La Pedaleada

Truckee River Path Ride

2012-02-01T14:04:00.001-08:00

Just a short video of a ride along the Truckee River Trail through Reno, with a stop at Reno's own Tour de Nez bike race. We are so lucky to live in a place like this where we can go from cheering on great cycling to stopping and watching mustangs grazing along a hillside.

Hidden Places

2012-01-19T00:12:00.000-08:00

I want to write about the Reno places I love, but also have a strong desire to keep them hidden. It is such the attraction: I can still escape, despite the jet planes and four-wheelers and general gunfire, to a wonderland where I can be alone. The Painted Hills are such a place. Along the northern side of Pyramid Lake Highway just before arriving at Pyramid Lake with tremendous bands of red and white colored outcrops adorned with minarets and cliff faces. Cutting across roads and picking through the stone gardens of the old ones, I took Imanol out on New Year's Day to share it with him. It is the custom in the Basque Country (at least Imanol's custom) to go for a hike on either the new year's eve or on January 1 to welcome in the beginning of another year and we welcomed it right.

Explore, but be careful, nobody's gonna find you for a while.

Coming back, I knew that I should write about this place, and so I remembered my other adventures there, but for some reason I couldn't find the pictures from my first exploration of the Thumb (my name for the area). Eventually, digging deeper and deeper into my backups I came across my first time there. I didn't remember this, but it was right after my dad's funeral. I went with Coco and Luna who was my hiking buddy back then, and we hiked up through blowing snow into the sky.

Music

2012-01-03T22:54:00.000-08:00

This morning, getting back into my commute (which has admittedly gotten a little boring, there are only so many routes), I wanted to listen to music, so I played my iPod pretty much the whole way. Sure, it has a little tiny speaker, but once in a while I could catch the beat and it was fantastic. I don't really like listening to headphones, but I love music, so I'm starting a little music experiment. Maybe bike speakers in my future? Although I have to say that it was extremely embarrassing to get to work and have tinny noise blaring from my chest, but oh well, one must suffer.

Day 1 playlist: Metric

Re-desert'd

2012-01-02T09:55:00.001-08:00

Back from the Basque Country to the driest December on record. While this wasn't that long of a time away, coming back to this landscape and sky is always "re-": return, regroup, reawaken my senses to the absolute enormousness of the cosmos. And remember from the Latin, re- + memorari "to be mindful of," mindful of my place here on earth and where I am, this place I love so much.

The Beaches of Donostia

2011-12-20T22:28:00.000-08:00

Or I should say San Sebastián, but what an ugly name. whereas Donostia is beautiful and matches the beaches. This was my first year really spending time on my off days in Donostia and I got to walk both the beaches on beautiful but different days. Of course, the beach in Donostia isn't the "beach" in December, but who couldn't love and use La Concha, here mainly kayakers on my first day and surfers on the north side on my second day. The waves grew giant as the big wind storm came in and on my last days in Donostia the waves were tremendous, but I didn't make it close to them, just seeing them crash from trains, buses, Cameron's car as he brought me to Bilbao.

Internet is acting weird and I want to post this, so not adding more photos right now, so check back I might add more.

Igeldo and Chillida

2011-12-20T07:56:00.000-08:00

Ocean washing Chillida's Comb of the Wind. I love how the sculpture grows from rocks, so much more alive than the Oteiza on the other side, but favorite part were the blowholes built into the sidewalk.

The blowholes

When waves hit they would push funnels of air up strong enough to ruffle hair and spit spray, and fascinate cute dogs and photographers alike. By then I was all revved up to have pintxos and txakoli at the restaurant by the sculpture (and among my favorite and not too bad prices either) and storm the funicular up Mt. Igueldo. I love riding them, sitting at front or back and watching mountainsides recede and approach with the passing car on the other side with always that little bit of wonder (hmmm, oh, cable snap) how fast you could make it down. Walked through amusement park on a gray and mostly empty day. I'm pretty sure Casa del Terror attendant wasn't masturbating when I walked by, but some shadows for sure. I really wanted to ride the little boats though, almost did, and definitely would have if I'd had some company ;-) Then into the Torre and just a couple of euros enough to conquer the castle . . .

A little boat made for 2

Storming the Torre

All my view.

Awesome design in the antique photos on Torres walls.

The stairwell

Way down

Basque Landing

2011-12-18T11:07:00.001-08:00

Another year azoka'd. Back in the sage confines of my widescreen life. I look back at my pictures and think a lot about loneliness, distance. In the Basque Country, I wore my headphones a lot, set myself back, was silent and anonymous. As long as I keep my mouth shut I pretty much pass as someone you don't talk to on the street, I guess, or, rather, I want it that way. I want to remember my father talking to every person he passed, learning their lives for ten minutes or a lifetime. Too many stories is my opinion, I can barely handle the one I have. And, of course, plenty of time for the social, hundreds of people passing by everyday.

man walking, alone

looking out window

woman walking along stone wall

smoking man sitting with friend

Woman walking below balcony

Metric was my soundtrack, and Gose as I navigated myself silently through Basque streets, stopping only long enough for pintxos and txakoli . . .

Pintxos and txakoli

In stereo with Chillida

And then to work and my same back and forth between Durango and Elorrio, where I was remembered from last year.

My home for 5 days

In transit

My other home, San Agustín

Elorrio salad nights

My Elorrio at night

Shut down and ready for another day

Books, Books, Books

2011-11-26T09:33:00.001-08:00


My favorite . . .

This fall has been all about the books. I don't usually write about my work here, but it has been sort of dominating other aspects of my life for the past few months, so now, with the last of the season's books out to print, there is some possibility of reflection. On Buffalotarrak, I had the privilege to work with musician, author, and Bascophile David Romtvedt from Buffalo, Wyoming. The title is a Basque-English hybrid created by one of essay authors, Jeanne Marie Etchemendy, meaning, "those from Buffalo." It is a collection of essays with photos from the influx of Basques to this small town. My personal favorite essay is "With Simon at Four Mile," and its stories about the little piece of land that David, through his wife and father-in-law Simon Iberlin, came to know called the Four Mile Ranch, like Clyde Rickett, who homesteaded a dryland piece and yet, while all other homesteaders withered away, grew a luscious crop of corn, and Simon himself:

There's one last story. Each year in June, the sheep were moved from winter pasture at Four Mile up to summer pasture in the Big Horns. The move took several days . . .

"I was moving the sheep and my dad was going to come that night with food and water. I had a little bit of bread inside my shirt but it wasn't even really lunch, just a snack. I was hungry. In the late afternoon, it began to rain hard. I was soaked, cold, hungry, tired. My dad never showed up. I got the sheep bedded down but couldn't sleep myself. I ate the bread. I was miserable. The next morning my dad finally showed up and we had a huge breakfast and I got dry clothes then it was time to move the sheep again. Ha! That's it."

That's it. At Four Mile, the ghosts are not ghosts, they are presences, passing with us over the land. Then we are both on our way.

The battleground

Not all has been so smooth. This book was a battle. It started smoothly, the translation was fast and quite good, but the issues were giant. This book could occupy the career of someone, and we had less than a year to publish it. So each page represents this battle by the most famous of the Basque nephews (guess who the bust in the background is to win bonus points).

The easy one

The last one, the reprint of a book already published. Not much to do here, right? Well, not, there's always something. And it's in British!

Yeah Shit Street!

Virginia Range Ride

2011-10-02T11:15:00.000-07:00

Made a milestone in my explorations of the Virginia Range, finally traversed the whole range in one day on the Surly.

Dodging horse shit on Lower Toll Road with my playground ahead.

My original "plan" was to climb up a road called Bain Springs Road. I passed a woman in an SUV and asked her if she lived up the road and if it was all right to climb it. She said she'd just moved there but that she thought so. However, when I got to the road split where I park for hiking, there was an impressively scary No Trespassing ("This Means You"). It was already fairly late and Renee's mom was coming over for dinner at about five. So I told myself I'd just ride back down Toll Road, cross over to Miraloma and ride up to Hidden Valley. A nice ride, good sensible plan.

But when I got back to Toll Road I couldn't resist the climb and chance to have another day to explore around this incredible range (especially with pretty perfect picture possibilities).

Toll Road views.

Looking up Toll Road

I kept telling myself that once I reached the top I would just coast back down Geiger Grade from the top of Toll Road, from Geiger Summit.

The Surly on Geiger Grade.

Geiger Summit, portage to the right.

The road ahead from the portage.

There I knew the road that would theoretically follow the crest should begin. Sure enough, beyond the summit pull-out it was only a short portage to the road with no No Trespassing signs (although I think if I'd gone down to the actual turn there probably would have been one, but what I can say, I'm no mind reader). I passed a dark little rocky turnout that headed down the hill and guessed that it must have been the terminus of Bain Springs Road and thought that could be a good way down (no signs at the top). I thought I'd just climb a bit further to see how the road was, but around the bend I ran into a mountain biker on the way down. He was friendly, said he lived in the area. I asked if the road went through the Davidson Peak and he told me that it did. He also confirmed that road behind me was Bain Springs Road but that the people at the bottom were weird about trespassers. He told me I could shortcut some of the upcoming knolls on horse trails (which I tried but not sure was worth it except for the first one).

Horse trail cut-off.

From here to Davidson Peak I pushed and carried the Surly much more than I rode all the way through to the large mesa that forms the block of the range, with the peaks sort of humps projecting over canyons running down toward Virginia City.

Big push ahead.

Davidson Peak and a little corner of Virginia City.

Start of the jeep trail not taken.

I was a bit late by now, but had great cell service (I was about a hundred yards from towers). I started down the western slope. My plan was to take a jeep trail that supposedly dropped down to Ophir Road (which I'd climbed part way before). I found the turn off for it easily enough, but somehow some of the google satellite photos I thought I had I didn't and the rocky ATV rut dropped straight down into fairly trackless juniper canyons. By now mostly through four liters of water I thought it better to stick to the road more traveled, even though I really had no idea where it came out.

Some shade on Jumbo Grade.

Along Washoe Lake.

The road I did end up on came out right at Washoe City and is called Jumbo Grade. It was a steep drop. I ran into one truck climbing up (driver proudly drinking a tall boy on his Sunday drive), but friendly and otherwise had the ATV tracks all to myself (which seemed a bit strange for a weekend, but no complaining). By now I was too late to make it back to Reno, so Renee came and met me at Upper Washoe Lake park. And then back to Margie's visit!

My First Edible Pedal

2011-09-28T22:25:00.000-07:00

Renee and I rode the edible pedal together a couple of weekends ago. It was the first one and supported local foods in our communities, so a perfect match for bicycling which is local energy spent (usually) in our community. The trail started at Bowers Mansion, wound to Carson, really wound through Carson, and then Jack's Vally Road to Genoa for us 50 milers. Hundred milers continued up Kingsbury Grade and back down Highway 50. The signage and trail markers were easy to follow. This was my first time riding in an organized ride like this (I volunteered at one in Florida), and it was really fun, even though Renee and I got a bit of a late start, so never really rode with people that much. The rest stops were awesome, especially Carson City's with bike maintenance (which we needed) and tons of local food including delicious white carrots, lots of locally made bars, and tons of general goodness. Needless to say, my ride mantra was "I'm putting the pedal to the edible." The ride followed a great route and it was an amazingly beautiful day. The end of ride dinner was superlative, the only problem was that the plate was too small. I think it's rude to not at least try a bit of everything and so my plate was staggering. I made it through pretty much the whole mountain though, and Renee and I relaxed on the grass and finished up our beers (at least 6 options, with 3 brewers—Great Basin, Silver Peak, and Buckbean: we had Buckbean Orange Blossom and Silver Peak Cream Ale with our drink tokens) and then hit the road back to Reno and the rest of our Sunday. Definitely will do it again next year!

Yeah team Free Range.

Cool tree shapes on Franktown Road.

Oh yeah!

Ready to coast into Carson.

Bottom of the hill (sort of).

Hello world, I love you.

Genoa rest stop.

Smart cows in the shade.

If you feel like seeing more pictures, visit my Flickr set.

July 4 Tour Video

2011-09-18T16:41:00.000-07:00

Hard to beat some days in the mountains~

LGRAB Summer Games Entry 4: Explore a Greenway You've Never Visited

2011-08-08T06:53:00.000-07:00

LGRAB Summer Games Entry 3: Ride Somewhere You've Never Ridden Before

2011-08-02T09:07:00.000-07:00

LGRAB Summer Games Entry 2: Go on a Group Ride

2011-07-25T14:41:00.000-07:00

The Holland Project website

Forage was a roaming gallery organized by The Holland Project:

Holland is an all-ages art and music initiative made for and by the young people in Reno and beyond. Holland strives to empower young people through access to music, art, diverse workshop opportunities, and community service and activism.

What a great time! I tend to ride alone (ultimate is more my social thing), but it is so empowering and just plain fun to ride with so many other people of all types who came out to enjoy this event. I just kept thinking, I love Reno right now.

LGRAB Summer Games Entry 1: Maintenance

2011-07-25T13:23:00.000-07:00

Sierra Valleys

2011-07-23T09:07:00.000-07:00

Mountains are what usually springs to mind when thinking of the Sierras, and how couldn't it—they are spectacular. But on my tour I got some mad love for all of the magical valleys. Even cooking in the sun this place dazzles.

Dog Valley from the saddle.

On the road to Loyalton.

Hoke Valley

Don't fence me in.

So much space!

:-)

The big valley.

Hot valley leaving Portola.

So much valley love.

Dixie Valley.

Looking at Dixie Mountain.

Looking west from Frenchman's.

Ride on!

4th of July Tour

2011-07-20T07:39:00.000-07:00

My three days in the mountains celebrating on my bicycle are drifting away, but I'm still loving the photos and stories and will share more. I started one long blog post but realize I need to break it up, hopefully this will happen before Labor Day!

Stampede Dam

The Barbecue

2011-05-08T22:08:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday one of my bosses had a barbecue to celebrate the end of the semester. I was home alone that weekend without a car or date, but wanted and needed to go (needed to make sure they didn't forget me since I had just interviewed for my own job!). My boss, Sandy, lives down beyond Galena and even beyond the posh Montreaux subdivision at the foot of Mount Rose Highway's steep ascent toward the lake. I had ridden the route from behind our house over to the Thomas Creek trailhead and Timberline Drive once before (see my post about it here).

Last view of Lone Tree

The Surly looking uphill

I like how the bike shadow breaks in this picture

Finally, non–burned over landscape

Rocky

Last view of Truckee Meadows before dropping over to the Galena side

It was a beautiful afternoon, but from my house the ride is straight up hill, first through the end of the subdivision, then onto the gravel, strange new in-progress housing division road, then onto the four-wheeler and jeep road that cuts up the hill. It was slow going, especially due to the rocks, mud ruts and, higher, some mud and puddles still. Beyond the fire marks that burned down to our subdivision normal vegetation returns. The climb is pretty steep in some places and steady all the way to the Thomas Creek trail head parking lot, but nothing too special, especially if one were riding a mountain bike. At the top, just a hundred yards from the trail head, I passed a solar-powered sheep wagon and a big herd of lambing sheep. I've never seen any kind of herd before in the Reno side Sierra foothills, it was sort of exciting and apropos since I was going to the Basque barbecue.

