Gold Bear

This post is long overdue. I want to apologize to anybody following along for retreating into the dark for quite some time. Shit hit the fan in the days following my last post, and as a result, my bike trip came to an abrupt end. Since I’ll be hitting the road again in a few days, finishing this blog before I start a new one would be in good taste. This final post will recount the four days following the last post.

I woke up to the same foggy sky consistent since crossing the Golden Gate. I was beginning to get tired of the climate, and I hoped that the entirety of the West Coast wasn’t so bleak. I made my way to Bodega Bay, another small Norcal town with only a few buildings, where I stopped to fill my water and charge my phone.

I sat beside the gas station for over half an hour before being approached by an older man, probably in his 50s. He was pretty obese, had dark hair, and appeared to be of Native American / Italian ethnicity.

“Is this your bike?”

As soon as he spoke, I could tell that there was something off about him. His voice was choppy, and he slurred words occasionally, indicating that he was either really drunk or suffered from mental illness. Upon confirming to him that the bike belonged to me, he pointed to a bike of his own and mentioned that he, too, was biking along the coast. When he asked if I wanted to ride to a bluff overlooking the Pacific to smoke a joint I was happy to oblige.

“Gold Bear” is how he introduced himself, claiming he was known along Highway 1 by that name. He talked quite a bit, mostly about himself, and at first, I was a little doubtful about the truthfulness of his stories, but I was happy to listen. As we smoked, he explained that he had stopped working four years ago and threw together an impressively minimalist touring rig on a cheap, retro bike. Since then, Gold Bear has been riding up and down Highway 1 about seven or eight months out of the year as a perpetual cycling nomad.

It wasn’t long before he began to explain his mental condition to me. A car accident roughly 10 years ago caused devastating, irreversible damage to his mental and physical health. It was then that I noticed he was missing several fingers. He proceeded to show me his left calf, or lack thereof, where there was pretty clear evidence of a compound fracture indicated by a substantial deformity. The irreversible brain damage he now suffered prevented him from continuing to work in his career, which I recall him mentioning as an electrician or a mechanic before his accident.

“Hurts to walk, hurts to climb, hurts to even stand sometimes. I can bike, though.”

So on Gold Bear biked, the medium through which he now lived his life. We decided to ride together, knocking out 10-mile portions of the Highway before pausing for short breaks. He kept telling me not to wait for him and that he’d eventually catch up. I was quite a bit faster, but given his disability, his pace and stamina indicated that his story maintained a significant level of truth. In any case, I was happy to break for a couple minutes every hour, as he was never too far behind, and I was beginning to enjoy his company.

He was, even to me, a little strange. Still, I couldn’t place whether some of his behaviors were a result of his mental condition or things that appeared bizarre to the ordinary person but were actually legitimate. One example was when he was convinced we could find edible mushrooms on a particular stretch of road. He claimed they were a local delicacy and that sometimes, in the growing season, he could harvest enough to help pay for food on his trips. Insisting that they would be in a patch of trees we passed, we hopped off the bikes and began searching in areas he indicated they commonly grew.

As we searched, a 20-something-year-old couple returned from a nearby trail to their car. Somehow, I knew this would happen before it did. In his crackly, high-pitched, broken English, Gold Bear didn’t hesitate to accuse these poor people of harvesting all the mushrooms.

“I bet you two already found all the mushrooms here! I knew that was why I wasn’t finding any!”

I’ve never seen such classic “what the fuck?” faces. The couple glanced at each other in confusion, clearly clueless about what Gold Bear was talking about. He continued to ask them if they found any, which they continued to deny. They likely thought he was referring to magic mushrooms and probably assumed he was tripping on them, which, as far as I know, he could have been. The couple hastily proceeded to their car with few words and drove off, leaving me in silent amusement at how bizarre an experience must have been.

I chuckled as we returned to our bikes and continued on. Several hours after the mushroom incident, we stopped at a small store, the only building we’d seen in roughly 30 miles. Popping in to splurge on a Snickers bar, Gold Bear followed, looking for a spoon. When he asked the store clerk if she had any, she responded passively and visibly repulsed by his mannerisms. He didn’t seem to care, but I was pissed off by that. He definitely comes off as a big weirdo, especially with no context. Still, he’s not threatening or inappropriate in any way, and her acting like a bitch was uncalled for.

After Gold Bear acquired a spoon, we returned to our bikes for a quick snack. It was then revealed to me that the only food Gold Bear carried was a massive tub of Jello and a cranberry juice container. He didn’t even have water, and he refused it when I offered him some.

“I ate a pizza by myself before I left Santa Rosa,” explained Gold Bear, indicating that the Jello was all he needed for the week until his next meal.

Evening approached. Gold Bear shared more of his story as we continued along the increasingly hilly highway. He had spent most of his adult life working his former job for around 20 years. The best part about it, he explained, was that he got to work with his dad, who was his best friend. When he mentioned that his dad had passed away many years ago, I could tell it hit him pretty hard.

“Everything’s ok, though.”

Pointing to his heart, he said, “My dad left me with the key to life. That’s why I’m on my bike. My bike is my life and happiness, and I’ll ride it as long as God tells me to.”

I appreciated Gold Bear’s monologues. Despite the bizarreness of his voice and some of the things he said, it was all wholesome and sometimes possessed wisdom.

By the time we arrived in Gualala, it was well past dark. Despite my invitations to share a campsite, Gold Bear insisted on sleeping on a bench by the ocean. Out of fear of getting robbed, arrested, or in general having a shit night of sleep, I moved on in hopes of finding a campsite where I could make food and fill my water. I bid farewell to Gold Bear, and did not see him again./p>It was past 10 so I decided it was worth it to drop seven bucks on a campsite just up the road. Mosquitos were in full force so I quickly made dinner and crashed as soon as possible.

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The following day, I slept in a bit, taking advantage of the campground amenities, including my first shower since San Francisco (it was frigid). I made good time on the bike, passing right through the small town of Point Arena and pushing 50 miles to Mendocino by noon. Mendocino, complete with stores, several restaurants, and even a couple bars, was considerably larger than other Norcal towns I had been riding through.

As I contemplated splurging on beer, I briefly turned on my phone to check in with the world to discover a text from my sister:

“Call me when you can.”

During a brief phone conversation, she explained to me that Giddo (my grandfather), who had been seriously injured by a car accident 9 months prior, was in bad condition. They didn’t expect him to last more than a couple weeks and that I needed to find a way home sooner than planned. Having planned on meeting my friend Steve in Bozeman, Montana, at the end of my trip, I decided to give him a call to tell him I couldn’t make it.

Tentatively, I had planned on returning to San Francisco to fly home. However, Steve told me that in 20 days, he would be driving back to Michigan from Montana.

“We could always just strap your bike to the top or something.”

The distance to Montana was too far to travel by bike in 20 days. However, it did seem logistically possible to bike inland to a more populated area and hitchhike to Montana in the amount of time given I got lucky with with rides. I felt that it was safe to assume that most people driving across the country would likely be funneled into population centers at some point, and in the worst-case scenario, I could default to a different airport, such as Boise if I ran out of time.

Challenge accepted.

I decided to cook dinner on a cliff above a beautiful cove just south of the town. I made a few more phone calls to some friends and decided to find a place to camp while I still had light. As I passed a bar where nearly a dozen people were gathered outside, two men started a fight, and everyone nearby freaked out. Reminding myself that most people I have met on this journey have been compassionate, I carried on without judgment. I found a well-hidden power outlet on the side of a building and used it to charge my phone. Nearby, a group of hippies loitered around a small park with their dogs. I decided to go talk to them.

The taller man with long dreads immediately introduced himself with a mellow and friendly demeanor. There was an older man, properly drunk or super high, who didn’t seem too excited about talking to me or anything for that matter. A very pretty girl around my age introduced herself as well. Finally, there was Andy.

Andy was an interesting character. He was a college dropout but very friendly. Younger than me, shorter, not very healthy, and dressed in clothes that clearly hadn’t been washed in a long time (although I’m not one to talk), Andy also didn’t smell the best. His dog constantly misbehaved, something he addressed by frequently kicking it in the ass. The dog’s leash was tied to his belt loop so it could never walk far, and he’d repeatedly re-position himself as he spoke to me to prevent himself from getting tangled as it ran about.

Andy was kind of a shit show.

After listening to them fuss about the local police destroying a beach fort they had been sleeping in, I ended up learning a lot about the area and Norcal marijuana culture. They called the combination of Trinity, Humboldt, and Mendocino counties “the Emerald Triangle.” It was given that name in honor of the abundance of pot farmers who grew large amounts of marijuana in massive outdoor operations. Incidents of hikers roaming around in the woods in the wrong spots and getting shot allegedly weren’t uncommon.

“Don’t go running off into the woods! If you’re spotted back there, you can expect them to assume you’re looking for freebies.”

When the farmers harvest their crops, the leaves off each flower are clipped so that their final product is a nice, clean bud. This process results in copious amounts of less potent bi-products called “trimmings,” distributed for free to the prominent homeless population in the Emerald Triangle. Now, I can’t speak for everyone, but from what I gathered is that many transients move to this area with the knowledge that they smoke unlimited amounts of these trimmings for free and live off food stamps whilst roaming from county to county. Sometimes, the transients bring in additional cash by helping the pot farmers with the trimmer process. In the Emerald Triangle, they remain for the better part of the year unless something compels them to leave.

One such incentive to transition elsewhere was revealed to be called a Rainbow Gathering. Upon telling them that I was headed to Montana, they excitedly asked if I would attend “The Gathering.” Having no clue what they were talking about, I asked for clarification.

“The Gathering, dude! Don’t you listen to Grateful Dead?”

Couldn’t say that I ever have. The hippies were astonished. They explained that a Rainbow Gathering is a festival where thousands of Grateful Dead fans, known as “Deadheads,” gather for several days of music, dancing, food, and getting utterly wasted on every drug you’ve ever heard of.

“Man, you’re riding your bike to Montana and don’t listen to the Grateful Dead? Come on, man! You should just go to the Gathering, man! We’re all trying to get up there!”

