Desert?

My stay in San Francisco was pleasantly uneventful. I stayed with my friend Jenna, and I think her and her housemates lives went on as planned, despite having a homeless man sleeping in their kitchen. I spent a lot of time sleeping, eating, and running the few errands I needed to take care of while in the city. The evening of my first full day off the bike in San Francisco, I was working on laundry when I realized that the sun would be setting soon. As soon as my laundry was finished, I jumped on my bike (laundry strapped to the back) and pedaled as quickly as I could to the west. I didn't really know how far I was from the beach at that point, but it didn't matter. I wanted to see the sunset. I arrived just in time to sit on a bench at the beach to watch the sun sink into the Pacific. I had paid little attention to how I got there, so on the way back, I was mostly wandering aimlessly in an easterly direction until I found something familiar.

On the morning of my departure, I had breakfast with Jenna and didn't end up on the ferry across the bay to Vallejo until the 9:55am boat. It's an hour ferry ride, so I was not really expecting to cover as much ground as I had previously hoped. While pedaling away from San Francisco, I passed through the town of Davis, which is apparently known as the “Bicycle Capital of the World.” I had never heard that, but some locals told me, and it says so on the Adventure Cycling Association map. I biked through a little bit of the University of California – Davis campus, and their sidewalks/bike paths had roundabouts. Pretty good idea to avoid those awkward who-goes-first moments when two bicycles meet on intersecting paths.

That evening I ended up staying in a hostel in Sacramento. Aside from a snoring bunk-mate, it was a good place to stay. I also overheard a very interesting response to the question, “what do you do?” while I was there. I heard a man say, “I'm a non-skating official for women's flat track roller derby.” That might be the last possible thing I would have guessed I'd hear come from any given individual in response to the stated question.

The following morning I tried to get out early, but I ended up running around a bit. First I went to the post office to mail a box of stuff home that I no longer needed, and to mail a pair of socks back to Diane in Bend, OR. She let me borrow them to get me through the inclement weather. I still have ten toes, thanks to that woman and her socks. They're waterproof socks. Sounds weird, but they're fantastic. I purchased a pair of my own in San Francisco. Anyway, after the mail run, I had a difficult time finding and staying on the path to get me out of town. It really wasn't a tough thing to find or stay on, I just took a wrong turn once and ended up several blocks in the wrong direction.

The day out of Sacramento started off pretty flat, winding around on a trail that went for several miles out of the city. Eventually I ended up on the road again about when it was time to start climbing towards Carson Pass. At about 2,400 ft. elevation I got a flat tire. I took the tube out, replaced it, and started pumping the tire back up to pressure. When I was nearly to the desired pressure, my pump gave out. It just stopped pushing air. With my tire slightly under-inflated, I pressed onward to a service station where I used an adapter that I carry with me at all times to allow me to fill my tires with their air hose (fyi: my bicycle tires have a different valve than car tires). At this station, I turned off of the Adventure Cycling Association route and started climbing straight up. It was quite the climb. I reached the top just in time to see an incredible sunset over Jenkinson Lake. That evening I found out that the two women tent camping next to me were also cycling around the area. They had both of their bicycles along, but were taking turns driving and riding. When I told them about my pump failure, they gave me a CO2 adapter and cartridge to fill a tire. Then one of the women gave me the pump from her own bicycle and said I could use it as long as I needed to, and to mail it back when I had my own. I'm still impressed by how generous and trusting people continue to be along this trip.

The next morning I tanked up on a special blend of oatmeal I learned about from my friend Russ in Idaho, then hit the climb again. I got onto a road called Mormon Emigrant Trail. It wasn't the steepest road I've ridden, but it was pretty unrelenting. I just kept climbing. It wasn't too bad, because I knew it was coming. This was my climb up to Carson Pass. I camped at around 3,500 feet, felt my ears start to pop at about 5,000 feet, got a nose bleed at around 7,000 feet, and then, in the rain at about 8,000 feet, just before the top of Carson Pass, I blew the sidewall out of my front tire. After filling my tires up to capacity below 3,000 feet elevation, my tires behaved something like a bag of chips as you drive up to the mountains to go skiing/snowboarding. Both of my tires had way too much pressure at this point, but only the front one gave way when I slammed on the brakes to try to make a turn. My weight shifting forward was enough extra pressure that the sidewall blew.

