the realistic side of "forever"

The road north out of Marfa wound its way through a patch of red, boulder-filled mountains, then emptied out into the vast West Texas plains. The temperature rose incrementally with every 100-foot drop in elevation, and with the accompanying winds, the air felt a bit like a hair dryer on a low setting.

The flatness of the landscape was extreme to the point that there was nothing to break the horizon line except barbed wire fencing, oil derricks, chemical flares, and the thinnest line of mountains a good hundred miles into the distance. There were no trees or cacti - just miles and miles of dust and scrub brush. Fast-moving pickups and tanker trucks deterred me from a burning desire to dismount my bike, place my bottom squarely on one of the lane markings and take a photo of myself there, cross-legged. Long enough to meet the curve of the earth, it was the kind of road I wanted to be a physical part of, that whispered promises of other dimensions and the romantic notion of "forever".

The realistic side of "forever" is the exhausting one, embodied in the act of riding for miles and miles with virtually nothing to look at while carrying a dwindling supply of water and a growing craving for barbecued brisket or a pulled pork sandwich. In Pecos, TX, I found a gas station, several blocks of dusty, crumbling buildings, and a few weathered-looking men in faded clothing who looked like they were carrying around memories of better days. Any eating establishments were now boarded-up shells.

I had better luck in Carlsbad, New Mexico, where I found Danny's Place, a simple, quiet joint with red checkered, oiled table cloths and fake brick walls. I tore into my pulled pork sandwich like I'd never tasted one before. God, was it good.

"How far have you come on that thing?"

There was a man seated by himself at the table next to me wearing a set of green coveralls with a chemical company logo on the breast pocket. He had a friendly, but tired-looking face, dark brown and etched with deep lines around his eyes. It was clear immediately that he'd been through a lot; you could hear it in his voice.

For what must have been an hour, Jim and I spoke about Carlsbad and the landscape surrounding it, changes taken place there over the years and their consequences. Years ago, he said, the area was filled with grass lands, and ranching formed the base of the economy. Rain was never plentiful, but there was enough to occasionally top off the water table and maintain the grasses, which fed the cows. Over the course of the last 10-20 years, the rain has gone away, and the area is now officially classified as a desert. It's so dry that the community actually gets excited when a hurricane threatens East Texas or Louisiana, in the hope that the excess rain will wash inland and replenish the aquifers.

So there is nothing left here but oil and gas. "Without the drilling, we have nothing. It's all we've got," he said.

Outside of Danny's, it was now baking hot, to the point that you could see ripples of heat pour off the hoods of cars sitting in this small city's traffic. I still had another 150-odd miles and a mountain range separating me from Alamagordo, where I was hoping to find some sort of cheap campground to park in for the night.

It was on the eastern side of the Lincoln National Forest that the winds started to get bad. Blowing down from the northwest over the Sacramento Mountains, they were steady and strong, with heavy punching side gusts that would shove you into the opposing lane if you weren't paying attention. As the elevation rose, the winds subsided and the temperature dropped, and I found myself surrounded by black-needled pines. Jim had recommended Cloudcroft as a good stopping place for the night, as he took his family there for vacations when they were possible. I was dead tired, the roads were twisty and it was incredibly beautiful up there... but since my budget didn't allow for another $100 motel room, I pressed on.

The western edge of the Sacramentos formed a 1000-foot escarpment that sent me plunging into the desert basin of western New Mexico, made glowing red by the setting sun. Alamagordo lay below in a dusty haze. There were no campgrounds, so I settled on a $36 room at the Satellite Inn, the obvious choice, per its fabulous 50s-era neon sign. The room, despite its suspiciously low price, was clean and had two huge beds, a bathroom with a few cigarette burns, and an old cathode ray tube with HBO. It was next door to a Mexican restaurant, so I didn't have to clamber back onto my bike in my fatigued (and therefore compromised) state to get a bite to eat. And the light was amazing. No clouds; only long, intense shadows.

As soon as I headed out for breakfast the next morning I knew I was in some trouble. While sitting in my booth at the I-Hop, I overhead a woman complaining about how much the wind was whipping up. This was a woman who presumably lived around there and was thus used to desert winds in her day-to-day existence...so I had to interpret her comment as an indication that they were, well... really bad.

My destination for the day was a friend's cousin's place about 20 miles west of Tucson, AZ - a 370-mile ride. This included two stops, in White Sands National Monument and at the similarly named test range and "missile park," which I was really eager to see. A lot to cram into one day, especially with high winds, blowing sand and semi trucks to ride with. 

