Crusty Cassette

Doug doesn't wear a watch. He'd been known to get up and walk in the moonlight taking desert sunrise photos.

Doug's Sunrise Shot

He often didn't join us at the Tollbooth Restaurant for breakfast either despite having claimed that at home he must have breakfast upon rising.

This morning he had decided to join us with the caveat, "If she's there, I'm not staying."

"She" meant Doug's waitress, a dishwater blonde, who as Doug knew was always there.

To tell the truth, since leaving Idaho, clerks and service staff had looked askance at us. It became difficult to get anything more than a yes or no.

An inquiry at one convenience store about a building on the hill got no response.

In Beatty I ordered whole wheat toast which other than in thickness resembled the sour dough Scott had ordered. The blonde middle aged waitress had trouble telling one from the other.

When I asked about a grocery store at a Food Mart in Beatty, the first clerk said "No" and kept bagging. The second did stop me to give directions to two places where I might find some groceries.

The desk clerk at the Motel 6 seemed a bit haggard when we arrived at 2:30. We thought we'd check in and then go for a ride. But when we asked if we could check in she said, "No, check in is at 2 . . er, 3." That was okay buy us since we wanted to go for a ride. We changed in the RV and wrote off oddness.

In Stove Pipe Wells where we'd arrived at dusk after 7 hours on the road, tired, hungry and thirsty, the Tollbooth restaurant didn't seem anxious for our business. Seating by invitation only is one thing but they took one look at us, granted we hadn't showered yet, held a tete-a-tete and told us we'd have to wait in the lounge--about 30 minutes. We could see many empty tables.

The lounge was pleasant enough but had no waitress. One had to belly up to the bar which Scott promptly did. Sometime later I joined him. He's far more patient than I and took it all good naturedly. I'm sure another fellow came engaged teh bar keep in conversation, order a drink and got it. But I can't prove.

We finally did get our drinks (Save Steve who wanted only water but hadn't bellied up to the bar). Another group were playing pool when their reservation was called. Scott happily volunteered that we were ready and would go to dinner, but the pool players were encouraged to finish their game.

Waiters and waitresses alike seemed unable to distinguish one of us from another often miss-delivering orders wildly with no seeming clue to what went where. We didn't really mind that but it did begin to seem that all cyclists looked the same.

Scott and Jen said they were on one check. The rest of us--three men--assumed we'd get separate checks. I don't think we made that clear enough. We got one check. I was tired and didn't want to fool with the math. I took the check and asked for separate checks. "You'll have to deal with your waitress," the manager told me.

They didn't like it and the manager told Scott on the way out that we'd have to ask for separate checks in the future which we were always certain to do. It probably didn't help that Doug and I had split a piece of key lime pie. We told the blonde to put it on my check. She didn't. Instead she brought me Doug's Check. We just paid it. We had clearly over-taxed her skills.

Tollbooth is the only game in town unless you are satisfied with a muffin and juice at the General Store which is what Doug did the next morning. But at dinner we were told "Your waitress will be right with you, or, your waiter." The tall slender man got clear instructions about the checks but had as much trouble telling us apart as the blonde. At the third dinner, however, the place was busy and the manager seated us in the blonde's area. She asked us if we were the cyclists who had sat up front. We said we were. She immediately left us to consult with the manager. No, go, honey. That's your table. Sullen service with your coffee, anyone?

The manager always met us with a cheery greeting and convivial bonhomme that I don't like. "How are you kids?" he'd ask. But we never had to wait again and the checks were always right. Because we had skipped Panamint Springs, we took about six meals at the Tollbooth.

To be fair, it must be difficult to get good help in the middle of the desert. We were at breakfast at 7 each morning and at dinner until 8. The same three people were on duty every time we were there. Long hours. Short staff. No wonder we had to wait on Sunday during there busiest weekend. Wonder what the pay's like? Apparently tips might be tough to come by if you ask Doug.