I was tempted by the possibility and adventure of bumming a ride in their old, dirty, overcrowded van that was already short one seat. Still, I really didn’t enjoy the relentless pressure of going to an unknown part of Montana to fry my brain with copious amounts of drugs. Furthermore, the event wasn’t for another month, and there was no indication that I would be getting there on time if I asked to hop on board. They didn’t seem to understand that I had priorities other than the festival but eventually became less persistent.

Without any plans for camping that night, I asked for suggestions. The taller hippy suggested going down by the river where a couple of the homeless crashed each night.

“Just don’t put yourself on some pot farmer turf, and you’ll be fine.”

As the sun set, everyone but Andy and his dog packed into the van and drove off. Andy wanted to cook some hamburgers and invited me to join him. He led me down some cliffs to the beach and to what was formerly “the fort.” Andy informed me that what was now a massive pile of driftwood was once a giant tepee where many slept and partied each night. Unfortunately for Andy and his friends, Mendocino attracts a particular variety of tourists who happen to be repulsed by the experience of investigating a giant tepee on the beach only to find a bunch of smelly hippies sleeping in it. So the police wrecked it.

I decided to camp on the beach with Andy. I read while he cooked his burger and rambled away. He was originally from San Diego and had been bumming around the Triangle for a couple of months. When he told me he received food stamps, I asked why he didn’t work.

“No one will hire you around here.”

“Why not head to the cities? I saw lots of jobs in San Francisco.”

“Weed isn’t the same down there.”

Amused by that last remark, I stared into the fire as he threw raw hamburger to his dog. He then reiterated something I found hard to believe, which Gold Bear had mentioned earlier.

“It’s really easy to get free weed up there. Just ask a homeless person.”

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I headed to sleep relatively early to get up in time to leave before cops searched the beach for illegal campers. I also needed to start crushing miles to get to Montana in time. The agenda for the day was to ride 10 miles north to Fort Bragg before heading 35 miles east to Willits. From there, I reckoned I could easily catch a ride to I-5 and head north to Oregon.

I got to Fort Bragg quickly and stopped at McDonald’s to smash a cheap but highly caloric breakfast before the hard ride. Although not of the highest quality, the pancakes, eggs, hashbrowns, sausage, and ham were divine compared to the oatmeal I had been eating. I was about halfway through my breakfast when I was approached by a friendly older gentleman.

“That your bike?”

Ned looked remarkably similar to Snoop Dog if Snoop Dog were a white, homeless, 50-year-old man.

“I happen to be a bit of a biker myself,” said Ned, beckoning towards his bicycle.

His setup was hilarious and was nothing more than an old bicycle with a plastic egg basket ghetto-rigged to his handlebars with twine, plus some old saddlebags and a blanket. He sat down at my table, and we shot the shit as I ate. Upon offering him my hashbrown, he excitedly accepted.

“Hey man, a friend of mine dropped off this nug earlier. Want to go smoke it?”

Expecting to go somewhere more discreet, we strolled into the yard behind the McDonalds and smoked beside a creek in broad daylight. Nobody seemed to give a damn, and I got the feeling that this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence in Fort Bragg. Ned was always talking, barely stopping to take a breath or, for that matter, connecting the content that he was explaining reasonably. Pretty sure his brain was toast.

We were spotted by two men who were clearly also homeless. There was an older balding man and a younger guy with long hair. As soon as they came over, I could tell they were high on something that probably wasn’t marijuana; the younger dude especially was in a sad state of affairs. He constantly stared at the ground and mumbled, seemingly to nobody, regardless of who else was speaking. The other two talked a lot of shit to him.

“Marty, if you were my brother I’d smack you right now.”

They talked over each other, completely unaware that I lacked the attention or desire to listen to three random homeless people simultaneously, and they each rambled on to me about something different all at once. As I contemplated my escape from the situation, I looked from bum to bum as they spoke in an attempt to be polite and appear to be listening to each of them. After half a minute, it became clear that Marty was just sitting there mumbling at nobody. This offered relief as I felt it would be fine to simply smile and nod at only the two other men.

Thankfully, a coherent thought finessed its way into Ned’s brain, and he changed the topic. Turning to the older bum, he said, “Hey man, this dude is biking to Montana! You got any bud for him?”

“Yeah! I’ll be right back.” The man jogged away, leaving behind his box of doughnuts. Ned and Marty dove in and offered me one, but I declined. As I contemplated abandoning manners and running away, I watched Marty struggle to roll another joint. His hands quivered as he placed trimmings on the paper. Bringing the joint to his mouth, his lips quivered, and he groaned quietly as he soaked the entire cigarette with his tongue and sealed it. The poor bastard was definitely tweaking.

10 minutes later, the man returned with a large contractor bag filled with trimmings.

“You got a bag, man?”

“Um, not really. I have this grocery bag here?”

“That works!”

He began stuffing handful after handful of trimmings into the grocery bag. I was in disbelief. Even across my entire experience living in Breckenridge employee housing, I had never seen so much weed. Ned suggested we smoke Marty’s saliva-soaked joint before I departed, but I respectfully declined and headed off to Willits.

No more hanging out with homeless people.

It ended up being one of the most challenging rides of my trip. One of the bums had told me, “You go up a big hill and then down a big hill, and then you’re there!” He sold the experience short. In actuality, The road to Willits involved several hills, concluded with a significant climb, and totaled over 3,600 vertical feet gained and 2,200 lost across 30 miles. As soon as I progressed a couple miles inland, the temperature spiked to over 100 Fahrenheit, adding further difficulty to the ride. As I ascended each ridge, I would alternate sides of the road, desperately trying to stay in what little shade was available as I watched my water supply rapidly diminish.

It wasn’t long before I ran out of water and had no choice but to stand on the side of the road holding my empty water bottle upside-down in an attempt to flag down a car for help. I was shocked when about 20 people passed me before somebody actually stopped. A kind old lady gave me a bottle to chug on the spot on top of refilling my bottles.

It was a long day. The mileage wasn’t bad, but the high temperature and relentless climbing were enough to break me. I was beaten when I reached the final summit and descended roughly 500 feet into Willits. I stopped at a grocery store and picked up a half-gallon of moose tracks, a giant orange, and a Gatorade. Sitting by a pillar outside the building and with my phone plugged into the only outlet in sight, I dove into the ice cream.

A man approached, “You’re kind of in the way. Can you please move?”

“No,” I responded frankly, without making eye contact.

As I finished the ice cream, my dead phone had charged enough to turn it on. There was text from my mom saying I needed to call her. I was informed that my grandfather had been taken off life support and that he would die by the end of the next day. I needed to get to an airport to fly home for the funeral as soon as possible.

I hung up, feeling overwhelmed and guilty for not being present for what was going on back home. The ride had taken quite a toll on me, and the only option was to return to San Francisco by the next day. It was a daunting task, and thankfully, my dad was already on top of finding flights for me to get home. Despite my exhaustion, I lifted myself to my feet.

First thing first, I wasn’t going to fly home with a grocery bag full of weed. Turning to a man my age standing nearby, talking on the phone, I asked, “Want some weed?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, here, it’s all yours.”

“… Wow … Thanks!”

With my grocery bag full of trimmings out of the picture, I headed back into the store to acquire a piece of cardboard for a sign before heading to the busy intersection nearby. “Urgently need to get to San Francisco!”

I stood for over four hours with my thumb out, trying to catch a ride. I eventually hit a breaking point and began counting out loud the number of SUVs and trucks with room for myself and my bike that passed without stopping to help me out. I was nearing 250 when I gave up. In retrospect, it was not helpful that I was in a region frequented by vagrants holding a sign saying I had to get to San Francisco, a destination over a hundred miles away. Still, I was appalled that 0 out of 250 Northern Californians felt charitable that evening. It seemed as though I had exhausted what good karma I had over the past few months of receiving kindness from so many others.

It started to get dark, and tragically, I was forced to resort to plan B: start biking south. It was night when I got a couple miles out of town. The highway was bustling with people commuting back to the cities after their weekend vacations to the coast, and I couldn’t be bothered to risk biking along it. Once the road cleared, I dismounted and threw my bike over a guardrail. I quickly set up my bivy beside the road, well-hidden due to a shallow depression and some tall grass. I camouflaged everything and headed straight to bed.

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I woke up around 4:30 and walked along the highway with my thumb out by 5. This time, only 15 minutes had passed since somebody had pulled over. He was of Hispanic descent and appeared to be in his mid-30s.

The man was returning from a couple days spent at a casino north of Willits. He spoke a lot, mostly about recent experiences with prostitutes, gambling, and making subtle hints about methamphetamine. Despite his extremely suspicious tales, he didn’t seem threatening. Still, when he asked how much my bike cost, I didn’t hesitate to say, “It’s a piece of shit I got at a garage sale. If you were lucky, you might get 100 bucks for it after fixing it up.”

After rambling for probably half an hour until I suggested that we smoke the one joint I had left, he finally asked me about my situation. I must have struck a chord in his heart. He quickly became very empathetic and told me that if I paid him, he would drive me to San Francisco. I considered it, but I was still uncertain about his intentions as he repeatedly suggested that I leave my bike with him and return for it sometime in the future.

As we approached his town, he suggested I check out his place. Given the abundance of red flags and remaining cautious, I declined. Still, he insisted multiple times and said it would only take a minute.

“Come on, man, I’ll make you some food, and you can see my goats.”

Despite the insanity of his offer and my insistence that he drop me at the exit ramp, it seemed I had no choice other than to reluctantly accept, as I did not want to risk upsetting him by firmly saying no.

Everything about my experience with him so far conjured the expectation that I was about to roll into some sort of janky trap house. On the contrary, he lived in a humble home on a beautiful hill overlooking a valley. All the windows and doors were open, and the air smelled fresh. Sure enough, a handful of healthy goats grazing in a yard across the fence from several salvaged vehicles he was working on in his garage. Inviting me inside, he grabbed steak from his refrigerator and prepared me a delicious burrito with bell peppers from his garden.

“Good luck to you, man, I’m sorry about your grandfather. Share your story with people. They’ll help you out.”

I could not have been more wrong about exhausting my good fortune. What a guy.

