the old plots were. They gave me one of those "this guy is a little different isn't he" looks before responding. I explained about my interest in edible plants and the book I was writing. They made me promise to include them in this book, and one guy in the group even insisted on giving me $5 for the mission, so—Ron, Marcia, Birdie, Herb, George, Marsha, Judy, and Katie—consider that promise kept my friends in Tubac. We also talked about horses and interesting things in the Tumacacori Mountains before departing.

Chapter #7 - Answers to the Questions

People I meet on the road often ask questions such as those that I decided to answer here. Every biker has a unique style of riding, and would most likely respond to the questions differently. I'm what the bike-riding community calls a "solo rider," which means someone who carries all the necessities for a multiple-day ride without the support of a motor vehicle. My style is adapted to hiking, so the equipment I carry can be used for hiking as well as biking. This orientation enables me to have access to wilderness areas, which are off-limits to bicyclists, but not to hikers. I simply park at the boundary, lockup the bike, refit the saddlebags into a backpack, and walk into the wilderness. My style is also adapted to botany, as indicated by the addition of several college-weight books needed for identification. Bikers aim for minimal weight, often bickering about how one part (the one they own rather than the one you own) weighs a few grams less than another. I always felt out of place in those conversations with a stack of heavy books measurable in kilograms and saddlebags that seem to bend the bicycle frame toward the ground.

Question #1: "How far do you ride in a day?" I typically ride 40 to 70 miles per day, and 4 days per week, sometimes more, sometimes less. On cross-continental treks, I average 60 to 80 miles per day, and ride 9 out of every 10 days. A few perfect days exceeded 100 miles. Daily distance depends upon terrain and weather conditions. I hate the wind, but heavy rain, mountain gradients, bumpy dirt roads, and even light snow are fine! I avoid wind as if it was the plague. Under perfect conditions, I average 10 mph, which is rather slow compared to most bikers. When climbing steep hills or fighting gusty headwinds, I average 4 mph, and I'm honest enough to admit that joggers have occasionally passed me! It's important to enjoy the scenery, instead of just rushing through it, right? Speed and mileage are irrelevant to my style of riding—unless I'm hungry and need to get to a fast food restaurant, then I ride like I'm training for the Olympics!

Question #2: "Where are you traveling to?" The answer is simple: "everywhere." Occasionally, some people can't quite grasp the answer because it's not a specific place, so they end up repeating the question using different words. Most travelers are trying to get somewhere quick (usually in excess of the posted speed limit) and follow the shortest pathway to the intended destination. The answer "everywhere" is accurate and concise, but it's also profound. When you're heading everywhere, then you're already at the destination no matter where you are. Those long distances between places become a meaningless concept, even on roads passing through "the middle of nowhere." Since every place has to be somewhere, it's impossible to be nowhere—except in Nevada! Kids often ask the question, "Are we there yet?" My response would be, "We've been there the whole time!" Dreams and imagination have guided us to here and creative ingenuity will guide us to a place of peace among the stars. That's the destination I have in mind. I'm an explorer trying to see everything.

Question #3: "What's the farthest distance you rode in one day?" The longest single-day ride was 144 miles across southern Michigan. No other rides exceeded that distance, even though several rides exceeded the 24 hours in a day! Nobody asks the closely related question, "What's the longest time you ever rode?" I refer to rides that extend beyond one day as "spirit rides." Occasionally, the distance between campgrounds, motels, or public lands is just too far to cross in one day. Normally, I avoid these routes. A few ambitious spirit rides lasted all night and into the following afternoon. Sleep may seem like a waste of time, but these spirit rides always renewed an appreciation for it! All these rides were well over 100 miles, and the most enduring one lasted 31 hours.

Question #4: "What happens when you get a flat tire?" Fixing flat tires is easy. Flats are a nuisance rather than a problem. I average about one flat tire per month. Other mechanical problems are uncommon. Urban roads have extraordinary amounts of broken glass, litter, and other debris. Country roads are much less hazardous. Tires, brake pads, chains, rims, and sprockets wear out slowly. Once they're sufficiently worn, I simply replace them the next time I pass through a major city or any town with a bicycle shop. In the event of catastrophic failure, like the frame cracking, I'm prepared to walk. Bicycles are durable, low-maintenance vehicles.

Question #5: "How do you get up those hills?" My typical response is, "I never really noticed the difficulty!" Occasionally, I sound a little too serious and people mistakenly believe the response. The truth is that riding a bicycle uphill, with luggage strapped on the front and back, is a strenuous workout. Not everybody can do it. The honest answer to the question is: "With a lot of work, sweat, and sore muscles." The slow assents are part of "the dues" a biker must pay, but superior health is the return on the sweat invested, and the descent is also a nice return.