Oh, yeah, and there was the matter of Doug's bike shorts that first evening. We had finished dinner and were waiting for the check when Doug grabbed a fork, pushed back from the table, looked both ways, and promptly used a tine to release the knot in the string. "Ah," he sighed. "That's been bugging me all day."

Cyclists got no couth.

Doug's Pics on Flikr If he puts up more shots, you'll have to page through to find them but on 2/25/08 they are first in the list.

Corrie's pics on Flikr These point to a folder and should always stay available.

Steve's pics at that Emporium of all things, Wal-Mart

It's a quarter past 1 and I'm hitting 25 downhill into Beatty. My acceleration only makes the driving rain pelt me harder. My gloves, long since soaked through, profide no warmth. My shoes are full of water despite my having put plastic bags over my socks.

"We are looking at it with Northwest eyes," I told Scott Wednesday morning in camp. I had gotten up at three to the usual strong moonlight in a clear sky, but by 5:30 I began to feel chill in my tent and the sky had clouded up. A wall of grey covered the northern end of the valley and another seemed to close in from the southwest.

"it's just desert fog," I fabricated.

Sunrise on the last morning.

Staying in bed wasn't an option, though. Today we would make the climb over Daylight pass back to Beatty and, we hoped, make at least part of the drive home.

We had agreed to go to breakfast before breaking camp, but we had all lied. We got up earlier than usual and made whatever progress toward breaking camp we could. I think we were all anxious about the climb and anxious to get started.

Back from breakfast we hurriedly broke camp. The weather wasn't improving. We managed to head toward the pass about 8:30 trailers and panniers doing nicely thank you until we hit the bottom of Mud Canyon.

Making the turn to Daylight Pass

We took a break and I removed jacket and leg warmers. Was that a drop of rain?

Readying for the climb

A car pulled up, driver grinning. "Anytihng you want me to haul to the top for you?"

"You can just put me on top, there," I said. But Scott chimed in that this is "all part of the experience." What a guy, that Scott.

A total of 30 to 35 to reach Beatty. We had already covered 8 or 9. We figured we'd have thirteen miles of climbing. We feared the grade after Towne Pass though we knew this one only climbed to 4300 feet.

Doug scooted off ahead as usual. I was next with Scott and Jen riding together and Steve taking up the rear. We expected him to come by us before the top.

The grade was mild if you think 5 to 6 percent pulling a trailer is mild for much of the way. The light rain actually felt good on my skin. I felt strong and quickly found a rhythm of spinning that I'd alternate with a bit more pushing that kept my pace at 6 mph.

Just as I thought I was going to catch Doug, though, I had to stop. Light rain had become the real thing. If I didn't switch to rain gear soon, I'd be soaked. By the time I had the rain jacket on and plastic bags in my shoes, Scott and Jen had caught me. We had done about 5 miles and now it wasn't the grade we worried about so much as being wet and cold.

Doug stopped at the rest stop at the intersection with the road to Furnace Creek. I pulled in too and put on my leg warmers. I was warm enough moving though I had had to drop to 3 and 4 mph by now. Scott and Jen showed up. Both were cold. We waited for Steve but by the time he got there I was beginning to shiver. I told him I had to go to stay warm. He understood.

Doug and I took off more or less together the rest of the way. No AC warning on this slope gave me hope that it wouldn't get much worse. Nor were there any cheery little signs reporting the elevation. No mind. I had my GPS. I stopped looking at miles, grade, or average pace. Who cared? What I wanted to know was how many more feet of elevation must I gain to the top? And it worked. Every few strokes I'd be rewarded by a 1 or 2 foot jump in the elevation. 900 feet, 800 ft I told myself. When I stopped to wipe the rain and sweat from my eyes, Doug told me it was 4300 feet not 4200 as I had been expecting. Okay, 600 ft, left not 500.

Daylight pass has more turns than Towne. You could make a goal of each turn, each horizon. It helped.

That's 4300 feet on the sign back of me.Do I look wet?.