From the trail head it is just a nice coast down to Mount Rose Highway. On Google maps before leaving I had deduced that I might be able to cut through Montreaux, so instead of going up the highway, I bombed through the security guard station and was in "the other world." Of course, as soon as I got in, I realized it was going to be more complicated to get out than get in. Unlike most gated subdivisions which just have a gate, this one has a fence completely surrounding the property. However, I didn't want to turn around as I was still coasting downhill. Every time a car came up behind me I thought it would be the security guards coming to chase me down (an obvious threat to public safety), but obviously they didn't care too much. So I got to where I could see a road beyond the fence and (luckily) no house yard I would have to cut through, threw the Surly over and jumped over with no electrical charge or clanging siren and I was free again. How similar a gated community is to a prison.

From the other side of the fence it was a short ride up to Sandy's house. I knew it would happen, but still find it disconcerting the incredulous look and "You mean you biked here, really?" Yes. A bike is made for transportation. It's a beautiful Saturday. It was only a seven-mile ride (although in reality a bit rough and steep, but still amazing, and I saw a herd of sheep). It's not that big of a deal. But soon enough I was listening the flow of Basque around me (I'm going to start learning asap, it was one of my main things I stressed during my interview) and great conversations, a beautiful antique barbecue (which originally belonged to the father of Sandy's boyfriend), a giant filet mignon and amazing other barbecue fixings. Dinner is an extremely important part of Basque life, and the barbecue is an American invention that really fascinates the Basques. All of which made for a great time, but soon enough it was 9:30 and time to go. I considered asking the Basque grad students for a ride home, which they would have happily given me, but it was such a beautiful night (and basically a long coast home), that I decided I would ride. Even though I had lights, I still had to brave the "You mean you're really going to ride? You mean really? In the dark? In the cold?" But I pushed away, climbed up to Mount Rose Highway, and then it was mostly downhill all the way home on a gorgeous starry night. Instead of doing the back route on they way home I coasted down to Thomas Creek Road and wormed through the neighborhoods over to Huffaker/Lakeside.

Why can't biking just be a normal thing that people do? Why does the bicyclist have to brave looking like a social madperson in a world that looks upside down?

More Commuting Pictures

2011-05-08T11:19:00.000-07:00

Here are some of my favorite recent commuting pics. See the full flickr set

Shining South Reno from Windy Hill

Springing and a dog barking at me

Riding down Windy Hill in the dark

Curve ahead

Climbing Windy Hill at night

Hotel on Virginia Street

Ah, the country!

Helmets

2011-04-29T19:26:00.000-07:00

There is something like a debate about the overall usefulness or safety of helmets, but I wonder if people who argue against helmets have ever had their heads hit the pavement? I have twice. Once in New York when a pedestrian walked in front of me while I was crossing Park Avenue. She didn't look up at all and at last second I planted on brakes and went over my handlebars. It hurt, but I might have walked away fine without a helmet. The second time was riding away from Bill Evans Reservoir near Silver City, New Mexico. It was a beautiful morning, birds were singing and then the back wheel of our two-wheel Doggy Ride hit a valley in a cattle guard and without even knowing it I was on the floor. We were all OK, but that time I was really glad I had a helmet. It meant the difference between being a bit dazed and a concussion or worse without a doubt.

I don't mind if people wear helmets or not. One of the coolest bicyclists I have met rode around Richmond for twenty-five years with no car (and hopefully is still) with no helmet. I do hope that if they don't they ride safely enough that they don't need it. And I know that when my head hit the pavement I was glad that I had it on.

Smile

2011-04-13T18:34:00.000-07:00

Today, between trying to get into some sort of shape another disastrous manuscript, I perused biking blogs (I found a very cool new-to-me one, CarFree Family). There is so much advice out there for commuters, I don't feel like I need to add anything right now to the debates over biking etiquette or whether or not you should wear a helmet, but I do want to give one piece of advice: smile. What you are doing is so much better than what people in cars are doing, you owe it to them to smile at them. This morning I arrived at Lakeside and McCarran first and stopped to wait for the red light. An older guy in a pickup truck pulled alongside to turn right. I was a little over the line in the crosswalk so I pulled my bike back so he could have a better line of sight, then looked over at him and smiled. He was ignoring me until then, but when he saw what I did, he made eye contact, and then an amazing thing happened, he smiled back!

Another Quote

2011-04-11T19:02:00.000-07:00

It's not that I was purposefully reading Nietzsche, but this afternoon happened to cross paths with The Use and Abuse of History and it had this quote that relates to my life lately:

Consider the herds that are grazing yonder: they know not the meaning of yesterday or today; they graze and ruminate, move or rest, from morning to night, from day to day, take up with their little loves and hates and the mercy of the moment, feeling neither melancholy nor satiety. Man cannot see them without regret, for even in the pride of his humanity he looks enviously on the beast’s happiness. He wishes simply to live without satiety or pain, like the beast; yet it is all in vain, for he will not change places with it. He may ask of the beast—“Why do you look at me and not speak to me of your happiness?” The beast wants to answer—“Because I always forget what I wished to say”; but he forgets this answer, too, and is silent; and the man is left to wonder.

P.S. Sorry I forgot the translator, but it's the library edition, not the online one. The translations are similar but very different too (this text is alternately known as On the Use and Abuse of History for Life), it was an interesting exercise to compare the different available ones. These texts are uber-translated, I went with the 1950s one because it used "ruminate" to my delight.

P.P.S. "Satiety": the revulsion or disgust caused by overindulgence or excess. I looked that one up, so thought I'd share the results of my research : )

A Quote

2011-04-09T17:02:00.000-07:00

“The morning was calm, as if wrapped in a quiet, damp towel, although the calm was only apparent, or rather confined to one side of the morning, the left side, say, while chaos was seething on the right-hand side, a chaos that only I could hear and sense.” —Roberto Bolaño, The Skating Rink, translated by Chris Andrews

I Have a Throne

2011-04-05T07:41:00.000-07:00

Like most it's not so comfortable, I suppose, but suitably grandiose, at least it commands this little gully where Bodie is loving the spring grass. She eats and drinks with such gusto.

[later] Hiding in the wind behind a little boulder letting Bodie have a good browse before we drop back into canyon toward our house. Climbed up to the saddle where I snowshoed the other day and the wind was tremendous. I intended to drop into the canyon ahead, but before I got to the bottom I was spooked away by an old whipping cottonwood skeleton. Didn't want to climb back up straight into the wind. Don't think I've ever been so close to blowing away. I sidehilled, tacking across it up the hill and at the top crawled through the ridgetop gusts and then, over the top, just held my line back toward my trail up with my hand over my face to shelter against any flying debris. I think my companions were better suited to it although I did worry a little about Dusty's bad hip and Coco blowing away like a tumbleweed (she sort of resembles one right now).

Bodie has come over to snuggle against my leg and chew her cud. Dogs are on point while a pod of whale clouds swim along above us.

Thinking and Riding

2011-04-01T10:30:00.000-07:00

My bike ride to work is usually when I get my best thinking of the day done. During my bike ride to work (home is a bit different: I'm tired, need to focus, and just want to get home to my loved ones) my mind wanders all over in a sort of broken, but perceptive way. I have to pay attention to the road and drivers, so my little thought narratives necessarily must be circled and returned to again and again, and each time from some kind of different angle. I think about bike culture, today's topsy turvy world, gas (oh, the manifestos I compose), my life and my family, plans for the day, week, weekend, future, stories and reactions to what I've read and am reading; and so much more. The other day I ruminated a blog post about why employers should employ bicyclists: they organize their time well, pay attention to details, and must care for their things; they are curious about the world, humbled by their experiences but confident in themselves to master their own fates; they must be able to sort and organize information very quickly and make real-time decisions that are literally (sometimes, hopefully not often) life and death and then learn from their mistakes; and so on and so forth.

Of course, then I get to work and it's straight into my day to day and the manifestos and blog posts wait for tomorrow.

When do you get your best thinking done?

Magic Day—Shark Valley

2011-03-28T07:38:00.000-07:00

My iPhoto library has finally grown out of control and I pruned the whole thing and am starting from scratch. It has given me the chance to go back through some great times, like this amazing day riding from our apartment in Miami Beach that seems particularly fun to revisit given the lingering cold and wind here. If you want to see more pictures from this day, visit my Flickr set!

Surly ready to go from our apartment in Miami Beach

Traffic on the causeway.


What am I doing on the wrong side of the road? Waiting at the drawbridge.

Rode by the Orange Bowl in process of destruction.

Tamiami Trail out of town.

Surly resting during lunch before Renee joined me.

With Renee in Shark Valley, we arrived after the park was offiically closed and had the path to ourselves.

Amazing to have the place to ourselves.

All smiles.

Amazing views.

Shark Valley oberservation tower all to ourselves?

Nope, our company, a giant alligator and tortoise swimming on left side of the frame. Also the ravens who stole Renee's bike glove!

More alligator on the way home.

Starting to lose our light as we make it back to the Tamiami Trail.

What an amazing day, great company and seeing Everglades N.P. without hundreds of other tourists.

A Few More Commuting Pics

2011-03-25T18:27:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, I forgot my usual bike camera at the ranch this past weekend, but I have a couple of pictures from my bike commutes, and most importantly I have been keeping up with my goal to take at least a picture a day of some aspect of my commute.

Waiting at McCarran and Lakeside

Hello Gone with the Wind on Lakeside.

Sportscar on Lone Tree

Going from Home

2011-03-21T18:25:00.000-07:00

Everyone is enjoying the little willow thicket where we are hanging out in the warm sun. Grass and willows, the smells of all other passersby, and the sound of running water our company as we sit and enjoy a little peace and quiet. The hillside is springing, snow melting, running off, evaporating. Our little log apartment seems so much like home, even in the short time we’ve been here, and walking away into the hills I have been thinking about how important transporting myself away from my home (or apartment, abode, camp) under my own power has been to my life. Even before I knew what I was doing, I was sneaking out of the ranch into the willows to play, riding my cruiser headlong across Eugene, jogging in Santiago predawn. Then biking along the Hudson and across the Manhattan bridges, exploring the back roads of the Everglades, hiking from the ranch, walking to the dog park and along Evans Creek, riding out of the condo and going to the ranch across the Black Rock. When I am under my own power there is no barrier. I go as far as I want my body to carry me. I stop when I am tired and continue when I am rested. We are conditioned to believe that we must follow the line no matter what, maintain the speed limit and speed into the future. I prefer to meander from home, enjoy my life, create, and build something I hope to see in this world.

The Honda

2011-03-20T19:30:00.000-07:00

I tend to give a lot of love to the Surly on this blog, but yesterday afternoon driving back from the ranch in the middle of a mudstorm (similar to a rainstorm, but consisting entirely of blown mud), I thought I should give a shout out to the Honda. The Honda came brand new from Courtesy Honda in Reno in the fall of 1996. She was bought on five-year loan and paid off in three. She now has 250,000 miles with no major problems (knock on wood). She's moved back and forth across the country unsupported twice (from Eugene to New York City, to Richmond, and back to Reno; from Reno to Miami and Miami to Reno with many detours through Arizona and New Mexico), had her keys locked in her in Great Basin National Park, crossed the Black Rock and camped on the playa. She's driven too many gravel roads to count. She's been warned to escape "now" in the late fall in Hells Canyon and has quietly slept parked on Long Island, in Miami, and at the ranch for months at a time. She only has one half-working back door and she lost her bike rack due to my neglect, but she always carries us where we want or need to go. She is rarely cleaned and is decorated with bits of rock and wood from around the country and world. She doesn't demand attention, and would likely be embarrassed by it, but she is the epitome of substance over flash.

Late

2011-03-15T18:51:00.000-07:00

I'm not a very punctual person, and luckily my life isn't usually predetermined around a strict "you have to be here" schedule. But there are things: at the CBS we now have a nine a.m. Monday morning meeting that involves my coworker in the Basque Country Skyping us to catch up on the week's progress. The Monday before last, I was just a little late due to getting a slow start, not a big deal but this week (and it especially being the first morning of Daylight Savings Time and being groggy), even with the best intentions I got distracted on our morning walk with Bodie (we found some sweet willow cuttings that we hauled back for her midmorning snack) and ended up getting back to the apartment at 8:30. Suddenly, it's too late to make it to work on my bicycle. Commuting on my bicycle is way up there on my list of things to do, but I was confronted by the fact that there was absolutely no way I was going to make that nine a.m.'er. So I had to ask Renee for a ride downtown in the Honda on her way to work and sheepishly unload despite the fantastic morning.

Grazing Diaries

2011-03-14T21:36:00.000-07:00

Really grazing an animal, literally walking along with it while it forages, is something I’ve never done much before Bodie came into my life.

There is a different time when you are walking with an animal whose main concern is eating her way into the future. Moments are not passing for her, she is just sniffing her world and gaining calories.

So it gives me a lot of time to think when I am out grazing with Bodie.

You can sort of think of these posts like cud balls chewed in the all-mighty jaws of my blog.

Truckee River Exploration

2011-03-13T12:27:00.000-07:00

I love riding along the Truckee River and around Verdi, it has great terrain, views, nice climbs, and is in general fantastic. There is a wealth of different variations that can be made. On this particular day, I left from my house near the university. I followed went out Seventh to Mae Anne, then down to the river at Patagonia, along Fourth Street to Mogul. At Mogul, I went under the freeway and down Mogul Road to the end, where it comes to a sweet bike and pedestrian bridge and then I rode up through Belli Ranch.

In the country, with Boomtown in the background.

There is a bit of gravel on this road around the bridge, but its still common to see cyclists using this shortcut. My general hope was to stay on the south side of the Truckee, so instead of crossing back to Boomtown and going through Verdi to Quilici Ranch Road, I turned up Garson Road (toward the fire station) and through the gate. I was hoping that there would be an access road along the Steamboat Ditch there, and sure enough it was rough but very passable, with a steep little descent at the end, but then onto smooth road again at the Verdia freeway on-ramp. I turned left, crossed the railroad tracks and was at Quilici Ranch road.

Ditch path.

I love dirt.

Riding up Quilici Ranch Road.

Quilici Ranch Road is paved for the first bit, then good gravel. It ends at a railroad crossing and large rock/parking area for fishermen. There is a fisherman trail that goes beyond the rock. It is a little narrow, and on my way out I walked my bike as it is big railroad gravel and a very steep tumble into the bushes and Truckee. It is only a few hundred yards along the railroad tracks. I crossed right before the bridges and beyond there is a good gravel road that first passes some water and electrical works, with a sweet waterfall from the wooden flume that has varied from raging waterfall to drizzle. There is a wooden bridge with a closed gate, but there is a well-worn path around its end. One day I ran into some Water Authorities up there working, and they were very nice as I rode past them. Today, not a soul in sight. The road is a nice gravel and continues along a shady and beautiful patch.

Along the railroad tracks, I crossed just a bit before the bridge ahead.

Steamboat Ditch full of water.

Along the Truckee, it's pretty amazing that freeway world is just across the river.