Question #6: "Doesn't your ass get sore?" Yeah, that happens, especially after 80 miles. Bicycle shops sell "suspension seat-posts" that help absorb the shock from bumpy roads. These seat-posts cost a small fortune and weren't available in the past. A simple spring from any hardware store along with some creative ingenuity will suffice for a homemade suspension system, and cost a lot less. My bicycle seat sits on top of a cheap spring that performs better than most commercially made seat-posts. The cushy spring effectively prevents soreness. Those "stylish," tight-fitting shorts that many cyclists wear have a layer of soft padding built in where it's needed and are very good at preventing soreness. I prefer plain, long, 100% nylon pants for lightweight, quick-drying protection from the elements, along with a good seat.

Question #7: "Where do you sleep at night?" Mainly on public lands including national forests, state forests, and Bureau of Land Management lands. I carry a small tent and sleeping bag to set up camp anywhere in these last remaining free areas. Some national parks and monuments allow camping in the backcountry with a permit. States generally impose restrictions for using state lands, but a few states allow camping. I rarely camp in campgrounds because of the cost, as if it should cost anything to sleep on dirt. Camping used to be free, and it certainly didn't require a permit. Staying at motels was not an option. My favorite place to camp was on the sandy plains of the lower deserts in winter. Sand is very comfortable and contours to your body. It's much nicer than those hard spots you have to pay for at campgrounds.

Question #8: "Don't you get cold at night?" Believe it or not, the first time I heard this question was in the desert. It was late autumn and my body was still acclimated to more northern temperatures, so the desert sure didn't seem very cold. Lower deserts never freeze, but higher deserts can drop well below freezing. I ride all four seasons, and carry enough insulation to sleep comfortably down to +10°F. My sleeping bag is rated for 0°F, which, like most advertising, is blatantly false. According to the manufacturer, the rating is "not meant to imply" that you can sleep comfortably (or even survive) at that temperature. Instead, they say the rating is there merely to provide a comparison to other sleeping bags. Well aren't they so helpful? No deception there. Once again, it's a good thing I didn't think an advertisement was meant to imply anything truthful.

Question #9: "How do you carry everything you need?" Only a few items are truly necessary for survival: food, water, clothing, and shelter. There's never really enough room to carry everything, but the absolute necessities will fit into a backpack.

Question #10: "Do you carry a stove?" Other bikers are usually the ones who ask this question. I carry a propane stove and 3 stainless steel bowls, but this equipment is more often used for purifying water than cooking. Boiling is an effective way to kill microorganisms and render water safe to drink. Cross-country bikers rarely carry stoves and cooking pans because of the weight—unless they have an addiction to hot cappuccino!

Question #11: "How old are you?" Almost old enough to start lying about it! And never too old to ride a bike!

Question #12: "What do you do when it starts raining?" Rain is a powerful adversary. Once it starts falling, keeping warm becomes a real challenge. The lack of rain is a primary reason why I choose to ride in the Southwest. I carry a high quality rain jacket and an umbrella. All rain jackets trap sweat, despite the claims and high price tags, but they prove to be effective in freezing rain. My tent is waterproof (for the most part), or at least it was before all the thorns pierced holes in the bottom! It's a shield against the elements, but it's not 100% effective in severe weather. Although I don't like to, I'm prepared to ride through rain and light snow.

Question #13: "Have you ever run into problems with people or animals?" Yes to both. Problems with people are rare, but problems with animals, especially dogs, are frequent. I included a chapter about situations with animals further in the story.

Question #14: "Are you on the run from the law?" No comment!

Question #15: "Do you ride at night?" I try not to because it's impossible to see obstacles. It's also difficult to find campsites, so I prefer to set up before dark. I have a headlight, taillight, and neon-yellow jacket for safety. Bike shops sell powerful headlights for riding at night, but these headlights are bulky and not really intended for touring.

Question #16: "Have you ever run out of water?" Yes, but never to the point of severe dehydration. I experienced the initial symptoms of dehydration (unquenchable thirst and dry cracked lips), but I've always had enough water. I make it a point to know where the next source of water is, because it's not an issue to gamble on. The Southwest is dry, real dry. The majority of rivers run dry, or they never have water in the first place. When you hear a name like the Sandy River, you can be sure about the sand, but don't expect much river! I can purify water, but that doesn't do any good when there's no water to purify! Most of the survival skills suggested for procuring water in the desert simply don't work in reality. In a dire situation, I could always hold up a sign reading, "Help, need water!" I'm sure that somebody would stop, but I've never had to do that. If nobody stopped, then a sign reading, "Free beer!" should do the trick! I always pay close attention to how much water I have, even more so than a driver would watch a fuel gauge.

Question #17: "Is that a high quality bike?" It's a great bike, but it's nowhere near the top of the line. It's a 1995, 17 inch, 21 speed, hard-tail (meaning without suspension) mountain bike with a standard chromoly (chromium-molybdenum alloy) frame, weighing a modest 28 pounds. Accessories add additional weight. The super-expensive bikes only weigh a few pounds less, and virtually no mountain bikes weigh less than 20 pounds. Why spend hundreds or even thousands of dollars just to save a couple of pounds when the bicycle is going to be overloaded with piles of heavy luggage anyway? I chose a mountain bike because they can handle trails better than road bikes. The narrow tires of road bikes make it difficult to steer on dirt roads and trails. Plus, road-bike tires are thinner and more susceptible to flats.