I planned to put on warmer, drier gloves at the top but had trouble finding them and when Doug said he wasn't stopping, I mounted up and headed down. Fortunately the steepest section was pretty short and I didn't suffer much from the cold. I had a couple of landmarks to look for on the way back to Beatty. One was the Titus Canyon cut off and the other was Rhyolite. They'd seemed fairly far from Beatty, but now I rode endlessly before finally passing them.

Ahead of me in the drizzle the road way was a shiny ribbon and it looked to be climbing high and to the left. I don't remember that, I thought. But an oncoming car demonstrated that, yes, I'd have to climb again. It hadn't seemed like much on Saturday but soaking wet pulling a trailer changes how you see the world.

That hill was just a false top too. Leveling out a bit, it climbed again before finally dipping down into Beatty.

Cold and wet and anxious to get back to The Nut and Candy Shop where I knew there'd be a bathroom in which to change, I nevertheless had to come to a full stop at Beatty's only stoplight.

Doug was only minutes behind me and he had a key to the RV. "Watch the bikes," said rushing off to the RV.

Steve had made it to that last hill that had hurt me so much before Doug picked him up. Scott and Jen were still on the Beatty side of Daylight pass. Walking. Cold, tired, shaky, Jen didn't trust her bike and dismounted to walk. Scott found his rear brakes wouldn't stop him.

Doug performed his rescue while I peeled off wet layers in a filthy men's room. The unfamiliar rains had caused a urinal overflow. Black bags covered the three stations and the floor, though dry, looked stained. I did my best not to put anything down directly on the floor.

Now where's that pair of underwear? NO, it's in the trailer and I'm naked. So the jeans came on anyway. But by the time I found the underwear and stuffed them in my pants, maintenance had arrived and closed the men's room. Damn.

I wanted to sit by the glass doors and watch the bikes, but I couldn't. Maintenance had a hose running in and kept the door wide open. Dry clothes or not, I wasn't warm. I don't usually drink coffee but I needed the warmth. I had two cups.

No bikes! Had maintenance moved them? Why? I confess to a moment of fear before I realized Doug was back with the RV. Oh, and I corrected the underwear problem in the RV before we left.

Alive, mostly dry and well, you'd think the adventure was over but no. It became apparent that we were driving through. Scott took a nap on the bed while Doug continued driving. The heat was working when we left Steve off in Payette, but it soon ceased. I grabbed my sleeping bag and crawled in.

My Gps shows 177 miles, 17 hours and 21 minutes riding time, and 14000 feet of climbing (Probably more 'cause mine shut off for the top half of Daylight). My average heart rate was 136 but I saw 178, the highest I've ever seen.

I shoulda listened to my mother.

Just this side of Julietta after you leave the bike path for the road headed back to Arrow Bridge, a dog safely behind his fence barks his enthusiastic greeting--The Bikes are Back! The Bikes are Back!

I know how he feels. This weekend's forecast was poor but the actual weather was great. And the bikes were indeed back including a an unconfirmed sighting of Wendy on a bike in a month with an R in it.

Mark Allen, using, his wife's email apparently, wondered if anyone would join him for an easy two hour ride at 10 on Saturday. Doug and I were leaving at 9 but I thought we might decided to come back since Doug was backpedaling on the idea of a century. Turns out Scott and Jen showed up as well. We agreed to going around to Arrow Bridge and reassessing the plan to go to Kendrick.

Scott was suffering from asthma and backward pants syndrome (you'll have to ask him. So, while Jen seemed to have recovered from the cold and would have gone on, Scott and Jen headed back to town.

I had my own problems with the day. I felt tired and slow on the bike coming across Southway. I couldn't maintain 15 mph. I discovered a rubbing brake and thought that was my problem. It did help but at Lapwai I dismounted only to discover the arch of my left foot had become very painful.

Still, I wasn't ready to quit. Doug and I rode on to Zoey's for lunch. The temp at Lapwai had been 51 but it felt much colder. It was warm enough to make me sweat which meant I was wet and cold at Kendrick. That seemed familiar.