I ended up back at the highway entrance with my sign-out and my bike by my side. He said I could easily get a ride from there, but it was only a few hours before a lady on her way back from Idaho finally picked me up. She and her partner had a falling out a few weeks prior, and she headed north for several weeks of white water to disconnect. She seemed upset, so I changed the topic and explained where I was trying to go.

“Tell you what. I live in Berkley. The train to San Francisco is pretty cheap, and I can drop you off at the station there.”

By 1:00, I was on the BART headed under the Bay back to San Francisco. I decided to get off the train in the Mission District to head to a bike shop where I could get everything packaged and shipped home. Feeling naked without my bike, I carried my saddlebags down the street to the bus stop, where I caught a ride back to the Brydon house.

Somehow, I managed to ride the bus for free and hopped off about two miles from Jeff’s house. Still carrying the saddlebags, I made my way up a maze of roads into familiar territory. When I arrived, Jeff was hanging out in the kitchen and had a chuckle about seeing me again. Not wanting to overstay my welcome given the unexpected return, I promptly prepared for my flight home after a quick chat. After ditching several items to reduce my belongings to a carry-on bag, I hung out for a few hours before making my way to the airport.

Somehow, by the grace of humanity, I was on an airplane headed back to Michigan by nightfall. A seat on a plane will never feel as welcoming as it did at that moment. I passed out.

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Including my winter in Breckenridge, I had been in the west for eight months by the time I had left. I was disappointed that my trip was cut short but, as always, excited to return to Michigan. Though I have tried many times in this blog, words honestly cannot describe how thankful I am for this experience and those who have helped me along the way. The compassion I repeatedly received from total strangers has reinforced my faith in humanity and allowed me to see the world through a new lens.

I also feel lucky to have traveled my country by bicycle. Being outside a car’s metal and glass container brought many challenges, but the rewards were countless. Rather than seeing the world through a window, I was fully immersed in it. I have gained an entirely new appreciation of America’s vastness, unmatched beauty, and cultural and geographical diversity. There is still so much I have yet to see here. Given the scope of what this country can offer, I hardly feel compelled to leave the United States to travel internationally.

I am grateful for my health and the support I received before, during, and after the journey. You, my readers, have motivated me to keep going when I’ve felt alone or beaten. Sharing this experience is what makes it worth living. Thank you so much for being a part of it.

Peace.

Norcal

Two days ago, I departed the lovely city of San Francisco. I bid farewell to the Brydon’s, who I would like to thank again for their relentless and unmatched hospitality. I was in no rush as I went to the Golden Gate Bridge along the hilly and car-packed streets. Needing new reading material, I stopped momentarily to pick up A Clash of Kings, the second book in the Song of Ice and Fire series (known to television as Game of Thrones). It was a good buy because it has been enjoyable so far, and the desire to dive further into the story has motivated me to crush miles to get to camp early and read.

I lost some time as I struggled to find the bike path to cross the Golden Gate Bridge until a local biker pointed me in the right direction. The crossing was rumored to be gnar, and some folks remarked how poorly I was dressed in only my biking shorts and sleeveless shirt as I ascended to the bridge. I thought they were exaggerating until I reached the bridge span, where I was blasted by a cold wind unlike any I had experienced on the trip. Although epic in its own right, I could not cherish the scenery or the symbolic aesthetics of crossing into the north across such an iconic structure as the wind nearly blew me over on several occasions.

I stopped at a small market to stock up on food for the next week and a half: rice, beans, cheese, and oatmeal. I regret spending so much recreationally in the last few weeks, but I am somewhat looking forward to embracing a low-budget, simple lifestyle until the end of my trip.

I made my way efficiently up some unexpectedly significant climbs into Muir Woods, surprised at how my body was performing after being off the bike for a while. It started getting dark, so I pushed my bike up a trail right off the road and made camp on an overlook of the bay. I kind of fucked up my dinner, not knowing northern beans need to be soaked for several hours before being cooked. I ate them relatively raw before reading and crashing around 9.

The next day, I continued north along the scenic Highway 1. It was the exact opposite of what I expected from the California coast. Since leaving the city, I have seen few cars and biked mostly alone along the hilly, forested roads. Very little sunlight makes its way through the dense fog that shrouds the land between the ocean and the barrier of mountains to the east. The air and ground alike are cold and damp. The water is rough and unwelcoming, crashing against cliffs and jagged rocks that don’t invite one to stop for a quick swim.

None of this is to say I don’t enjoy it. Northern California harbors a unique attitude, one rugged and unknown beauty that embodies the feeling of being in “the north.” It’s quiet and desolate, everything feels slower. Only once every 20-40 miles will a small village emerge along the rocking, unforgiving coast and towering eucalyptus trees. Each of these little villages has a gas station, a post office, some sort of restaurant and inn combined that also serves as a general store, and rarely much else.

In it’s own right, it’s fucking awesome, and it feels like I’m back in the Wild West again. As I bike, I take every opportunity to charge my phone (having misplaced my extra battery) and fill my water in these villages just as I did in Nevada, Utah, and Colorado. This commonly leads me to sit outside a shop for some time while I juice up my phone.

Yesterday, while doing so, a very friendly couple approached me, who saw my bicycle and asked about my journey. It wasn’t long before they offered to buy me lunch next door. Peanut butter and honey in a corn tortilla were getting redundant, and good company is once again a novelty, so I was happy to accept. After a delicious meal and good conversation, they wrapped up extra French fries and half of a grilled cheese sandwich I ate for dinner last night. They also bought me veggie wrap AND a Snickers bar, which I have been eating sparingly today. Those folks from New Hampshire were good people, and I am grateful for their support and hope to pay it forward someday down the road.

I continued along the highway, searching for campsites as I passed Valley Ford. The sun was getting low, and time was short. Upon seeing what appeared to be a viable spot beneath some trees along a creek off the side of the road, I waited for any cars to clear before throwing myself and my bike over the fence. As I did this, I discovered the fence was electric upon getting shocked, but nonetheless elected to continue. The risk of camping on what was clearly private property seemed safer than biking through the dark along Highway 1, which commonly lacked a substantial shoulder.

It ended up being a great spot that was well-sheltered from the view of anybody on the road. The creek trickled from a large concrete tunnel under the road and offered a pleasant ambiance that distracted me from the possibility of an unfriendly encounter with the property owner. Nonetheless, I maintained discretion, keeping my headlamp on dim as I set up camp and tore into the grilled cheese and french fries like a wild dog before retreating into my bivy to read.

Tired, I closed my book and tried to get some sleep after only a few minutes. As consciousness began to fade, I heard the splashing and clicking of hooves. Equipping my glasses and poking my head from my bivy, I gazed toward the concrete portal. There, I could see the silhouette of several cows, wide-legged, alarmed, motionless, and staring in my direction. It was clear that the cows wanted to move through the tunnel into the pasture opposite where I camped. I was apologetic for intruding upon their domain and nightly routine, so I mooed at them to invite them over. They promptly bolted.

This happened several times that night.

I woke and packed up without a trace by dawn, eager to avoid any confrontation with a pissed-off cattle rancher. I passed the beautiful Bodega Bay and am now munching on the veggie wrap in Jenner. I have just under 40 more miles to go to Gualala, my goal for the day. From there, I will continue north on the 1 towards the Humboldt Redwoods and then Eureka.

Peace!

The Golden Gate

Today begins the second half of my bike tour. Before crossing the Golden Gate and proceeding north toward my ultimate goal of Montana, I want to take some time to highlight my time in a quick shout-out to San Francisco before I leave.

Over the many days I’ve been here on either side of our trip to Yosemite, I’ve been staying with Jeff, my former roommate from Breckenridge. His parents have kindly allowed me to crash on a queen-sized mattress in the basement, which has been luxurious compared to the ground and couches I’ve been sleeping on since April. A couple of other friends from Breckenridge have also been filtering in and out of the Brydon household over the past few weeks, including my good friend Luke, who sold me the bike I’ve been riding. Although many strangers have treated me well along this journey, seeing familiar faces has been refreshing.

I spent the first week here before the Yosemite trip exploring the city by bicycle and enjoying delicious food while helping the Brydons prepare their yard for landscaping. San Francisco is a diverse, well-loved city rich with culture, diversity, and endless shit to do. There seems to be a large population of immigrants from Asia, more hipsters than one could count, and at least a couple of the world’s finest crackheads.

Being in San Francisco during their annual race, Bay to Breakers, was quite the treat. The 7.5-mile race runs from the San Francisco Bay to the Pacific Ocean. Although a few people, who seemed predominantly Kenyan, took the race seriously and ran at a competitive pace, most folks donned costumes, walked, and did their best to complete as many miles as possible before the alcohol and/or drugs did them in. The streets are closed to vehicles as tens of thousands of people, almost all obliterated, pack into the streets as a mob dressed like it is Halloween in June.

In any case, we couldn’t help but partake (in the party, not the nudity). After several miles of walking, we made our way to a park where hundreds were gathered around a balancing beam constructed of two-by-fours, where a man dressed as a fairy defeated contestant after contestant in a fierce battle of balance and stamina. By early afternoon, thousands of us were too drunk and tired to continue on. The masses retired to roadside parks to rest and enjoy the summer sun. At one point, a double-decker bus full of cheery tourists passed our park and waved. They were mooned by at least 100 people.

Aside from Bay to Breakers, here are a few other pictures of the city throughout the week:

The Mission District

Twin Peaks

Painted Ladies

North Beach

Fine Arts Museum of San Francisco

The Golden Gate Bridge

The week following Yosemite has been pretty relaxed. On one of the nicer days, we headed across the Golden Gate to Muir Woods to investigate a German beer house nestled in the mountains just a short hike from the road. I don’t believe it was much of a secret to the people of San Francisco as our internet source made it out to be: the place was packed. We dodged a big line heading into the lodge by sneaking around the back and hopping the fence. We were hunted down and sternly rebuked for this, but they still let us stay and drink their beer.

A few days ago, we were making our way along the beach to a hike called Land’s End when we stumbled upon several hundred people dancing. There was a large Burning Man float upon which the DJs oriented the crowd, though no music could be heard. Upon approaching the crowd, it was revealed that everyone was wearing a headset, all tuned to the same broadcast. Being a frugal bastard, I decided not to drop $20 to experience the silent disco. Regardless, it is worth mentioning that these spontaneous things create the soul of San Francisco. By simply walking around the city, you could easily fill an entire day (and night) with exciting things that are completely unplanned – a novelty that I am grateful to the Brydon’s that I was able to enjoy for over a week.