Many places to stop and rest, soak my feet in the Truckee.

Gorgeous day.

The road forks a couple of times and I explored almost all of its variations, the main one being a split, the lower fork goes to what seems to be a service entrance for the flume. The other one crosses the ditch, makes a steep climb and then crosses a plateau to the north before making a very steep and rocky descent back into the canyon. On the way down that hill, I ran into a man hiking the other direction (the only other person I saw on that road that day). I asked where he had come from, and he said he'd pulled off the freeway and crossed the bridge. I couldn't believe that there would be a bridge down there, but sure enough, down the road, the road turned to single track through the willows and then opened up to a narrow suspension bridge over a dam that feeds water into the plume.

Service entrance to the flume. Like standing on top of a boxed river.

Truckee's silvery rills ("Home Means Nevada," even if I might have been in California).

Top of steep descent down to river and suspension bridge.

Taking another picture while wondering if I actually should go down there.

But it was amazingly worth it.

Quiet water waiting to enter the flume.

Single-track leading to the suspension bridge.

Another road began at the far edge of the suspension bridge, it lead back a ways and on my way along it I ran into Danny, an ultimate player, out with some friends. Apparently you can pull off the freeway and park to come down to the river here or rock climb. They pointed out a side trail that lead down to a nice little beach across the river from beautiful granite cliffs dropping straight into the water.

On the suspension bridge.

Another view.

Sandbar beach where I hung out.

Cliffs across the river.

Message?

End of my line, but not the tracks.

Water heading back to Reno, where I must turn now.

Looking down from the suspension bridge.

I continued up to the railroad and even rode along it a little while. The road crossed the tracks and climbed up the freeway, but that was the end of the line for me. I turned back. The very steep downhill was a push for me on the way back, but from there is was mainly a leisurely coast all the way back down to Verdi, where I stopped for a burger and beer, then pedaled back to Reno among the afternoon cyclists.

It is amazing to me, having driven on I-80 west from Reno so many times, to find to this little secluded and amazingly scenic ride right across the river from the freeway.

The Week in Pictures

2011-03-12T17:51:00.000-08:00

So far, I've only taken pictures on two of my commuting days for the month. I hope you enjoy!

March 7. Stormy day looking north from Windy Hill toward downtown.

March 7. Bird riding the wind at the top of Windy Hill with Rattlesnake Mountain at the bottom of the frame.

March 7. Ready to leave the university and head home.

March 7. Sunset as I was climbing up Frost Street toward our little house.

March 11. The Surly all packed up on Friday morning. I drove to Renee's office to leave her the car (she had had the work car the night before) and rode to my office from there.

March 11. The country! Looking south on Lakeside.

Bike Work Challenge

2011-03-10T17:44:00.000-08:00

I have a commute again, as of the beginning of February, when we moved the whole family out to South Lakeside. Two years ago, when we were living at the ranch, I did a Ranch Work Bike Challenge: To make more ranch work trips by bicycle than by gasoline-powered machine—4-wheelers, and various ranch trucks and tractors. (Click on the label “ranch work bike challenge” if you want to check it out.) A couple of days ago on the top of Windy Hill I stopped for a moment and remembered the Ranch Work Bike Challenge and thought I should do it again.

Different place, same story. The late winter weather has been tricky. There are also days when Renee and I meet after work for happy hour or dinner and then come home together, which I’m not trading for anything. And the general randomness of life. I would have biked today, but on Tuesday I noticed that my back wheel had gotten very out of line and so yesterday I went to have Johnny at the Reno Bike Project fix it up. Which was beautiful, and I left and it was a great ride past the Fourth Street tweakers, past Virginia Lake, and down Lakeside. Then, past McCarran, I stopped at Lakeside Market for supplies. I went in, bought some Dead Guy, came out, and realized that I had left my pannier at the Bike Project, six miles back downtown. Haha, dumb Dan. So I went back in, asked for plastic bags, and rode my beer over Windy Hill home the old-fashioned way—slung over my handlebars. Renee went to Sacramento in her company’s vehicle early this morning, so I had the Honda to myself and was able to swing by, see Johnny, and pick up my errant pannier. It worked out pretty well though because after a beautiful morning the wind is gusting like crazy up here on the hill and rocking our cozy little tree house.

March Tally

3/1 + 2 (0)

3/2 – 2

3/3 + 1 / – 1 (0)

3/4 off

3/5 off

3/6 off

3/7 + 2 (0)

3/8 + 1 / – 1 (0)

3/9 – 1 / + 1 (0)

3/10 – 2

+ / – EVEN

As an added incentive, I’m also making it a goal to take at least one picture each day of some aspect of my commute (the number in parenthesis, I'm not doing too well). I always have a really hard time taking pictures while commuting, so this might be even harder than writing my bike ~

A New Commute

2011-03-07T20:19:00.000-08:00

View north from the top of Windy Hill, the university is just beyond downtown on the far left

I’m breaking into the new year with a brand new bike commute. Renee and I have moved from the university’s shadow to among the landed gentry on South Lakeside. It is awesome, we love having some space for Bodie, planting, we love our new tiny apartment where we can’t accumulate any crap, and I love having a real bike ride on my way to work! The beginning section is one of the more popular sport rides in the area: Huffaker Ranch-Lakeside windy hill, on the weekends it is crowded with the lycra-clad. Then the long straight stretch of Lakeside, Virginia Lake, Virginia Street, downtown and up to the university. Eight miles each way, about 35-45 minutes down. A nice market right before Windy Hill where I can stop for some Rogue Dead Guys on the way home. It adds a layer of complexity, but makes me much more happy than my coast down the hill from the university neighborhood.

To celebrate, I’m going to try to start blogging again, but am not going to limit myself only to biking, but am going to expand to writing about my life: Bodie, Coco, Dusty; living in Reno; editing and books; and whatever else I feel like writing about.

View south from the top of Windy Hill on my first day's commute to work.

Around Peavine Mountain

2010-09-07T18:08:00.000-07:00

Surly longing to get out of the pen for a real ride

On Labor Day I did something that I have wanted to do for a long time, since I rode out to Dog Valley for an one-night bike tour a few years ago. It occurred to me then that it would be cool to track through the 4-wheeler roads between Dog Valley and Highway 395 north of Reno, thus completing an entire circuit of Peavine Mountain northwest of Reno.

That remained on my (very long) list of things to do until, with a day off of work and Renee going hiking alone in Mt. Rose Wilderness, I decided to make a loop of Peavine.

I decided instead of going through Dog Valley first, I would go the loop the other way around, up Old Virginia Street along Highway 395 to Bordertown, then south along Long Valley Road into the maze of hills and four-wheeler roads between there and Dog Valley. My rationale was that if I had to backtrack, it would be better to be on the north side than having to make the steep climb out of Dog Valley after already having made the steep climb in.

Evans Canyon single track just before flat tire at beginning of the day

I got started at about 9:45. I went underneath McCarran Street through the Rancho San Rafael culvert and then climbed past the Basque Monument and dropped back into Evans Canyon above the Hikers Only nature trail. The single-track in the canyon is very rocky and the last time I rode there I got a flat, so I should have known, but not more than a 1/2 mile up the canyon my tire was flat.

Being a busy Sunday morning, quite a few bikers, hikers, joggers and dog walkers went past. Without fail they asked if I needed help. There was even a man walking using a golf club as a walking stick (or cane, I suppose). He asked if I had sent people for a spare tube. I told him I was waiting for my glue to dry.

From the top of the single track I climbed to the street, but as happens the street ended in a cul de sac with the Bonanza Casino and N. Virginia Street a long portage through a gully and sticker weed–crusted side hill. Still, better than backtracking so I portaged across to the parking lot of what appeared to be a vacant store-all. As I crossed, there was the loud sound of auto repair occurring in a single wide at the edge of the Mini Storage. I had an image of a gun-toter chasing me off private property as I rode by the guy leaning under his hood.

At the top of the hill on Old Virginia Street I stopped at the 7/11 for a donut and chocolate milk. While I was paying my bill, who should appear in the convenience store but the man who'd been fixing his car down the hill. I went outside to eat and wondered if fate had conspired for me and that man's paths to cross again and again.

Car of destiny, running for now.

From the 7/11, Old Virginia Street is a mostly quiet rolling lane along trailer parks and abandoned subdivision plots. It was very pleasant riding, not too hot, not too cold, not much traffic and generally perfect. Beyond the Red Rock exit on 395 Old Virginia Street turns to gravel, but nice wide gravel, with a steep stretch that crosses over to Cold Springs.

Across another flat valley toward Bordertown I tried unsuccessfully to short cut through the houses south of 395. There is a supposedly a way, but I couldn't find it and spent another 10 minutes riding uselessly around. I asked a motorist, but couldn't understand what he said between his cigarette drags and didn't want to pursue, so I just went by the Bordertown Casino.

Beyond the casino and freeway on-ramp, the road turns sharply south and becomes Long Valley Road. I'd been a little ways on this road in the Honda before. It is a wide valley between the northwestern slopes of Peavine to the east and the more Sierra-ey mountains to the west (the Bald Mountains on the Internet). It is a sweet valley, with real-looking ranches instead of subdivisions. The road was gravel, then inexplicably had been oiled, but the oiled section was rougher and more washboarded than the gravel section. Finally, near the head of the canyon, another road joined in and there was a single tall pine tree off the road I used for shade for a snack. I left the Surly along the road and sure enough, a pickup truck came along, stopped and started looking for the "missing biker" I stood up out of the weeds (they probably thought I was taking a nature call) and waved at them and they waved back and kept on keeping on.

From there, the road started climbing steeper and I entered national forest About halfway up a very rocky and sunny hill I started to cramp up and had to walk for a while. At a Y there was a bit of shade and stopped and took pictures and drank water. So far so good. The road, now clearly for 4-wheelers, seemed to be in pretty good shape. I took the left fork and kept going.

Around the bend, things changed. The granite soil resembled great beach sand, and well turned over by passing motorcycles, ATVs, and Jeeps. But I only had to push a few times, for short periods. This section was only 1.5 miles, but seemed a lot longer than that! The route climbed through some cool rock gardens. I stopped and climbed up the hill and self-posed for a picture:

Very meditative

The funny thing about this rock was that, once I had scrambled on top of it, it felt completely hollow inside, with only a thin outer shell that I might fall through at any time. I think it was just a trick of acoustics—or maybe it really was hollow, either way it spooked me a bit and I got down pretty much as fast as I could.

A couple more bends up the road and I hit a crossroads. Three roads lead from the crossroads, one down into the ravine, one straight ahead along the contour, and a steep one straight up the hill to the west. My best guess was that my turn was up the hill to the left, but I wanted to resist, so I probed first the downhill road. Around the corner a large SUV was parked and I could hear a family playing somewhere in the ravine below me, although I didn't see anyone. Then I rode back and up the steep hill a little ways, but then it went from really steep to insanely steep and I decided it shouldn't be the right one. So I stopped to scout. I walked across the ridge and looked down onto the middle option road, it seemed to be continuing straight south, so I decided that "needed" to be the route. Back again down the hill and through the sand and more rock gardens until I ended at a large campsite in a ravine. Oops, but a sweet campsite and stream.

I passed some motorcyclists on the way back. They told me that the road that went up the steep hill was the road I was looking for and so I went back and started climbing. It was very steep, but from the top I could see the peaks above Dog Valley.

The road continued winding up and down through the pine woodland when I came across a fence lined with signs that said: No Trespassing. Area under Video Surveillance: ARMED RESPONSE. I was quite curious what the armed response would be and who lived on this 4-wheeler track more or less in the middle of nowhere, but not quite curious enough to provoke the dreaded armed response. In fact, even stopping and reading the signs seemed creepy after a few moments and as I rode away I had that sensation that someone was watching me and kept looking back to make sure that some ATV ninja wasn't tracking me for showing just a little bit too much interest in their pot plantation or meth factory.

Another steep and rocky downhill and I came out of the forest and into Dog Valley. Coming from the other side, Dog Valley seems quite large, but coming from the north end through the pine trees it actually seems small, just a little pocket of grass in the sandy piney hills. About halfway across the valley I came across two small children, a teenager, and a large dog standing alongside the road, no car or adults to be seen. I went by them and the dog started chasing me barking. I stopped in my tracks (I've been bitten before trying to keep riding and ignore the dog) and yelled at the dog to go home, while the teenager called, "C'mon here Rodeo!" and the dog retreated, glancing back now and again as they wandered back the way they had come to who knows where.

Lunch spot in a bit of shade in Dog Valley

Dog Valley grass—Bodie would've loved it!

I stopped in the shade of a single roadside pine tree and ate my lunch: a bagel sandwich with roast beef, turkey, provolone and swiss cheese and plenty of mustard. Absolutely delicious by then and now I was eager to lighten my load before the last steep climb out of Dog Valley and then the rocky downhill to Verdi.

After "lunch" (it was really probably 3:30 or 4:00 by this time), I saddled back up and made my slowly up the glaring white rocky climb out of Dog Valley. I passed a couple of 4x4s, but they slowed down and gave me plenty of room and soon enough I was in the pine trees at the top of the saddle looking back at Dog Valley. I turned on the cell phone and called Renee, who was still hiking in Mt. Rose Wilderness, so we officially missed the rib cookoff until next year.

Resting at the saddle overlooking Dog Valley

From here the downhill into Verdi loomed. It starts steep and stays steep and way too rocky for any but a little coasting. I stood to cushion my back wheel and ass against jarring and tried to relax my aching hands as much as I could, but it was a bit of a double bind. If I relaxed my hands on the brakes the bike jumped so much on rocks that I (and the Surly) took a beating, and if I stayed tight on the brakes my hands ached and cramped like crazy.

Steep and pretty long, but soon enough passed and then rejoined the ranks of cyclists between Verdi and Reno. The Surly freshly coated in dust and we luxuriated in nice smooth asphalt all the way back in to Reno.

What a great day ride from Reno.

Google map of day ride created after a couple of beers at home

Scalleycat

2010-03-30T21:49:00.000-07:00

I am so excited to take part in the Scalleycat this weekend here in Reno. I've heard about it so much, but have always been out of town for it, so I'm really excited. I will post photos and video hopefully of our 24 hr. adventure ~

On Daily Travel as Communication

2010-03-29T22:15:00.000-07:00

The other day riding to work I thought about how travel is communication. When we travel we must need be in contact with other travelers. The blinker signals to others that we are turning one direction or another. There are myriad other signals we give and receive, many of them nearly subconscious and laced with primary meaning. We broadcast ourselves as we move through the world, and shouldn't we be careful what we say?

The traffic law tries to impose an order to this chaos, but what it really does is add a layer of unaccountability. People use or flout laws to avoid this essential communication act, which of course they can never really escape. We abide by laws because (hopefully) they are meaningful guideposts to ethical life, and as such they should contribute to our ability to express ourselves in public. However, the state of disassociation into which culture has fallen means that many do not understand that the basic communication of travel must be respected. In this case laws become a crutch, a fall back, beyond which people believe that their travel "utterances" do not matter.