Doug and I left by 1 and now I felt labored again. Doug even commented at one point that I must be hurting. Doug left me at Hahn to ride into Pedals 'n Spokes. I headed home and stood to climb up to the levy and felt a wobble in the back tire. Sure enough, it was lose. That explained the brake and the constant adjusting I was doing to my shifting.

Tired, feeling blobby, left foot in some discomfort (not bad on the bike), I just couldn't turn up the hill to home. I needed another 20 miles and I was going to get it. 2 miles beyond the 10 mile bridge above Asotin, I turned around and rode home up Critchfield, added one lap of Hallgren Dr and stopped at the garage. My GPS read 100.0 exactly.

I know I was getting spacey 'cause near the boat launch I caught three bikes. The first was Debbie all bundled up. The third was George. I could handle all that, but the middle cyclist was Wendy. The apparation spoke to me. She claimed Linda had taken a picture just to prove Wendy had really been there. I told the apparition she was only a figment of my imagination. Later at home Linda uploaded her pictures to the computer but mysteriiously they have disappeared.

On Sunday Sean and Carol joined us as well as Mike Warnock and Bill Arnold. Scott and Jen were back too. It was a crowed. We made an easy recovery ride by going round Evans and Clemans. Mike and Bill hadn't had enough and headed up Asotin Creek. I needed 20 miles to get 250 for the week--my usual summer goal for a week. I'd have 25 today so I headed home.

It's good to see the bikes are back. Arf! Arf!

For the ride of it.--Corrie

2/19/08 Tuesday day 4. Stove Pipe Wells to Furnace Creek and back 52 miles.

Mountains abound

Death Valley lies open before me as I descend from Towne Pass. Distances are deceiving. Everything seems closer than it is. The rim of mountains around the valley seem easily reachable. They are not.

I'm doing 37 mph, my nomad trails smoothly unnoticed behind me. I brake only to avoid RVs whose own brakes stink. The grade is 9% and probably more.

The narrative of our Death Valley Days has taken a darker turn. We had planned to ride over Towne Pass and return the next day. Instead good sense prevailed and we turned back.

We consoled ourselves that this was not a defeat. We planned a better ride to Furnace Creek which promised flowers, flowing water, and perhaps the pup fish. But the truth of the matter was that we had been turned back from one pass and had no alternative but to ride another just to get back to Beatty and our RV. This was beginning to sound like one of those disaster stories about pioneers who stumbled into Death Valley. Those tales never seem to end well.

Our road tourist, Steve, says he now understands the scariest sign a cyclist might see is that "Avoid Overheating; turn off your AC" we had spotted at the bottom of Towne Pass.

Conversation always seemed to turn to that final climb up Daylight Pass to Beatty. We wouldn't take our trailers to Furnace Creek and the route to Beatty was reputedly easier there. We could let Scott return to Beatty to retrieve the RV and rescue us.

We are a sturdy lot. Steve likes the challenge of a hill and promises us that he will be able to get over Daylight Pass. I'm not so sure about myself but none of us want to be rescued yet.

We might unhitch the trailers, cache them, and ride on to Beatty without their weight coming back in the RV. Some version of that scenario allowed us to rest and enjoy the day ride without trailers to Furnace Creek.

We set out for Furnace Creek light-heartedly. This would be 50 miles round trip with no major climbs though we'd see sea level from both sides descending as much as 242 feet below it.

Jen and Steve beneathe the sea

We stopped at Salt Creek and hiked the board walk 8k along a flowing stream of surface water in the desert.

Salt Creek

All this had once been a fresh water lake but salination increased as it dried. Few creatures could make the relatively sudden transition from lake to desert. Only the pup fish evolved and survived in this one strange phenomenon of a flowing stream of salt water starting nowhere and ending there as well. Sadly, the pup fish is subject to predation by the Blue Heron and has learned discretion. We couldn't find even one.