San Francisco has been a great time, but I am anxious to get back on my bike after a couple weeks off the saddle. Shout out to everyone who has made this visit the best, especially the Brydon family, who have been awesomely hospitable and a pleasure to spend time with!

Now, I’m heading up Highway 1 along the coast to Oregon. Once I reach Oregon, I’ll cut east to Crater Lake before heading north toward Portland. From there, I’ll head east past Mount Hood and through Idaho to Jackson, Wyoming, where my trip will end. I’ll update more regularly now that I’m on the road again, so keep watching for updates!

Peace

Banner Peak Expedition

Several months before I departed Breckenridge on my trusty Long Haul Trucker, I came across the image of Banner Peak, a tremendously picturesque mountain. Captivated, I promptly determined the mountain’s location and how to reach it. In doing so, I determined a relatively straightforward Class 3 route to the summit, and soon enough, climbing Banner Peak became the most anticipated objective of the bike tour. The approach was located on the Pacific Crest Trail and the John Muir Trail just south of Tuolumne Meadows, one of the most coveted hiking and climbing destinations in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

I couldn’t be more stoked about how well everything came together. I told my college friend Mary about the trip, and she flew to San Francisco from Grand Rapids to join. One night out in the city, we bumped into another friend from Breckenridge, Malcolm, who, upon hearing about the trip on two days’ notice, purchased all of the necessary gear from REI and tagged in. Jeff didn’t hesitate to hop on board as well and offered to contribute his awesomely fuel-efficient Prius to the cause. Considering that everyone was informed that the trip would be challenging and there was no certainty we would summit, I was thoroughly impressed by the determination of our little tribe.

Day 1:

We drove to Yosemite Valley from San Francisco in roughly 4 hours and arrived around 2:00pm. We decided to get right into it and send a 4-mile, 3000 vertical foot hike to Glacier Point as soon as we arrived. The view of the Valley from the top was second to none, but it was crowded due to the alternative option of driving to the top. Redeemingly, there was ice cream sold at the nearby visitor center.

We hiked back down and cooked dinner with dry wood in an iron grill at the bottom of the Valley. Unfortunately, the backpacker campground was full. We had to make do with dirt bagging in the wood across the road from the picnic area. There was a bear encounter that night.

Bridalveil Falls

Glacier Point

       El Capitan 

Day 2:

We got up early and followed Tioga Road to the park’s eastern border. Instead of using the trailhead suggested online to approach Banner Peak from the east, I elected to start in Tuolumne Meadows and approach via Lyell Canyon. I first noticed the canyon’s distinct geography on a topographic map while researching Banner Peak’s surrounding area. The 9-mile-long Valley is flanked by alpine ridges and divided by a stream that carves its way through open meadows at the bottom. We hiked for 4 or 5 hours before the next day’s major obstacle, the 11,000-foot-high Donohue Pass, appeared before us. We set up camp among pine trees at the base of the ascent and made delicious burritos for dinner. During what might be my greatest backcountry poop to date, I watched as the final rays of sunlight glistened across the mist of a waterfall on the opposing side of the Valley.

Lyell Canyon

Looking towards Donohue Pass

Day 3:

Our second day began with a sample of the alpine terrain we would traverse in the coming days. As we ascended the 11,000-foot pass into the high country, stream and snowfield crossings became increasingly frequent. With only one ice axe for our entire party, we dug the toes of our boots into the snow to ascend the slick faces and hopped from one island of rock and tree to the other. Despite the additional challenge of early season conditions, we made our way to the summit in time for lunch. The top provided phenomenal views of the High Sierra and our first look at Banner Peak. As we dove into our lunches, we were visited by a curious marmot who seemed eager to steal our precious snacks.

Donahue Pass

Banner Peak (directly above the marmot in the picture above) loomed in the distance, towering above neighboring peaks. Its rock, snowfield, and glacier-shielded aspects were steep and admittedly intimidating. After looking forward to the trip for months, physically seeing the mountain filled me with anticipation. There was clear apprehension about our objective once eyes were on it, but everyone was eager to continue.

Climbing Donahue Pass, followed by another 7 miles of hiking, exhausted us into agreeing that we should turn in early instead of hiking to the base of Banner. We continued across the snow, seeing only one other hiker as we trekked. He had exhausted his water supply and, having no means of purification accepted my offer to bum him a few iodine tablets. As we descended, the snow dispersed, and we were able to find the actual trail. After some searching, we found a proper camping spot west of Waugh Lake. Camping below the treeline offered the additional bonus of enjoying a campfire to cook meals and dry our socks. The sun set as we ate, projecting a radiant orange glow against magnificent spires to the north.

Day 4:

It was a 6-mile hike to Thousand Island Lake at the base of Banner Peak the following day. Shorter than previous hikes, it went quickly as we took plenty of off-piste shortcuts over snow and rock. Upon reaching the lake’s north shore, we were pleased to discover many options for base camp over the next two nights. Once camp was prepared, Mary, Malcolm, and I headed towards the peak to evaluate our route’s snow conditions and safety. Although snow was abundant from a blizzard the week before, several days of warm weather had allowed snowpack to settle, and kicking footholds was easy. This was good news, considering we were relatively under-equipped, having no crampons and the one ice axe.

We spent the evening playing cards and enjoying some of California’s finest herbs. As the sun set, I prepared my summit pack and took a moment to soak in my surroundings. Thousand Island Lake was frozen and still. Banner Peak stood regally as its summit faded in and out of view with each puffy, cumulus cloud passing. The silent power of the little sanctuary we had found wild and surreal. As clouds rolled in over the peak, I became anxious about whether we could climb the following day. Fortunately, the clouds had dispersed by nightfall, and our camp was blanketed by a star-lit sky.

Banner Peak

Thousand Island Lake

Base Camp

Day 5:

We woke up early to get a jump start on the big day ahead of us. Excited to wake up to clear skies, we suited up and headed out onto the snowfields around 9, giving the snow some time to soften.

North Glacier

It was steady and relatively easy hiking along the snowfield until we reached North Glacier Pass on the peak’s west side. We took our time scrambling over a rocky ridge that allowed us to navigate around the tarn at the glacier’s base. From there, it was a straight shot up the long, mellow gully to the saddle.

Mt. Ritter, Banner’s sister peak. The glacier lies in the saddle between the two peaks.

Banner-Ritter Glacier

Banner-Ritter saddle looking towards Banner Summit

Just before noon, we arrived at the upper saddle between Banner Peak and Mount Ritter. The east gully was a sheer drop due to the massive cornice formed over the winter. To the north, Banner Peak’s summit towered above a boulder field that would serve as our route up the final 1000 feet of the climb. Mary waited at the saddle as Jeff, Malcolm, and I proceeded up the Class 3-4 scramble to the top.

I felt waves of anxiety during the steep final pitches of the climb. Although the hike wasn’t super technical, I couldn’t help but consider the consequences of an injury in a location so remote. A bad slip on the scramble would mean a nasty 12-hour hike minimum to the nearest road with a broken bone. Luckily, we had no such issues, and before long, we stood atop Banner’s Summit! It was no more than a small, knife-edged ridge with a sheer thousand-foot drop off one side. With little time to waste as clouds moved in, we enjoyed a brief celebration and returned to the saddle.

View of the Banner-Ritter Glacier from Banner Summit

Thousand Island Lake from the summit of Banner Peak

I was especially cautious coming down the scramble, reminding myself that hastened descents commonly result in injuries. We reunited with Mary at the saddle and hustled down the Banner-Ritter glacier. Instead of scrambling up the ridge to reach the snowfield to the north, we traversed the snowy shore of the frozen tarn. From there on, it was Tier 1 glissading back to camp. Needless to say, it was a lot of fun.

We had planned on moving to a lower elevation after the climb to build a fire, but it started to rain as soon as we returned to camp. We pitched the tent, threw our gear under the vestibule, and spent the evening cooking food, playing games, and celebrating our successful ascent. A heavy storm moved in overnight, and having crammed all four of us into one tent resulted in a restless evening.

Day 6:

The following day, we decided to take an alternative route back to the car rather than hike the same terrain twice. The town of Silver Lake was within a day’s hike to the east, so we packed up and headed out with the plan to hitchhike back to the car. We took our time hiking through a land of lakes, granite, pine, and the occasional absence of snow on the trail. As we descended the high country to civilization, the weather became sunny and warm. When we passed a large dam, we were finally low enough that snow no longer covered the trail. A heavily forested valley opened up before us, at the bottom of which we could see a lake and a small resort town littered with cabins.

Silver Lake

Having run out of iodine and hydrated less than usually advised, I headed to the nearest available water source and filled up Nalgene for the crew. We proceeded into a campground’s C-store and went absolutely nuts on burritos and ice cream for an hour. Our post-hike feast was complete, we split into groups of two and made our way along the road with our thumbs out and eventually 50 miles back to Tuolumne Meadows with the help of good-hearted humans willing to pick us up. Then, it was back to Yosemite Valley to make dinner and camp for the night (legally this time).

Day 7:

To my disappointment, we discovered that getting permits for the Half-Dome hike was impossible unless we waited another 3 days to enter a lottery. Alternatively, we decided to do the Upper Yosemite Falls hike, which was completed in 1.5 hours. At the top, we enjoyed some beers and relaxed while appreciating the fine views and soothing mist of the falls. Jeff and I proceeded to Yosemite Point, a fine location for soaking in the energy of the Valley whilst passing a joint, and made conversation with some other travelers from Canada and Germany before heading back to the car.

Yosemite Falls

Yosemite Falls and Half Dome

Yosemite Point

Half Dome

As we departed that wonderful place, I decided that all I needed to stay for another week was a warm shower. Although this didn’t happen, we proceeded to a watering hole named Rainbow Falls along the way home. We enjoyed some air time and the unparalleled feeling of being submerged in cool water after a grimy backpacking trip. The only other stop we made on the way back to San Francisco was a Chinese buffet where I smashed five plates of food as Jeff commented on how fitting it would be for me to be in a zoo where people watch how much a human could eat.