Question #18: "Where do you get the energy?" I special order it from the power company. One jolt per day usually does the trick! The key is eating right, getting enough sleep, and staying motivated.

Question #19: "Have you ever gotten lost?" Of course not! I'm a professional. I have been disorientated a few times, but I've never been truly lost. I have an excellent sense of direction. The concept of right and left was always more difficult for me to grasp than simply using the directions north, south, east, and west. Since right and left are entirely dependent upon the direction of travel, why not just state the direction of travel? Maps aren't always accurate and have occasionally led me down the wrong path, but I've always gotten back on track.

Appendix A - Checklist of Necessities

Primary Equipment:

1 mountain bicycle (17 inch frame, 28 pounds + accessories).

1 tent (one person, 3x8 square feet, free standing, waterproof, 3½ pounds).

1 sleeping bag (nylon with synthetic fill, rated for 0°F, 4½ pounds).

2 frameless backpacks (each 1800 cubic inches).

3 nylon stuff bags.

1 nylon compressor stuff bag.

1 plastic tackle box (to support packs and carry stuff).

7 heavy duty stretch cords.

Clothing:

2 pairs of nylon pants.

1 pair of cotton pants (not jeans).

2 thin, cotton, long-sleeve shirts.

1 cotton tee-shirt.

4 pairs of socks.

4 pairs of underwear.

1 bathing suit.

1 lightweight nylon jacket.

1 quality rain jacket.

1 winter coat (synthetic fill).

1 earband.

1 wool hat.

1 pair of waterproof gloves.

1 pair of cotton glove liners (to protect hands from biting insects and sunburn).

1 hat.

1 pair of hiking boots.

1 pair of gaiters (for protection from ticks, thorns, and grass seeds when hiking).

2 head nets (for protection against bugs).

1 small towel.

2 washcloths.

1 small box of laundry soap.

Hygiene:

1 toothbrush.

1 small tube of toothpaste.

1 package of dental floss.

1 bar of soap.

1 small bottle of shampoo.

1 hair brush.

1 compact mirror.

1 deodorant.

1 small roll of toilet paper.

1 package of single-blade razors.

1 pair of nail clippers.

Kitchen:

1 propane stove (tank and burner parts only).

1 lighter.

3 stainless steel bowls (also used as cups and plates).

1 fork, spoon, and knife (all stainless steel).

1 can opener.

1 scratch pad (metal).

5 square feet of tinfoil.

Plastic, zipper-seal bags.

Plastic bottles (2 liter size) for carrying water.

Food and water.

Food dehydration bag.

First Aid:

Assorted bandages, gauze pads and tape.

Elastic support wrap.

Antiseptic towelettes.

Antibiotic ointment.

Sting-relief pads.

Aspirin.

Tweezers.

Suntan lotion.

Lip balm.

Snakebite kit.

Survival:

Knife is in the kitchen stuff.

Extra lighters.

Waterproof matches.

Kindling.

Candles.

Fishhooks.

Fishing line.

Wire.

Sewing needles.

Thread.

Twine.

Small net.

Rubber bands.

Safety pins.

Loud whistle.

Signal mirror is with hygiene stuff.

Bicycle Gear:

2 spare inner tubes.

3 patch kits.

2 small screwdrivers (+ and -).

4 hex wrenches (3, 4, 5, and 6 mm)

1 small, vice-grip pliers.

1 chain tool.

1 spare brake cable.

1 spare gear cable.

Replacement screws.

Hose clamps.

Stretch cords.

Tire pump.

Bicycle lock.

Helmet.

Miscellaneous Items:

Flashlight (white LED type on a headband).

Pen and pencil.

Paper (notebook).

Envelopes.

Stamps.

Maps and Compass.

GPS receiver.

Thermometer.

Small radio.

Camera.

Sunglasses.

Spare prescription glasses.

Watch with alarm.

Wildflower identification books.

Umbrella.

Appendix B - Vital Statistics

Total # of treks: 5.

Total mileage: 26,000 miles over a 10 year period.

Longest tour: 7,000 miles over a 9 month period.

Farthest daily mileage: 144 miles.

Average daily mileage: 60 miles.

Windiest day: 44 mph gusts.

Hottest day: 119°F.

Coldest day: -27°F (for 7 miles, not on a tour).

Most enduring ride: 31 hours.

Steepest road: 21% gradient.

Longest uphill: Tioga Pass, 63 miles, 8,000 foot gain.

Total # of flat tires: About 100 to 150.

Total # of worn out tires: About 30.

Total # of worn out rims: 3 sets.

Total # of worn out chains: 12.

Total # of worn out sprockets: 3 complete sets.

Total # of worn out brake pads: 5 pairs.

Highest elevation: 11,120 feet, Owl Creek Pass, Colorado.

Lowest elevation: 205 feet below sea level, Salton Sea, California.

Number of times across the continent: 3.

Longest period of time without fast food: 22 days!

Total # of exclamation points in this book: 207!

I hope you enjoyed this e-book.

The End