Now it's raining, my tire is shot, and the only thing in the area is a ski resort. I hitched a ride in the back of a pickup to the ski lodge to ask about a room. The woman at the desk did what she could as far as discounting the price of the room, but it was still more than I was ready to pay. Eventually a guest of the lodge offered me shelter in the back of his pickup that has a topper. I thought this sounded like a great place to spend a night, so we went outside and, after I had fixed my tire, I crawled in the back of his truck and made myself at home for the night while the storm continued. In the end, I had covered less than 40 miles and climbed 5,770 feet that day. My mileage would have looked a lot better if I had been able to cash in on the descent from all the climbing.

In the morning the rain was still lingering. I wasn't sure where to find breakfast, so I just hit the road and kept my eyes open. I didn't find anything before the top of Carson Pass. At the top I met a man that warned me to keep my brakes and rims dry, because it's a pretty steep descent. He said cyclists have hit 60 mph on it before. Given my tire escapade from the day before and my lack of trust in my spare tire, I stopped to tighten up my brakes before heading downward in the rain.

I used to think of the descent as a reward for all of the hard work that went into the climb, but coming over Carson Pass in the rain was about as painful as it was frightening. Rain in October at 8,500 feet is cold. As I cruised down the mountain, I kept my eyes open for a place to get breakfast. I saw a place, but a combination of wet brakes/rims and cold hands that didn't want to do what I told them caused me to slide past. I did get stopped in time for the second place, which ended up being a sweet turn of events. The place was called the Hope Valley Cafe.

A couple that was at an adjacent table, that had asked about my cycling trip, tried to pay for my breakfast, but were too late in getting there. The man, Hal, proceeded to get out his wallet and contribute to the “Feed Neal Fund”, with instructions to have a good lunch. After Hal and his wife were on their way, a man named Zach spoke up from the breakfast bar and asked me if I needed anything. He had overheard my story about my tire and offered me a tire. I couldn't turn that down. I didn't know when I would be going past an open bike shop to get a new tire. I followed him back to his place a few miles down the road, and he proceeded to pull a tire off of his own bike to put on mine, all the while refusing payment for the tire. On top of it all, he cleaned up my chain and cassette while I worked on my tires. His living room was a mess when we were done, but he said not to worry about it. Hal and Zach have helped the small community of Woodfords, CA, stick in my mind.

After getting the tire put on, I continued down hill (the rain had let up) to the Nevada border and eventually in to Carson City where I met up with Highway 50: The Loneliest Highway in America. I made it to Dayton before looking for a laundromat and a campsite. The laundromat ended up being a few miles past Dayton and the only campground in the area, so I rode out to the laundromat, then threw up the tent about a mile off the road behind a sand dune. It's a desert, this should be a fine place to camp, right? Well, it rained all night and I had to basically dig myself out in the morning. It was not a fun experience.

When I had earned my freedom from the mess of wet sand, I headed to a casino for breakfast. They had the weather on the TV, and that's when I found out how much I was going to hate Nevada. The forecast said rain all week. Again, isn't this supposed to be a desert? I hit the road, pedaling through my frustration at the weather forecast. It remained dreary all day, only occasionally precipitating on me. I ended up making it to a small spot on the map called Middlegate. Middlegate consists of a bar and a motel. Oh, and a tree covered in shoes. Google it, I didn't get any pictures.

When I arrived in Middlegate, it was drizzling. I walked into the bar and asked if there was a dry place I could crash for the night. One of the men at the bar suggested that I spend the night in the “drunk tank”. He urged the owner to give me a good deal on that. She never referred to it as the drunk tank, but rather as the bunk house. It was a small shack with one queen bed and one set of bunk beds. I could see through the cracks in the door, which was held shut by leaning a 2x4 against it. The lighting came from a lamp, plugged into an extension cord that was strung through a hole in the wall. It earned it's name, the “drunk tank” because that is where they put people too drunk to hobble out to their cars to drive home drunk. Lucky for me, it was a slow night at the bar. For less than many campsites I've stayed at, I had four walls, a roof that didn't leak, and a shower. I did not use their bedding, but slept in my sleeping bag on top of the blankets.