They do matter though. Why do we want to live in a world in which we and others broadcast the worst possible sides of our natures? Why not a world in which we see and think about the other's meanings, and then act not based on a rule, but on a commonsense appreciation for the golden rule: Do to others what you'd have them do to you.

Elephant Mountain Ride

2009-06-11T23:23:00.001-07:00

Ranch Work Bike Challenge Update

2009-06-10T19:12:00.000-07:00

I'm now in the third month of the Ranch Work Bike Challenge! If I can make three months I can make anything, although this month promises to be the most challenging so far. The grass, hay and weeds in the fields are so high now that it's like biking through a jungle (especially for poor Coco, she can hardly see a thing). What was unfamiliar and novel for the first months is now pretty old hat, so there is a good bit of plain old ennui as well. There is the persistent possibility of rattlesnake encounters now and the pups know our various routes so well they've taken to not following along too well, and Bodie as she gets bigger is showing more independence as well. A coyote has appeared hunting the gophers in the East Side and while it hasn't bothered the pups, it did try to herd my brother's Chihuahuas away from the pack one day. The weather has been very strange as well, many wet thunderstorms, I think we've probably had more precipitation at the end of May early June than the rest of the year combined. So these all add up to making it hard to get out on the bike, but I've been making the push. Last week I had a sweet post-irrigation ride down the dry bed of Leonard Creek below the fields, which pictures I'll post soon!

Blog note: I've been on a little bit of a hiatus, recharging my energies so to speak. I've decided that I'm not going to regularly publish this anymore as it may be time to rethink?

High Tide at Matheson Hammock

2009-05-21T15:00:00.000-07:00

Here is a short video from a ride Coco, Renee & I took from Miami Beach to Matheson Hammock State Park a bit south of Miami. We are missing barbecues and the beach a bit. It sure is dry here in Nevada and nice to see some water!

The Joys of Bike Commuting

2009-05-19T15:00:00.000-07:00

Pine Forest from the first Chicken Creek crossing.

Last Saturday the pups and I had our best bike irrigating trip yet, riding up to Chicken Creek Basin and Leonard Creek Meadow, two large meadows that we irrigate with mountain creek water. It is the first time I've been on this route on a bicycle and probably the first time anyone ever has. The day was beautiful, I never saw a soul all day long and I got to pass through a landscape I've known all of my life through the lens of a bicycle, which is in some ways like seeing it for the first time.

Dusty contemplating Upper Ranch.

Climbing out of Lower Leonard Creek.

First stop was at Upper Ranch, my family's first homestead on Leonard Creek. I always love to stop here, the old foundation, Lombardi poplars and old well the signs of my own history, a sort of museum to the connection we have to this mountain. Beyond Upper Ranch the road leaves Leonard Creek and crosses burned over Snow Creek Flat, Snake Hill, scars still more or less visible from the fire that broke out three years ago. Riding through this brought back memories of those terrible days firefighting, but the bright lupine flowers and tall grass reminders of resilience and rebirth.

Relaxing at the Chicken Creek cabin.

Beyond that, the first good views of the Pine Forest massif and Leonard Creek Meadow, a broad valley at the foot of the highest mountains. The road, challenging the whole time, turned to sand I made slow progress along the edge of the meadow and climbing to the cabins, corral and meadow at Chicken Creek. This has always been a special place for me and my family, a place full of good memories and always a pleasure to visit. Behind the cabins I found a comfortable rock and had my lunch: pita and hummus, trail mix and dried cranberries, washed down with the last of my Emergen-C. Then I got to "work" moving the irrigation dams along the small ditch that lines the meadow. Then I turned back to Leonard Creek Meadow.

Coco resting at Leonard Creek crossing.

I left my bike at the first Leonard Creek crossing and hiked up packing my shovel to the northern edge of the meadow, where another small ditch runs along the irrigatable portion of the north meadow. Walking, I considered what it meant to "own" this land, how much can we ever own anything, and yet it is so instilled in my memories and consciousness that perhaps it owns me and not the other way around.

The Surly at Leonard Creek crossing.

Looking south from the north end of Leonard Creek Meadow.

After changing that water, I wandered across the middle of the meadow while the dogs ran in giant circles around, just as excited as me, although for different reasons I suppose. But in my mind they acted like they had come home too, and I made excited plans to move my camp up to the meadow, to devote my entire summer to exploring among the peaks above me and irrigate this meadow, the stop every day and contemplate the mountains and sky all around.

Coco running behind while I coast down.

Then, the afternoon getting late, it was time for the long coast back to the ranch. The whole ride up had been climbing, which meant the entire ride back was down. Not wanting to leave Coco behind, I gently coasted, soaking in the afternoon light and sun, the vast vista of the desert floor, the Jacksons and faraway mountains ringing the whole Black Rock. I vowed that I wouldn't pedal the whole ride home, and mostly I did it. Back at Snow Creek Flat I decided to try off-roading to cut across and save the dogs some running. Despite some spiny brush I don't really recognize on the burn, it was great fun to just run the course of the contour instead of following those manmade lines we call roads. Then coasting, more coasting. We got back to the ranch just at dusk, arriving at the drift fence gate just as my mother drove over top the hill toward the ranch, coming looking for me.

Dusty running.

Still smiling at the end of the day.

The Perils of Bike Commuting

2009-05-19T11:17:00.000-07:00

May Is Bike to Work Month

2009-05-18T14:13:00.000-07:00

It's sad to say I didn't know this until reading Bike Bits, the Adventure Cycling Association's e-newsletter, but luckily I have been biking to work in May, so here are a few more pictures from my bicycle commutes around the ranch.

The rig ready to go.

The long loop.

Bodie trying to eat my handlebar.

Renee's Surly shining in the sun.

Bike irrigators.

Raising the standard over Leonard Creek: A sweet old handlebar and fork we found in the brush.

Coco in stride with a cat? Our new buddy Orange Crush.

Boot and tire, they carry me through my day.

The wheels that keep me turning.

The rig at rest.

A Picture of a Goat Is Worth a Thousand Words

2009-05-07T15:00:00.000-07:00

Bodie chewing on a tree.

Bodie wandering into the frame.

A Bicyclist on Highway 140

2009-05-06T07:52:00.000-07:00

Highway 140 looking west, really really lonely.

Yesterday Renee and I went into Winnemucca, 90 miles away, to send off our checks for the Hats, Hops and Hucks ultimate tournament in Santa Cruz in July. I've been three times and can't wait to go again, it is one of the funnest weekends imaginable. Anyway, on our way into town I saw something strange, as we neared, I recognized the silhouette, but almost couldn't believe it, but when we passed I saw that it was indeed a bicyclist, towing a trailer. It's probably not the first bicyclist on Highway 140, but is definitely the first I've seen.

Highway 140, or the Winnemucca to the Sea Highway, was built by the CCC in the 1930s. It runs from Highway 95 west to Denio, across the Sheldon Refuge into Oregon near Dougherty Slide, through Adel to Lakeview, across the Klamath Falls and then to the coast at Coos Bay. The section of the highway near the ranch (the ranch is 25 miles off the highway) is pretty extremely lonely, and it only gets more empty as you cross the Oregon border. I haven't been too excited about riding on it as it's quite narrow and has no shoulder, but traffic is also light (although it is a truck route). Anway, kudos to you bicyclist, you make me want to get out there all the more. On our way back we saw him again, resting and smoking alongside the road. I wanted to stop, but we'd already shot by and he seemed so peaceful sitting alongside the road, looking north toward Desolation Peak, that we decided not to bother him, although I was very curious about his trip. But it will have to remain a question mark. Hopefully it will be the start of many bicyclists, and we'll get some visitors from our warmshowers.org membership. So exciting!

Greasewoods along the highway.

Tired and Wanting the Open Road

2009-04-30T18:10:00.000-07:00

I am tired today. I spent the day cleaning willows and debris from a ditch in the Meadow and it wore me out. I was planning on going for a bike ride this afternoon—well a bike ride other than going to the fields—but ended up cutting and ripping dead and living willows to thin them and let the irrigating water flow better. Oh well, c'est la vie, I suppose. I'm a bit down because my trips don't seem to be materializing. And in all fairness it's partly my fault, our rig is in disrepair since I haven't put the Doggy Ride back together again, but the weather hasn't been cooperating either, windy and (sort of) wet. The forecast for this weekend calls for rain every day. I hope it comes, but also want to get into the mountains on my bicycle!

But the good news is that this is the last day of the Ranch Work Bike Challenge for April and I will end up at least +14 on my bike trips to gas trips.

Anyway, I thought I would post some fun pictures from my winter ride to the ranch to tide me over until we hit the road again.

Never can get enough "poop" painted on rocks.

Grub, who invited me in to warm up, with Coco on the couch.

My shadow riding across Sand Pass by moonlight.

Coco enjoying the view as we fly along the Smoke Creek Desert.

The rig with the Granite Mountains in fog.

Cold camp morning on the Black Rock.

Old Razorback Mountain in fog.

Train passing on way to Sulfur.

Surly frosted up at camp at Jackson Mts. hot spring.

Last sunset over the rig.

Biking Bodie the Goat, Videos

2009-04-28T15:00:00.000-07:00

There really isn't much cuter than a kid goat. Here are a couple of videos from the Ranch Work Bike Challenge of the cutest of all, Bodie the Biking Goat.

Henry Miller on a Bicycle

2009-04-23T15:00:00.000-07:00

Note: This post originally opened with a photo from Peter Gowland of Henry Miller on a bicycle. After contacting Peter about the photo, I took it down (at least until May, and then we'll see) and he was very nice, but since the picture is currently in a gallery show, posting it was a no-no, so please check out the picture (as well as the other sweet Henry Miller pictures) at www.petergowland.com/glamour8c.html, it is the opening picture.

I've been flipping through Black Spring on the john lately ("No harm, I say, can ever be done a great book by taking it with you to the toilet. Only the little books suffer thereby"). I've read it before, so this time I'm just opening it at random. This morning I found this section, titled "A Saturday Afternoon," in which he describes a bike ride along the Seine (and the joys of urinals and reading on toilets, which the quote above comes from).

This doesn't really have a point, but I want to share this passage:

The approach to the bridge is paved with cobblestones. I ride so slowly that each cobble sends a separate and distinct message to my spinal column and up through the vertebrae to that crazy cage in which the medulla oblongata flashes its semaphores. And I cross the bridge at Sèvres . . . I yell, like that maniac St. Paul—'Oh death, where is thy sting?' In back of me Sèvres, before me Boulogne, but this that passes under me, this Seine started up somewhere in my myriad simultaneous trickles, this still jet rushing on from out of a million billion roots, this still mirror bearing the clouds along and stifling the past, rushing on and on and on while between the mirror and the clouds moving transversally I, a complete corporate entity, a universe bringing countless centuries to a conclusion, I and this that passes beneath me and that floats above me and all that surges through me, I and this, I and that joined up in one continuous movement, this Seine and every Seine that is spanned by a bridge is the miracle of a man crossing it on a bicycle.

Sweetness ~

A Route

2009-04-21T15:00:00.000-07:00

Well, this week's bike trip turned into a car ultimate/Reno supply trip, but I have a powerful hunger to be on my bike for more than ranch work runs. The mountains are still pretty snowy, but I'm thinking of a beautiful route across the Black Rock Range and through Rock Springs Basin to Dufurrena Ponds, back along Highway 140 to Knott Creek Road and back to the ranch. My rough map says 100 miles, but it would definitely be longer than that. I have been on all of this route, but much of it on horseback when I was a child. I don't even know if some of the roads exist anymore (although it's hard to get rid of a road out in the desert, especially when on a bike). There will definitely be some snowdrifts to deal with on the Black Rock Range. From leaving the main road all the way over to Duferrena Ponds will be on very rough roads and challenging terrain. I'm thinking one day to the top of the Black Rock Range and camp at Horseshoe Bend for at least one night, maybe two and then I could fix fence and hike on the off day, then at least one more day to Dufurrena Ponds, possibly two, and the whole ride home (all on highway or good county road) for the last day.

I'm not sure if this is a route for the Doggy Ride, although will definitely need it for the Highway 140 section. For a spring tune-up this might be a bit aggressive, but the good thing is that once I'm on my bike I can turn my wheels any direction!

Ranch Work Bike Challenge Update

2009-04-16T15:00:00.000-07:00

April is half way gone and today it really feels like spring after a return to freezing temperatures and snow yesterday. It is amazing how each day is totally different this time of year, it is hard to prepare. I am at the halfway point of the Ranch Work Bike Challenge for April!

I am at +5 on my bike trips to gas trips, and so far have used my bike for half of all my trips counting walking and horseback trips. The Challenge has also made me smarter about using my gas trips. The only time I have used the 4-wheeler to go to the fields recently was when I changed checks and had to carry the irrigating canvases a long distance (one from the ranch itself and two from the bottom to the top of the East Side) and otherwise have mainly used for gas for trips requiring the carrying of a large load. I have gotten a lot better though about biking cargo, even making a couple of trips with the propane gas burner, which is a bit terrifying as pressurized gas is never my favorite thing to deal with, and especially not with how much the B.O.B. bounces. But it went great, the weight held the trailer down and it was actually smoother than carrying the tank on the 4-wheeler. I got the ditches cleaned so that we are now irrigating the check below Grandpa's poplars, which is one of my favorite places on the ranch.

My body is feeling a little tired from the combination of different activities, it's not like the rhythm of regular biking. Yesterday Bodie fell in the ditch and got soaked on the coldest day lately. She was shivering at first, but by the time we had crossed the Big Creek she had gotten herself warm again.

Irrigating is repetition and movement at the same time. I repeat the same motions, the changing of the canvases, over and over, but also move across the field. This becomes built into the feeling of the mountains and sky at all times of day. In that rhythm one begins to become the part of the place. Using a machine, this is all cut up by noise and fumes, but breathing along on the bicycle bumping through cow tracks and avoiding greasewood spines and branches, I feel it.

On a more practical note, when I went to Winnemucca last week I invested in two Specialized slime tubes at Bikes and More and since then I haven't had a flat on my ranch bike (knock on wood). But I still haven't gotten around to fixing my flats on the Surly—bad Dan—although I have decided I am going to switch my Surly tires from the 700X32 Ritchey Speed Maxes I am using now to an old set of 700X35 ones. I'm hoping the change will give the Surly a bit more traction in the sand. I am also thinking of investing in a set of Specialized Armadillo tires for Surly ranch life. These are the tires that Chuck at Bikes and More recommended to me and I trust him to understand conditions out here in the sticks (literally, greasewood spines) better than anyone.

Wish me luck, the weather is supposed to be completely clear next week and it's definitely time for a longer trip, so we may duck out of the ranch for a few days next week ~ I'm already thinking about routes toward the Refuge, or maybe up into Oregon ~

Bodie checking the rig (for anything to eat).

Changing the water at dusk.

Bodie alongside and in stride.

Windy Day Ride

2009-04-14T15:00:00.000-07:00

New York Peak in the wind.

Moving sky, solid earth.

