Day 5: Pine Valley, CA to Jacumba Hot Springs, CA

February 27, 2013

The first mile and a half out of Pine Valley bring with them — surprise — a steep climb and cold, sustained 30 mile-per-hour winds that try to push me all the way back to my motel room door. At the top I find something I haven't yet seen: a long and uninterrupted downhill. It takes me past a roadside Border Patrol checkpoint where dark green-uniformed agents with guns, bulletproof vests, spike strips, a few million dollars worth of scanning gear, and lots of orange traffic cones ask serious questions and don't see the humor in a funny response. It's a bad day to be sneaking people or drugs or guns into the country on Old Highway 80.

The wind never lets up, ever, and even though I'm riding in the sun in the high desert, I need two shirts, gloves, and a jacket to keep from shivering whether I'm going down or up. It's hard to imagine living by choice in a part of the country where anything that isn't cemented into place will blow south into Mexico. Adding to the challenge of the wind and hills is the fact that there's not much to look at. Instead of sweeping vistas or dense wildlife or quaint towns, it's mile after mile of short green shrubs, sand, crooked fence posts, roadkill coyotes in different states of decay, and a few small houses set well back from the No Trespassing and Warning: Guard Dog signs that line the road.

Unbeatable prices on meat packs in Live Oak Springs.

I crest the 4,000-foot Tecate Divide before mid-day with a fist pump and an overwhelming sense of relief. It means just a few more hours of riding before I leave these damned mountains behind forever. With the drops becoming greater than the climbs I pass through a series of small towns that started dying the day Interstate 8 opened a mile to the north. Most businesses have long since closed. Unoccupied and abandoned homes outnumber the living by about two to one.

Better than most New York City slices, found at the edge of the 315-person town of Boulevard, CA.

On the descent to Jacumba I see an imposing, brown-colored barrier of tall, vertical metal slats in the distance, snaking along a razor-straight path over the rises and falls of the valley in front of me. It's that border fence again. Every mile or so, a white and green Border Patrol Jeep or Chevy SUV sits next to the fence or on a perch just above it. At one point the road I'm on cuts close enough that Russell Wilson could stand on the shoulder and throw a go route over the fence and into the arms of a Mexican wide receiver.

My plan is to pass right through town, push a few miles up the last hill in the mountains, and then drop more than 3,000 feet straight down into the Imperial Valley. But as I head by the Jacumba Lounge, a woman standing on the front porch calls out to me.

"Hey, anything ya need, we got it!"

"Yeah man," says the guy next to her. "Food, water, place to sit, place to plug in ya computer. Anything ya need!"

I hesitate and think about saying Nah, I'm good, but what do I have to lose? I'm not breaking bicycle land speed records here. So I go inside.

I expect a dark, old, kind of musty smelling place like most every other small town restaurant. The Lounge in the name makes me certain of it.

I couldn't be more wrong. It's like stepping into a cafe from back home: bright-colored walls, the menu on the wall above the counter done in fine-detailed and handwritten ink, a mix of tables and chairs and couches, local art hanging from the walls.

The woman who flagged me down is Kathy. She's the cook and the cashier and the one with the scratchier voice. The guy is Mike. He does everything else to keep the place running while the owner's away. He's the one who talks so fast the words sometimes crash into each other as they tumble out of his mouth in a rush to escape the oncoming freight train of his cackling laugh. They're both in their mid-40s and have the affect of people who have seen and done more in those 40-something years than you or I ever will.

Together they are the two-person Jacumba Hot Springs welcoming committee. They top off my water bottles and say that I should sit down and stay awhile. I learn about the plans for revitalizing the dying town, including the reopening of its hot springs resort in a few months. They explain how just two weeks ago the town changed its name from Jacumba to Jacumba Hot Springs. Mike talks in great detail, followed by explosions of laughter, about his dreams of starting both a local radio station and a race car track. Within ten minutes they've said that I can stick around for the night if I want — go ahead and set up anywhere in the grass across the street over by the hot springs.

Sold.

While I'm at the Lounge I meet Guthrie and Olivia, a young couple from Alaska via Oregon who are out on a month-and-a-half loop from San Diego, east to Arizona or New Mexico, and then back out to the coast. There's something comforting about running into other bike riders around my age who have been dealing with the same challenges of grinding out 20-mile against the hills and win. I feel like less of a candy-ass. And it's good to talk bicycles and cameras and what it's like to travel long distances at slow speeds for weeks and weeks and weeks.

Talk turns to camping as the sun starts to make its way down. Kathy throws at me one offer of help after another.

"It's gonna get cold tonight. Do ya need a sweatshirt? Some extra pants? Blankets? I got a lot of extra blankets. If it gets too cold for ya, you can just come inside. We got a foam mattress pad, sleeping bag, all that stuff. Got a couch right behind that door over there. Just knock. The dogs'll start barkin' and I'll let ya in!"

As Guthrie, Olivia and I set up camp, we fall into conversation with an older local guy named Clint. I ask him what he thinks about the big border fence that's a quarter-mile behind us and the Border Patrol cars that pass through town all day and stand constant watch on the hills above town.

"Things were different pre-9/11," he says. "That's when things started to change. That's when the fence came. There's a town just on the other side of the border — it's called Jacame. How it used to be, the people from Jacame would work over here, pay taxes over here, but live over there. If you needed a deck built or wanted some tile installed, they'd come over and do it at a good price. They bought groceries from our store and they ate at our restaurants. They were illegal immigrants — they were here illegally — but every night they went back home. It worked."

"Was there a fence back then?"

"Wasn't much more than a barbed wire fence," he laughs. "And it was mostly to keep the cattle out!"

"Was there a checkpoint or anything?"

"No, just walk right through."

The wind goes to sleep before we do. We enjoy a cool, still, high desert night backed by owls hooting from the tops of the palm trees next to the tent. From the lake by the hot springs, an unsynchronized croaking chorus of a hundred bullfrogs rings out. It quiets when a car passes on the highway or a surveillance helicopter sweeps along the border line, but within moments it returns in force.

I'm clocking about 30 miles a day so far. That's slow, and I've been worried about it. But when I look back on today, it turns out it was the right pace all along.

Today's ride: 30 miles (48 km)
Total: 122 miles (196 km)

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