Rainbow Falls

Livin’ Easy

It’s been a while since my last post. Typing on a smartphone equipped with an incredibly irritating auto-correct has gotten old, and, more often than not, I’m inclined to live this experience more than document it. For that, I apologize.  It will be much easier to upload photos and posts over the next two weeks while I spend time in San Francisco and Yosemite. Now that I’m in the big city (pictured below) and equipped with the computer that Jeff so kindly transported to the Bay area, I’m well-positioned to write a nice, long update!

Santa Barbara kicks ass. I stayed for over a week, crashing on the couch of a good friend, Kelsey, who stayed with us when she visited Jeff in Breckenridge. She lived in a 5 bedroom in the college town just west of UCSB called Isla Vista, crammed to the brim with 11 residents to make it affordable. The unit was located on Del Playa Drive, which parallels an oceanside cliff and hosts several waterfront properties I expect will one day meet a salty, wet demise due to erosion.

Waking up to the smell of seawater and the sound of waves every morning was great. My days usually began around 7:30am with several hours of biking or roaming about the beach and local natural areas. The sounds of crashing waves and singing birds provided a pleasant ambiance for the much-needed recovery time that has seemed relatively unobtainable since leaving the Rockies. These mornings quickly became my favorite part of each day. A dense haze always rose over the ocean, clouding the distant Channel Islands from view. The waterfront was littered with kelp and various sea life, and the receding tide made the sand solid and all the more perfect to run on. I completed a relatively long bike ride to the Santa Ynez Mountains one morning, cherishing the opportunity to pedal without the weight of all my touring gear.

In the past, when I watched movies or television shows depicting college life, I always felt that the level of debauchery was always dramatically exaggerated. Massive parties, chairs being smashed in the streets, people dancing on roofs. My experiences at party schools like Michigan State University certainly involved partying and plenty of moments of inebriated nonsense, but for the most part, students still seemed to keep academics at the forefront of their priorities. This was not the case at UC Santa Barbara, which I can only guess might be the inspiration for the representations of college life across all forms of media.

My morning bike rides and runs commonly ended around noon, when students began to emerge after recovering from their hangovers. Every day around that time, music blared from at least one house on each block as folks gathered in front lawns for afternoon beverage-related festivities. Heavy bike traffic filled the streets as students went about their business, blowing stop signs and disregarding the slow progress of those dumb enough to drive cars among them. By evening, it was not uncommon to see students dancing on roofs, stumbling through the streets, and using little discretion to relieve themselves of full bladders from heavy drinking.

I elected to spend the better part of each day exploring the town by longboard or lounging at the beach. The moments of recuperation were well-earned and much-needed, for I, too, indulged in evenings of mayhem. Although I certainly enjoyed myself, I never compromised enjoying the next day at the cost of attending an absolute banger of a party, which more often than not demanded an unappealing level of effort to navigate past a drunken bro at the door asking, “hold up, bro, who do you know here?”

One morning, I received a call from Jeff, who proclaimed that the wave quality warranted a day of surfing.

Jeff, my roommate from Breckenridge, who attended UCSB for college and was visiting for a weekend, explained that surfing in May was much like powder days back in the mountains. Every once in a while, a good wave day would present itself, and all the surfers in town would take their every day responsibilities less seriously to head to the ocean to take advantage of the opportunity. Jeff, Ben (my other roommate from Breck), Kelsey, and I jumped right on the bandwagon, bouncing around town to bum enough wetsuits and surfboards for each of us before heading to the ocean ourselves.

Surfing has a steep learning curve. Paddling from shore whilst being relentlessly pounded by waves is a major challenge in itself. Once I finally made it past the shallower breaks, I would turn my board parallel to the shore and wait for an oncoming wave. Soon enough, a massive swell would approach, and with my board pointed towards the shore, I would begin paddling when the wave was roughly 10 feet behind me. Once I caught the swell, I would begin to stand up and attempt to ride the wave.

I totally ate shit nearly every time. The fitness required to surf proficiently was well above me. Every time I tried to stand, my arms were so fatigued from paddling that I could hardly push myself up. The surf would force me under and spin me around relentlessly. I usually didn’t put much effort into trying to surface since I was at the mercy of the ocean and instead held my breath as it tossed me around like a rag doll until it relented. More often than not, I’d get slammed again as soon as I could catch some air.

Regardless, every time I was able to break from the mayhem, I would emerge from the water laughing. Immersion in the natural world is a hell of a lot of fun, even when I’m getting my ass kicked, and I respect it for what it is. Even though I only made it onto my knees every time I caught a wave and stood up once, I had a really good time. Being entirely surrounded by nature and at its mercy while sharing the experience with people I love is what I live for. Surfing is awesome, and I wish I had more time to invest in it. Part of me is compelled to stick around California a bit longer.

Later that week, Jeff, Ben, and I made our way north to do some hiking. We drove up a meandering 4,000-foot ascent to Santa Ynez Peak along a winding and relatively unmaintained trail. We were told there would be epic views at the summit ridge, but we were greeted by a dense fog. The hike was enjoyable and scenic nonetheless.

Afterward, we went to a cool watering hole called Red Rocks. A massive spire rose out of the canyon from deep, teal pools of fresh water. We indulged in mellow scrambling up the spires before leaping into the water from the ledges as other visitors watched below. Between the biking, surfing, partying, and days like today, I don’t think I would have made it through college here.

Another afternoon, I was chilling on the beach with Nina, one of Kelsey’s roommates, when she suggested we swim to the kelp forest several hundred feet offshore. It took longer than I imagined to reach it. When I glanced back, I saw that people hanging out on the beach were no more than specks on the shore. Coming from the Great Lakes, where there is no fear of being stung, bitten, or eaten by any sea creature, I had a little anxiety being so far from shore.

Shortly after joking about “dolphin rape,” serendipitously, a mist of water emerged from the surface no more than 20 feet ahead. My mind was blown as a dolphin popped in and out of the water right in front of us for the next minute as it made its way up the coast. The animal was so close I could see its beady little eye checking us out. It was certainly one of the most badass encounters I’ve ever had with a wild animal.

My evening routine generally involved preparing some dinner and enjoying a shower beer in anticipation of evening festivities. Usually, by then, everyone was out of class, and the lot of us would rally to head to another residence. On one occasion, while drinking on the porch of a waterfront home, a pod of gray whales emerged from the surface, spraying water as they migrated North for the summer.

As the night went on, casual drinking would escalate into roughly organized mayhem. Thousands of students filled the streets in a massive, shameless pilgrimage along Del Playa Drive. A student smashed a plastic lawn chair into the street and was promptly confronted by the campus police. Once again, people danced on rooftops as bros and babes ran amok in their swimsuits. We encountered one shirtless man so drunk that he stumbled through the street with his entire upper body slumped to his left side. Everyone was inebriated. Many homes were venues for DJs and bands. Music could be heard from every other house whilst American academia’s finest danced below.

On my last night in town, I went to a beach house where a band, The California Honeydrops, performed. Not long into their set, it became clear that this was no college band haphazardly thrown together by classmates. Easily, a hundred people were grooving below the deck where they jammed away. The band played an ensemble of instruments: the saxophone, trumpet, keyboard… all the good stuff. Although up until this evening, it had been well enforced in Isla Vista that all loud music goes off at midnight, the Honeydrops didn’t stop. After their performance, they joined us in the crowd for an extended encore. The lot of us danced on until 1am when the crowd finally dispersed, drunken and mind-blown.

I don’t recall ever seeing anybody do homework.

Two days ago, Jeff, Ben, Luke (another friend from Breckenridge who sold me my touring bike), and I drove north along Highway 1 toward San Francisco. Fog blanketed the ocean as we went, the highway winding along cliffs rising hundreds of feet above the crashing tide. Regrettably, I ended up reading Game of Thrones and sleeping for most of the drive, which happened to be the only portion of the trip I planned to complete by car. We planned to spend the night in Big Sur and arrived there in time to take a short walk to the iconic McWay waterfall for a phenomenal sunset.

The night camping in the campgrounds ended up being an interesting experience. The lot of us posted up in different tents about the campsite, me in my bivy with my bug net open. On multiple occasions throughout the night, I heard rustling in the woods around us. It would come closer, stop, then closer, and closer. At one point, I yelled out, “That’s close enough,” only to look up and see the silhouette of an animal standing mere inches in front of me.

I will preface what happened next to explain that unless I’m grizzly bear country I, for better or worse, instinctively yell as loud as I can as a defense mechanism when I see a wild animal at night in the hopes that I scare it the fuck away. I repeatedly yelled, scaring the daylights out of the raccoon intruding on our camp and waking everybody around me. The damned things, likely conditioned to search campsites for food scraps, kept me up all night (and in doing so directly attributed to keeping up the entire campground all night), probably trying to get whatever they could smell in the food bag I so sensibly placed next to my tent.

At one point, I recall singing Bicycle Race by Queen to keep them away, so I used my phone to Google the lyrics. That was when I felt something bump into the side of my bivy. I rolled over onto the raccoon, and it frantically tried to escape. I woke up yelling yet again, realizing I was dreaming about the misery I was experiencing every time I was woken up.

Fuck raccoons…

The following morning, we went for a hike in the mountains of Big Sur before heading north to San Francisco, where I’m currently posted up in the home of Jeff’s parents, who graciously invited the lot of us to stay with them. I plan to do a lot of exploring this week, which will undoubtedly provide plenty of content for my next post. I’ll update again before I head to Yosemite on the 21st!

Peace

Beverly Bummin’

I took a lot of time getting my body hydrated and fueled up for the ride out of Vegas. Alright… Admittedly, the bed was super comfortable, and I took plenty of time to sleep in. No longer having to meet a schedule, I definitely slacked and left Las Vegas later than I probably should have.

No words describe the culture shock I experienced navigating the Vegas Strip after cycling through the mountains and desert for a month. As expected, there were countless cars and people, all of whom seemed utterly unaware of what was happening around them. The city’s center isn’t exactly bike-friendly, and I was relieved when I finally navigated from the bustling metropolis.