The wind has been blowing pretty much every other day lately. April 3 was particularly windy, and finding my morning water change finished and nothing pressing until the late afternoon, I decided it would be a perfect day for a ride toward the mountain. The wind had a cold bite, but by the time I made it to the water gauge above the ranch I was overdressed (oh well, I needed to pack a load). Above the water gauge, the hills narrow on the creek and we ran into what seems a particularly windy day obstacle, the entire road buried in a giant snowbank of tumbleweeds. There was a single-track trail through it, but the tiny Russian thistle stickers are hard on the puppies feet and we ended up detouring up the hill and around this giant pile of nastiness. A reminder that even on the most beautiful day, life here isn't easy, or set up for a pleasant bike ride. But that is exactly what we had past that first obstacle. Down along the canyon of Leonard Creek the wind couldn't get to us as much and "the livin' was easy." We stopped and snacked at Upper Ranch, the site of my family's first homestead in the area (they moved from there to the present ranch in 1923). From there we climbed up to the junction of Leonard and Snow creeks, across the base of New York Peak back toward the ranch. Up there the wind picked up, but mainly at my side and back, and across that plain it is just a long coast back to the ranch. The whole ride was about 12.5 miles and took 3 hours, with many picture stops and a long break at Upper Ranch when the wind wasn't blowing too hard and a mini snow storm in the sunlight was a wonder. The only excitement of the ride home was an angry mother cow, not used to bicycles and looking for a dog to eat, but we made it by her without much ado, and then more coasting all the way back to the ranch. I coasted a little fast and Coco ended up far enough behind that I had to walk back up the road from the gate above the ranch looking for her, I think she must have found a treat to chew on because she wasn't in much of a hurry ~ Here are some pictures from the day.

Sagebrush and sky.

Wind forms toward Snow Creek Flat.

Pups loving the water in Leonard Creek at Upper Ranch.

Coco wind-blown.

Cartoon alligator cloud above Leonard Creek.

Dusty loves biking!

Prime real estate.

Ranch Work Bike Challenge

2009-04-09T15:00:00.000-07:00

My trusty steed loaded up in the stock trailer.

I now have not one, but two flat tires on the Surly—this is a hard world for bikes. But while one falls another rises, after an impromptu trip to Winnemucca I've gotten my ranch bike (my old Cannondale M-400 mountain bike) into fighting trim. It still only has a rear derailleur and shifter, but I don't have much call to shift through the front chainring on my daily commute across the fields. So now with two bikes I can call upon, I don't have any more excuses.

So the Ranch Work Bike Challenge is to make at least half of all my ranch trips by bicycle for the month. The month started out badly with a giant windstorm and the ranch bike not running.

Here is the breakdown so far:

Total trips: 19
Bike: 7
Machine: 12
Horse: 0

Not so good, but the past few days are getting much better, I've only ridden the machine once in the past three days, with 4 bike trips. I also want to set a mileage goal, but since I don't have an odometer on the ranch bike, I don't think that will be possible. I am going to put a box on the side of my blog so I can keep track of my trips. I think I can do this!

Biking Bodie the Goat

2009-04-07T08:56:00.000-07:00

Bodie sampling the world while cleaning ditches.

Bodie exploring the Doggy Ride.

Bodie is now an official biker, or rather, one who runs along with bikes. So far we've only done the irrigating route twice, which is a mile or so loop. She is fine with the running, keeps up fine, even passing me when I was going about 11 mph. I haven't even seen her top speed yet! Her only problem is that she likes to run in front of the tires. It is something I've noticed even when we are walking together, that it is sort of a game for her to try to slow me down and make me change my route. We've kept the biking pretty slow, and I haven't run her over yet, although I have nudged her on the flanks with my tires a couple of times. She has a great time though, and it makes me happy to know that she can join our biking family. I'm excited to see what she'll be able to do when she gets a bit older. She is growing like crazy, and full of energy. We can't keep her off of anything in the house anymore including the kitchen table, counters, the toilet back, etc. etc. She's taken to sleeping on a little metal chair that is in our bathroom.

I've missed a few posts, but I made it all the way into March on my New Year's Resolution, so that is something like a record for me. The truth is that I haven't been very inspired, probably because I've ended up riding the 4-wheeler a heck of a lot more than my bike. But the inspiration is sort of back and I'm slowly getting on my bike more. We had a few days of nasty wind to start the month, so that made the 4-wheeler all the more tempting. The problem is that every time I go out to work I can either take my bike, which means fun, but effort, and more time, or I can take the easy out and ride the machine. The machine has been winning so far, but you can't keep me off my bike for very long. Today I've made one trip to the fields on my bike and one on the 4-wheeler and my next one will be via bike, and yesterday I rode my bike one for three to the fields. I'm planning on taking my bike for the next round as well, so maybe I'm over the hump.

I did have a great mountain ride one of the windy days, I haven't downloaded my pictures from it yet, but may have to post some. The surfaces are just so hard and there are so many stickery things, I don't know how we are going to make it through the summer when the goatsheads harden up. Well, some of these things are for future posts.

Bodie climbing the unlit stove--she hasn't tried this when it's lit!

Bike Irrigating

2009-03-19T15:00:00.000-07:00

We've been irrigating a lot lately, it's one of my favorite ranch jobs, like playing in the mud. However, we've sort of fallen into the little trap of doing it with the 4-wheeler. It is faster, but oh-so sucky. This being an unfortunate event, yesterday we did something about it. Finally set up the B.O.B., which has been languishing underneath the Doggy Ride on our covered front step and rigged up a system to carry shovels and boots (although some biking sandals may be key in the long run) and assorted knickknacks and set out for the fields bikestyle ~ here are some pics from our adventure.

The rig.

Irrigating Surlys, and Coco!

Renee checking out a hawk in the Meadow.

Dusty cooling off

Mañana

2009-03-10T22:50:00.000-07:00

We have a ride for tomorrow, part biking, part hiking. Here is the projected topo map. This is going to be sweet. No fossil fuels (well, other than our food, of course) for a day in the mountains and some ranch work to boot! We'll be closing the gate in the mouth of Snow Creek canyon, which will mean riding up past the Upper Ranch (the site of my family's first homestead in this area) and then leaving our bikes where Snow Creek meets Leonard Creek, then hiking farther up the canyon, up to the cliffs and back down to our bikes past Kapelli's Spring and the burned Snow Creek Flat. I'm so stoked to get out. Only one bike ride this week, and that with the mountain bike in the alkali.

Clayton Lake State Park, New Mexico

2009-03-05T15:00:00.000-08:00

Welcome home travelers, turtle we found in the road.

Across the panhandle of Oklahoma clouds thickened and it seemed we were ready for a plains thunderstorm, but as soon as we crossed the border into New Mexico at Clayton the sky cleared. We saw a mesa, a genuine mesa in the distance, and the beginnings of hills. Somehow the imaginary line frontier was a real line, and we were in the west again.

On our way into town for groceries.

We love the west!

Family portrait, with dinosaur tracks.

Relaxing in the rocks at our camp.

Sweet Journey

2009-03-03T18:14:00.000-08:00

This is a video from an ongoing journey I've been following, Riding the Spine, a group of riders tracing the continental divide from Alaska to the tip on South America dirtbag style with Xtracycles. You should be addicted to this, like I am. Check it out.

Approaching Fire

2009-02-26T15:00:00.000-08:00

Note: This post doesn't really have anything to do with biking, but during my my three rides of last week I revisited the tragic 2006 burn and it reminded me how terrible it was being on the fireline and seeing so much incompetence disguised as bravado. So I thought I would post this story that I wrote shortly after the fire that took place on the ranch in 2006.

This first paragraph is a little snippet of story that I wrote about a week before the big fire.

The citizens listened for helicopters all day. The horizon was gone gray and black, denser than any storm, roiling over the pine silhouettes at the edge of town. Exhausted yellow engine crews arrived in the midmorning and disappeared on the road into the desiccated muff. They tracked along the wildfire’s flanks, but its head reared and plunged along understory and crown. In the coal dark afternoon it announced itself with the click of a cricket horde, and through the shifting ash mist it appeared.

My account of the fire:

Fire last week. Started Monday afternoon on pyramid-shaped peak above the Snow Creek plain. It was seven thirty or eight when I heard. I was in Reno sitting in the backyard beating my new disc [I'd just been at Hats, Hops and Hucks in Santa Cruz!] and drinking a beer with Yac. Went in for the second round and the phone rang. Heard Snow Creek was burning and left immediately. Drove up I-80 along violent thunderstorms, as though heaven were caving in.

From the turn of Highway 140 I could see the glow of the fire behind Sentinel Peak and knew it was bad. The ranch was dark and quiet—Susan was just going to sleep but gave me details. Changed into Nomex and drove to Snow Creek Flat, already a burned plain; the fire was already through the tall brush and poplars at Kapelli’s and growing toward Snake Hill. From the seeding crews were otherworldly lights among a sea of glowing embers. I went by one crew after another, tentatively pushing toward the head of the fire, a blazing line along the ridge top. I found Glynn in his tank truck along the old car at the bottom of Snake Hill, the crews and dozer were pulling back for the night.
It was nearing dawn and unable to sleep I sat in the cab of Glynn’s pickup and watched the fire’s advance—it slowed, seemed to sleep with us and waited for the fresh morning breeze having used up all of the night.

By the time the dozer man was awake the fire had gotten more intense, but we still thought we could stop it at the top of Snake Hill. I followed along behind Will and Glynn with Leonard still asleep on the passenger seat. By the time we reached the top of the hill the flames had spread into a broad wall bearing down on the road. We left the dozer to dig itself in and retreated down to start backfiring along the thick underbrush of the draw, crews moved up dripping drip torches while we to guard against flare-ups. Will disappeared for a moment into the underbrush and we’d caught up with the dozer while the fire burned along the ridge toward Chicken Creek. We cut a line up the hillside until it got too steep and we had to pull back and watch the fire burn alongside out of our reach.

Fire burning toward Chicken Creek basin.

Nothing more to do at the fire’s head, Will and I took his truck up the hillside behind Kapelli’s with an engine following. On the black with fire burning all the way around us, we watched small planes and a great helicopter swarm the fire but do nothing to halt its movement toward Chicken Creek Basin. Along the saddle between Chicken and Snow creeks it had built a massive head and plunged toward the cabins. As it blew up into a mushroom cloud along the ridgeline we could only follow along its back edge and beat down flames licking toward upper Snow Creek. Finally too steep to continue, we nearly panicked when the truck wouldn’t turn around, visions of trapped in the fire’s advance only an engaged emergency brake, although that did get me out of driving for the remainder of the fire.
At the top of the mountain, surrounded by black and burning brush, watching the fire build its head of steam we were both in the middle and at the periphery, in a charcoaled outpost of ineffectual safety. At some point Leonard and Jennifer appeared on horseback on the far hillside, between us and the blowing up fire, but we reported to him that the fire was burning right toward him.

I couldn’t find my sunglasses when I left Reno and I had to borrow some from Will to wear through the burning smoke streams as we followed the flames generally north and west along the spine of the midslope. The earth black scorched and barely smoking minutes after the fire passed. Life melted away in wind-driven fire.

Flames as tall as a man on horseback, or taller, washing over sagebrush, flames ripping and leaving a black dust storm in their wake.

The roads by the second morning were dust swamps through black landscape. When Will and I came down the mountain from Kapelli’s word was we were relieved, pushed out, confused signals of idiots. We passed Mike on the way out, freshly arrived from Reno and bound to conquer his own fire. OK with me, I brought Renee’s Jeep back to the ranch and collapsed. The afternoon was lengthening by the time I drove the 4-wheeler back up the mountain. I passed Glynn on my way up, finally going for sleep. When I got back to the fireline the backfires were growing and Mike was talking to a crewboss from Eugene.

Revisited the burn this morning. It’s the same world, only now fire-blackened and has a new geography—maybe not the same at all.

Out of control fire abandoned.

Passed but never able to identify the exact place where the firefighters were burned over. I’d come down the mountain after being relieved and fell into a deep dreamless sleep, heavy dust-soaked afternoon sleep and then woke and wandered, pausing in the Seeding for a break and to find my headlamp. It seemed like the fire was over but for mopping up. At the line, now overrun with trucks and handcrews and all manner of stuff, lined yellow-helmeted warriors guarding their victory, society’s victory. Mike and Miguel tattered camp followers of this glistening army of Hotshots and crews from all over—but there was action, growing cascading flames from an idiotic backfire.

It was within minutes of arriving at the fireline, seeing the backfire burning out of control when a line of dust devils circled through the fireline, twisters of smoke and cinder stretching two hundred feet or more above the fire and sweeping across the road and through the yellow-shirted sentry line. I thought they were engulfed and a ripple of fire spread in a few seconds a hundred yards through the sagebrush on the east side of the road. At our place at the end of the line we watched and I thought the firefighters would have been burned then, but they hadn’t and they started to rush in. I asked the crew boss from Oregon if we should lead and I ran the hose while Mike drove and we were ordered to pull out, I thought it was because the fire was too dangerous, but Mike grumbled and we reluctantly drove wide around and got back to the fireline to hear on the radio that the firefighters were burned and that they would need to know how badly for the careflight attendants being called from Reno. We had an order to stand down and we retreated as though silenced and within minutes (not before nearly running me down as I pulled a drip torch out of their headlong flight) all of the firefighters had disappeared and Mike unable to stay calm disappeared with the radio walking down toward the now blackened road toward the scene of the action—the new helispot being made for the Careflight. And Miguel and I were alone with our truck and the now deserted trucks of some hotshot crew. One had its radio turned on and we opened the door and listened to the approaching helicopter while the fire burned uncontrolled across the flat, jumped Leonard Creek and continued headlong up the far hillsides toward Ice Cream Mountain—across the world. It was as though we’d reached an end, a place with no exit. Miguel and I talked a lot about the ranch then, and my dad. Maybe mainly Miguel talked about how good the ranch could be, how much he’d admired my father, how his mother had died at nearly the same time as my father (I was ashamed I hadn’t known this). It took an hour or more for the helicopter to arrive. Finally, as the sun was starting to lift from the desert floor and climb the Jacksons, we heard its rotors and watched it trace a line along Leonard Creek above the fire’s long smoke column and then over the same rise that Mike had gone along so long ago. I had no desire to see the scene of the action so I sent Miguel with the truck to fetch Mike and drove the 4-wheeler down Snake Hill and around to the Leonard Creek crossing to see how far the fire had gone. It was scary and looming and I drove with one eye on it behind me, especially down Snake Hill where it still hadn’t completely burned around to meet its old tracks, the place where we had begun the morning, a flanky hillside of sagebrush doomed to burn, when the only question. From the bottom it seemed the fire had already nearly reached the road crossing. Twenty or so cattle on the ridge grazed away from it and here being something I could latch on to I drove the 4-wheeler home and roused my mother and Leonard.
Glynn was still asleep and I told my mother to saddle a horse with Leonard and she turned her face down in an ugly and conspiratorial whisper and told me she didn’t want to. I left and she awoke Glynn anyway. It was nearly dark by the time we got back and all the firefighters were leaving. It was as though fucked we were now left alone. The fire was a bright line all across the northeastern horizon. It was completely dark by the time we reached the burned branding corral and there was nothing to stop the fire all the way down Leonard Creek until it reached the ranch. We raced back in the dark, I drove the Big Bear down the canyon so that Leonard and Mommy would have light. We went through Upper Ranch in complete darkness. I was sure it would be burned when I returned.
At the ranch there was nothing to do while a stream of neighbors passed through to offer advice. I drove back up to the fire, it was still a line across the horizon at 2:00 A.M.
I went home and slept a couple of hours and drove back up. Somehow the southern fingers of the backfire that had jumped the road had mostly burned themselves out between two and six-thirty, it was only smoking in one dead end draw toward Ice Cream Mountain and I left that and drove toward Chicken Creek.
The fire was gently picking itself along the Leonard Creek Meadow road and I followed it putting it out while the main body of the rejuvenated fire corps very snalepaced the rock-bound finger above Tepee Creek. By the time anyone else arrived at the main body of the fire it had picked itself up and was running along the ridge toward Chicken Creek basin.
Glynn and Will were the first to arrive. I left them at the big hole in the road and went toward Chicken Creek on the Big Bear. The fire had already crested the ridge and in a long line above the gully bound road and I rode back through feeling it close on my back, certainly not stopping although it wasn’t as close as it seemed. It was too late to build a line there and the dozer started cutting line. Once again nothing was between the fire and the cabins and branding corral in Chicken Creek basin. Before we’d even really started it blew up and ran straight uphill across the saddle to Chicken Creek basin and devoured the big hillside above Chicken Creek while we followed its flank spraying down hot spots.
I rode with Will again and we passed Glynn, Miguel, and Suzanne (she’d arrived late the night before) when their fire hose broke and went across the meadows between Chicken Creek and Leonard Creek and up to the massive flank of Pine Forest. The fire was already in the mahoganies at the mountaintop. If it crossed and the high mountain was dry enough to burn there was nothing to stop it from burning the entire high wilderness. We stopped and contemplated the steep hillside the dozer had crossed. A long portion of unburned sagebrush lay between us and the line and while we thought we could get the pickup up the hill, there was no good way down. Still, if the fire jumped the line there it could go all the way down to Leonard Creek meadow and so we jumped boulder and dug through the loose sand thrown up in the dozer’s wake as far as we could and stopped to make our stand.
The fire burned across the hillside below us and flames licked underneath the pickup’s chassis while we sprayed down the sagebrush with water and foam. The wind picked up and a dustdevil whipped across the hillside above us, but didn’t change and blow the fire into our faces and suddenly, it’s light fuel gone it burned itself down and, sweating and still pumping we backed the pickup off the hill and went back to Leonard Creek to refill.