The following morning I got up and was in the bar just after 7:00am when they're supposed to be serving breakfast, but the cook didn't show up. The man that opened the place up told me that if I continued 14 miles down the road to Cold Springs Station I would be able to find breakfast. I don't function so well on an empty stomach, and there was a nasty headwind, but I had little choice. I hopped on the bike, lowered my head, and pedaled down the road.

At Cold Springs Station I found out about two cyclists that had spent the previous night camping there. The owner of the place told me that if I was quick, I could probably catch them before the first pass. I hit the road pretty hard after hearing that there were other cyclists out on this lonely stretch of road. I did catch them just before the first pass. Cate and Katharine were the cyclists. I got to the top of the climb and waited for them. We exchanged pleasantries and then continued at our own paces. Both they and I intended to stop in Austin that evening, so when I got to town, I scoped out the lodging options and decided on a lean-to type shelter in the park. It had lights and live outlets to charge electronics, and best of all it was free. Across the street was an RV park that allowed people a shower for $2. I passed on the option, since I had just bathed the night before (I suppose to normal people that sounds kind of gross...). Cate and Katharine arrived sometime later and set up camp. They shared their dehydrated vegetable beef stew with me for supper as we chatted about our respective trips and learned a bit about each other.

In the morning I chose to eat breakfast at a diner in town after realizing I was carrying only enough oatmeal for one more good sized breakfast. The two women and I left at roughly the same time, but the day started off with a particularly rough climb, and that was the last I saw of them.

The weather in the morning was actually quite beautiful, despite the forecast for overcast skies and rain. It even got warm enough that I went without a jacket for a while. In the afternoon a few storms skirted past me, dropping a few sprinkles here and there, but nothing too noteworthy until I got closer to my destination of Eureka, NV. As I approached the end of a long, flat stretch of road, leading into yet another mountain range, I saw storm clouds ahead that I knew I would probably not be able to avoid. With about 15 miles to go to Eureka, I pulled over to put on my rain gear as it sprinkled on me. Not more than 2 miles later, as I approached Devil's Gate (canyon-like geographical feature leading through a ridge), I was hit with a gust of wind that brought me and my bicycle from about 12 mph to 0 mph instantly. I had to stand on my pedals to regain any forward momentum to stay upright. The wind then shifted to a cross wind that just about knocked me into traffic. The rain proceeded to turn into sleet, then to small hail, a little bigger than pea sized. I kept on pedaling, as there was really no place to go. Highway 50 really is the loneliest highway in America. The hail stung like hell, but I knew that was it, it was just going to sting me. The thing that had me really concerned was the lightning and thunder all around. Again, on the loneliest highway, in a desert, riding a steel bicycle. Since I am writing this, it is apparent that I made it through in one, un-electrified piece. When I rolled into Eureka, I checked out the city park for camping, but they had already “winterized” the restrooms and locked them for the season. It had been such a crappy day that I decided to pony up for a hotel room. I've managed to keep things pretty cheap and to stay in some pretty sketchy places, but here there was only one option with rooms still available, so I ended up dropping more than I have for lodging this whole trip.

Today I got up before dawn and got all of my stuff packed up and ready to roll before heading to the continental breakfast to load up on calories for the 77 miles with no services to Ely, NV. I am now realizing that I haven't said a whole lot about the terrain out here. It's a desert. At least, it's supposed to be a desert. There are a whole bunch of mountain ranges that run north to south with basins or valleys in between. So far I have climbed over 11 mountain passes in the state of Nevada alone. When I have a stretch with no services, like I did today, I have to carry a lot of water. Water adds a lot of weight, and weight is not my friend when climbing several passes a day. Tomorrow I have 63 miles before I get to Baker, NV, and from Baker to Milford, UT, is 84 miles.

Anyway, I'm currently in a room in the El Ranchero Motel in Ely, NV, watching Nebraska abuse Kansas State University. When I remembered that the game was today, I found the cheapest place that had cable TV. If I remember correctly, this place ties for the lowest price I've paid for a motel room, but it is definitely the biggest room I've ever stayed in. It's huge.