I knew the day was forecasted to be hot, but the first few hours were absurd. The sun beat down on me unhindered by any shade, and hundred-degree temperatures pushed my heat tolerance to the limit. I drank nearly a gallon of water before I left, but the heat of the desert sucked the water right out of my body. As I was biking, I was going through at least a liter every half hour, and about 15 miles in, I became concerned about heat exhaustion. I immediately sought refuge in the first and only spot of shade I could find beneath a billboard and decided to stop for an hour to get out of the sun.

After drinking another three liters and applying more sunscreen, I got lucky as a light overcast made its way over the mountains and provided some relief from the sun. I made my way onto I-15, which wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected. The shoulder was more than adequate, and there were plenty of cops about keeping the crazies coming in and out of Vegas from driving like idiots. There were also a lot more places to stop than I thought there would be, and I made sure to eat plenty of ice cream and Taco Bell every chance I could.

Soon enough, I got to the state line, and the sun began to set as I approached a massive and unexpected uphill. I was fortunate to be able to do the climb at night because it ended up being much larger than it looked, and doing it in the heat of the day would have been deadly. It took me about 3 hours to reach the summit of the hill. Shortly before I reached the pass, my bike adhered to the tradition of breaking down on significant hills. Luckily, it was just a deflated tube caused by the small wires that litter the highway from semi-trucks blowing out tires. A quick patch got me back in less than a half hour. I was beginning to get efficient at the invaluable repair Bob taught me just over a month ago.

I hoped to cover a lot of distance by night to avoid the heat during the long ride the next day, but the unexpected climb on top of 60 miles, weighed down by all the water I was carrying, left me exhausted. I stopped at a gas station after 10 miles of downhill and posted up in my sleeping bag in a lot full of semi-trucks, surely sticking out like a sore thumb. Thankfully, I felt an unsaid culture in the desert where everybody did their best to make the journey across the desolate happen was adhered to, and I remained unbothered through the night.

The next day started off rough. I had thought the wind would let up once I left the mountains in Utah, but I was greeted by some irritating 30mph gusts when I woke that morning. I got on the road early, anxious to make good time across what is known as “The Loneliest Road in America,” a vast stretch of highway with almost no stops between the state line and Barstow. I made good time during the first few hours and took a moment to rest at a gas station, which would likely be my last opportunity to fill up my water for 50 miles.

Sitting in the shade outside the gas station munching on some Subway, I noticed a nearby bro-brah chatting with a cross-country motorcyclist. The bro was impressed by the undertaking of traveling through the desert by motorcycle, but upon seeing my touring bike, he diverted his attention.

“Hold up, are you riding that thing across the desert?”

Zach was rolling in a pretty slick 1960s Volkswagen bus he received from his father, who he explained had several he had collected and was looking to sell. His father offered him one of the Volkswagens for free, so Zach was driving the well-loved vehicle from Idaho to San Diego to ship it out to his home in Hawaii. It didn’t take long for Zach to offer me a ride through the desert, and I wasn’t about to turn it down, so I loaded up my bike and we hit the road.

The next few hours were filled with good conversation, the loud rattling of the bus, and many thoughts of how much it would have totally sucked to bike through the desert as I watched it pass. I had never planned on going to Los Angeles, but when we finally reached Barstow, Zach told me he was heading into the city to visit a friend and asked if I wanted to go. Not having any real agenda and being open to exploring a new place, I decided it wouldn’t be a problem to simply head to Santa Barbra from LA.

We ended up heading over to Westwood to meet his buddy, Abe, a yoga teacher in town. Abe was dating a girl who attended UCLA and was able to use her student ID card to access the campus swimming pool. We spent the next couple of hours lounging by the pool, a nice change of pace after being so focused on traveling the last few weeks. The air was warm, and the coastal sun was not nearly as relentless and intense as it was in the desert. So far, I have no regrets about my slight detour.

Abe left to teach a class while Zach and I headed to a local taproom to have a couple beers. As the night approached, I was clear that I would be posting up somewhere in Las Angeles that night, with the beach being my tentative plan. My agenda settled, we continued to drink, and soon, Abe joined our evening shenanigans. As it turns out, Abe is house-sitting in a multi-million dollar mansion in Beverly Hills, and although we couldn’t go to the house, he told us it would be fine to park the bus in the street. In the heart of Beverly Hills, surrounded by mansions that cost more money than I can comprehend, I passed out on the fold-out bed in the back of a rickety old 1960s VW with someone I had only known for half a day.

The places and people I’ve encountered on this trip continue to surprise me.

Zach headed out around 7:30 the following morning, and I took time at a gas station to prepare for the massive ride that day. Los Angeles was overwhelming after time spent in the vast landscapes of the Rock Mountains, and to be frank, I was ready to get the fuck out. I set my sights on Santa Barbara, hoping to break my record for distance covered in a single day. I made my way west out of Beverly Hills towards the ocean along the scenic Sunset Boulevard. Although I couldn’t afford to waste much time, I couldn’t resist running out to the sea to dip my feet and bike in the Pacific when I arrived at the famous coastal Highway.

I grabbed some Taco Bell, which should be sponsoring me by now, before heading north along the coast. Highway 1 was a pleasant, scenic ride. I was flanked by ocean and cliffs for the first 40 miles, and the scent of the Pacific Ocean embellished my ride until I approached Oxnard. The air gradually became more and more hazy, and soon, I could smell a massive forest fire burning in the hills a few miles away. I made a couple wrong turns in Oxnard, and at one point, my tire went flat, which properly pissed me off for a couple minutes. After recovering from my frustrations, I ate a quick lunch and continued along the highway to Santa Barbara.

I was excited when I finally biked through the bustling, trendy streets of the beautiful coastal city of Santa Barbara. I still had several miles to go to reach Isla Vista, the college town where I was offered a couch to crash. When I reached my destination, I was behind 12 straight hours and 113 miles of biking. I was pooped and passed out early.

I’ll fill you in more on Santa Barbara later. I plan to stay here for a week and enjoy the ocean.

Zion

Thursday night was rough. I was eager to position myself to reach Zion by the following day, so I left Bryce at 11:30pm. I biked through the cold and dark for two hours before I resorted to sleeping beneath a Subway billboard outside a town called Hatch. The temperature plummeted as the night went on. Still, I stayed relatively warm, and the flat clearing beneath the billboard was perfect for a quick camp.

I woke up early the next morning and headed south on Highway 89 towards Mount Carmel Junction. Flanked by towering, orange canyon walls along a river sheltered by lush green cottonwoods, I enjoyed speedy progress as the road was mostly downhill. Stopping for lunch in a gas station, I met another cyclist, Tim, riding a large titanium mountain bike around Utah. After a healthy lunch of corn dogs and ice cream, I continued downhill when signs directing me west to Zion started to pop up.

When I started heading west into the park from Mount Camel Junction, I was greeted by a long, gradual incline. It continued for an irritating 12 miles, but I pushed to catch up when I noticed that Tim, whom I had met earlier, was just a bit ahead of me. He was down to bike into the park together, and a couple miles from the top of the incline, we both stopped to catch our breath. Tim informed me that we’d be relieved by several miles of descent through canyons and eventually have to shuttle our bikes through a tunnel.

We pushed towards the park together, and despite Tim being on a bigger and heavier bike, I had to hustle to keep up. Soon enough, the park entrance appeared, and the mind-blowing experience of speeding downhill into Zion began. Giant red and yellow monoliths towered hundreds of feet above me in every direction. I whooped as I raced through what was undeniably the most extraordinary stretch of road I have ever seen in my life. It might even be worth riding back up to do it one more time – just not today.

Eventually, we reached a checkpoint before a long tunnel through the rock where bikes weren’t allowed. The park ranger at the entrance helped us flag down a truck that could give Tim and me a ride through the tunnel. Things got sketchy here. I’m unsure if the driver was nuts or resentful that he was asked to give us a ride, but he decided to drive through the tunnel way too fast. With one hand holding my bike and the other clinging on to the truck for dear life, thoughts of me and my trusty companion flying out of the open truck bed and onto the convertible tailgating us rushed through my head.

Upon exiting the tunnel, Tim and I briefly reflected on our terrifying experience before continuing. The switchbacks following the tunnel carried us into Zion’s central valley, putting even the best roller coasters to shame. Soon enough, we arrived in Springdale, a small, expensive town just south of Zion. It was a lively place, full of tourists and bikers making their way in and out of the park. I arrived at a hotel Brooke had reserved for the evening and, after bidding farewell to Tim, spent the rest of the day organizing gear as I waited for Brooke to drive in from Vegas.

The next day, Brooke and I got going as early as possible to get first dibs on some National Park campsites just past Springdale. We ate breakfast and headed into the park, managing to snag camp for the next two nights before making our way to the West Rim Trail. Brooke had mentioned a strong desire to hike the iconic Angel’s Landing after being unable to talk her family into doing so a few years prior. There was quite a bit of hype about it, particularly the level of exposure as you traverse to the summit, so I was more than game.

We started by passing the Emerald Pools, a grotto where small waterfalls trickled from cliffs at least a thousand feet above us into teal pools below. Two and a half miles and many switchbacks later, we arrived at the legendary Angel’s Landing, commonly known as “the third most dangerous hike in any national park.” It was pretty exposed as advertised, considering a good thousand-foot drop on either side and a fall would absolutely result in death. Still, its element of danger is exaggerated since there is a chain to hold on to through each of those sections. Nonetheless, the hike is breathtaking and worth stopping at Zion if you’re in the area and keen for a quick workout.

After Angel’s Landing, we continued another 3 or 4 miles up the trail to the West Rim. The hike was more pleasant from this point forward. Angel’s Landing, one of Zion’s crown jewels, thankfully consolidated the crowds into one area, keeping the rest of the park much more secluded.

We headed back into town as the sun began to disappear behind the canyon walls, casting a shadow into the valley. We decided to head to bed early, but not before smashing copious amounts of pizza and pasta at one of the restaurants in Springdale.

The next day we went to a hike Tim recommended to us called the Canyon Overlook Trail. It’s a short but scenic .5 mile hike right by the east entrance to the tunnel. When we reached the overlook at the end of the trail, we were hungry for more and began eyeballing a good 800 foot ascent up some sandstone slab nearby. As we gradually made our way to the top of a high ridge, a flute player far below contributed gentle melodies into the Canyon, adding much to the aesthetics of the desert.

