Day 3: Wednesday, 10 April 2013: I remembered something you once told me

April 10, 2013

Pleased as I was when the wind went down with the sun on Tuesday evening, it should have come as no shock to me when the wind came back up with the sun on Wednesday morning. After all, the Ranger had warned me the forecast called for three days of strong gusts. Surprise, surprise, it picked up strength while I ate breakfast, still mostly blowing out of the north or northwest.

Having spent some quality time Tuesday evening collecting suitable rocks to weigh down gear while eating and packing, I managed to accomplish those tasks without having any valuable items sail off to the Salton Sea. I refilled all my water containers with Cottonwood's ample fresh liquid, needing enough for two more days without any other source. The motorcyclists from San Diego were up and about, so I hung with them for awhile. As they prepared to hike to the Lost Palms Oasis, we reminded each other that old pale guys like us need to lather up with lots of sunscreen.

When I started pedaling from the campground, the American flag at the nearby visitor center provided visual confirmation—as if I needed it—that the wind had resumed its relentless flow from the north. Because I was retracing my steps, heading back toward Belle campground, that meant yesterday's tailwind had become today's headwind. On the other hand, I knew the first stretch from the Cottonwood visitor center would be downhill for me. Then there would be a flat ride across the basin. After that, just about the time the road began the long climb toward higher elevations, I should reach the road construction zone where David or his brother would insist all bicyclists must ride in the pilot truck. Fine with me, because that would carry me and the Surly about halfway up the ascent from the basin without so much as a pedal stroke.

It was another cool desert morning, and with the chilly wind that meant I wore my hi viz windbreaker and utility pants over riding shorts, but the pedaling was easy down the first hill and not bad across the basin, even in such gusty conditions. Once again, the striking contrast between the upper desert and lower desert caught my eye.

Then something else caught my eye.

An orange "Road work ahead" sign had blown into the road, blocking the northbound lane. Gosh, I said to myself, that sign must have been blown a long damn distance, because the construction zone must be at least five miles away.

Wrong.

The next thing I knew, I'd reached the flagger and the southern terminus of the work zone. After consulting with the flagger, I learned the whole zone had been shifted about five miles southward for today's work. Still about ten miles in length, but different starting and ending points. Because of that move, instead of being ferried halfway up the climb, the Surly and I were about to get a ride across the flat basin and dropped off to make the whole climb on our own.

It only took a couple of minutes for the pilot truck to show up. Yesterday, southbound, I rode with David's brother in the other truck. Today I rode with David. Unlike his brother, David appeared perfectly willing to help lift the Surly into the back of the Ford. David also proved to be substantially chattier than his brother, and he remembered Randy Houk, who subsequently posted David's photo at crazyguy. (See below.) Among other tidbits, David told me he shuttles a bicycle through the work zone almost every day, but usually they're not all loaded up like the Surly. He was also fairly excited to be bidding on a contract in Hawaii for his next job, which he thought would be an improvement over the desert.

After about ten miles, the conversation and the ride in the pilot truck came to an end, pretty much at the foot of the climb back up to the high desert. David helped me get the Surly down, shook my hand, and wished me good luck, then he turned his truck around and led another column of waiting cars through the work zone. Good man.

The spot where he dropped me and turned around, however, at the northern terminus of the work zone, had no pavement. From that point onward, up the hill, some stretches of the road had already been scraped down to gravel in preparation for repaving. For me, that meant a rough ride with a heavy load uphill into the steady wind. By the end of the summer, on the other hand, the road down the hill and across the basin should be fresh and smooth as a baby's bottom for anyone else who wants to pedal it.

Anticipating a slow, warm ascent, I stripped down on the side of the road, drank a bottle of water, and climbed into the saddle. As I rode off, the flagger called out to me, "Watch out for them trucks. There's trucks all over the road today."

He wasn't kidding. A constant stream of dump trucks and semis with dual belly-dumps was conducting an endless circuit from the work zone, part way up the hill to their staging area, and back down to the work zone. To begin with, every time a big guy came up behind me I pulled off the road into the sand—no shoulder—and gave a friendly wave. With the same guys constantly rolling up and down and talking to each other on CBs, soon they were all waving at me, flashing thumbs up, and pulling completely into the opposite lane when they passed.