Making stand on the saddle between Chicken Creek and Leonard Creek Meadow.

We borrowed MREs from the division superintendent’s pickup (he had boxes of them and cases of Gatorade, obeying the firefighter’s first dictum: hydrate) and ate on the grass and watched the bombers drop heavy continuous red lines of retardant across the mahogany-crowned ridge, while the dozer cut a steep line along the mountain’s base, dislodging giant boulders and sending them rolling down the slope. A group of Hot Shots (dip shits is what they should be called) passed, swagger and disdain unabated after yesterday’s debacle. I wanted to punch them in the mouth.
They made the last line along the steep drop of Leonard Creek. By the late afternoon it didn’t seem the fire had any energy left and we parked with the dozer and contract crews and bullshitted nonstop and watched as the big bomber’s scout plane lined itself up for a steep drop, and then as it wheeled itself around and, right overtop our heads sprayed retardant across the hillside, the wind picked it up into a bloody red cloud and it drifted slowly while I videoed its progress and then shut down my camera as the edge of the load splattered my face and camera and left the trucks, dozer, and everyone encrusted and fire proofed.
The hot shots had been backfiring along the ridge and as an encore they descended on us like fire-breathing locusts, studiously ignoring us and spraying the dying natural fire with enough of their manmade version to have everyone in the safety zone, us and the contract firefighters from New Mexico, cursing their recklessness. They lit a massive backfire, shooting their fire mortars all across the hillside to kill a fire we could have walked up and put out with a shovel. Then, the last bit of the hillside turned into an inferno and the sun disappeared behind behemoth Pine Forest they posed in front of us for a picture (god how I wish I’d taken a picture of that, but in truth I was too angry and disgusted to take advantage of the moment) and then disappeared again, leaving the contract crews to mop-up.
And the fire behaved for them, today no dust devils whipped through the line and within a half hour it was apparent that it was over. Exhausted, hungry, in shock at the massive mountainside of black stretching all the way back to Snow Creek plain, we regrouped ourselves, pushed down the hill to waiting beds. The fire trucks poured in the next day, and the fire’s commander came and drank coffee in Glynn’s house and incidentally told me I should go with a hot shot crew to see some “real big” fires. No fucking thanks—I should have told him what I thought but I just nodded and went out to irrigate.

The fire's last stand, before the dipshits tried to make it bigger, that is.

And slowly it returns. I hiked across the burned mountainside a few weeks later to Leonard Creek Lake and already lupine and a few other pioneers grew under the blackened stumps of the sagebrush hillside. At the scene to the dipshit’s last stand a strip of red sage and rabbit brush remained from the big bomber’s drop—they hadn’t been able, despite their best efforts, to burn the entire hillside.

P.S. In the intervening years, our volunteer firefighter corps has been disbanded because it was too effective at actually putting out fires, and now the landowner out to protect his or her own property is entirely at the mercy of government firefighters, prosecutable in fact, for trying to protect his or her own property.

3 Rides, 3 Days

2009-02-24T15:00:00.000-08:00

Three rides in three days in the desert and mountains.

Waylon, my companion and conveyance for the day.

This past Thursday, Renee and I got out pretty early on horseback meaning to bring all the way into the ranch the lost cow that we had found the day before in Crane Creek and brought out onto the desert. I am not usually that into horseback riding (long hours in the saddle when I was a kid spoiled me of that), but it was a perfect morning leaving the ranch. The dogs love to go along and the horses were glad to be out of their muddy corral. I didn't originally spot the cow with my little scope and we did a large circuit of the desert valley to the west of our alfalfa fields. The seemingly empty plain is anything but when explored, and expands as it is crossed, so that the mountains appear to remain fixed in place and all motion is an illusion except for the living, charging animal underneath who is very much more concerned with the physical than the metaphysical.

Frog pond and the 4-wheeler track.

On Friday, my brother Glynn rode the 4-wheeler up to the bunkhouse (where Renee and I are staying here) and told me he needed us to go up and close the gates around the seeding, the big fire from a few year's ago, and our main drift fence separating the ranch's high country from the foothills. So we took the machine and made the long route, climbing through the muddy foothills and hard-packed snow all the way up to Frog Pond, the highest of the drift fence gates. It was the first time I had been back on the burn since the summer after it happened. The changes were immense, especially down along Leonard Creek where I used to have to walk through sagebrush taller than me to get to the gate but now is swept bare and coming back in thistles and wild rose it appears.

Closing gates on the 4-wheeler is a video game.

Then on Saturday we hopped on the bikes and hooked up the Doggy Ride for the first time since my Reno-ranch ride in January and headed out along Leonard Creek Road toward Paiute Ranch, the end of the line (although the old owner let me go through a few years ago on the old Paiute-Soldier Meadows road, see Gone Away, but it is officially closed). Another fantastic day, the clear of the past few days giving way to some cloud cover alternating with sun. We left a little late to make it all the way to Paiute and back in time to milk the mother goat and feed Bodie, but we stopped and ate at the turn-off for the Pinto Mountain Hot Springs in a small patch of tufa and watched the cloud shadows and light on the layered bands of the mountain. Riding through the landscape on a day like that seems like riding through a masterpiece so masterful it is nearly painful.

Diving figure cloud over Bartlett Peak and the Black Rock Range.

Riding home on Saturday I started to think about the previous three days, the different kinds of rides I'd been on, how they affected me, my ethics and the planet. Three rides, three categories of power: animal power, gas power and human power. (Without forgetting of course that in today's society they are all ultimately gas powered: the horse's food energy and mine steeped in gasoline nearly as much as the ATVs gas tank.)

Animal powered: Coco regathering energy in the desert dunes.

Animal power is natural, and the point of connection between horse and rider a valuable reminder of the connection we have to living things, how they respond to our most subtle (and not so subtle) actions, feelings and reactions. Animal power feels as though it is from a different somehow more primal history, which is what I think makes it so popular. Unfortunately, however, it isn't. The drastic overreliance of animal power on gas power makes it somehow also virtual, virtual primal history, a whiff of the saddle leather and sweat of old time buckaroos swept away by the overpowering stench of gasoline. Gas power is entirely one-dimensional and relies on adrenaline. Riding a four-wheeler on muddy, frozen, rocky uneven roads is fun, but also disconnects the rider from his or her elements. In the confines of the 4-wheeler ride there is nothing more than person and machine, the roar of the engine drowns out even thought or the loudest creatures along the road. One is riding in a bubble of sound and exhaust, and I had the distinct impression that I wasn't really riding on those snowy roads, but that it was a virtual event, a video game I played from somewhere outside of myself. In effect, the machine has taken much of the control from the rider, and the rider is left with an illusion of freedom and power.

From here I can really see: Pinto Mountain with the Jackson Mountains in the background by bike.

The human-powered ride blends the animal and the machine. The rider is the animal, the engine needing food. The machine is of the rider, not the other way around, and the machine does not create an artifical barrier between rider and surroundings. In fact, under human power the poetic effect of the landscape one passes through is multiplied by the human pace and peacefulness. The sky literally becomes brighter. The sensation of being in a video game disappears, there is no video game, no human contrivance at all that could replace the sensation of being in the natural world, not astride it, nor overpowering it. It may seem paradoxical that it is a machine (or machines: skate boards, inline skates, unicycles, kayaks, etc.) that allows us this connection. Human power, however, is about the future, about a future understanding of the role of machines and the ways that humans control machines, not the other way around.

At the end of the day, the pups are tired out either way.

2009-02-19T15:00:00.000-08:00

Find Me

2009-02-17T15:00:00.000-08:00

Wilson Place homestead

Hi all, well, we've been at the ranch for a week and it is going well. It's been spitting snow all week, but nothing much will stick. I've only been on my bike a couple of times, the day before yesterday, I got away in the afternoon for a ride down to the Wilson Place. The Wilson Place is in the alfalfa fields and is the site of the oldest settlement, in the Leonard Creek Valley and still has an old homestead from the 1860s, so it's a place I love to visit. I was planning on touring the fields, but the creek was running high and I didn't want to get all wet. Yesterday I rode around the hills east of the ranch. It was good and muddy on the alkali flats so I got dirty. They were both only about 7.5 miles, but challenging riding through the slush. I have some video from that I'll post soon.

I think it will be a good idea to post all my interspace places here, and am going to add in a bar as well.

Bikearth
www.bikearth.org

Flickr
www.flickr.com/photos/nevadadan/

Crazyguyonabike
www.crazyguyonabike.com/danwinnemucca

YouTube
www.youtube.com/user/sustainablemotion

Return to the Ranch

2009-02-12T15:00:00.000-08:00

It is cold and overcast and the moon is full tonight as I write this, although the rumored storm doesn't seem to be materializing. We have piles of stuff, and more to come in advance of heading to the ranch. It will be exciting to have a place to spread out and set up my bike stand for a while. Today I daydreamed a couple of rides long loops from the ranch: south across the Jacksons to Winnemucca, then farther east to Arc Dome on the route Renee and I drove in the Jeep a few years ago, through the heart of the Great Basin, to Ely and Great Basin National Park, then north to the Ruby Marshes, along the Rubies, up to Jarbridge and back across the Owyhee Desert, across the Santa Rosas and back; up to the Steen Mountains and Hart Mountain, down to Lakeview, east to Adel and then south to Cedarville and back around to the ranch through Gerlach. Possibilities abound for nearly endless empty road riding in the great wide open.

Another exciting thing about going to the ranch is that hopefully I'll get some warmshowers.org visits at the ranch. I have this vision of making my own Casa de Ciclistas out there.

2009-02-10T15:00:00.000-08:00

Ranch Ride Replayed

2009-02-05T15:00:00.000-08:00

Here is the video from day one of last month's ride up to the ranch. This one is pretty short, more like a teaser really, but there will be more installments ~

crazyguyonabike update

2009-02-04T14:42:00.001-08:00

I've posted an account of the whole Pyramid Lake ride on crazyguyonabike. You should check it out at http://www.crazyguyonabike.com/doc/pyramidlakeride

Bicycling Pyramid Lake

2009-02-03T15:00:00.000-08:00

The first time I went to Pyramid Lake was as a more-or-less adult, freshly married and at the ranch after the Peace Corps, I had dropped Heidi off to fly somewhere and bought my first-ever art supplies and on an impulse I pulled off of I-80 at Wadsworth and drove over the hill and along the south side of the lake for a little while. I sat and breathed in that giant madness of ditching the P.C. and sketched, but what I was really doing was experimenting with the newness of awakening consciousness. But I drove on without even scratching the surface of the vast center of being and unbeing that is the lake itself.

The stone mother at dawn

Many years passed, many other places (and a divorce) intervened before I went to Pyramid Lake again, this time with my new friends from Reno. I splashed in the lake and constructed a sculpture of flotsam found at the lake near where the Truckee enters at Dixon. And afterward ate Indian for the first time with that cute girl Renee who I was just getting to know.

Artwork on the shore

That started my love affair and I began to explore the lake. I had my first solo overnight bike trip there with Coco and my brand new B.O.B. a year or so later. I left the Honda on the highway at the Pyramid Road and tried riding to the Pyramid. The results weren't inspiring, I couldn't control the Surly on the washboards and wasn't at all too sure this was a very good idea anyway. We only made it a few miles and then with the sun getting low (I hadn't even started until very late) I decided screw this and made camp in a little swell near the closest tufa formations I could find. But then Coco and I climbed up the tufa and into a perfect golden sunset over the lake and the Virginia Mountains. I thought that was enough and happily made dinner and retired to the tent, but Coco had other ideas, it seems the plain where we camped was a smorgasbord of smells and she got more excited as it got darker. This being when I realized that I hadn't brought her leash. So I fashioned a bit of twine and we walked, or rather she pulled me, down and around for a little while. This being more than enough, I retired to the tent with Coco in unwilling tow, I fell asleep to the barking coyotes outside. I woke up a few hours later in the pitch black and felt something was wrong. I felt, up down, front back, she was gone. I was terrified; she thinks she's tough, but she'd never really met a coyote or just plain disappeared. I was desperate as I stood naked in the dark calling for her, certain she wasn't going to come. And then she appears not at all worried or contrite. In the morning the fresh light washed away my fear of the dark and we walked down to the water and I watched and tried to follow the myriad paths of the little critters that Coco had been so interested in the night before.