We chilled at the top for a while and enjoyed the relief of a cooling breeze. Small birds jetted around us, making audible “whooshing” sounds as they sped within a foot or so of our heads. I could hear voices echoing from a slot canyon below, amplified by the terrain’s topography. We descended the slab back to the trail and soon made our way to The Narrows, a popular slot canyon favored by tourists and canyoneers alike. Wet suits were recommended, but I decided to rock a pair of basketball shorts and hiking boots. It didn’t take long for the hike to get cold, given how little sunlight reached the base of the aptly named narrow canyon, but it was well worth it to have my feet in water for the first time in months.

Our last day was a bit more mellow as we headed to a less popular hike to escape the crowds and relax. We hiked through a ravine that soon developed into a slot canyon, made our way up some slab to a relaxing spot overlooking the valley, and spent the remainder of our time enjoying the excellent spring weather before descending and heading out.

Brooke gave me a ride all the way to Vegas. I had zero regrets about this because the road from Zion to St. George had no shoulder through some narrow canyon sections and would have been death-defying by bike with the weekend National Park traffic hustling back to Vegas. My dad was so kind as to use some hotel points to provide me shelter for the evening. Furthermore, as expected in Vegas, the hotel included an all-you-can-eat dinner, including piles of Chinese food! I may have had to sleep in a ditch or two along the way, but the trip is becoming pretty luxurious.

I’m now preparing myself for a massive ride through the desert to Santa Barbra. It’s easily 100 degrees today, so I’ll likely end up biking through the night to avoid the heat. It’ll be a long haul on the interstate, but I’m looking forward to the ocean! Wish me luck!

Peace.

Bogus and Beauty

Wednesday morning began for me around 7am in the ditch behind the hotel. I moved fast to pack up and get an early start on the big climb ahead. I popped into the hotel to use the bathroom. I made sure to dip into the continental breakfast and loot a modest amount of food. With earphones in and podcasts on (I’ve been digging Radiolab), I hit the road by 9:30.

Things were going well early on. My legs felt great, and I made good progress south up the mountain pass towards Boulder until something I was entirely unprepared for happened.

Feeling stupid for overlooking the possibility of a chain failure and pretty in over my head, I spent half an hour trying to improvise a quick fix for the chain to no avail. Out of options, I figured my best bet was to reach the top of the pass and bomb down the hill into town from the top of the pass, so I started hiking.

About a half hour later, a car pulled up and offered me a ride, which I felt would have been foolish to decline. This situation became awkward as they opened their trunk to load up my bike, and a glass lantern fell out and shattered on the road. The man seemed disappointed that his efforts to do something nice had failed to merit good karma. Thankfully, I was much closer than I had thought, only about a half mile from the summit at 9,600 feet. It was easy to forget how high the elevation was in the desert.

As we rolled into Boulder, a controlled burn raged in the distance. I was dropped off on the lawn of a lodge where there happened to be six road bikers chilling with their supply van. I took a moment to consider what it might be like to have a van carry all my equipment and deliver my meals as I biked around the country with five friends. Hopeful, I approached them and asked if they had a spare chain link I could bum. They were happy to oblige, but unfortunately, none had one in the size that fit my bike.

Frustrated, I went into the fine dining restaurant next door for lunch. I sat down, smelly and irritated, and my server, Victor, immediately asked if I was having a rough day. After explaining my situation to him, he mentioned that several years ago, he was also an avid biker and the go-to man in town for bike repairs. He had some spare parts around his house and offered to help me if I stuck around until after he punched out.

After napping on the lawn for a couple hours, Victor approached me. He had a chain link but no tool to attach it. He was bummed he couldn’t be of more assistance, but I thanked him for his efforts regardless. Out of options yet again, I began pushing my bike west towards Escalante. The road was well-paved and seemingly designed to be as scenic as possible. I made decently good time running up hills and bombing down the opposing side. Eventually, I emerged atop a remarkable feature called the Hogback, where the road traversed a narrow ridge with canyons on either side.

The Grand Staircase – Escalante National Monument was far in the distance. Appropriately named, it is composed of layer upon layer of ancient rock, forming massive “steps” in the form of mesas. The top, Bryce Canyon, was one of my destinations ahead. Over roughly 60 miles of desert, it descends in massive steps, extending down to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, where an ancient rock formation named the Vishnu Schist resides along the Colorado River. The monument covers nearly 2 million acres, and the massive cliffs expose geological and human history in rock layers, dinosaur bones, petroglyphs, and Native American ruins. This is another place deserving more time that I hope to revisit later.

I took pictures before pushing down the steep incline into the canyon below. When I reached the Escalante River at the bottom, two hitchhikers jokingly stuck their thumbs out on a bridge. Not wanting to lose my speed, I sped past and yelled, “Chain’s broke, I’m looking for a ride, too!” I hopped off my bike once it slowed from the uphill and continued to hike for another 20 minutes.

A large SUV coming from the other direction pulled to a stop ahead of me. It was none other than the hitchhikers from earlier who managed to catch a ride to their car uphill. “Trying to get to Escalante?”

Five minutes later, I was in the back of the SUV, hanging onto my bike on the way to the next town. I forgot his name, but the guy driving the car was another biker sympathetic to my situation and eager to help out. When he dropped me off in Escalante about 20 miles later, he bid me good luck and drove back the way we came. It was then I realized he drove 40 miles out of his way to help me. God bless that dude.

Seeking help with my chain, I entered the local gear shop to see if there was a bike shop in town. The keeper said no, but there was possibly a biker around who could help. She referred me to Jeff, a park ranger down the road with an impressive bike shop in his garage. When I knocked on the door, his wife answered and told me he would probably be happy to help, but I would need to return in an hour or so after he came home and ate dinner.

After burning an hour exploring the town (which was no more than a small grid of houses and a main street a little over half a mile long), I headed back. Sure enough, Jeff was enthusiastic to lend a hand. Not only did he fix my chain, but he also cleaned and tuned my cassettes – a component I learned the actual name of that day. He explained different elements of my bike to me as he worked and even gave me a beer. Eternally grateful, I asked what I owed him, and he said, “Nothing.”

This trip has made clear to me that there are tremendously compassionate and awesome people to be found in this world. Many people live by each other’s happiness rather than misery and love to help one another. People like Jeff and Victor and everyone else I met on this trip have restored my faith and held the line against me losing hope in humanity after seeing things like the Boston Marathon bombing. Good spirits are abundant, and this shouldn’t be forgotten in times of tragedy.

I slept in until 9 this morning and took my sweet time getting ready. I didn’t hit the road until 11:30, but feeling fortunate, refreshed, and happy to be on a healthy bike I made excellent time today. Utah continued to deliver excellent biking scenery.

After absolutely crushing 50 miles, I finally approached Bryce Canyon. I was welcomed by a massive, winding uphill and plenty of traffic. I made my way to the park entrance, where I stashed my saddle bags before continuing towards the canyon. With my bike securely locked in the parking lot, I headed out for a quick hike

Although I made it to the rim, unfortunately, the sun was setting, and I didn’t have the time to hike into the bowels of the canyon. Cold and hungry, I headed to the lodge at the park entrance for food. $20 bucks for a dinner buffet. It was a ripoff, but I easily got a good 4000 calories out of the purchase. Mac n’ cheese, fried chicken, taters with gravy, sweet corn… the works. Heaven is a nice place to be.

It’s nearly 10:30, and I’m currently sitting in the lodge, allowing my food to digest and dreading the reality that I need to go outside in a few minutes and bike to where I stashed my gear.

I still have a bit of biking to do tonight. I couldn’t determine a good spot to camp on the map, so it’ll be late as I search in the dark for a proper location. Tomorrow, I’ll finally arrive at Zion to meet Brooke, a good friend from high school, for a weekend of epic hiking. I also look forward to staying in a hotel and doing laundry for one of the nights! I won’t post again until Monday, but you can expect some pretty good content when I do!

Peace!

God’s Country

As expected, the past few days through the iconic region that defines the American West have been an adventure.

My ride on Monday began roughly 10 miles North of Blanding with a flat tire. Midway through the repair, my body decided that I had to take my morning bathroom break and that it had to happen immediately. If you’ve never been to this part of Utah,. I feel that sharing how there is little to no risk in pulling off the side of the road to stealth camp or, in this case, shit (by LNT ethics, of course) might help imagine what this part of the country is like. Although I can see quite far in either direction down the highway, there is no car in sight, nor had there been all morning. The night before, I made camp simply by hopping a fence and setting up my bivy behind a shrub a couple yards from the road. There’s a good chance it was on private property. Still, I failed to discover any establishment in any direction, and everything around here seemed to be land used for open-range cattle.

If you’ve ever seen an old western, or Wile E. Coyote, or that scene in Forrest Gump when he decides to stop running, this is it: the real fuckin’ deal – the actual middle of nowhere. Believe it or not, it gets even more desolate further West, and that’s where I was headed.

I relieved myself behind said bush beside the road and repaired my tube. I packed up and hit the road at a good pace through some redundant cattle country until Blanding, where I turned west onto Highway 95.

The few vehicles making their way around the small town of Blanding diminished as I peddled along a scenic backcountry highway devoid of any signs of human life other than the occasional road sign indicating curves in the road. Headed towards Natural Bridges National Monument, I highly anticipated returning to the “venue” of the month-long NOLS Canyoneering course that was a part of my 90-day Semester in the Rockies two and half years ago. As I proceeded along the highway and up my first hill of the day towards the top of Comb Ridge, the terrain around me gradually became increasingly more scenic. As I neared the top of the climb, a gap in the high mesa appeared in the ancient Navajo Sandstone as if it were a portal to another world. Eager for the view at the top, I charged ahead.

As I passed through the opening at the top of the ridge, my view expanded to reveal the powerful and dynamic landscape on the opposing side. Comb Ridge extended south to the north for several miles, appearing almost intentionally designed as a massive quarter-pipe painted with all colors of sand. It flanked the east side of the valley known as Comb Wash, across which a network of canyons was scattered across the desert.