I found this image on Flickr

Walking the board walk

Furnace Creek is the largest development in Death Valley. It loses something by gaining manicured date trees and palms and a golf course. We sat at a park bench and ate dates from Death Valley Date trees which Doug plundered and taught us the eating of. They are much smaller than dates you'd buy but just as sweet.

Lunch was good and uncharacteristically so was the service. Doug's Waitress--wait for it.

Along the route yellow desert primroses scattered thinly along the roadside and rocky slopes and occasionally mounted a satisfactory display. Scott poetically called them a river of yellow at the club business meeting. I think he exercised some poetic license there.

more a puddle than a river

Not all that blooms is gold

But any show at all of life was welcome and astonishing in this rocky barren. Rainfall is spotty and so too are the yellow blooms. Apparently Stove Pipe Wells had not received enough rainfall to stimulate the desert bloom.

The Flower Dude

We enjoyed stopping to take pictures, not pulling trailers, and occasionally giving one another chase. But always there remained the question of Daylight Pass and the road out. It's not an adventure if you know you can do it. It turned out to be both better and far worse than we had imagined.

For the ride of it.--Corrie

What goes up, must come down. Death Valley Days 2 and 3.

It was Doug’s fault really. At 3500 feet (he’ll tell you 3700), he said, “I could turn around right now and go back to Stove Pipe Wells and sit by the pool and drink a beer.”

We started day three at sea level in Stove Pipe Wells planning to ride 30 miles over a 5,000 foot pass to oPanamint Springs. The climbing began right out of camp.

We had climbed to 5,000 feet twice on day two riding from Beatty at 3200 feet through Titus Canyon over gravel roads and then descending to 0 feet at Stove Pipe Wells. The road was crushed rock, lots of thick sand and ran one way only into Death Valley. The climbing started gently enough at 3 and 4 per cent. Jen pulled at 6-7 mph—slightly faster than Ii would have liked.

Finding the line was tough. Most of the road was too rocky or too soft. The left side seemed best and since there would be no on-coming traffic, we took it.

Steve and Scott on Titus Canyon Road

The park bound traffic, however, was fierce. The most cars the ranger had ever seen. They seemed to come in caravans of five or six: Pickups, small SUVs and many rental jeeps.

But the canyon was supposed to be spectacular. It had better be. Traffic forced you off your bike just when you least could afford to lose momentum. Deep, soft, shifting granular sand mired you wheels and add drag to the trailers.

Jen in particular struggled more. Her cross bike’s narrow tires gave her little purchase and her one wheel Bob trailer seemed to always lean against her direction. Scott also pulled a Bob. Neither had any suspension. Though Scott at least had a hardtail. The jarring would only become worse on the downside. My two wheel Burley Nomad seemed to stabilize me in the sand especially on the downhill. But more stable means it can carry more and as a novice I was over packed—not like Scott with useful tools and lots of water. I had plenty of time to think about what I could have left behind as I pushed through sand and gravel up those 18% grades at 1.6 mph.

Steve, on the other hand, has never pulled a trailer. Front and back panniers and rack for our accomplished road tourist. Though he is out of shape owing to an enforced period off the bike ‘cause he broke his butt, his training plan (riding a century) seemed to work on those two 18% pushes in soft gravel. When the rest of us dismounted and struggled up the grade, Steve stayed in his saddle. . It was his grinning face we saw as we reached the top of each ascent.

“It’s the panniers,” he lamely offered as an excuse.

“We’re not buying it,” Doug asserted and that was the last we worried about Steve’s being behind.

Red Rock Pass

Red Rock Pass, the first of the two ascents leading into Titus Canyon, is scattered in red dust. No trees or plants grow here. We’d soon learn not to expect plants anywhere. This is a barren, hard scrabble land which has only ever attracted minors and gold seekers and a few foolish cyclists. Now we would get to head down. We worried about braking power and the stability of the trailers. I had never done a descent with a trailer but we saw relatively little of the softest most treacherous sand we had seen on the ascent. In addition the lack of rain meant no washboardy ruts cutting across the road and leaving huge rocks partly exposed capable of snagging a trailer wheel. I actually had little trouble going down. Steve was impressed. Of course, now he thinks I can go ride more nasty trails.