Tufa sunset at Camp Coco en Fuga

Which brings me here, coasting into the Pyramid Lake Shop, one of three bicyclists errant fresh from crossing the ATV barrens and watching a glider slide skyward as we neared the gliderport in Winnemucca Valley. The store is a throwback, a Blue Highway remnant nearly empty other than a skulking motorcyclist in all black and a man with a giant smile attached to a cracked face amidst a pile of books and paperwork and watching a giant-screen version of Braveheart on the flatscreen (can never escape that anymore William Least Heat Moon). Wherya headin'? Wherya been? Do you do this all the time? Are you part of a club? We smiled and answered but couldn't match that weatherbeaten grin just like my dad's. He lit up at our journey and we relaxed and talked while we cooked hot sandwiches in the microwave and filled waterpacks in sink in the back. His middle-age daughter was in charge of the cash register and he was retired but for his study (a good looking encyclopedia of Native American culture or folklore the only one I could spy).

At the Pyramid Lake Shop

He infected us with his glow and we reemerged into the glare and glided up the hill and over to the giant shining lake. We stopped and toasted the lake and the pyramid, toasted this entire system beginning with snow on Mount Rose, Desolation, Job's Sister, through glittering Lake Tahoe and the Truckee, across the meadows and into the desert to here. A nearly island system backed against Sierra and Basin. We have been driven by auto culture into neverending and omnipresent lines, but I only need close my eyes and I see it, the quiet roads wind whispering while people reemerge, and row and draft and leave no trash or exhaust where now we only see boxes of future-trash and gas, where the store does a brisk business with people buying fuel (fuel = food) and running with their children in the street with no fear. I got a taste, coasting along the highway bends while Anaho Island, the Pyramid, Howitzer Slide and the plunging face of Tohakum Peak unfolded across the mostly unbroken lake surface. We hit gravel again and started to see the fantasy landscape of the Needles. We stopped under the giant cottonwood oasis along the roadside, where we realized we were not in fact going to make it to the Bonham Hotsprings that night and decided to start looking around for camping. We pedaled onward and then settled in the magical floating tufa islands of Monument Rock, where we camped as the sun set over the Virginia Mountains.

This is the meeting place of the ancients, of breathing, trembling civilization. Created in boiling mud, stewing in a vast inland sea into palaces. I feel the origins of human stories sitting here in the smoothworn bowls as the sky darkens and ribbons of stars become visible and dance, how they have sparked our desire for knowledge and understanding, those heavens. We stretch by moonlight and recall shapes and our own shadows.

Jesus in the Desert

2009-01-29T15:00:00.000-08:00

The altar of the All-being

I met Jesus on the railroad tracks and we walked together down to the homemade cross and altar on the playa near the tracks east of Cholona. At first he cursed this impingement, but as we neared and he saw the homemade altar and holy water bowl and rough cross made of nailed 4X4s with cracked paint, he mellowed and ruminated while staring across at the Black Rock. "Why don't you understand that I'm tired of the cross?" and then he swept an arm around--"Haven't you seen the altar of the All-being?"

Jesus, by the way, has a lot of reasons to be angry--the atrocities committed in his name, the continual insistence that "he" is a "man" and not human, as though the offspring of Gods--literally--would have some kind of gender. Especially angry at the continual emphasis on the father. "What about my mother? A cult of Maria. Don't you realize that if 'God' is my father then all of this"--indicating all around--"is my mother: the life earth. How could you twist my ideas so much?" And then Jesus is silent for a moment. "Just leave me alone, please? Solve your own problems for once. I'm through being your whipping boy."

"The bible, by the way, is a bunch of lies. I disowned myself completely of it by La Conquista and the Inquisition and the selling of papal bulls. But I never liked it. Don't you realize that I went into the temple to destroy it? What an insult to construct another on my already agonized back."

"Do you know what it's like to die on a cross? If you knew, you would never sanction violence as the charlatans do in my name."

"Violence belongs to the weak. The strength of my mother and father is to turn the other cheek and love thy neighbors. No matter how angry they make me."

"Another fallacy is that I don't have brothers and sisters. I have all of them--I am neither the eldest nor the youngest. We are all together."

We walked back to the tracks and he turned west and I turned east and we parted. I stopped a half-mile away and looked back, but he was gone.

Don't you understand I'm tired of the cross?

Surly in the Snow

2009-01-27T15:00:00.001-08:00

Stuck in the snow on Thomas Creek

I christened the New Year by going for a ride. I had intended on cutting across Huffaker, climbing to the forest service road that goes across to Thomas Creek, crossing Mount Rose highway and dropping down to Washoe Valley, riding up to the Virginia City highway and then taking Miraloma back up to Hidden Valley, to home (about 35 miles). I had been on the forest service road once before, but couldn't exactly remember how I got there, so I went exploring. Riding into this neighborhood above Lakeside there is a big sign No Public Land Access (Note to self: don't trust signs). I gave it a shot anyway and then around the corner there is a road leading straight up the hill to public land. Go figure. Pretty much as soon as I hit the forest service road I knew I wasn't going as far as I'd planned. As it climbed the road turned from mud into snow and I got to really test my Cross Check in the snow. It didn't go to well. I just spun too easily and ending up sliding, then having to restart. When I made it twenty or thirty yards it felt like victory. In my defense, however, I think it would have been a little better if the snow had been fresh, this was crusted and driven over, with a layer of ice. I cut across into a subdivision, but wanted to at least make Thomas Creek, so I climbed back up the forest service road and then pushed about a mile uphill in the snow, cursing myself for not giving up and taking the easy asphalt back down the hill. I don't know why I wanted that abuse, but finally I crossed the divide into Thomas Creek and had a brief but awesome downhill in the snow, amazing how much better you can go with a little help from gravity. It was late by then, so I coasted down Mount Rose highway (sweet going 40+ not pedaling after pushing for an hour or so) and then had some Del Taco. Bring it on 2009!

Yesterday, January 27, the date this was originally published, Renee and I drove up and went snowshoeing at Tahoe Meadows. It is so amazing to get into the real mountains, and certainly hard to do by bicycle at this time of year. The snowshoeing was actually great, prompting me to think I am going to go snowshoeing by car again at least once. Snowshoeing is in definitely one of the best all-purpose workouts imaginable: the best motion being a mix of dance, sprinting, pedaling, hiking, and beauty.

There is a feeling given by being in an alpine environment in the winter: on one hand the extreme beauty, a crispness and brightness to the world that is almost painful, a beauty that is tempered and heightened by the underlying knowledge that one is not really supposed to be there, that human society could never have developed in such extreme conditions, that upon perceiving such an environment, one is experiencing something special and unique. Consider how few people experienced these moments before cars and trucks could carry us into the mountains. Two local examples come to mind: the Donner Party and Snowshoe Thompson. About the Donner Party little needs to be said, but consider that abject terror they must have felt upon seeing those snow-covered peaks. Snowshoe Thompson was a pioneer who carried mail for many years across the Sierras (from Placerville to Genoa following more or less the route of Highway 50, see http://www.boogman.com/sst/sstsm.htm) by ski. While I am sure he appreciated the mountain's beauty, he didn't go into the mountain for thrill alone; at the time he provided the only link between the eastern front of the Sierra and the outside world during the winter months.

Up there, though, off of Mount Rose Highway, I started to think about what winter sports really mean for society. With global warming having already moved spring back on average a week, what is the ethical response to winter sports? Consider this: for most winter sports (except on those awesome days when the lowlands are covered in snow), one must drive in a single party (even if more than one individual) usually for some distance, park, crush the snow around, drive back home. For those who go to the ski resorts, (think of the imprint of someone flying from a tropical region!) the petroleum use is tripled, all food and supplies are ferried in, polluting machines are made to create the snow, natural vegetation is removed, polluting machines carry one up the mountain. The only non-polluting part of the entire adventure (and the only moment of [sic] human power) is one's descent. How does one justify this? By the thrill.

But think about the thrill if this entire complex was built differently. If one rode or biked to a sustainably powered transport that carried them up the mountain. If sustainably powered lifts (or better still, the person's own power) carried them up still higher. If from the top they looked out across the expanse and knew that being there they were not contributing to the stranglehold petroleum/fossil fuels have on the planet?

First climb in the mud

Second climb in the snow

Updates and Crazyguyonabike

2009-01-22T15:00:00.000-08:00

Reflecting pool at Bonham Ranch

Well, I'm getting ready to leave the ranch. I've finally been able to get some pictures up, so I'm posting a couple of my favorites from the ride. I've also started posting my ride journals on crazyguyonabike.com. My username is danwinnemucca, and the link is here:

http://www.crazyguyonabike.com/doc/ridehome

Surly covered with frost

At the ranch!

2009-01-20T15:00:00.000-08:00

An old image of the Jackson Mts., which I rode along

I made it to the ranch in 6 days, 9 hours. A world record, also, I can be pretty sure I am the first person ever to follow this route (see previous map, which is close except that it does not show cut off along railroad tracks): From Matich Drive (Rattlesnake Mountain) through Reno to Old Virginia Street, Lemmon Drive, Matterhorn Boulevard, Antelope Valley Road into BLM land, behind Dogskin Mountain to Dixie Lane, across the Fort Sage Mountains to Winnemucca Ranch Road, down a long hill to the Fish Springs Road to Sand Pass Road to the Bonham Hotsprings, the Smoke Creek Desert to the Cedarville Highway and Gerlach, then Jungo Road to Trego Hotsprings, Jungo Road to the Cholona turn, then along the railroad line to Sulfur and north on Jackson Creek Ranch Road past King Lear Peak to Leonard Creek Road and the rest is history! Rough calculations show 245 miles total, with an overal mph of 1.6 (including sleep, hot springs days, etc.). Unfortunately, I can't download pictures here so this is a bit brief, but I have many more stories and images, so stay tuned!

Everglades ride

2009-01-15T15:00:00.000-08:00

everglades from Daniel Montero on Vimeo.

Going a little back in time here. This was one of my last big rides in Florida, from Miami Beach out to this random road on the Tamiami Trail. I found rides in Florida by going to Google Earth and finding the biggest portions of uninhabited space, then headed straight for it. There were some incredible spots. The roads were all carved and straight, running for miles into and empty horizon. To the south, the landmarks that could be alternatively were the nuclear towers, the Homestead Nascar speedway, and the trash mountain. Where I am here, the only thing cutting the horizon, and in a pretty miniscule way, was the Indian casino on the Tamiami Trail. Just a full empty horizon, a raised roadbed seldom used a cut channel on one side and the Everglades, well, at least the remnants, on the other. A few miles out on the road I met a hiker, we stopped and talked for a few minutes and he told me that, while he occasionally hiked out there, he had never seen anyone else.

The video isn't that great, to be honest, I don't think I have much talent as a filmmaker, but I guess I just try to show what I see and feel, the monotony and bravado of such a one-dimensional landscape, while the clouds puff in all directions to endless horizon. The feeling of being alone in a landscape while a few hundred yards away air-conditioned tourist cars buzz by to "see" the Everglades.

Headed to the Ranch

2009-01-13T15:00:00.000-08:00

I'm headed to the ranch ~ Here is a rough Google map of the route. The bad winter is good for me, a nice long stretch of dry weather will be perfect. My route will take me through the north valleys, along Dogskin Mountain, east of Stateline Peak in the Fort Sage Mountains, across Sand Pass, to Bonham Hotsprings, along the Smoke Creek Desert to Gerlach, then Trego Hotsprings, Jungo Road to Sulfur, then north along Jackson Creek Ranch Road to Leonard Creek. I'm planning for at least a weeklong ride. Bon voyage!

A Modest Proposal and Economic Stimulus Package and Alternative to the Almighty Bailout

2009-01-08T15:00:00.000-08:00

The government should pay people to bike to work. Everyone who bikes. All of the time. Pay them per mile based on the distance they live from their job. It could also go one step further and buy every citizen and legal resident of the United States a functional American-made bicycle, a helmet, a headlight and taillight.

Don Quixote, Bicyclist

2009-01-06T15:00:00.000-08:00

Don Quixote wasn't your typical knight errant. Your typical knight errant would have traveled by Hummer and dashed across the landscape. No, don Quixote was a bicyclist—not a literal bicyclist: he was fictional and anyway bikes hadn't been invented at the beginning of the seventeenth century (although his time was transported entirely by natural power). When I say he was a bicyclist, I mean, instead of flying magic stallions, he propelled himself by the sheer force of his will in a world turned topsy turvy. At the time of don Quixote's sallies, Spain was the world's premier power, the first truly global superpower based on a coherent and powerful ideology. For the first time in the short reign of humankind, this empire stretched itself across more than a single landmass and hemisphere and cut across hundreds of cultures. This was truly a New World on as big a scale as cyberspace and air travel.

Don Quixote, however, remained firmly on the ground. Wearing homemade armor and riding broken down Rocinante, his literary madness was incomprehensible to the innkeepers, criminals, prostitutes and lazy rich he met as he traveled. For all of the grandeur of the great Spanish empire, Quixote's Spain was already in decay, crumbling from a terrible waste of resources, a decayed civil society, devastating plagues, the blind destructiveness of its leaders and overextension in the geopolitics of its time. Don Quixote traveled this fractured landscape and in the course of his travels he transformed his reading of novels of chivalry into a new kind of individual, one above all self-conscious of his own madness and place in the world.

I first read El ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quijote de la Mancha in a class in Friendly Hall taught by sweet-natured and brilliant Luis Verano, and in the course of a trimester I traveled the Spain of inn-castles, windmill-giants, convict gangs and prostitute damsels. Every day I rode to class on my secondhand (or third-, fourth-, fifth-, etc.) Schwinn Cruiser. I lived that year far out near the industrial belt and my ride took me across the cross section of Eugene: working class neighborhoods, the timber industrialists' downtown, the hippy boutiques and university arboretum. I have returned to Quixote many times since then, but only years later, riding across northern Arizona, did I connect the two.

I thought about the adventures of the illustrious Manchegan as my own bicycle journey, the beginning and endlessness of the will expressed by the motion of my legs, the strain of my shoulders, my own gear carried by my own power. And like don Quixote, my journey takes me through a world that seems to me strange and twisted, but which seems normal and whole to most everyone else; a place where people are carried in enchanted cages through dreamworlds while outside, in reality, we cook ourselves into oblivion.

That is why don Quixote is what I believe to be a bicyclist—he madly crashed against a world turned upside down. We ride through a world organized by its automobile transportation instead of any idea of civility or natural harmony. I don't ride a bike because I love it—although I do—but because it is my ethical response to a world burning itself down with petroleum. We need to create a new infrastructure immediately and the way I can do that is by using a bicycle to go where I need or want to go. I know this is utopian, even quixotic, but it is the only response I can see and believe, just like the my progenitor el Quijote.

New Year, New Page

2009-01-02T16:18:00.000-08:00

Since it's the new year (and I finally finished posting all my Arizona ride entries), it is time for change.

One: A schedule. I think it will be fun to try to start this and keep it regular (which I am rarely), so I am going to publish entries here every Tuesday and Thursday at 3:00 p.m., Reno time, rain or shine.

Two: More flexibility. So I am going to start keeping biking journal entries at crazyguyonabike.com, which is more designed for ride diaries. When I post entries there I will make some note of it here. This means that I can focus on writing something more or less structured, which I feel like will be a good thing for me.

Since I suppose there is no reason to publish a blog unless there is some suspicion that someone will read it someday (at least until the power goes out), thanks for looking at these bumbling fumblings and I bow before your mighty will and generous heart.