I finished my buckwheat pancake stack, chugged the second cup of coffee, and took off down Rt 70, heading west toward White Sands. It was chilly, in the low 50's, and with the winds blowing like hell, I needed another layer. So I pulled over. And parked badly. Badly, meaning on a slope that pushed the bike upright without enough lean to stabilize it on the kickstand. But all I needed was a minute to throw on my wool thermal! Yeah, sure. Luckily I was behind the bike, and not next to it, when it hit the ground. The wind just blew it right over. 

Fanfuckintastic. Fully loaded with 100 pounds of gear, now laying on a downhill slope, with the wind intent on keeping it there. What are the chances I'd be able to pick it up? I stripped off as much weight as possible and placed my ass into position, wedged under the seat, with my hands gripping the frame. The technique is to use leverage and the strength in your hips and legs to walk the bike back up into an upright position. But this time my feet just slipped on the gravel, and the bike was as heavy as a boulder; it hardly budged.

At that moment a couple of young guys emerged from a white pickup truck. I must have made a pretty curious site there, struggling with all my might to get this massive black hunk of metal off the ground, my face most likely turning beet red. Together they picked it up for me in about 2 seconds, made sure I was ok and went on their way. 

People quite often ask me if I'm ever afraid, being a woman on a bike, traveling big distances and camping alone. The answer has, for the most part, been "no"... and the two young guys described above provide an example as to why. I encountered nothing but kindness in people on this trip, from beginning to end. 

My first real stop was at White Sands National Monument, where if there were time, I would have explored the immaculate gypsum sand dunes there. But the dunes and Hwy 70 itself were closed due to a missile test happening at White Sands Missile Range, whose territory covers the entire area - hence shrapnel or other debris from explosions could, well, you know... rain down on a moving vehicle or two and turn someone's day very bad. It was predicted to be an hour and a half long wait.

At around 12:30 that afternoon, you could once again travel west on Rt 70, and though I still had another 6 or 7 hours of riding to do, there was no way I was going to miss an opportunity to check out one of the most famous bomb testing ranges in the world. According to the Center for Land Use Interpretation's "Land Use Database", my main source for locating In Search of the Frightening and Beautiful art placement sites, it also had a public park filled with decommissioned missiles all clustered together and poking into the air. I chose the bomb lovingly referred to as "Fat Man" for the placement of In Search of the Frightening and Beautiful piece #7. With its round, squat shape, creamy color and comparatively small size, it was the most innocuous-looking object in the park. But its history as a nuclear weapon of a type that has in fact killed between one and two hundred thousand people, it wins the prize as the most frightening, in my mind.

The remainder of that day was a continuous battle of survival against the elements as I rode through western New Mexico and into Arizona, to Tucson. Once again I had to face I-10, its trailer trucks and its 80-mph speed limit while fighting extreme winds and the retina-burning orb of the setting sun. 

On the stretch of road between Lac Cruces, NM and Deming, AZ, I experienced winds more brutal than anything I'd felt before or have since. They were so bad I'd take to riding closely behind semis, inside their wind wake, to try to hide from the side gusts... one of the most dangerous acts a biker can engage in.. that didn't even work.  Maintaining a speed that kept up with the trucks was almost impossible; even with the added weight of my gear I couldn't hold my ground against the wakes of passing trucks and the intense speed of the prevailing wind itself. 

Finally, two opposing side gusts plowed into me, one right after the other, and almost knocked me off my bike. This caused a sudden drop in speed - one so dramatic that I was in danger of being rear-ended by a truck on my tail.  I didn't get hit, but I was scared shitless for the rest of the afternoon.

Not long after this I experienced what I hope will be the only sandstorm I have and/or will ever get caught in. Big yellow signs along I-10 warned of the winds and dust storm danger prevalent in that area, but you don't take them seriously, really, until you come to know what that means personally.

As I crept along at my new "wind survival" speed of 60 mph, I noticed a hazy brown cloud in the distance which kept me from seeing the horizon line. It wasn't a horrific, huge dust-bowl style cloud of the type that you see well in advance and can get away from with fast action...nope, this one was more insidious, and was upon me before I had the time to pull over and escape it. As visibility diminished to 20 feet or so, I could hear the sand scrape across my bike, and over my helmet, gradually making its way behind my visor, getting into my eyes and mouth. Before long I couldn't see the truck in front of me, finding myself once again in danger of being crushed from behind.

Though not a religious person, I prayed hard. I needed help, and got it somehow, from somewhere. 

I got to Carol's that night at around 8pm. She took care of me, and I needed it. The next day I was destined, finally, for Joshua Tree, just in time to celebrate my birthday. Without the kindness and companionship of her and others, I'm not entirely sure I would have made it there.