On the second ascent Steve again performed the miracle of the mount while I struggled just to keep moving. Doug was closest behind Steve and came walking back down to help. I was just beginning to wish I had brought a gun, when Doug pushed my bike a few yards for me. I shewed him off to help Jen but she had already off-loaded most of her gear to Scott’s bike. I’d later fix Scott for exposing my weakness, by beating him into camp. But for the moment, thanks for the push, Doug.

Once we made the second descent, Doug’s choice of routes was suddenly redeemed by geology. Wide canyon walls swept by some ancient sea had carved through limestone and granite until it opened a chasm to the valley floor.

Steve explores a cavern

Each bend saw a new striation of water-worked stone looming high in arched splendor—granite, square blocks, limestone caverns. Strong afternoon sunlight chiaroscuroed the canyon walls with deep shadows and shining stone.

“Good choice of route,” Steve complemented Doug.

“I forgive you the 18% on the other side,” I added.

But now it was 3:300 and Stove Pipe Wells was 20 miles away. Motorists had been telling us all day that the camp ground was full on this three day weekend. Would we find a camp spot or go mendicant in the desert?

Only three miles separated us from smooth pavment. We though we could make it, but we hadn’t counted on a sea of lose gravele for those 3 miles. Doug and I put one foot down and scooted through the sand.

Doug hurried off, perhaps, in an attempt to take responsibility for finding us a camp spot or perhaps because that is what Doug does. I rode a bit with Steve while Jen and Scott brought up the rear. I hadn’t planned trying to catch Doug but when I pulled away from Steve and finally spotted his sturdy form pulling a yellow Extra Wheel, I couldn’t resist giving chase. I figured we’d trade pulls into camp and secure a spot together. But when I caught him, he seemed to lose heart. I sped on to camp arriving in Stove Pipe Wells right at 5:30. It would be dark by 6. It took some time for me to figure out the camp situation and both Doug and Jen had arrived as we learned we’d have to camp in an RV lot. It didn’t really matter since it was all the same rock. We lacked only a table.

Our campsite for days 3 and 4

Scott had different priorities. When he rolled in, he wasn’t in a hurry to pitch tent. Instead he handed out cold beer. He’d stopped at the General Store—good man.

Stove Pipe Wells Village. That's a pool of mineral water on the left. Water was discovered here and marked with a length of Stove Pipe.

So it really was Doug’s fault that we turned back on day three. The plan had been to ride over 5,000 ft Towne Pass to Panamint Springs, spend the night and then return via Emigrant pass the next day. But Towne Pass was a different animal. At the bottom a sign warned us to avoid overheating by turning off our AC. The sign reported we had 20 miles of climbing. This was supposed to be an easy 30 mile day. Towne Pass doesn’t switch back giving you relief. Instead it climbs relentlessly at a steady 6 to 9 percent with some 10 percents sneaking in there. We were fully loaded.

Rest stop at intersection with Emigrant Pass

At 3500 feet we began to see the world more clearly. We weren’t sure we could do that much climbing day after day and still be able to climb over Daylight pass to Beatty on Wednesday. When we gave up the idea of riding back on Emigrant Pass, riding to Panamint Springs didn’t make sense. Maybe the beer by the pool, was too attractive.

Scott, lover of suffering, and Jen chose to continue to the 4000 ft marker before turning back. Doug and I left immediately. Steve followed soon.

Actually this turned out to be the best decision we could have made. On the next day, we’d ride the relatively flat 25 miles to Furnace Creek for lunch and then back. Along the way desert primroses were said to have made the desert bloom yellow and we’d also have a chance to explore Salt Creek for the elusive pup fish.

But the climb to Beatty looms in the back of our minds. Pavement or no, if it hits 18% again, I’m pushing.

For the ride of it. --Corrie