I will not lie, though. It was a damn tough pedal up that hill with so much weight, so much wind, and stretches of gravel. I kept stopping to rest, snap a photo, and suck down water. Sweating like crazy—even though it wasn't all that warm—and consuming H20 at an alarming rate, I started to worry about whether or not I'd have enough drinking and cooking water for two days. Every time I paused for a rest and a drink, I imagined I could hear the truckers reporting to each other by CB as they rolled past, "Hey, the old guy on the bike, he's at a dead stop again." Friendly though the drivers were, they might have been placing bets on when I would finally keel over, and—given the way I felt—the winner of that kind of wager could be announced at any moment.

Between high school and college I took a summer job with a road construction crew much like the one in Joshua Tree. They had me doing all kinds of jobs, but mostly I was a flagger who stood in the sun all day, drank a lot of water, and wished my shift would end so I could go see my girlfriend. While I was flagging, I always thought the best job to have on that crew was driving the water wagon, because that guy just kind of moseyed along by himself at his own pace, and he always got to drive back to the staging area and hang out for awhile whenever his tanker needed a refill.

So, of all the friendly truckers repeatedly going up the hill past me and back down the hill past me, waving and tooting encouragement, who finally stopped to make sure I was okay and had enough to drink? The water wagon guy, of course.

Anyway, once I got past the staging area, the trucks were all behind me and the traffic died off to nothing except for an occasional bunch who had just been ferried through the zone. By that time, I was feeling pretty worn out. The climb seemed steeper and the headwind seemed stronger. Eventually I had to surrender, hop off, and perform a little cross-training. Whenever the wind died down a bit, I'd hop back on the Surly and squeeze out a little more forward progress until I had to walk again. This old, weak, and slow stuff is a real bitch, but I eventually made it to the vicinity of White Tank campground where the road leveled off in the high desert with the usual boulders and joshua trees.

Now I had to make a decision. Did I want to call it a day at White Tank or the nearby Belle campground (where I stayed Monday night) and set up the tent, or did I want to push toward Jumbo Rocks? I rested for awhile flat on my back on a handy picnic table at Belle and collected my thoughts. Heck. Still early. I know there's another climb if I keep going, but I'm going to have to do that climb sooner or later if I want to get out of the park.

The ride from Belle campground involved a short downhill piece and then another climb toward Skull Rock, but the road no longer led straight into the wind, so it wasn't nearly as bad as the ascent from the basin. I hit Jumbo Rocks about 2:30 and grabbed a primo site, then spent half an hour flat on my back on the picnic table. Ah, what a modern comfort.

Later, a neighbor wandered over to check out the Surly. This turned out to be Dave from Canada ("But I'm originally from South Africa, so that explains the accent"), not to be confused with David the truck driver. Dave and his wife pedaled from Boulder to Jasper National Park in Alberta, so he was quite interested to see my gear and hear what I had to say about riding around Joshua Tree. Interesting fellow and very friendly, offering to share his stash of cold beer. Later he came back with his wife, and she emphasized how much a wife always worries about a husband's safety when he goes off on adventures. Roger that. Probably best to leave the hairiest bits out of journals so the wife never needs to worry about them, right?

As the sun went down—and the wind, too—I climbed on the huge rocky outcroppings near my tent for a clear view of the starry sky. This kind of spectacular nighttime starscape is one of my favorite aspects of traveling in the desert. Countless pinpoints of light twinkled above Jumbo Rocks. The sky was also punctuated by a shocking number of blinking airliners.

The temperature dropped considerably and I climbed down in the dark, unexpectedly exhausted and looking forward to a good night's sleep.

Tomorrow's ride couldn't be as tiring as today, could it?

Today's Conditions

Cottonwood Spring campground → Jumbo Rocks campground

Time: 8:30 - 2:30

Distance: 25 miles (plus 10 miles in pilot vehicle)

Climbing: Approx 3025 ft

Weather: Cool morning; windy all day