So next Tuesday, look for something about don Quixote and bicycling.

November 6, 2008. Cacti Camp to Wickenburg. 45.87 miles. Ave. 9.8. Riding time 4:40:45

2008-12-31T12:00:00.000-08:00

All looking a little tired on our last day.

Sitting in a sandy wash in first morning sun, a breather before our day onward into Wickenburg.

Walked up hill behind our camp—there is a nice fire ring we didn’t see last night, the kind of fire ring with a windbreak, made by someone with time and care. It had remains of coals, but I wonder how long it has been unused, although there are tire tracks in the sandy wash. This place feels very abandoned, despite being alongside four-lane highway. Traffic slowed down last night, in the dead hours of the night it seemed only a few cars went by and lying awake for a while I thought maybe we should rise and push toward Wickenburg. But the desire for more sleep won over. Renee had a good movie dream last night, my own dreams were more troubled: branding and drunkenness, one of staying up all night and then being afraid of being busted by my mother. Anxiety dreams.

Tree alongside Hwy 93 that I watched for miles as we climbed out of Santa Maria River drainage.

Another of America’s arteries. It is strange to sit alongside and listen to traffic go by. Although a “triumph” of our engineering and ingenuity, this isn’t a place for humans. The human has mostly disappeared, replaced by the automobile and the almighty franchise. I’ve been thinking about Blue Highways a lot and struck that even in the intervening twenty-five years that slice of America has almost completely disappeared under Wal-Mart and the strip mall.

The highway, dangerous, terrifying, but on the outside. On the inside A/C soundproofed listening to cool jazz or talk radio through tinted windows it is OK, unless you lose cell phone reception. Meanwhile, outside, the screaming mother on the burning asphalt, the wreathed cross, the broken glass and twisted metal. It is strange how many roadside crosses are bedecked with baseball caps, as though the choice of headgear accompanies one even into the hereafter.

Fast food in Wickenburg.

November 5, 2008. Wild Horse Basin to Cacti Camp (Hwy. 93). 24.67 miles. Ave. 8.4. Max. 20.9. Riding time 2:55:02

2008-12-30T19:13:00.000-08:00

Pups ready to spring into action

I look pretty skinny in this snapshot on the hill overlooking Bagdad

Renee kicking ass on the last climb before Bagdad

In Bagdad, trying to find a way across the great wide open. Whaddya mean you don’t have a car? It’s impossible.

Waiting for Renee to reappear. She left more than an hour ago to find the library. In the meantime I’ve decided our best bet is to try for Wickenburg, which is 50+ miles away, but should have decent highway and no crazy climbs and will likely have either a U-Haul or a bike shop. Having “decided” I’d like to get moving, but now she is gone and I’m sitting in a parking lot with the dogs watching cars drive by a feeling a cold wind blow into my back.

Finally she reappears walking down the street across the gully. It is better when we stay together.

Now we are in our tent on busy Hwy. 93, main route between Phoenix and Las Vegas. We escaped Bagdad, but my back tire went flat a couple of miles south of town. Two different dogcatchers drove by in official vehicles, but none seemed to notice our dereliction of duty, on this first day of the post-Bush era. Meanwhile, we are specks, spots in the wilderness. Everyone settling down except for the trucks—captains of American commerce. We are camped on a steep downhill and they grind by outside. Before dinner we walked up the road cut. Every variety of cacti imaginable got into the puppies feet.

Cacti Camp

November 4, 2008. Camp Wood to Wild Horse Basin. 22.98 miles. Ave. 5.8. Max. 11.3. Riding time 3:55:47

2008-12-19T12:00:00.000-08:00

Morning

XOXO ranch

Camelpak leaked all over the tent last night. I forgot to close the valve after I gave the dogs water. I woke up in the middle of the night after a terrible dream and was thirsty, grabbed the hose and found tent bottom lake. The atlas and cookbook, Renee’s sleeping pad and sleeping bag stuff sack and almost everything in my backpack wet. It was cloudy this morning and I didn’t think anything would dry, but after making coffee the sun appeared and I was able to put things in order. It is only six miles to the XOXO ranch where we can refill our water bags.

Riding along Behm Mesa

Ranch road

And then at beginning, noise from back tire and notice pronounced wobble. Stop—three spokes broken. We went in to the ranch, but really need to get to a town, so pushed on toward Bagdad, where hopefully we’ll be able to find something.

Last light on Behm Mesa

November 3, 2008. Williamson Valley Wash to Camp Wood area. 10.55 miles. Ave. 4.6. Max 10.0. Riding time 2:15:12

2008-12-18T12:00:00.000-08:00

It is starting to get late, but it feels good and lazy in the sun. We are heading deeper into the unknown now and fewer water sources. The juniper-piñon forest is thick, the washes deep and sandy—we are away from the red clay of the north, the soil here looks like white granite and makes a fine sand. Today is Suzanne’s birthday.
We had a steep climb into the Camp Wood area, but the road was more or less quiet and we’ve found quite a bit of stock water. This afternoon we stopped early because we want to get water at the ranch in the morning and I hiked up the hill behind our camp. It was thick with manzanita. I found the jawbone of what appeared to be a lion, but I’m not too sure. Tortured landscape, carved, sculpted, twisted, grand canyons pointing south toward the ocean.

November 2, 2008. Prescott to Williamson Valley Wash, Camp Wood Road. 33.09 miles. Ave. 8.3. Max. 19.5. Riding time 3:57:33

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Granite Mountain toward Prescott

Finally away from the suburbs

Camp Wood Road

Long ride through western sprawl, columned and porticoed McMansions built along a screaming two-lane road while angry homeowners displayed signs against a proposed highway widening—I have an idea, why didn’t you not move out here in the first place? Then the road could remain a quiet country byway. But a good ride, a headwind but not extreme climbing and although we didn’t quite leave subdivisions on the Williamson Valley Road, they did grow thinner and the mesa and grassland reappeared and then the canyon bottom cottonwoods of a real ranch. We stopped and talked to a kid at the turn until his dad reappeared from across the road bearing t.p. and then I talked to him in Spanish. They were from Phoenix and were headed back as it was the end of mule deer season. He had shot a forkie, but the boy hadn’t gotten anything. They didn’t have much info about the road, but we did learn that the next upcoming season is the elk rifle season, the real deal, the big guns and campers and gigantic SUV ATVs. They offered us water and wished us well. The forest road is good, it was a gentle climb and the pups were finally able to run.

Night falling above our camp

November 1, 2008. Prescott

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Sample of the Google Maps pages I photographed for the last stages of the our trip at the motel in Prescott

“Life doesn’t happen along interstates. It’s against the law.” —William Least Heat Moon, Blue Highways

Reading primer of America,
A land dating itself by the moment.

October 31, 2008. Fly Camp to Prescott. 32.09 miles. Ave. 8.4. Riding time 3:48:55

2008-12-15T13:24:00.001-08:00

Halloween morning

Spooky day. First on Hwy 169, saw a big dead rattlesnake as were leaving the gully where we had camped, then as we neared Dewey a big pit bull ran down hill from the trailer where it lived toward us passing by. Luckily the dog stopped before it reached the roadway, but I nearly had a heart attack thinking that either it would attack us or it would be hurt by passing traffic, which was steady all day long. The highway from Dewey to Prescott was four lane and jammed, the shoulder disappeared for a while and then, as we were nearing Prescott, someone threw a full water bottle at me. Ironic because of all the litter I see along the highway (and I've become something of a student of highway litter) what I hate worst are all of the plastic water bottles—some bullshit water imported from god knows what poor watershed and down the gullet of oh-so-thirsty America. It's bad enough when it goes in a recycle bin, then thrown along a highway for a million years—well sir or ma'am, you've just left your legacy on this land). I didn’t even see what the car that did it looked like, I just looked over and saw the water bottle land and registered, someone threw that at me.

Morning at fly camp

The climb into Prescott was pretty steep and we were glad to arrive. Our first stop was at Sounds and Cyclery, where Ed took a look at my rear cog (it is loose), but didn’t offer us camping again and we didn’t push it, as exhausted as we are after the last couple of days a hotel sounded fantastic. We stayed at the Prescottonian Inn, which was awesome, especially the Jacuzzi. The last couple of days took a lot out of us and we decided we are going to stay in Prescott another day. It being Halloween we went out on the town. Prescott has a lot of live music for being pretty small, we tried to do a sampling of local places and they all had live bands.

Plaque for Mike, the town dog

October 30, 2008. Clear Creek to Fly Camp (Hwy. 169). 26.14 miles. Ave. 7.4. Riding time 3:31:26

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Tough climb on I-17

“I like songs about drifters

Books about the same,
They both seem to make me feel
A little less insane.” —Modest Mouse, “The World At Large”

Hardest climb of the trip today, on I-17 from Prescott up the Black Canyon freeway. Five relentless miles with semis and RVs breathing down our necks. Today was first day I wasn’t sure I could make it. We weren’t really feeling it anyway, and got a late start on the climb after going circles around Camp Verde trying to fix our broken tent zipper (which I was able to fix and oil up, but it is definitely on its last legs). We had the mountain in front of us for the past couple of days too, so we knew what was coming, which also probably made it worse. We are camped off Highway 169 near a windmill, in a nice soft stream bed. The only problem is that there are thousands of little flies, so we have dubbed the camp Fly Camp. Speaking of animal life, we are finding tons of mosquito bites from our rest day at Wet Beaver Creek (never get tired of saying that name), which is funny because neither of us noticed any mosquitoes. The bite are very itchy and somewhat harder than a mosquito bite, so perhaps was some other kind of biting fly.

October 29, 2008. Wet Beaver Creek to Clear Creek. 18.24 miles. Ave. 5.4. Max. 12.0. Riding time 3:20:42

2008-12-11T12:00:00.000-08:00

Coco in Clear Creek

Rough washboarded road, slow going, rode two miles up into the Clear Creek drainage, but didn’t camp up there on account of it being so steep to get down into the canyon. We left our bikes on the saddle and hiked down into the canyon. Clear Creek is big, more like a small river and clear looking straight from wilderness area. The campsites were littered though, worst litter to me plastic water bottles. They make my blood boil. After our hike, we rode down to the main campground on the Camp Verde highway. Just after dark while we were listening to music and shooting the shit the pups raised the alarm and disappeared into the dark. They came right back, but too late, they both smelled like a skunk, especially Dusty, who is still stinking us up a bit.

Dusty moments before getting skunked

"His life coiled back into the brown murk of the past like a twined filament of electric wire; he gave a life, a pattern, and movement to these million sensations that chance, the loss or gain of a moment, the turn of the head, the enormous and aimless impulsion of accident had thrust into the blazing heat of him." —Thomas Wolfe, Look Homeward Angel

At camp

October 28, 2008. Wet Beaver Creek

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Renee reading The Garden of Peculiarities

Renee reading about reification, a word definitely hard to pin down. Lazing along in camp with sleeping dogs at my feet. I am having a hot drink and listening to the water flowing past. This is my first rest day, not riding in the car after bicycle parts. But have went up the hill behind our camp twice, washed laundry, explored the creekbottom and bathed. We tried to walk over to Montezuma’s well, which should be a national monument nearby and ancient water source, but the way was closed and although we could have jumped the fence weren’t exactly sure where we were or who would come out shooting.

Coco in Wet Beaver

Lazy autumn day

October 27, 2008. Stoneman Lake to Lawrence Crossing, Wet Beaver Creek. 21.90 miles. Ave. 8.6. Max. 22.8. Riding time 2:31:47

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Lawrence "Crossing"

Steep downhill all the way from Stoneman Lake to the freeway, and then down the freeway to Wet Beaver Creek, where we are going to have a rest day before we continue south. It was so great to finally arrive at running water again. We stopped at the Ranger Station up on the main road and they told us about this little-used crossing where we are now camping. It was perfect, except that the road that is supposed to be the “crossing” dead ends into a rock slide and we had to portage all camping stuff probably a hundred yards across the rock littered creek bottom to our campsite. We have unimproved campground to ourselves though and are looking forward to a day lounging and exploring the mystery that is running water. This is the first time we have camped alongside running water since Willow Creek in the Gila. It’s hard to express how sweet it is after so many dry camps and stale reservoirs (and even those have been few and far between).

Trying to get water at Stoneman Lake

We lounged at Stoneman Lake most of the morning. I climbed down the caldera and crossed to the water to try to get some for the dogs. Drove a long thorn all the way through Crocs and a little ways into my foot. There are so many different water levels, all of them receding. Finally at the water I improvised a ramp to try to get to real water, but still ended up getting mostly mud. And we counted more than thirty homes around its drying shores. What is civilization and what is wilderness. Where do these tiny multimillion dollar "cabins" fit in? Oh, but they are so big when you get up close.

Bad, bad freeway

The freeway descent was miserable to today. It was only five or so miles but the shoulder wasn’t paved, just oiled and graveled. That’s not so bad in a gravel road far from any highway, but with 75 mph semis roaring by every few seconds it becomes a little sketchy even with a fairly wide shoulder. The road we are on now is a Forest Service road and seems like it should be fine. We are much lower now and it is pretty warm, as well as the wind from yesterday is pretty much gone.

Pups love running water

October 26, 2008. Upper Lake Mary to Stoneman Lake. 23.85 miles. Ave. 7.7. Max 21.8. Riding time 3:04:26

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Lake Mary road, with Dook'o'oosliid in the background

Overlooking Stonedman Lake. What appears to be a caldera, a divet or dimple in this long ridge. Really more Stoneman Marsh. Ringed by McMansion Summer Homes. Subdivided drying oasis a little less surface area for each of those monstrosities. Caldera unamused, losing its precious water to these aggressive underlings, creatures of the surface with no view of history.

Mormon Lake marshes

We had a great ride today, along Lake Mary road past Mormon Lake, then up steep hill and more rolling plateau. We’ve lost the bike lane, but the road is quiet and traffic seems used to cyclists. Then turned onto Stoneman Lake Road, another gravel road. We passed some barely civil cowboys on horses and in bright orange and a number of hunters. This afternoon is bike maintenance day, they are still grimed up from that day in the powder along the Arizona Trail.

Road to Stoneman Lake

Last light above Stoneman Lake

October 25, 2008. Flagstaff to Upper Lake Mary (Camping Prohibited). 26.12 miles. Ave. 9.5. Riding time 2:43:41

2008-12-07T12:00:00.000-08:00

Late leaving Flagstaff after grocery shopping, this morning was parade day in Flagstaff and the town was crowded with early-morning drinkers. Steep leaving Flagstaff until we reached Lake Mary Road, which is a great ride, wide shoulders, bike lanes, lots of road bikers. We wanted to camp by Lake Mary, but camping prohibited everywhere except in campgrounds, which were also closed. Lake Mary is as far as I’m concerned the land of Camping Prohibited. Given our late start we didn’t really want to leave the lake, but did. Ended up camping off a forest service road. When we arrived we saw a sign for a wedding, and then for the rest of the night we had partygoers going by and a loud punk band playing somewhere in the hills behind our camp.

Lake Mary, where camping is not allowed