I took a generous moment to soak everything in before ripping down the road into the valley, enjoying the warm air blowing over my body as I sped along. Over the next two and a half hours, these moments of joy were relentlessly crushed by a long, gradual, and unanticipated uphill. My memory of the canyons as a relatively flat landscape compared to Colorado was as foolish as it was inaccurate. To make matters worse, my derailer gave up on me during the climb, costing me an hour in repair time.

Nonetheless, the land was beautiful, and I was excited to return to familiar territory. At long last, I reached a turnoff to the north, indicating that I had reached the Natural Bridges National Monument around five in the afternoon. I recognized the dirt road that was the drop-off point for my NOLS course and stopped for a moment to truly rationalize where it was I stood.

The last time I stood in that spot was after more than a day of travel by bus. At the time, I had no genuine concept of where it was aside from being far away from home in the middle of Utah. Traveling by vehicle, my eyes would frequently stray from the window to read or engage in conversation, disorienting me from the scope of what it means to travel across counties and biomes. This immediately stands out to me as one of the most significant novelties of travel by bicycle. Now, as I stand here, I feel authentically connected to what it meant to get here and have a true sense of where I am.

Furthermore, I was surrounded by a dozen of my fellow coursemates the last time I was here. As a jab of loneliness set in, I proceeded to the visitor’s center, where a couple of tourists were pacing around the room reading displays. Two girls working for the Park Service were stationed at an information desk. One of them was pretty cute, so I laid out a map and spent around 20 minutes asking for her input about my route ahead despite knowing precisely where I was going.

After our little chat, I left my panniers behind the visitor’s center and went for a ride around the park’s scenic loop. Riding my bike without my gear was a dream. As I sped along the finely paved National Park road, I felt like I was flying a jet after spending weeks flying a bomber. Along the road, I saw three of the park’s bridges, two of which I recognized from NOLS, including Kachina Bridge, which I remember had Native Ruins tucked away nearby, out of sight.

I met a couple taking photographs as I hiked down to the bridge. I let them in on the location of the Native American ruins (which I suppose is frowned upon; there is a notice posted as you approach the ruins that declares something along the lines of “By reading this document, you are agreeing not to tell anyone about the location of these ruins to reduce the human impact”). As I hiked with them back to the trailhead, they were pretty stoked about the ruins and showed a lot of interest in my little bike adventure. Upon mentioning my love for all-you-can-eat Chinese buffets, they even gave me cash to go out the next time I encountered one.

Human kindness is unrelenting during this trip!

I biked back to the visitor’s center to make some dinner and tea. My back had been bothering me a lot that day, so I spent a reasonable amount of time stretching. As I did so, I watched the sunset over the canyons, something that neither words nor pictures ever seem to serve justice. By the time darkness had settled in, I had gained a second wind. I also promised the girl I spoke with earlier that I wouldn’t camp illegally in the park and, of course, would never want to disappoint her, so I hopped on the bike and started booking it.

Something I’ve always appreciated about southern Utah is the stars. There is a mandate that all lights (which are few) be specifically designed to maintain zero light pollution in the area. They weren’t as spectacular as usual due to what was almost a full moon in the sky, but the moon provided so much light that I biked without a headlamp for the next three hours.

I was hauling. From there, it was mostly downhill to Lake Powell, and the wind seemed to have gone to rest along with the sun. I had the most phenomenal sensation of being completely alone. I had not found cellular service since Blanding and had only seen three cars since departing the bridges. I was apprehensive about camping out of service in case something happened. Still, the clock struck midnight, and I was forced to pull over to the side of the highway and rest after a very long day.

On Tuesday, I woke up to a magnificent sunrise and continued West. Daylight illuminated the awesome monoliths whose silhouettes I could see the night before. The day’s ride was classic Utah.

I approached Hite, alarmed at the water level of Lake Powell. Although the chocolate milk-colored Colorado River flowed, the mild winter left it pretty dry. There was one building operating in Hite, the only source of food or gasoline along a 125-mile stretch of road. I stopped in, eager to load up on calories. I bought a $2.50 burrito and a chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwich, totaling around 1500 calories. After plenty of biking, it made for a delicious combo. It replenished my body to tackle the abundant uphill throughout the day.

The ride uphill from the Colorado River was a grind. Mindful of an additional 2,800 feet uphill on top of 70 miles the next day, I took my time to prevent my body from wearing out. I didn’t get to Hanksville until around 7, and the sun was already setting. To make it to Zion by the 26th, I still had another 50 miles to bike that night. With the daunting task ahead, I had only one choice as I entered town.

I strolled into the only restaurant open and ordered a massive hamburger with fries and a large chocolate and peanut butter shake. A couple of people noticed me (potentially from the smell) sitting in my biking gear, inhaling food alone. One of them, Tyler, walked over to say hello.

Tyler was traveling with his wife, Hannah. They headed south to Escalante, one of my stops the next day. He got to the point and asked if I wanted a ride, and I was happy to accept. We strapped my bike to the roof with webbing and hit the road. We cruised for nearly an hour, and I enjoyed the good conversation as we rolled through canyons over dozens of hills. Although I was feeling a little bummed I was cutting corners on the trip, I was happy I wouldn’t have to bike until 2 am.

That said, I didn’t want to weasel my way out of the big climb the next day. I had them drop me off in Torrey, where I bid them farewell. When I discovered I could Jack some WiFi from a nearby hotel, I decided to post it in a drainage ditch. I must have been spotted on camera because a man came out searching for me.

Not wanting to seem suspicious, I made my presence known. The man mentioned that he saw me on the camera, and I took a moment to explain my situation to him before asking if I could camp there. So long as I didn’t tell his boss, he said it was fine with him and even brought out four delicious Danishes for me.

Thankful for all the help I received as of late, but exhausted, I’m calling it quits for this post and passing out.

I’ll update when I can!

Utah!

I know it has been a long time since I’ve posted. I’ve been having a great time in Durango, and I wanted to post this Sunday night but couldn’t find reliable internet.

My dad hooked it up and paid for the much-needed night at the hotel in Pagosa Springs. I was blown away when I turned on the TV in the room to see there was a terrorist attack at the Boston Marathon plastered all over most of the channels. The duality of the kindness I received on this trip compared to the evil on the TV made it hard to believe I was living in the same world. I’m happy to be on this trip right now.

After a long, windy ride littered with deer carcasses, I finally reached Durango. With nothing planned ahead of time, I resorted to my usual method of finding a place to sleep by opening up Google Maps on my phone and panning around for areas shrouded in green, often indicating the location of a park. I found one just south of the local College, perched atop a mesa and positioned well for a short walk to my WFR classes each morning. I biked to the park and proceeded past the “NO CAMPING” sign into what appeared to be a mountain biking trail mingled with a disc golf course. Near the park’s outermost boundary, I found a secluded spot to set up camp.

After transcribing a plea to any thieves not to “steal my shit” upon a saddlebag, I stashed my gear. I headed into town to explore a bit and hopefully meet some locals. On Mainstreet, I dipped into a bar for a beer and met a retired teacher and author named Michelle, who offered to let me finish her dinner. Although this made me question how haggard I appeared, I knew we would be friends immediately. Michelle offered me a place to crash and helped feed me for two days while I waited for class to start. Best of all, I could do laundry for the first time on the trip!

Durango is, for lack of better words, dreamy. It’s a small city nestled in a beautiful valley at the base of the San Juan Mountains in the southwest corner of Colorado. It is surrounded by mesas painted in an array of gradients from brown to orange, and the Animas River, frequented by white-water enthusiasts and tubers alike, runs straight through town. Certain overlooks in the city offer enough elevation for you to view the jagged, snowy peaks of the Weminuche Wilderness, and the town’s architecture couldn’t be more quintessential Colorado. Although it’s the largest town I’ve been to since Salida, it’s home to around 20,000 year-round residents.

The main street has everything I could care for in a city without the mayhem, and the roads are frequented by bikes as much as they are by cars. There are several microbreweries with decent beer, and good food seems aplenty. Fort Lewis College (a couple of students referred to it as Fort Leisure) rests on the eastern ridge overlooking the town. It draws a younger audience to the community, giving it that college-town flair. It seems to be no secret that the College and the tourism drawn by its abundant natural beauty provide the town with such raw spirit.

For the three days of my WFR recertification course, I stealth-camped by the campus. As always, it was a pleasure to learn with NOLS, and I made some cool connections with my classmates. Afterward, I was excited to explore the town’s nightlife with a handful of them, as it happened to be Durango’s annual bluegrass festival that weekend. Several bars downtown hosted several bands, some terrible, but the vibes were strong. I’m not a fan of bluegrass, but it added a lot of energy to the town.

Sunday evening, my course ended, and I was anxious to get going after spending nearly a week enjoying the mountain town life that I have grown to love so much in Breckenridge. I planned to hit the road as soon as possible to reach Zion by the 26th to meet my friend Brooke on the day her flight arrived in Las Vegas. Logistically, this meant 5 full days of biking, all between 120 and 140 miles a day, to make it on time. Although this was doable, it would be no easy or enjoyable feat of strength. To my great fortune, Russ, a classmate from the WFR course, was on his way home to Moab that evening and offered to drop me off in Monticello. The opportunity to cut what had to have been at least a hundred miles off my trip was too good to pass up. Not caring to push myself to the limit trying to bike across the gnar that is southern Utah in 5 days, I gladly accepted.

We cruised along the desert highway out of Durango to epic views of the La Plata Mountains, Mesa Verde, and the Sleeping Ute. Although beautiful in its own right, the drive was through terrain I had no regrets about missing on my bike. Russ dropped me off in Monticello before bidding farewell and continuing north to Moab. Thanks, homie!

I headed in the opposite direction, south along 191, for roughly 10 miles before discovering a suitable ditch beside a barbed-wire fence along the highway. Camp located.

I want to start early tomorrow and make it to Natural Bridges and Lake Powell. Even with 100 miles knocked out in one fell swoop by a car, I have a lot of distance to cover in the next few days, so I’m off to bed. If my time at NOLS in this part of Utah two years ago was any indication, cell service will likely not exist over the next few days, and I wouldn’t be able to post.

I’ll update when I can – cheers!